Dark Matter

Slow morning at work, which I desperately need…

The last two days I’ve been running a training class here at work on basic management skills, development strategies, etc.

I am reminded, from time to time, that I sometimes have conflicts about what I do for a living.

I work for a Fortune 200 retail company that’s relatively benign — no pollutants, environmental chemicals, war profiteering, etc; issues related to Third World sweatshops and more complex economic justice do exist, but I work from within to deal with them here; and my job actually entails responsibility for working on issues of fair treatment for all employees and a special emphasis on what irritatingly is called “diversity training” which I think of as “not being an asshole to any of the people you manage”.

There are days when I get to play, like the last few days, with folks at all levels from brandy-new supervisors to recently hired senior executives (who are there for an understanding of company culture more than actual training). Sessions like that can be tough from trying to address the diverse needs of all these levels.

These last two days were, by contrast, excellent. Smart people, eager to learn, neither intimidated by nor overly impressed by titles and positions, who all got to work with each other and have great and interesting conversations.

Tiring, and long days indeed, but those are the times when I really wouldn’t trade this job for anything, including full time poetizing — I really think I’m one of those who needs another discipline to keep me from sticking my head too far up my own ass — or in an oven (see previous entry, heh heh…)

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Switching subjects — I’m still feeling ok. The ability to manage my own meds in a limited window has made a huge difference in the side effects — I’m doing 600 mg of Lithium for two days and 900 for one, then back to 600 for two, etc. –and it seems to be working without affecting the therapeutic effects.

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Finally getting back into self-promo mode — about to send inquiries to a couple of venues including the Nuyorican; also need to settle dates for DC/Baltimore tonight.

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I’m temporarily shelving Fugue State poems for the moment. I need more focused time I haven’t got right now. Still writing, but not these…

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OK…more later, maybe.

Those who know me well are likely howling right now.

You are Sylvia Plath! She committed suicide by
shoving her head in a gas oven.
Congratulations! She was mentally troubled
throughout her life, and toyed with the idea of
suicide many times. She wrote brilliant and
insightful poetry, although it was all
autobiographical; poor sylvia had a hard time
getting outside herself, and her connections
with members of the opposite sex were troubled
at best. She has been picked up since her
death in the early sixties as a champion of the
feminist cause.

Which famous poet are you? (pictures and many outcomes)
brought to you by Quizilla

Because — well, just because.

JULIE

Julie, I can see you better when I close my eyes.

You and I were never lovers
except for that one night we nearly were,
and that next night when we nearly admitted to the first night,
and that third night when we came as near to it as we ever did,
carefully sensing each other’s need as we danced, moving together like slow swans:
three nights worth remembering.

But then I recall
the night we were supposed to have dinner,
how I let the phone ring when you called,
how instead of picking up
I went on making love to our mutual friend;
I imagine you hanging up pissed off in your quiet way,
going to the bar, drinking just enough to get sleepy;
think of the car sailing off the road and coming to sudden rest;
think of you thrown from the bent Renault;
think of you embracing the tree instead of me,
of you growing cold by your car in the woods; and
no matter how many times I think of those things,
I can never think of why she and I decided
to stay together afterward, when all we were
was born in such betrayal.

Julie, I’m alone today, standing staring at your graven name
on a day that’s as dark and as grey as this stone.
It’s been twenty years since I was one of six
who carried your blonde coffin first up and then down the church steps.
I braced for that box to feel as leaden as I felt,
but when it felt empty, I drew deep into myself
and stayed there —
and now, somewhere outside my black hole,
outside this place where I can never do over what I never did at all,
there’s another place where you’re still
as light as you ever were.

I think of it, and of our three nights, whenever I close my eyes.
Such a shame that I have to close my eyes to see you, Julie.

So hard to believe that it could have been different.

I can almost see it when I close my eyes.

I have to learn to let that be enough.

make this brief…

Saw the doctor yesterday. I do like this guy; after hearing my feelings regarding the various sedations and symptoms I’m having, he immediately had me cut back on the Lithium a bit and gave ME some guidelines to exercise control over how much I take on any given day, which thrills me — recognizing my own years of expertise with what my body does with drugs. I like that.

He also gave me instructions for more blood tests, as he’s concerned that the symptoms may mean I’m anemic. Not so good — we’ll see.

I feel like I’m finally, FINALLY coming out of it to a large degree. You cannot imagine how glad that makes me.

OK. Some shifts, some significant, others less so.

I think this captures the vibe I wanted better — implied value judgment, done through details versus description — thanks to all.

The Activist

Just a couple of quick notes:

— I wanted to go see Mike McGee in Providence last night, but I had an errand to do in, of all places, Providence and couldn’t make the feature and do the errand too…poopy. I will be valiantly attempting to see him next Thursday at the Worcester Youth Slam Final at the WAG.

— Was up late doing the column — far later than I should have been; I got back so late from the errand that I couldn’t get the thing completed in time for a reasonable bedtime — plus, I had taken my last meds of the day and then tried to stay up and write. Poopy, again…I’ve got to get far more organized.

— Andre Michael Bolten, a poet from Dusseldorf, just sent me an amazing personally selected and burned 5-CD set of jazz by the great percussionist Kahil El’Zabar with folks from Malachi Favors to Steve McCall. Yummy. (He was going to send me just one but said he couldn’t stop once he got started.)

This is all in return for a set of chapbooks of mine…such a deal.

I love the Internet, which is how we got to know each other — we’ve never met in person.

— And, how are all of you?

Worked on this last night…more to be done; more ambiguities to be built in and I have to shift the male/female dynamic a bit, but a start nonetheless. Comments welcome.

The Activists

Ack.

I just tore up all the work I’ve done so far on the damn thing, with the exception of four lines.

But now, they’re damn good lines.

I just wish I didn’t have to write the fifty or so bad ones to get to them.

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On second thought…no I don’t. This is the process for me, these days; far more discarding than keeping, far more learned in the process than in the result.

I tell people all the time that to be attached to the result of writing is to miss the point of it. I need to recall this as well, from time to time; while completion is a goal, it’s important to not slight the journey either.

So no underwear dance for me tonight…which is good, since I find it tends to chafe and I’m uncomfortable that way when I sleep.

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When I awake, it’ll be my birthday. I’ll be 44; mid-forties; etc. Apply adjectives as you wish.

This year had better be better, is all I’ve got to say.

So…last night, I get home and my dad has left a message for me to stop over.

I get over to the house, and sitting on the kitchen table is a knife — not just any knife, but a WWII standard issue Pal Navy knife, with a 9″ blade and an original sheath in damn near perfect condition, with the exception of having my uncle’s name carved into the sheath.

Seems my dad got it from my uncle, who no longer wanted it, and he decided that I should have it.

For those who don’t know me, you should know that one of my unpleasant little idiosyncrasies is that I’ve had a lifelong love affair with cutlery. I own over a hundred knives, including a few that I probably shouldn’t own…’nuff said about that. I don’t collect seriously, the way I do with guitars, in the sense of going out just to purchase knives; more a case of coming across them now and again at bargain prices, or having them given to me by my dad.

It’s one of the things I inherited from my dad, along with bipolar disorder, a love of Johnny Cash, and an affinity for long hair. Dad still has the knife his grandfather made for him on the rez back in the ’30s, with a leather wrapped wooden handle and a blade made from the back of a two-man crosscut saw.

This new acquisition means that I now own one example of every American issue knife from WWII, plus an original British Sykes-Fairbairn special forces dagger. (I don’t do Nazi. Period.)

As I was leaving, I thanked my dad again and he asked offhand if I also wanted the rifle and bayonet.

I did a double take — he hasn’t had guns in the house for years, mostly because of our shared propensity to suicide.

We headed downstairs to take a look…Yup. An M1 Garand with its original bayonet, also my uncle’s.

I took a pass on the gun. And the bayonet. I knew Anne would NEVER go for it — and I don’t trust myself either. (I don’t think it was still in working order, but you never can tell.)

Before I left, he’d called a collector buddy of his and he came and got it.

Funny…I’m politically lefty for sure, but I’ve still got the atavistic love of weapons that you see sometimes on the right of the political spectrum. I recognize it as an issue, a contradiction if you will; I think it’s at least in part a way of pushing, poking on my death wish a bit; having all those edged weapons around…The Fugue State poems are about this sort of identity dis-integration…I find it less troubling than I used to…

after my first visit to the Asylum in two months — the longest I’ve been away from there in the entire time I’ve been attending, which is probably ten years or so now…I’ve taken breaks before, but never this long.

It felt good to be back.

I read a strange piece from an online lit journal I found reprinted in Harper’s, and “Song for Shootings”.

Mike McGee did a pretty darn good feature set.

Got home early enough to watch enough of the Oscars to realize I haven’t seen many movies lately. Haven’t seen Lost in Translation, Monster, Master and Commander, Cold Mountain, or any of the Lord of the Rings movies.

In general, I don’t really like movies much. I will go through periods where I watch a bunch of them (like last weekend where I saw White Oleander, Thirteen, American Splendor, and a few others) but I have to confess, I’d rather be doing almost anything else — reading, playing guitar, writing.

I also don’t read very much fiction of any sort…would rather read philosophy, social and political thought, poetry (of course), or magazines like Adbusters, Punk Planet, etc. Don’t read much fantasy or SF, either.

I think I’m kind of unusual in this…certainly among poets, certainly around here…

Ah well…off to bed.

Sleep well, America…the Marines are securing Haiti as we speak.

Still need to post more, but this’ll do for now:

— No news from the hospital on my wife’s tests.

— I am, at last, feeling a bit better. The fog I’ve been in for the last few weeks seems to be lifting a bit, so maybe I’m finally adjusting to these dosages.

— I’m late with the column today and might not get it up on gotpoetry until tomorrow, mainly because I’m so damn buried at work that I haven’t been able to devote lunch hours to it. (Deal.)

— I think there will, at last, be a posting of one of the Fugue State poems soon.

— I will, at last, be returning to the Java Hut on Sunday for Mike McGee’s feature. First time I’ve been there in close to two months.

— It’s my birthday next Wednesday. I think I need a new guitar. Anyone got a great way to rationalize such a purchase when I already own, like, 17 of them?

No news yet, of course, although they took us into the early afternoon.

Nothing dramatic showed up, so I suppose that’s a good thing.

This is a rewrite of an oldie of mine…also inspired by Blackie (see the previous post).

I NEED A GUITAR RIGHT NOW (OR SOMETHING LIKE IT)

I know guitar playing
eats time I should reserve
for writing about world peace
or the nape of your neck. But

when it comes down to it,
I have grown to depend
on the pain in my thumb
I feel after two hours of picking.

I love playing this guitar
the way I love
the trouble you’ve been.
Everyone has their crutch —

some drink,
some vote Libertarian.
Mine is having the blues for you
in Open D.

Guitars are too frequently described
in womanly terms
by horny singers who get to personifying
those curves on lonely nights.

Maybe that’s why I sing of Handsome Molly
instead of kissing
the nape of your neck. It’s easier
to speak of her without choking up.

I can pretend the story is an old Kentucky song,
or something from an obscure rock opera
written by a singer who died tragically
on the Isle of Wight in ’72.

When I’m in love with someone,
I need a guitar to prove it. I slip on
my steady hand and rock between bass line
and melody; it’s just you and me

from here on in, for at least
three minutes and a half, more
if the mood takes us; and then
if nobody knows the trouble I’ve seen,

it won’t be from lack of telling.
Maybe all they can hear is you in the song.
Maybe
I’m finally getting it right.

who checked in. I love you guys, too…was just feeling lonely, I guess, in my temporary seclusion.

Things continue to suck here…Writing has slowed to a crawl as I try to get over this weird thing I’ve got about completing sentences. I felt better later today, I will say that…it may have to do with fatigue added into the mix.

Still, I’m working at it.

One of these days, I’ve gotta get back out on the road for some gigs…I’ve got DC tentatively planned for early fall, and I think the Catskills gig is still on (at least, it was the last time I checked)…but that’s about it. Was thinking about hitting up the Nuyo again; it’s been a bit since I last featured there. And I’m always looking for excuses to get back to NYC. And of course, I HAVE to check out Acentos one of these days…

I think it’s bed time for this camper…shit. I do miss certain aspects of the manic side of this condition, and one of those would be the nights when I just couldn’t stop writing, all the way into the earliest morning hours…

On balance, of course, it carried its own crap — but there were times when it was worth it.

This is the first day I’ve taught a class since shifting to the higher dosages of the medications.

I’ve been having a disconcerting side effect: forgetting words halfway through sentences, I stand like a dope and stumble until I get them back.

And sometimes, I don’t get them back.

I managed to get through this session with minimal disruption because I put together a version of the session that included a lot of small group activities, so I wasn’t talking non-stop.

I made it through ok, I guess…the evaluations look no different than they usually do, at any rate.

But this had better get better soon, or else I don’t know what I’ll do.