Arghhhhhhh

My mother used to call it "ants in your pants," this restless feeling that is all too familiar to me. I can't sit still, but I don't have anywhere to be. I look in the refrigerator, but nothing looks edible, and I have no idea what it is I want. I find myself wandering from one end of the house to the other, and there's plenty I could be doing, but it doesn't interest me. I sit down to write, and no words are the right words. I look at the entries in my phone; maybe a long conversation with someone I care about- or more importantly right now, someone who cares about me. Yet, I can't dial any of the numbers because I don't know what I'd say. I don't even like to talk on the phone. It feels forced- running out of interesting topics to discuss- those long pauses I feel I must fill, awkward moments spilling into one another until goodbye, which can't enter the conversation soon enough. I feel like an alcoholic must feel- a desire in the bottom of my stomach, but an alcoholic, at least, can identify his desire. I consider that lucky in a way. When I was a kid, Mom had all kinds of suggestions: "Clean your room, read a book, go outside, take a warm bath, eat a sandwich, how about a nap?"…I mentally go through that list now, but nothing appeals to me. I couldn't wait to grow up, to make my own decisions, to do what I wanted to do. When will that happen? When will I know? Someone told me once this feeling is "depression talking," but I'm quite happy, so how can it be depression? It's more like I've forgotten who I'm supposed to be, and I keep searching and searching for me to no avail. It's also not a midlife crisis…I feel generally good about where I am in my life's journey. So what is it? I wish I knew.

Tears --

Tears -- I'm updating this piece -- welcome any comments/edits




Linda Morningstar told her when they were both in their twenties that her tears “had all been cried up – tears ducts all dried out.” She’d said it in a peppy way, laughter in her voice, as they’d driven around town in Linda’s Mazda GLC, running some errand related to their jobs. They hadn’t known each other for long at that point, and she believed it was said in service of the ‘spiral of intimacy’ – where two people reveal more and more as they test a new relationship. She’d learned that term in a college communications class. Linda, being the Director of Communications for the company they both worked for, well, she’d have known about the spiral.

“Really? I cry all the time. I wonder if I could have my tear ducts removed,” she’d answered, taking another step up and around.

It didn’t take long for the truth to be revealed, that Linda did indeed cry, and also whine and complain, and the friendship never took off. Perhaps they’d climbed that spiral a bit too far, or too quickly. Still, she remembered that line again and again over the decades, “all cried up … ducts all dried out”. She wasn’t even using that much hyperbole when she said she cried all the time. There were stretches where she cried every day, sometimes more than once. Without getting too Gabriel Garcia Marquez about it, she sometimes imagined her tears filling vessels of all shapes and sizes, from thimbles to Grecian urns, from puddles to lakes. More than that, she began to fear that grandmothers all around the world were right, that in the worst of a crying spell her face would freeze that way. She knew she wasn’t pretty when she cried the way some people are, like Natalie Portman or Laura Linney. If a lifetime of laughter could cause laugh lines around the eyes, if smoking could cause wrinkles around the mouth, couldn’t a life of crying distort a whole face? She was vain enough to give it some thought, but not so much as to make her brow furrow. She was trying to put off Botox for as long as possible.

Once she cried when she was walking across a field in the middle of campus and saw a young woman with a puppy, a little golden lab. Even if those were only Hallmark tears at a scene too cute for comfort, they hurt. In a stairwell of an old building at a different campus a lifetime later, she cried huge, gut wrenching, body wracking mortifying tears; there were no puppies around, just a classroom full of students waiting for her at the top of the stairs. Her tears ducts were not drying up at all. Instead, they were more like breast ducts, able to produce tears easily when stimulated, like a mother whose breasts fill even at the sound of a stranger’s child crying.

She had a cousin who cried fairly easily, but on her it was charming, her tears always appropriate, in context, quick to stop, her face returning to a smile with no puffy eyes or red nose to betray her, just a beautiful relaxed face freshened by a few tears. Joan’s tears were as mysterious to her as bubbles blown through a wand to a small child – where did they come from? Where did they go? It all happened so gently. Her own outbursts were neither charming nor gentle, and certainly not particularly interesting, and she knew she’d never show up in one of Oliver Sachs’ books, that there’d never be a title “The Woman Who Mistook her Shirt for a Kleenex”, and she began to envy people with Tourette’s, whose outbursts could be explained neurologically.

And then one day, that’s right, they stopped. She first noticed that they’d stopped while sitting in a movie theater with a group of friends, the aisle filled with people young and old, male and female. They were watching The Titanic, and if people weren’t crying at the poor children locked in the hull of a sinking ship they sure were by the time Leonardo DiCaprio lost his grip on that piece of driftwood, leaving the brave and tragic Kate Winslet to float away on the sea alone. Only two dry eyes in the house, and they were both hers. She understood the impulse to cry, after all, it was sad, it was sad just like the song said. Still, didn’t everyone know the outcome? Wouldn’t Leo and Kate be gorgeous on the red carpet accepting Oscars later that very same year? Please. Years later, watching Marley and Me with her gorgeous hunk of husband, didn’t he know that that adorable golden lab puppy would grow old and die? Was there a movie sad or sweet enough to bring tears? If so, she hadn’t found it.

That’s what it became over time, a quest for tears, because sometimes she missed them. At most she experienced a mild burning in her eyes, maybe a slight tingling in her tear ducts. When that happened she’d squint her eyes slightly, try to give the moisture a little shelf of skin on which to collect, perhaps form a tear that might even spill over onto a cheek. Once in a while a tiny tear would form in the inner corner of her eye, and she’d try to squeeze it out, but it was so scant that it wouldn’t roll even as far as her nostril. She re-read Sophie’s Choice. Nothing. Went through old photos of her father, her baby girl, and Hallmark cards – still nothing. She walked on campuses, abandoned graveyards, past the house where she grew up. Dry. Was Oliver Sachs finally going to show up and write the essay: “The Woman Who What? Walked About Life Normally, Seemingly Unperturbed? “ She was thoroughly without an audience, as no one notices the woman who isn’t crying.

Occasionally she’d recall that admonishment to be careful what you wished for, but eventually she became mostly content with her dried up tear ducts. She found other ways to shed her body’s excess liquid, mostly through dance, sometimes a bike ride, sometimes making love. It became precious to see the tears of her sentimental husband watching a touching movie, to feel the wetness of her daughter’s tears on her shoulder as she comforted her, to hug an elderly cancer survivor and absorb her tears, cheek to cheek.

WHOA! Where are we?

As for me, I've been so busy with car and human body repair that I've dropped the blog ball--but I want to pick it up again.

I'm working on a READERS WRITE entry for THE SUN tonight. Everybody, remember--the deadline is July 1st and the topic? MEDICINE!

Not much action on the blog--

but I love what's there.

Let's stir up some word soup!

The Sleepy Samaritan

“Let me in, they’re gonna kill me!” These are the screams that awakened me at 3 a.m. Sunday morning. I lay there muddled and semi conscious. Sleep and fear immobilized me. The two black labs barked hysterically as they pounced off my bed and ran down the hall with their nails clicking on the tile. My stomach seized in panic, my breath was lost and I had to pee. I could not move. She shouted again and pounded on the door. I sat straight up and flung back the covers. My back was rigid and my legs thrust forward and stubbornly refused to bend. The dogs continued to growl and yip while someone was banging the shit out of the front door. It was a woman’s voice and I did not recognize it. “Please! Let me in! If they find me they’ll kill me!” Shit, I thought, where’s the god damn phone? I looked around and finally saw it across the room on top of the bureau. I commanded myself to unfreeze so I could get to the phone and punch out 911. OK. Do it. Do it! Move! Scoozey, one of the labs came in to see what was taking me so long. She jumped on the bed in a state of utter excitement and alarm. She was slobbering with animal anticipation. Her right paw battered my leg to get my attention and move me into action. She looked at me with bulging eyes and spittle dripping from her jowls. Finally my legs cooperated and I was able to swing them around and place my feet on the floor. Every organ inside my body was quivering and my head shook so badly I felt like a damn toy on the dashboard of a Chevy. I was terrified and knew that I would pee or vomit as I made my way to the telephone. By that time Chas, the second dog had come in to see what was taking so damn long. Had I not heard the screaming and pounding distressed woman at the front door? Did I not feel compelled to do something? What the hell was wrong with me? “Ok, Chas, calm down. Shhhhh...” I tried to quiet him as I grabbed the phone and forced my index finger to find the 9 and then the 1 and again the 1. “Help, please, someone is at my front door screaming that someone is going to kill her….oh, … yes, it’s 532 Penrose Place…please send someone fast…. I’m alone…. Please….yes, I’ll keep the door closed and locked. Ok. I’ll wait right here. Ok. They’re on their way? You sure? Someone will be here soon? OK.” I hung up, faced the bedroom doorway and listened for more yells for help. The noise was incredible. Two 80 pound labs howled and growled as they pawed at the door while on the other side a woman wept and hollered and pounded her fists hard enough to make the front door shake. Her pitch got higher and I could tell her fear was escalating. Was something else happening that I couldn’t see or hear? My bedroom was on the back side of the house so I couldn’t see anything going on in front or in the driveway. Gradually, I crept across the hall to the other bedroom and looked out the window. It was black out. I had forgotten to turn on the god damn driveway light. Shit. I tiptoed down the hall in the dark and stuck my head around the corner to look at the chaotic scene at the front door. The dogs had left deep gouges in the wood. The entry tile was wet with their piss and slobber. And that fucking woman was still screaming and pounding. It sounded like she was throwing her body against the door. As lightly as I could I slowly inched my way to the door and placed my right eye over the peep hole. Thank God I had left on the front porch light. She was positively tiny! And bleeding! She looked like she’d been through a hay baler. Her frizzy hair was all over the place and her blue polka dot blouse was torn and hanging on her lopsided. She was missing a shoe and only had on one white high heel. It was on her left foot and it had a weird bow on it and what appeared to be blood splotches on the toe. She’d worn herself out and was slumped against the door. The temporary silence calmed me and I sighed. Before I had an opportunity to inhale she pitched her head toward the driveway and bawled, “Here they are, let me in!!” Oh, shit, I thought as I hit a new level of panic. Had she seen or heard something? I couldn’t tell if her reality was authentic. I couldn’t just let someone hurt her or kill her on my front porch while I stood safely on the other side of the peep hole and watched. I had to take her word for it and believe that someone was at that minute headed toward her ready to kill. I shouted at her to shut up as I opened the door with my right hand, grabbed her arm and hauled her in with my left arm. My right hand stayed on the door knob as I slammed the door and turned the lock. We stared at each other and she started to sob and choke while she piled herself on to the floor. My hands were on my hips trying to control my shaking body. The dogs had gone berserk and were running up and down the entry steps spreading the news that there was a strange, bleeding, wounded, woman with boozy breath strewn on the floor. There was so much noise and the smell of her made me sick. The odor was booze and something else I couldn’t identify. It was disgusting. Then I heard the siren. Finally. Sherriff Cooper was pulling in the driveway. I looked up and said a quickly grateful prayer and heard his car crunch up the gravel driveway. I heard his door slam and his boots hit the concrete walk as he ran up to the front door. Bam bam bam! “Police! Open up!”

Dedicated to Jesse Jackson and other cats who rhyme

This mood I’m in is so disgusting
With existentialism I am busting
Each morning begins another day
In which I watch the world blow up in every way
My life has never been a piece of cake
But never have I felt such an urge to drown myself in a lake
Into the ocean the oil is gushing
And the people responsible are not even blushing
The banks and institutions have gleefully robbed us
While addled politicians spew in pretense of fuss
Health care in our country is a joke
And for many citizens a mighty yoke
Stock tickers no longer depend on humans and organic brains
In this new world computers reign
No one appears to understand the bits and bytes
And how and why they’ve intensified our plight
People have lost their jobs and homes
And throughout our country despair and misery roam
The mobs are growing in numbers and anger
On thoughtful solutions they do not bother to linger
Shouting bullies take the stage to foment built up frustration and rage
It’s all about me
And forget about thee
The we has been lost
At tremendous cost
Society’s seams have stretched and are bursting
For ideas and leadership we are all thirsting
The future seems both turbulent and dim
And more and more it looks like the bad guys will win
While our government squabbles and dithers
Our citizens prey on each other and our country withers
There was a time I was full of joy and hope
But my cup has been depleted in this country of nope
Everyone wants to place blame
To me, that is both wrong and lame
What we need is a magic potion
Some sort of salve, balm or lotion
To end our seemingly endless addiction to friction
We need a far greater historical and emotional diction
There used to be a time when we worked hard at working
Now it seems what we do best is work at jerking
In this complicated world contrasts are a given and a must
But our differences work against us if we don’t care what is just
We used to look at the whites of their eyes
It was there we could look for the emptiness of lies
Now what we look at is the color of their skin
Our intellectual prowess has become puny and thin
Our country used to be proud
Now it is merely loud
When the seven deadly sins are promoted as power
How deep can we go, does it get any lower?
I don’t know what to do in a country where ignorance and avarice lead
From various kingdoms and fiefdoms our ancestors fled this creed
When our protectors are the ones who pillage and plunder
Mistrust and outrage rumble like claps of thunder
It is of these things I sit here and ponder
How bad can it get I often wonder
So what can I do with my distress and consternation?
To whom can I turn for wisdom and consolation?
The only thing I know for sure
Is that none of us alone has the cure
The answer is in each of us and all
United we stand
Divided we fall

first date part 2

Left to her own resources, Magdalena dug deep, like trying to remember a second language. “Lift with your legs” – she had learned that working as a hospital aide. Slowly, slowly, she began to lower him, using her legs, somehow managing to scrunch up the shawl to receive his head on the way down. Now she tried to visualize one of those goofy CPR rescue cards. “Open the airway” – wait a minute, someone was actually saying “open the airway”. She complied, loosening his collar and tie, and tilting his head back gently. Looking up, she saw a squadron of men in dark suits approaching platoon-like. They all looked just like Eric. Patrick, the youngest, was dispatched to call 911; the one giving her directions must be Brett, a fourth year medical student. They were flanked by Lee, slightly taller with a thick thatch of chestnut hair, and like them all, a full mustache.

“Give two slow breaths.” She dove into the resuscitation breathing as Brett positioned himself for the compressions.

On the second breath, Eric’s grandfather’s long fingers twined through her curly hair, and, she was positive, received her open mouth with gusto. Struggling for air, she disentangled herself from his embrace and sat back on her knees. Finally, she brought Eric’s face into focus. It was impossible to decipher his expression, but if she had to sum it up, it would be horror. Her lipstick was rubbed garishly around the bottom of her face, her eyes raccoon circles. As she sat up, a sparkly comb tinkled off the end of her hair onto the floor. With what semblance of composure she could muster,she said: “I think he’ll be alright, why don’t you take over here”, standing shakily and smoothing out her rumpled dress.

This would be a good time to freshen up. It was a long way to the ladies room. To get there she had to run the gauntlet of the women in the family, already composing a lifetime of stories to express what had just happened. She set her sights on the bathroom, gave a weak smeary smile, and squared her shoulders.