Scaredy-Cat!

This morning on way to the subway, and the job I both dread going to and losing, I began thinking about fear. Namely, why I’m so plagued by it. I’m afraid of going to work, because the minutes creep by painfully slowly. I’m afraid of being laid off/fired, because without a paycheck I could end up on the street, without insurance. (Thanks, Captain Obvious). I fear getting jowls, because I’m quite sure with each passing day my face is sinking at a speed that would far eclipse Venice. I’m afraid of growing old alone, because even though I love not having to deal with in-laws and the toilet seat being up, the spectre of the Old Maid in the game of Fish I played with my grandmother is always looming.

FDR famously said “There is nothing to fear but fear itself.” Which I have always thought of as one of the most ridiculous quotes of all time, because of the circular logic it invites. Be afraid of being afraid, so you won’t be afraid. Yeah, that makes sense. I feel so much better now.

The basic biology of fear is pretty well known. Fear triggers the fight or flight mechanism, the body is flooded with adrenaline and norepinephrine, I remember this from basic Biology class without having to Google it. And it has an evolutionary purpose, because without fear, well, basically every animal species would be extinct; they just all prey upon one another, or something like that. So fear is essential to the survival of the Kingdom Animalia. One day we’ll all be taken over by insects anyway, but forget that, I digress.

So fear is useful. Logic would have it that fear, of course, is used as a tool by everyone from demagogues to the mass media. Terrorism! Obesity! Cancer! Heart attacks! Cellulite! Wrinkles! North Korea! When all else fails, it’s a proven way to manipulate people. Better watch out, cause like FDR warned, fear is gonna get ya.

Knowing the biology of fear, its evolutionary purpose and its utility is, in the end, not very comforting, right? I don’t sleep any better at night knowing that the same feeling that invites my anxiety also enables me to (possibly) escape from potential predators. Is there anything to take away from this?

Well, several years ago, after breaking up with my live-in boyfriend, I decided to do something that had long since scared the bejeesus out of me. I went to Europe alone. Friends told me I was crazy. I didn’t know the language, I would just be lonely, suppose I got lost, suppose I was knifed in an alley somewhere - who would know to look for me? In an act of bravery (or folly, if you consider that I couldn’t really afford it), I followed the self-help book prescription to Face My Fear Head On. I went to Berlin and Prague. And I didn’t know the language. And I got lost. And I was lonely at times. But it was also one of the most amazing experiences of my life.

Doing what I had always told myself I would never be able to handle (all my life I have had an almost paralyzing fear of being alone) was perhaps my shining moment, if such a trite notion still retains any descriptive power whatsoever. Thank you, Fear, because without you, that would have been just like any other trip - fun, interesting, memorable, but bereft of what I can best call emotional resonance. (And besides, now I can scoff at those who are afraid to travel alone. How ridiculous! You’re too codependent to spend a week with yourself? Really now.)

So in a way, I guess am indebted to Fear. Sure, it’s a dysfunctional relationship, but there are those moments when I’m grateful for it. Sure, it’s gifts come with major strings, but really, what gifts don’t?

Not that this means I’m ever going to ride a roller coaster.

Autumn

Beware
The dusk is drawing close
I play hide and seek with my truths
And hope I have night vision

Dear Marilyn, Full of Grace

Tomorrow is the 48th anniversary of the woman who is arguably the greatest legend - and tragic myth - in screen history. She has been dead for twelve years longer than she lived, yet she is omnipresent - in posters in store windows, on t-shirts, reincarnated in photo shoots by everyone from Charlize Theron to Scarlett Johannsen. A new “explosive” biography seems to emerge every several years, and a book of her own writings is due out this fall. Her image pops up on dresses by high end fashion houses such as Dolce and Gabbana and mass retailers like H&M.. Warhol’s prints of her are equally ubiquitous, and Madonna contributed to the immortality of Norma Jeane by recreating her most iconic moment “Material Girl”, a spoof on the scene in Gentlemen Prefer Blondes in which Lorelei Lee admonishes suitors who cannot provide her jewels that rival the indomitable sparkle of her eyes.

Friends of mine are quite familiar with what they may term my “Marilyn obsession”. And no doubt many ascribe it to her beauty, her glamour, the mystery that enshrouds her life - and tragic death. But to make Marilyn’s life into a Grimm’s fairy tale is to marginalize her accomplishments, her talent, her drive and her indomitable spirit. There seems to be a tendency to prefer “Marilyn Monroe, tragic victim” to “Marilyn Monroe, inimitable success”. And this, to me, is the greatest tragedy. What I write here is nothing new or groundbreaking. But it is the way I can best express my attachment to the woman who was, in a sense, truly miraculous.

Most Monroe fans know the generally accepted view of her life story - abandoned by her mentally ill mother, shipped from foster home to orphanage foster home, married off at sixteen to avoid going back to an orphanage, discovered as a model in a munitions factory and, after a series of failed attempts, shot to stardom in the film noir Niagara. The multitude of biographies I have read speak of her tumultuous marriage to Joe DiMaggio, her increasing use of sleeping pills to combat insomnia, and her dismay as the studio for which she worked - Fox - placed her in one movie after another as a witless, gold-digging blonde. The subsequent ill-fated marriage to Arthur Miller, her many miscarriages, her full-fledged addiction to a variety of prescription medications, what amounted arguably to gross negligence by the doctors in whose care she placed herself, her scandalous rumored affair with the Kennedys - her strange and untimely death - it seems a familiar story now, right?

And this fits nicely with the schema of Marilyn as Hapless Victim of a Cruel World. And yes, Marilyn was, in many ways, a victim - of a misogynistic society that did not believe a woman could be both sexy and intelligent, of the studios who underpaid her and discounted her talent and her drive, of the malfeasance of doctors who plied her with pills, of a medical community that at the time knew little about mental illness. But there was so much more than that tale of tragedy to Norma Jeane Mortensen Baker.

What many don’t know is that Marilyn left Hollywood in 1954 when she was at the height of her success. She walked out of a contract that committed her to what was practically the equivalent of indentured servitude (a general practice by the studios in those days). She moved to New York, where she studied at the Actor’s Studio and formed her own production company with her partner, photographer Milton Greene. Seated in the back of the class, usually without makeup, she yearned to learn and demanded no special privileges because of her movie star status. In fact, it was quite the hindrance, as most (undeservedly) thought her talentless and even ridiculous. She read poetry and literature to make up for her lack of schooling, for which she felt deeply ashamed. She befriended authors such as Carl Sandburg, Carson McCullers and Truman Capote. She wrote some truly beautiful poetry herself (which as previously mentioned will be released this fall in a book called Fragments. I have read some of her writing; it is remarkably poignant. The work of a sensitive human being who thought and reflected deeply about her life.)

Fox, the studio that had suspended her, eventually gave in and rewarded her with a more lucrative contract. She subsequently gave two of what many consider to be her best performances, in Bus Stop and The Prince and The Showgirl. Some Like It Hot, her most famous movie, followed, and finally The Misfits, a movie in which she plays not the character Roslyn Taber, but herself, raw and wounded yet still enchanted with the idea that there is something rattling yet wondrous about the concept of life.

For me, what is most remarkable about Marilyn Monroe masked her private pain to give the fans what she felt they deserved from her. As she once said:
“I knew I belonged to the public and to the world, not because I was talented or even beautiful, but because I had never belonged to anything or anyone else."

And Norma Jeane Baker knew how to give her public what it wanted. Even as she aspired to be a more serious actress, she was still compelled to present the image the perfectly glamourous and radiant Marilyn. I have read much on Marilyn Monroe, but I think Ayn Rand may have described it best when she said:

“To survive it and to preserve the kind of spirit she projected on the screen--the radiantly benevolent sense of life, which cannot be faked--was an almost inconceivable psychological achievement that required a heroism of the highest order. Whatever scars her past had left were insignificant by comparison.”

Yes, this is what I admire in Marilyn Monroe. The woman who, despite it all, retained an unshakeable faith in her dream. I must quote the brilliant biographer Sarah Churchwell here, who wrote, in what may be my favorite article about Marilyn Monroe:

“In the meantime, she kept chasing the promise of the green light: it receded before her, it eluded her, but no matter, she would run faster, try harder, and, “someday,” tomorrow … Aspirationalism in its purest form, that’s Marilyn Monroe—a greater Gatsby.”

Sources:
http://sarahchurchwell.blogspot.com/2010/06/happy-birthday-marilyn-part-2.html
http://www.capitalismmagazine.com/index.php?news=3247

The Sands

Perhaps the wings of bats
comprise your repose
tricked into believing
an ability to discern
your journey so elusive
you cloak yourself in night
bereft of my illusions
we will just fly blind

The Tree

This morning on my way to work I saw a corpse. No, not a human corpse, but the body of a tree cut into uneven stumps in the middle of the street. It’s structure was dismembered, branches and stumps scattered and tossed. Its leaves were still emerald, in sharp contrast to its rough-hewn bark. Its body bled amber sap. The crime scene made me stop in my tracks and try to imagine who would be so callous as to destroy something so innocent yet majestic.

I pictured the saws that tore it down, devoid of sight and feeling. Hard as I tried, I couldn’t visualize the human beings that operated those weapons of mass destruction, falling a being that had no doubt existed longer than any of the transient residents of this nondescript block in Queens. My shock turned to anger, then to an overwhelming sense of sadness - perhaps some of what grief counselors had repeatedly told me were some of the different stages of mourning. I never could quite remember the order in which they are supposed to occur.

Approaching closer, I noticed the remnants of nests in the branches. Tiny, seemingly haphazard things built of string and twigs and other such discarded items that industrious birds turned into homes. I wondered if any of these nests contained eggs, and how many had died as the tree fell. Did the robots that ripped this organism once pulsating with life apart realize that they were making refugees of its inhabitants? Where would these birds go now, when the flew back to find the dwellings they had industriously created for themselves destroyed? Do birds pick up and move on to the next tree, build another home, as people do when their lives are rendered topsy-turvy by circumstances so unforeseen?

I wanted to hug the stumps of the tree, to reassure it that at least one person would not forget it. Perhaps there exists a universe or dimension in which creatures such as trees can here and feel. I had the urge to say a prayer for it, and wished I knew some Hebrew so I could recite kaddish. All that came to mind were phrases from the Lord’s Prayer that my grandmother had mouthed solemnly in the Catholic church we used to go to as I watched, wishing I could be as enraptured as she by Sunday Mass.

As I walked away, late for work as usual, I wondered how many more years the tree would have survived had it escaped what seemed such a horrific fate. Would it have died a natural death? What was a natural death for a tree, anyway? I haven’t a clue. It must be the same way any living thing dies, really - either its insides, its bits and pieces, slowly and inevitably succumb, or it meets an untimely end due to a storm or to the myopic beings and structures that consider another home or development or concrete playground more valuable. And just as those who grieve for loved ones lose part of their homes, part of the structure of the lives they have created and built, so do the birds lose their nests. The branches that housed their homes are filaments, their outward structure belying the fragility within.

Chinatown Chrysanthemums

Spilled from the elderly man’s wagon
onto the weary concrete
I have seen many things
journey to a funeral aborted
I pick them up
white, yellow, white
you can have them
they are for you
you are not fragile
I will keep your secret
they are hardy and forgiving plants
they grow where others cannot

For Silvana

The Waltz

One two three
One two three
Simple steps
So it goes

Truth be told
What is truth
I cavort
with your ghost

For Bruce

Untitled

Grasp the days
with clenched fists
quite certain you can feel
concrete in your hands

The magician
flashes open palms
and there is nothing

Maybe you have some tricks
of your very own

Asthma Attack

Stop
You have me in a choke hold
I told you
cannot
breathe
I must commend you though
You are relentless
but then I realize
my own hands
clasp my throat

Julia

When you ask about my
curiously mismatched socks
Why is one sparkly?
and create your own way
to play Candy Land
Just the special cards!
My weariness alleviated
if only for a moment
Let’s dance now!
Your four years are made
only of sincerity
and I am relieved that
there is still dignity
somewhere

For Julia. May I one day have a daughter as lovely as you.

honesty

I didn’t know what was on the menu
Hoping for bits that were more tasty
Maybe something processed or with MSG
Alas, no artificial flavorings
They seem to go down easier
What you don’t know won’t hurt you
You didn’t use your best china
Just those paper plates and plastic forks
I tried, feebly, to protest
You will like this, you said
It’s a new dish
I wonder if I am ready for it

For Amy M.

The Space Between

What is the topic?
It is hard to explain
Try me
How would you define the word beginning?
The start of things
And the end?
When things cease
The topic is neither
Ah, I think I see
I think I see
I think I see

For me

I've Been Here Before

Is there a way out
of the Gray Room?
The Doctor said
“I hold the key.”
The Preacher said
“No, no, that’s me!”

The Social Worker
said not to wail
The Best Friend said
“I’ll post the bail.”

The Psychic said
“I see it clear.”
The Sister said
“had enough, dear!”

The Rabbi claimed
“These things take time...”
the Lawyer said
“You’ve done no crime.”

The Guru urged
“It’s not too late
Just close your eyes
and meditate.”

Instead I hunch down
on the floor
hoping Someone
unlocks the door...

Inspired by the song Gray Room by Damien Rice

Thursday After the Ball

This morning
the vultures circled
outside my window
poised, with talons
confident that
carnage would ensue

I tried to tell them
the boat had sailed
staunchly, they refused
to accept
that they had come too late

Moo Shu Vegetables

Do you know for how long
that takeout stays good?

I'll pack it in
those folded white cartons

Excuse my absences
if the principal signs

I wanted to give you
the best of me

Instead I suppose
we settle for less

Happy Birthday, MAG

The Heroes Are Dead

The heroes are dead

And to whom do I turn
robbed of the monarchs
when will my sentence
of estrangement end

She was a cobweb
did the spider create her?
Something too fragile
for soil so brutal

Where have you gone, Joe DiMaggio?

In a whisper
I can no longer discern
this collective
mirage from the truth

For MM and JD, MAG and BAG, and other such souls

Seule

Today, as I mourn
drowning in what ifs
A prisoner
The past has waged
its war of attrition
Rootless yet
estranged from the future
Filled with mirth
the paradox laughs