Like a severed head that finishes a sentence

It's no secret that I'm not doing well these days.

It's been two weeks since I've known, one since I've been back here.

And, it's hard being here. But, really, it's hard being anywhere these days.

At this point, the only thing that I know is that I have no idea what I need. Or, to put it a clearer way: I'm a black hole of need, and I'm worried that I'm going to suck everyone around me dry. I'm afraid that I'm already doing it. Intellectually, I know that I need support and to be around other people. But, the reality is that I don't know how to even begin asking.

I want to tell my friends that I understand, I wouldn't want to be on the other end of the phone with me, either. I wouldn't know what to say. And, those that do, well, they've come by that knowledge in a way that I hope not to in a long while.

I'm learning, though. Or, trying. Whatever that means.

I'm being cryptic, yes. Mostly because it's just too hard to talk about and because, well, I really just don't know which end is up.

I'll be more coherent and articulate soon. Promise.

In the meantime, happy 2009.

May it be healthy.

So, this is Christmas

Spent part of yesterday with JB, helping him and his brother try to clean out the house they grew up in. It's a daunting task, to be sure, and after a few hours, they felt like they hadn't made a dent at all.

It stands to reason. Years and years can't easily be dismantled in a few hours time. With the discovery of each object or old photograph, there's another story to be told, another chance to bear witness. And, isn't that all we have, really?

Maybe that's why I'm writing. Not to make sense of everything, which seems more and more of an impossibility with the passing of each day.

No, it's not that.

It's simply for the record.

Ten Things I Think About Going Home on the LIRR Today

1. Maybe I should try writing again. Maybe that will help me make sense of it all.


2. Words and phrases that could describe my current state: anchorless, unmoored, adrift, underwater, raw, flayed, without a net. And, lost. Lost is a good one.


3. Fine, I was right about going into self-preservation mode. But, I also think that I was right to feel the way I did. So, I don't regret it.


4. This does not change a thing, really, but cannot be a bad thing. Right?


5. Sleep might help.


6. People can surprise you if given half a chance and if you let them.


7. I wish that I could stop thinking.


8. Saying thank you is insufficient.


9. I'm lucky in many respects. I have to remember that.


10. Breathing is a form of relief. I have to remember that, too.

Ill Advised Everything

The construction woke me up early this morning after a night of strange dreams punctuated by sleeplessness.

So, hours awake, wondering why, for once, I was remembering my dreams. And, wondering, too, if I'm doing the right thing in so many different circumstances.

Coffee.

And, more later.

Also, the movies. . .

Right, the movies.


You weren't thinking I forgot about this aspect of the blog, were you?


To be clear, I have seen plenty in the past two years.


I've also been told by countless friends that I'm a bad film geek. Much as I'd like to, I can't say they're wrong. After all, I'm still making my way-slowly, really slowly-through the works of Robert Altman. I haven't yet explored Douglas Sirk, though I want to. I think Bette Davis may have expressive eyes, but, to be quite honest, I really just think that she should've perhaps gotten some medical attention. And, I think that [gasp here] Casablanca is hugely overrated. Yes, I have seen it on a big screen. Mostly, I just don't buy into the story. Get over it already.


Don't get me wrong, I still love the idea of film criticism. The picking apart scene by scene, seeing the film as a text, delving into the themes, etc. To me, it's no different than the critique of literature. And, you all know how much I enjoy that.


Mostly, though, what I love about going to the movies is the sheer sense of decadence of it all. In fact, since I joined the ranks of the working class, one of my favorite activities has to be the midday, midweek movie. There's something to be said about emerging from the theatre when it's still light out and you should be at your desk. In all cases, the film is almost irrelevant. It's the two or so hours where nothing else matters. It's just me in a dark room, surrendering to the story, forgetting myself in the process.


And, on that note, I leave you with this courtesy of the lovely Frank O'Hara. Read it. Live it. Love it.

Sunday Morning

Spoke to my father this morning; he's still sick, and there are still no answers, although plenty more tests to come, it seems. He sounds marginally better, and says he's improving, but I worry that he's not letting on how bad it may be, as he did six years ago when the first round of serious health scares came.

It was only when it was all over--and his prognosis so much better than we had all initially feared--that I truly realized the severity of it all. Perhaps I just wasn't capable of processing it before then. After all, I was barely capable of talking about it. Just saying the words was too difficult, made it too real. I don't know that it ever really gets any easier.

There we were, many months later, driving back from my college graduation to pack up my house, and he started to tear up because, for a time, it didn't seem like he would be alive to see any of that day. The light was red, and we both trained our eyes on the street ahead, afraid to break our gazes, afraid to say more. It was a hard moment, but one I'm glad we had.

A few years ago, I told a friend of mine, a doctor, about my father's diagnosis from six years prior. He breathed in slightly, looked down at his feet, and said, that's not good.

Yes, but it could be so much worse.

And so, the altering of expectations continues. The trying to make sense of it all.

I wanted something different, but this is what I got.

You'll have to forgive me. This time of year always makes me far too reflexive for my own good.

Cleaning out the house

Cleaning house this morning, I found these two [somewhat old] poems. Of course, the real issue is, what am I doing up so early on a Saturday?

Herewith:

It was one of those nights
that wraps itself up—
your red shirt that
turns all my clothes to pink
and I wouldn’t mind
but all you offer is some strangely named drink
ordered just to impress
our waiter. Cuban margaritas this time—equal
parts rum lime amaretto
no tequila or salt.
Not even a margarita, really,
So, what is it that you call love? Last week
it was a dirty martini, which tasted of
oceans and gulls, circling above
and gazing too intently
to see what they could scavenge.
Well, take it all.
I’ve nothing left to give
save myself, which you have not seen
and there are names for that too.


still life with blue

You will remain
forever changing, forever
remaining consistent in that. It’s comforting,
in a way. In the same way our collective silence is
provided it’s punctuated by the sound
of a garbage truck moving up our street
slowly making the week’s refuse smaller and
smaller until it's gone. There’s some solace in that
as there is in Sunday mornings in winter
in air that tastes of embers
and in you sleeping late, allowing the garbage
to remain uncollected, allowing birds to sift through
it for the perfect length of blue yarn to make
their nests home.