It's Hurricane Season

Rotation

2011-10-27T05:46:00.001-07:00

"Just because someone doesn't love you the way you want to be loved doesn't mean they don't love you with everything they have."

At some point, years ago, I came across that quote. I can't remember who said it, or even where I saw it. I can't remember where I was geographically, emotionally, age-wise at the time. But like one of those fragmented pieces of glass that comprise my memory, it stuck with me. I guess you could say I knew instinctually that it would be a concept to which I turned again and again as time progressed, necessarily taking on new and different meaning with the vicissitudes of life.

I think, as human beings and social creatures (well, maybe save J.D. Salinger and Greta Garbo, though I strongly believe that even those self-proclaimed hermits maintained at least some interpersonal relationships), we want to be appreciated, respected, and most of all, acknowledged. So often for me what is most painful in interpersonal conflict is not the specific actions of the other person themselves but my perception that such actions demonstrate a lack of basic recognition of me as a person. In short, how often do our personal narratives go like this:

"He/she did X. Therefore he/she has no concern for my feelings whatsoever. He/she takes me for granted. He/she assumes I will always just be there. He/she has no respect for my time. He/she must not really care about me - love me - at all if capable of acting this way."

So I guess you could say that this is where that quote above comes in. In our relationships perhaps more than anywhere else, we create our own personal stories. Some seem obvious and universal - if my friend steals from me, he or she probably isn't too concerned with my best interests. But most are much murkier than that. My best friend knows I am going through a difficult time and doesn't call me for two months, and so she must not care how I am. No one who cares would do such a thing.I'm in the hospital and she doesn't visit me. She must not love me.

Or just maybe they do.

Maybe I just feel more comfortable with making it be that simple. That way I can order it, have it make logical sense. Without that, how could I possibly decide who to keep in my life, who to make sacrifices for, who to spend time with, and who to let go of?

I guess what I'm trying to say is, that system of belief has probably cost me some very valuable relationships. I see my life through my own particular kaleidoscope with the myriad of pieces seemingly in place - blue here, gold there. But rotate that kaleidscope a fraction of an inch, and suddenly all of those pieces are regrouped, reordered. Maybe, just maybe, actions that I had decided were caused selfishness and lack of consideration were rooted in fear, shame, personal trauma. To give the most obvious example, maybe my friend didn't visit me in the hospital because she has a terror of hospitals that she was too embarassed to share with me. Didn't want to freak out in front of me while I was there. And maybe she didn't call after because she was so ashamed about her actions.

This doesn't make for easy answers. We all still have to decide what are our limits and our breaking points. But I think with my own maturity comes the understanding that love doesn't necessarily behave the way I think it should.

And though infinitely more ambiguous, it's also perhaps gives me the gift of a much larger world.

A Secret

2011-05-24T10:42:00.000-07:00

I still call you on the phone
I pretend your number still works
I say hello
I hope you'll answer
I tell you about my day
I hope you'll ask questions
I ask about yours
I hope you'll respond
I want to talk and talk
I hope you have time
I tell you I'm sorry
I hope you'll forgive me

For my mother

Night

2011-01-16T09:36:00.001-08:00

dark and the phantoms slip out
soundless and graceful
monstrous shapes mutate
eyes squeezed shut
yearn for nothingness
know it is futile
the monsters know their way in
bulb on the nightlight burned out many liftimes ago
enveloped in their world
seduced effortlessly
sink into layers of velvet

Scaredy-Cat!

2010-10-26T10:02:00.001-07:00

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

2010-10-24T09:22:00.000-07:00

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

2010-08-04T08:02:00.000-07:00

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

2010-05-29T18:51:00.000-07:00

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

2010-04-15T07:30:00.000-07:00

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

2010-03-24T10:43:00.000-07:00

Spilled from the elderly man’s wagon
onto the wet, 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

2010-02-18T10:11:00.001-08:00

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

2010-02-09T13:16:00.000-08:00

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

2010-02-08T13:14:00.001-08:00

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

2010-02-08T13:12:00.000-08:00

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

2010-02-02T19:35:00.000-08:00

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

2010-02-01T06:49:00.001-08:00

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

2010-01-22T10:29:00.000-08:00

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

2010-01-21T08:07:00.000-08:00

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

2010-01-15T07:50:00.000-08:00

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

2010-01-11T07:43:00.000-08:00

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

2010-01-05T07:52:00.000-08:00

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

Ne te souviens pas

2009-12-21T07:53:00.000-08:00

If you see me
on the street
just pretend
I am a stranger

If someone asks
tell everyone
I just boarded
the next train home

In those photos
you can say
it wasn't really me
I was just a merchant

In all honesty
I quite willingly
sold what I had
for the lowest price

The Girl Who Had No Home

2009-12-11T06:41:00.000-08:00

You scaled the world deprived of armor
When they knocked, no one was home
Greeted by a phantasm, the collective myth
What the world creates, it can destroy
And now, at last, may you rise

For my dear MM, 1926 - 1962. RIP, Norma Jeane.

31 Things I've Learned in 31 Years

2009-09-22T07:09:00.000-07:00

Thursday is my thirty-first birthday, so I decided to try to come up with thirty-one things I’ve learned. Here goes:

1) There is no such thing as closure.
2) It’s okay to judge. The problem is when you can’t admit to yourself that your judgments are often wrong.
3) It really is worth it to buy expensive shoes.
4) Hindsight is never 20/20.
5) There’s a difference between excuses and explanations. However, most people (myself included) don’t really seem to understand what the difference is.
6) I was infinitely smarter at age five than I am now.
7) There is a direct correlation between popped collars and douchebags.
8) After years of rumination, I have decided that what separates happy from unhappy people is gratitude.
9) I don’t believe that no one is perfect, because of Audrey Hepburn.
10) It’s fine to cry on the subway. It helps a lot that I own a pair of oversized sunglasses.
11) It’s usually better to forgive.
12) It’s even more important to forgive yourself. I’m pretty sure that this, for me, will be a lifelong endeavor.
13) Sometimes it’s okay to give up. In fact, sometimes you really just have to.
14) Being able to laugh at myself has helped me with numbers 12 and 13.
15) As cliche as it is, the truth really is stranger than fiction.
16) When things really suck, I don’t take it day by day. I take it footstep by footstep.
17) Nothing is free, not even trouble.
18) People really can change. It’s just that it’s the hardest thing in the world to do.
19) Moderation really isn’t much fun.
20) I need to constantly remind myself to keep my eyes open. It always surprises me how much more I can see.
21) Having roommates is really tough. That being said, it has taught me a hell of a lot about myself.
22) Everyone is a hypocrite about something. Since I freely admit my own hypocrisy, I really think that should count as some sort of absolution.
23) I’ll never trust someone who doesn’t curse. Same goes for someone who doesn’t drink coffee.
24) Traveling alone is one of the best things I’ve ever done.
25) Being told I have an old soul was the best compliment I’ve ever received, though I’m not sure it was intended that way.
26) As I get older, time for me is not so much a continuum but instead a series of moments. I call it the Fragmentation of Age. I probably stole that line from someone inadvertently, but I think I titled it myself.
27) When you can’t figure out the clue to a crossword puzzle, the best thing to do is put it aside and look at it again later.
28) Crossword puzzles have taught me a lot about life.
29) Should really is the most useless word in the English language.
30) For this one I have to quote David Sedaris, one of my favorite authors, because he put it better than I ever could have: “People are not so much foolish as they are kind.”
31) Even though she has been gone for over five years, my mother is, and always will be, my best friend.

Noble Strength

2009-09-21T10:58:00.000-07:00

Your eyes aflame
yet I'm quite sure
they are abrim
with drops of rain

You glide atop
gossamer clouds
limbs too fragile
for solid earth

No one can hold
a golden nymph
your secrets will
remain unseen

Moonlight lady
won't you return
spirit unveiled
just one more time

For AH

Wherever You're Going

2009-09-17T09:40:00.000-07:00

Five and a half years today. At a certain point it seems meaningless to mark these anniversaries in days, weeks, numbers, and years. But there it is, and somehow you find it impossible to erase.

Is there a point, anymore, in recounting the past? I could talk about the morning of April 17th, at 6 a.m., the jangle of the phone that stirred me from me restless, sporadic night of sleep. I could say that I knew what it was, as people with loved ones who are terminally ill can sense, the second I heard that ring. “Ms. Gluck, this is the hospital. We’re sorry to tell you that your mother passed away last night.” I could recount my sister running into the room, screaming. I couldn’t hug her, I couldn’t cry, all I could say was “it’s done.” I could wonder and try to understand why I used those words now to tell my nineteen year old sister that her mother was gone. Words that, in retrospect, seem so cold and detached. Or I could make up some elaborate metaphor - my life, as I had known it, was done. Maybe that’s what I had meant. I could pretend it would matter somehow, that it made some sort of difference. But the story ends the same way, regardless of the fiction we create to make it more forceful, more dramatic, more palatable, more relatable. And so it goes.

I could describe the minutes, hours, days, weeks, and months that followed. What I read at her funeral, what I wore, the people who came and those who didn’t. The way we buried her, with a card I had sent her just weeks earlier telling her about the trip we would finally take to Italy when she turned sixty - when her health was better, when she was strong enough to walk around and I was stable enough to bring her back to her favorite place in the world. I could recount what it felt like to return to D.C., where I was in law school, and to see the looks on the faces of my classmates as they tried to say they were sorry. One girl just hugged me. She seemed to know, instinctively, that words were pointless. I won’t ever forget the way she hugged me, and the look on her face, even though I have long since forgotten her name.

If anyone wanted to listen, I could try to explain what it felt like to walk around with legs of rubber, just a floating torso, wandering the streets of Washington aimlessly, not seeing what was around me and just knowing I had to keep moving. Maybe someone would understand what it felt like to be an alien - I was no longer anyone’s daughter. Adrift, but the strange thing was that the ocean around me was calm - people went about their business, commuted to work, went shopping, studied for exams, got drunk at happy hours. Their world was unchanged. They would never know about this thing that had happened.

I might be able to remember in bits and pieces what I said to people, what they said back to me. The fights with my sister, the crazy shopping sprees I went on, plunging into deeper and deeper debt. She channeled her grief in a positive way. Me, well I was simply obliterated. I could describe the relationship I got involved in six weeks later, the most serious and painful relationship of my life. One from which I am still not sure I have completely recovered.

I could show you the pictures of Venice, the trip I took with my boyfriend at the time, the trip I was supposed to take with my mother. Instead I went ten months after her death, telling myself I was going in her memory. I could recount the fact that I didn’t cry until I was about to board the train back to Rome, because I realized then, staring at the hoards of pigeons, that she wasn’t there. That the trip had not been about paying tribute to her, but instead an attempt to find her. The hope that somehow, in the mist and bridges and decaying buildings, I might see her as she had been, before the sickness that waged its war of attrition on her organs and she began to disappear little by little.

I could admit that part of me has been searching for her ever since her death. I search for her in friends, in boyfriends, in places, in things. I could talk about my ritual of going through my cell phone address book, searching anxiously through every number, realizing each time that there really isn’t anyone to call. I could say that it hurts just the same each time.

I could explain how time hasn’t healed wounds, it has simply forced me to forge a new life. A body with an alien limb. I’m convinced I can still feel it, even though it’s no longer there.

You might ask me what I will do in the meantime. If it’s a good day, I could tell you that I will try to live a life that does justice to her memory. That I know, eventually, I will find something to grasp onto. That I will make some sense of it and make peace with it and with myself.

Instead, I would probably tell you about Moon River. That it was her favorite song. The idealistic, naive part of me hopes that she is there now, floating off to see the world. I could tell you that I believe that maybe she’s just on the opposite bank now, with her huckleberry friend. That maybe one day, when I stop drifting, I’ll get there myself.

For Marilyn Gluck, 1948 - 2004

Song #41

2009-06-18T06:53:00.000-07:00

I have three lines under my right eye. Creases. Folds. The first sign of the elastin - or is it collagen? - in my skin that is breaking down. This morning as I stood in the mirror I tugged at the side of my face with my middle finger, lifting the skin, so I could envision what I must have looked like before the lines appeared. What would it take to erase them? A facelift? Some botox? Injections? Lasers? I’m not sure what the appropriate procedure would cost, but I’m fairly certain I wouldn’t be able to afford it anyway.

Some of my friends are amused with my obsession with these three unforgiving lines, some will empathize, some are critical of what they think is purely vanity. But when I really think about it, while vanity surely plays a part, it’s insufficient to explain why I find this trio of folds so troublesome. Is it fear of getting old? Of impending death, getting closer with each subsequent crease? The truth is, every time I look in the mirror, they remind me that I’m losing time. Instead of a narrative on how much I have been through and survived, they serve as a painful reminder of everything I haven’t done. I’m almost thirty-one, and I didn’t expect to be here, now, like this. This wasn’t the plan. Somehow, I have veered inexplicably off course and ended up somewhere I don’t want to ever recognize.

This morning as I rode the train I listened to Dave Matthews’ Song #41, which I used to play constantly in college. I would lay on my blue and white flowered comforter, stare at the chipped white paint on the ceiling of my run - down off-campus apartment, and imagine all of the things I would do once I got out of Philadelphia and the confines of a campus that had begun to feel more and more like a trap. What had I hoped for then? To travel across Europe? To graduate at the top of my class from a top law school and make millions at a firm? To join the Peace Corps and live out my own little version of saving the world? I really haven’t a clue anymore. What I can remember quite clearly is hating how round my face was in pictures. "Don’t worry," my mother explained, "it will thin out with age." I’m at a loss to explain why that was of any comfort to me.

When I got off the subway and stepped into the sheets of morning rain, I pulled out my cell phone. My younger sister, as usual, didn’t answer. What to say to her on voicemail? What words could I use to explain? "Hillary," I mumbled, "you’re doing great. Appreciate it. Because one day...well...I think...you will wish you did." Not very eloquent, but an attempt, however feeble.

My sister rarely checks her messages. Usually, she just deletes them.

The other night I ordered Chinese food. I opened up the fortune cookie, which said "True happiness comes from being at peace with yourself." And it occurred to me that life is not so much sad as poignant.

Cumulus

2009-03-29T08:36:00.000-07:00

The clouds try to tempt me
Come, dance with the sky
The perspective, incomparable
You may as well try

It's clear and it's silent
No howl and no groan
It's what you have wanted
You won't be alone

No shivering from cold
You'll have our embrace
Finally stop running
Of the dark, not a trace

I want to go with them
No more bags to pack
I won't have to remember
What it is that I lack

Why not, this sweet journey
And what I could see!
But the morning awaits me
So no, it can't be

A Whisper

2009-02-15T18:36:00.000-08:00

She lent me her eyes
The planet bellowed deep within
I stumbled
And, briefly, could stand

Hope

2009-02-09T09:06:00.000-08:00

Some say she went
Where it never rains
And there lingers

Some say they see her
In the glint of snow

The howl of mourning

Some wonder when
The black will fade

Bones so brittle

Some tried to cling

Engrossed in yearning
Hapless victims

For Eneze

Grip

2008-11-18T19:14:00.001-08:00

The war, it is bitter
There's ice in your veins
The house is now empty
And just chaos reigns
And you often wonder
What there is to hold onto
If you can keep treading water
If you even want to
The tired old mattress
Which gives you no rest
You can't stop the screaming
But no truths confessed
Stop asking the questions
Don't hope for release
The truth is, the darkness
May never quite cease
Your mind will betray you
But your heart, it still beats
And you are reminded
Well, there's that, at least

For Lisa and Silvana

Respite

2008-10-30T06:35:00.001-07:00

The room, it's in shambles

The rain drums the windows

The heartbeat is fainter

Once voices have ceased

Beleaguered by demons

Deliver their opus

Admire their handiwork

It's quite something to see

It's time for the pilgrimage

Land of your birth

Years spent in exile

Countries closed borders

Embark on the voyage

There's no way back home

Memory

2008-10-28T09:31:00.000-07:00

What is to be done
the machine is outmoded
where do the cogs go
the spokes and the wheels
where is their home now
the factory shut down

What is to be done
it's becomes obsolete
don't hold on too tightly
don't let it go
it's best to forget it
but try to remember

What is to be done
the city is drowning
the life vests are heavy
but so are the cries

What is to be done
it's all placed in boxes
hold them in weary hands
they gather the dust

Wheel

2008-10-16T10:35:00.000-07:00

I used to believe
in the sanctity of lines
continuous
inviolable
unending

Cars on highways
always seemed to have
delineated trajectories
yellow boundaries meant safety
and once I wondered about
the mysteries that lay
in hiking trails shrouded in foliage
relieved still to know
beginning, middle and end

The way multicolored plastic pieces
were moved in children's games
according to rules
printed on inserts
inside worn cardboard boxes

The steps of a ballet dance
we performed at a recital
choreographed and practiced
in pink candy tutus

One day a face
I had seen before
in a place that existed in memory
the lyrics of a song
whose tune played in recesses
the volume low
yet still the voice
recognizable

I felt the rain
and it was the same
morning glories
September and
the smell of books

I lay down my shield
abandon my shelter
and now
I believe in circles

Learning to Remember

2008-10-13T08:37:00.000-07:00

Tell me how to memorize
the contours of your face
the positioning of your bones
the weight of your eyelids
the shapes of the lines that dance so freely
once in awhile I try to seize them
when you are not looking

Allow me to steal it from you
so one day when you are gone
so one day when I am gone
so one day when time has forgotten us
I can hold it in my hands
and know that you existed

You

2008-10-07T09:23:00.000-07:00

I will write you a poem
Though I don't yet know the words
They are undoubtedly floating
Somewhere in the stratosphere
Waiting to be caught
In my net of butterflies

For a Hero

2008-10-04T13:43:00.001-07:00

They tell you to avoid the dark
I know that you won't
the night suits you too well

Question marks may loom large
edges may be sharp
but they don't frighten you

I imagine you a swan
gliding placid
through a world of concrete
and the cacophony
of shouts and horns

For My mother, RC, RMR, AH, and MM, my inspirations. May I always strive to follow your path.

Sister

2008-10-02T13:05:00.001-07:00

Hillary
Have you memorized
the melody of your life?

Perhaps
You think you've found the space
where dark and light
converge

I would urge you
to forget
The tune must play itself

Instead I simply
write my lyrics
in hopes that you
unlearn the song

It's Hurricane Season

2008-10-01T05:19:00.000-07:00

The hurricane shakes the windows
I huddle on the couch
It surges through my body
Neurons fire, uncontrolled
It thieves from me the beings
Denies me what I love
The doctor says it is a dream
I will never quite be whole
Learn to live with it
It is a part of you
This season is your life

I am

2008-09-29T03:00:00.000-07:00

You ask me what I am
So I will tell you this

I am the breeze that whispers
on a heavy summer night
I am the face in the copper moon
that floats in a cobalt sea
I am the damp taste of the air
moments after rain

I am the salt inside the tears
that fill and burn your eyes
I am the footsteps in the night
that rouse you from your sleep
I am the throbbing in the blood
that rushes through your veins
I am longing in the cry
inside your unborn child
I am the words you do not speak
that linger in the air

I am the soundwaves of your favorite song
I am the grinds in your morning cup
I am the darkness that creeps in slowly
I am the light that follows

I am the inverse, the converse, the outside and the inside
I am up and I am down
I am presence and I am absence
I am sight and I am blindness

You ask where I have gone
I never even left

For my mother, who is always with me

To Raymond Carver

2008-09-28T17:59:00.000-07:00

I wish I could have met you
But what would I have said?
That I hear your voice, it echoes
Across the expanse
And uneven terrain
Of distance and time

What did your face look like, as you wrote the lines
That rattle and shake my bones?

Did you linger over verses
Did you read your words aloud
Did it come to you in a torrent
Or silver drops of rain?

Or perhaps it's not your soul
The secret those letters tell
Perhaps your words have tricked me
You used them to conceal
The essence of yourself

For a Friend

2008-09-28T08:14:00.000-07:00

Sometimes people don't know what to do, exactly
Or how to give you what you need
They want to
I will come to you, if you need company
I will listen, if you want to shout at me
Or, if you so desire
I will leave you be

For D

Objects in the Rear View Mirror May Be Closer Than They Appear

2008-09-27T19:44:00.000-07:00

Once
Your arms were so light
Ebullient
Eyes wide
In them I saw wonder

Many miles traversed
Distance marked
We wandered blindly through the years

Once
You returned, again
Removed
Eyes narrowed
I was relieved to see
A glimmer still remained

For E and Q

The Maiden

2008-09-26T21:15:00.000-07:00

My mother's hands move slowly, deliberately
Across keys the color of bone
Faltering

A slight hesitation
A difficult chord
One note is not quite right

In the distance
A Maiden stands
She does not notice

Time has brazenly
Declared its war
A battle long since lost

The notes rise
For just that instant
The world itself stops

For my grandmother

Heaven

2008-09-20T10:44:00.001-07:00

Last night I dreamed I was in heaven
You were there
Head thrown back,
Laughing
I tried to capture that moment
It drifted away
Ephemeral as the breeze

Today as I walked in the park
I pretended I was in Germany
Where I had visited
Some time ago

I stared up at the periwinkle sky
The trees
So high above
Whispered to one another
In a language only they could understand

For my father

On Immortality

2008-09-12T19:52:00.000-07:00

Milan Kundera once said "A man can take his own life. But he cannot take his own immortality". And as I write this, I prove his point.

I was having a conversation with L the other day, and because she is a writer, I asked her a question that has been plaguing me recently: why does the artist create? Is it because he or she has to - because it's as essential to survival as water and food - or is it because he or she wants to leave something concrete behind, to make a statement about his life, to give herself existence beyond the cold, indifferent concrete of the grave?

"I guess it's a little bit of both", L said. And I suppose the urge to create is a double-edged sword. Because no matter what a writer writes, or a painter paints, or a musician composes, there is the impulse to create more. Once you decide to leave a voice behind, isn't it vital to express your sentiments the way you intended? Even if others interpret and misinterpret, as they inevitably will, you don't want to make a mistake with what you say. You want to be true to yourself. You can't fuck up your own immortality. Because it will exist long after you're gone. And really,
it's difficult to get it right. Or maybe impossible.

I very much want to write a book in my lifetime, but if you asked me why, I couldn't tell you. Isn't the act of writing itself enough? Why is it necessary to have something published in order to feel satisfied? And even if I do, will it suffice? Won't I have more to say as I age, learn, blunder, get up again? Will I worry that the voice I leave behind will in the end betray me? Maybe Kundera would have told me, "A man reckons with his immortality. But he forgets to reckon with death."

Harper Lee and Margaret Mitchell, two of my favorite authors, each wrote only one book in their respective lifetimes. It has been the subject of speculation why these two women never published anything again. When asked, Harper Lee simply answered, "I said everything I wanted to say". Or maybe she didn't actually say that. Maybe that's a fiction passed down; the blessing or curse of her act of creation (immortality) and its lover (as Kundera said), death. Yet still, I wonder how she did it.

Maybe what we leave behind is necessarily illusory because even in life, it's not possible to see things clearly, and therefore not possible to express exactly we meant. We can't
quite convey what we don't understand.

In "Both Sides Now", Joni Mitchell says "I've looked at life from both sides now/ From win and lose and still somehow/ It's life's illusions I recall/ I really don't know life at all." I would tend to agree.

Excerpts from "Immortality" by Milan Kundera and "Both Sides Now" by Joni Mitchell.

To Things Not Seen

2008-09-11T09:36:00.000-07:00

The subway car
Propels me through time and space
Screeching halt
Passengers move in a mindless frenzy
A living, breathing, shapeless entity
The conductor undoubtedly
Behind some door
Existence without a face

Ode to a Shattered Wine Glass

2008-09-10T10:44:00.001-07:00

Fractured
Innumberable crystalline pieces
No two quite the same
Scattered

Some destined to draw blood
Others swept away by dusty bristles
The blue plastic dustpan
Their purgatory

Certain fragments
Will find their way to beaches
Smoothed over by oceans and the apathy of time
Only to be picked up by a precocious child
Grabbing the seaglass from the cool, wet sand

I know of no glue potent enough to reconstruct
My Ikea glassware
Yet still, I gather the shards

The B Side

2008-09-10T05:56:00.001-07:00

Last night I went to a concert with my friend L. The performer, Lance Horne, sang a variety of songs, most of which were entertaining. But there was one that resonated with me, in the dim blue lights of the small and intimate concert hall . It was called "The B Side", the story of a man whose lover had left him. Although I probably don't do it justice in paraphrasing, the man in the song likened himself - and his life - to the B Side of an album. Always there, ever present, rarely played. The songs that never make it to the top of the charts, the collection of melodies that remains, waiting and hoping that someone will finally, truly hear what it has to say. The B Side is certain that one day, even if it is never favored, someone will make sense of its myriad of notes and lyrics. Someone has to. Its existence will be given meaning. And so it waits.

Yesterday at work I was reading a poem called "Rememberance" by my favorite poet, Rainer Maria Rilke. It goes like this:

And you wait, keep waiting for that one thing
which would infinitely enrich your life:
the powerful, uniquely uncommon,
the awakening of dormant stones,
depths that would reveal you to yourself.

In the dusk you notice the book shelves
with their volumes in gold and in brown;
and you think of far lands you journeyed,
of pictures and of shimmering gowns
worn by women you conquered and lost.

And it comes to you all of a sudden:
That was it! And you arise, for you are
aware of a year in your distant past
with its fears and events and prayers.

And then it occurred to me this morning, in the subway station with its ceaseless humming and faceless throngs: the B Side. In a sense, aren't we all "waiting for tomorrow to come/For that train to come running 'round the bend" (as Springsteen said in "Better Days")? The promise of the future. Fame, glory, wealth, love, excitement, recognition, healing, freedom from our demons, clarity, understanding. That one thing - it's out there - it has to be!

Rilke's words, so powerful to me, transcend time and space. I wish I could have met him. I wish I could have told him - though I am sure that the right words would have failed me - that once, at least for single, powerful, inimitable moment in my life, I heard the B Side playing loud and clear, and realized that it's been the side that's really been playing all along. Because the B side is life. Humanity. Hope. Desperation. Mistakes. Forgiveness. Ceaselss yearning.

That was it!

Yet still I wait.

Empty Bench

2008-08-25T13:02:00.000-07:00

This morning I am taking a walk on the Upper West Side. The air is warm and heavy, and I stroll slowly through the quiet streets with no particular destination in mind; something I have so often done in the past in repeated attempts to gain the clarity or understanding that always seems so ephemeral. I find myself outside the Museum of Natural History, watching the people and dogs in the little park outside.

I see a young girl of about fifteen or sixteen sitting on a bench with her mother under the trees, whose branches are outstretched like bony arms reaching toward something elusive just beyond reach. The two are eating lunch - sandwiches, probably from the small deli with the fading red awning across the street. The girl looks restless, slightly embarassed even. Her eyes are downcast, as if trying to avoid eye contact. Maybe it's her silent declaration of autonomy. Maybe she's painfully self-conscious, in the sheepish and slightly perplexed way teenagers often are. She's bored - or feigning boredom, perhaps. Maybe it's because the girl feels a need to convey to her mother that she doesn't need the security and protection of a parent anymore, lest her mother mistakenly think that the girl is still the same child who had clung to her and cried when the sleepaway camp bus was about to pull away. And maybe it's even necessary for the girl to try to maintain this type of distance in order to form her own sense of identity or self.

But I want to call out to the girl. I want to warn her. I want to plead with her, to tell her that one day she'll regret this elaborate act she's putting on - that these moments will be forever beyond her grasp, that her arms will reach out in desperation, in yearning, in futility, like the trees.

But it's an empty bench. And there I stand, silently watching ghosts.

He Thinks of the Deceased as the Seasons Change

2008-08-18T08:05:00.000-07:00

It's mid-August, and already I can feel autumn in the New York City air. It's something almost imperceptible and difficult to describe. Maybe it's the texture of the breeze, maybe it's atoms and molecules that make up the smells emanating from the rough and broken concrete sidewalks. Maybe it's the sound of the rustling in the trees. I don't know if growing up in this city has given me a hyper-sensitivity to this change of seasons. All I know is that I can feel it in my nerves, in my muscles, in the movement of my bones. It's a sense of motion, it's a sense of stagnation. It's loss and it's infinite possibility. It arouses in me a yearning for the past and simultaneously propels me, ill-prepared as I am, into the future. The Earth is rotating on its axis and moving in its orbit. Always the same, and always different. Consistent and ephemeral. Those that are gone return to me with increased clarity. I feel their presence more strongly, yet I am more keenly aware of the vast distance between us.

I was at the Metropolitan Museum of Art with a friend recently. Walking through the vast, majestic halls, we stopped to take in the Asian art. I was struck by a Chinese Scroll, entitled the Classic of Filial Piety by Li Gonglin, written in 1085. Landscapes and writing, preserved over nine hundred years. And the translation:

"Mourning for the Loss of a Parent - He thinks of the deceased as the seasons change"
The two of you went off in a boat
Floating far away
Longingly I think of You
My heart within is Pained

Not Too Sexy...

2008-03-16T07:28:00.000-07:00

Yesterday I was shopping with a friend when the topic of makeup - specifically, my wearing next to none - came up. Notably enough, it's something that several friends have mentioned to me recently. "M, you're not in your early twenties anymore, and at this age you can't get away with wearing no makeup the way you did before," said another well-intentioned confidante in reference to my approaching thirtieth birthday. So, in an act of surrender, I submitted my face to the full treatment before going out last night - eyeliner, mascara, eye shadow, bronzer, other tools that I can't quite remember or put on myself...

In the course of applying the complicated paint, my friend R and I got into a discussion about sexiness. See, despite my ardent love of fashion, I'm the girl who wears boots and a sweater (and only a little lip gloss and tinted moisturizer) to a bar. The traditional uniform - namely a low-cut top and smoke eyes - does not suit me. Yes, I will wear the occasional mini dress, but that's as far as it goes. So whilst giving me a lesson in makeup, I was also schooled in the Art of Sexy. My blue bra? Decidedly not. Winter-pale skin? Nope. Cotton underwear? A horror! (And one several ex-boyfriends lamented, adding "you have such a nice body, why don't you ever wear anything that reveals it?"). What about sexy lingerie, my friend inquired. Didn't I have any black thongs? Yes, a couple that I wear when necessary, but I don't like them. Black lacy bras? Maybe one buried deep within my dresser drawers...Such things were necessary when going out, even on a first date when (ostensibly) no one would see them. Because they're sexy. It's important to always be sexy.

Personally, my logic has always been that expensive lingerie, except on certain occasions, was kind of a waste of money. With limited resources, shoes and travel always have taken priority. I don't not wear revealing clothing because I am ashamed of my body, but because being ogled is not something I particularly enjoy. And in all honesty, I'm not too good at seducing men. (I cringe in abject horror at one failed attempt to woo a particularly attractive guy on my last vacation...Let's just say that it's not my forte and leave it at that). But maybe everyone was right. Maybe I had gone terribly astray. Was I squandering youth - what may possibly be the time of my life when I look my best - on granny panties (God I hate that word, but sometimes nothing else will do!) and a stubborn refusal to flaunt my assets? Maybe I should take their advice. Even if I feel like an impostor or a phony. In time I will get better, right? And I do want to be sexy, don't I?

In the shower this morning I pondered it. What was "sexy" anyway? I thought about what I found sexy in others - intelligence, compassion, a sense of social conscience, self-deprecation, a penchant for the eccentric and unusual, good taste in music...Muscles, rock hard abs and a swagger have never impressed me in men. I like glasses. I like a raucous laugh and the ability to make a fool of oneself with abandon.

So I guess sexiness, like beauty, is really highly individual. And by taking on another persona, I will be playing a part - something that, to me, is the least sexy thing a person can do. So I'm not going to run out and toss my aqua bra and don a halter. In the spirit of compromise and change, however, I will probably invest in some mascara...

March 17th, 2004

2008-03-14T20:25:00.000-07:00

I should stop asking
Questions that have no answer
But they linger in the air
Phantoms
Ever present even if unacknowledged

I should accept
That you did your best
That I did as well
That there is no more room in this tiny chamber
For guilt or blame
We cannot coexist any longer

I should be glad that you are not in pain any longer
The intensity of your suffering has ceased
Yet it still lives with me; so vivid in my dreams
You wouldn't want me to remember you that way
Your smile should be more potent that your tears

I should have accepted your absence by my now
You left long ago
Yet sometimes I still reach for the phone
About to call you
Anxious to hear your voice
And then I remember
I would rather forget

You once told me
That should is the most useless word in the English language
And I agreed.

For my mother, Marilyn Ann Gluck, January 15th, 1948 - March 17th, 2004

You, or Your Memory

2008-03-03T05:57:00.000-08:00

This is what I remember.

When we came back to the apartment, I went to your room. I was convinced you would be there. But it was empty. Your clothing was hanging in the closet, your shoes out on the floor. The t-shirts in your drawer had just been washed - they smelled like Tide - like you. I ran to the bathroom. The sink was filled with shavings - bits and pieces of black hair, stark against the white ceramic. You had just shaved the day before. How could you be gone if you had just shaved? Every evidence of your life - the daily, mundane parts in addition to the photographs, the treasured memories - was right there, in living color, before my very eyes. Such things do not happen. Human beings do not simply disappear from this Earth.

I was at your funeral. The rabbi gave me and H the piece of black ribbon to pin on our clothing, to signify that we were in mourning. Physical evidence of your absence in living color, for everyone to see. But still, I did not believe.

I put on your watch. I slept with your shirts. I begged others not to donate your clothing. I didn't want your closet touched; "Please Mommy, leave Dad's dresser the way it was. I don't want anyone else wearing his things." Because I knew you would be back. I knew it. Each time the key turned in the door, I waited, my heart in my throat. It had to be you! I was not going to go through life never hearing your voice again, that deep, crazy laugh. You would come back to the living room and pace like you did when nervous. You would stand out on the terrace, looking out across the Hudson at I don't know what - some distant sight far away, too far for me to see or comprehend.

But you didn't.

Today I am going to a funeral. It will be the first time I return; the same place where the rabbi gave me that black ribbon. Now, sixteen years later, I no longer wait to hear the sound of the key in the door. Your shirts - your things - are long gone. I have your watch; it is with Mom's things now. I put them all together in a jewelry box after her funeral. I know you are not coming back.

But I have not forgotten.

For my father, Barry Alan Gluck, September 5th, 1944 - July 14, 1992

Note: the title is from "You, or Your Memory", a song by The Mountain Goats from their album, The Sunset Tree

Nothing Gold Can Stay (For Y)

2008-02-11T21:15:00.000-08:00

I just heard the news. It's a strange thing about death - no matter how many people I have lost in my lifetime (and there have been too many), I just cannot become desensitized to it. It still shakes me to my very core. And I guess, as painful as it is, I am grateful for that.

And I will miss you. So often it's not about the grandiose gestures, but the little day-to-day things that make our (often) mundane existence more bearable. You did that for me for two years. With your endearing smile, your colorful outfits and kind compliments about my hair or my shoes, you made each day a little better than it would have been without you there. You made me laugh, something which to me is invaluable. I always looked forward to seeing you at work in the mornings, and you seemed to almost emanate kindness and empathy. Your earnestness and sincerity were not lost on me. The world has lost another beautiful soul.

I will miss you. Rest in peace.

Nothing Gold Can Stay
by Robert Frost

Nature's first green is gold,
Her hardest hue to hold.
Her early leaf's a flower;
but only so an hour.
Then leaf subsides to leaf.
So Eden sank to grief,
So dawn goes down to day.
Nothing gold can stay.

Thanks to L for introducing me to this poem.

In Defense of Melancholy

2008-02-09T18:08:00.000-08:00

The other day, when I was feeling particularly upset about something, I called my sister. At the sound of my tears, she repeated her usual stop-feeling-sorry-for-yourself-mantra, which was to tell me to "stop being so f*cking emo and go out and do something fun. Get your mind off of it!"

I could have taken her advice (and I sometimes do), but I am of the opinion that to do so would have been a disservice to myself. Simply put, I don't like to short-change my sadness or deny it its rightful place in my existence. In fact, I think it's an emotion of immeasurable value. This is an unusual concept. The idea of honoring your sorrow is not something that seems natural. It defies our traditional schema, which tells us that the ultimate goal is to “be happy”, which means we must do everything in our power to avoid, or minimize, our pain. There are a myriad of ways in which we as human beings try to circumvent the sorrow in life, yet it seems to seep out from us in spite of our sometimes gargantuan efforts to conceal it.

Which begs the question: why are people afraid of sadness? Why do we try to cover it up and pretend it doesn’t exist? Why is the sight of another person in tears so disconcerting? Why can’t we just let that person give voice to the anguish? Cry our eyes out, scream at the top of our lungs, throw something across the room! Sorrow is as vital to existence as joy. Heartache means that something is precious to us, that we are emotionally invested. It reminds us that we still have a stake in something - and without that, what is the point of anything, really?

Too often it seems to me that those around me elect to feel numbness. There is a sort of collective aversion to intensity. I think William Faulkner put it better than I ever could when he said “If I had to choose between grief and nothing, I’d choose grief”.

So, to all those who know me, if you see me in tears, don’t try to get me to "cheer up" right away and "put the bad thoughts out of my head". Just tell me to cry my f*cking eyes out, because you know what - it’s okay.

Soundtrack of the Week

2008-02-05T11:31:00.000-08:00

A couple of weeks ago on yet another tedious date, a guy asked me "if there was a soundtrack to your life, what it be?". Because those prefrabricated types of interview questions really rankle me, I quickly responded "Cemetery Gates by The Smiths". I think this reply sufficiently unnerved him because thankfully the inquisition stopped there. (An aside - I once went on a date where a guy proceeded to ask me "What would you do if you won the lotto? What's the most painful thing you've ever experienced? What's your favorite thing in the world?..." in rapid fire succession. It was more painful than the time I was triple-teamed (the G-rated version!) by three Goldman Sachs investment bankers when interviewing for a job during my senior year of college...Cringe).

In any case, because I'm kind of bored, I decided to create a soundtrack of the week. Yes, I know it's only (Super!) Tuesday, but it's a work in progress. Maybe I should call it a soundtrack-of-the-first-day-and-a-half-of-the-week?

Oh, and thanks, Mr. X, for the inspiration.

1. Girl Anachronism - The Dresden Dolls
2. Gray Room - Damien Rice
3. Throw It All Away - Brandi Carlile
4. Bigmouth Strikes Again - The Smiths
5. How Am I Doing? - Anna Waronker
6. Keep Breathing - Ingrid Michaelson
7. This Year - The Mountain Goats
8. Better Days - Bruce Springsteen

Thank You, Gilda Radner, Maya Angelou and The Giants

2008-02-04T07:35:00.000-08:00

People always talk about how failures "build character", how adversity "makes you stronger", and how we learn "what we're made of" when faced with seemingly insurmountable obstacles. Well, I generally consider platitudes suspect and view them with derision. Throw-away phrases are used to oversimplify things and reassure others when we don't know what the f*ck else to say. There is undoubtedly an element of truth to such statements - I won't deny that - but at the same time, to sum things up in this way necessarily dismisses what I call the "layered-ness" of things, for lack of a better term. And I wonder why. Isn't the intricacy of experience the most fascinating - albeit infuriating - part?

The late Gilda Radner put it more eloquently than I ever could:

"I wanted a perfect ending. Now I've learned, the hard way, that some poems don't rhyme, and some stories don't have a clear beginning, middle, and end. Life is about not knowing, having to change, taking the moment and making the best of it, without knowing what's going to happen next. Delicious ambiguity." - Gilda Radner

Lately, though, in the midst of a kind of watershed period in my life - in which I took a great risk which has sort of turned out to be a free-fall without a net - I feel the urge to cling to those very tired expressions and cliches. I'm not far enough removed from my current quagmire to relish the complexity and those damn platitudes seem so much more comforting...Hey, any port in a storm, right?

Well, in an effort to stop the self-flagellation that is my unfortunate tendency, I have decided that the words of the great Maya Angelou may be more appropriate:

"You may encounter many defeats, but you must not be defeated. In fact, it may be necessary to encounter the defeats, so you can know who you are, what you can rise from, how you can still come out of it." - Maya Angelou

So, when this mess does resolve itself - and it will, because if the Giants can beat the Patriots in spite of the latter's undefeated season, I can get through this - I hope that this experience will be one more failure that I can "rise from". And at some point - weeks months, maybe even years - into the future, I know I won't feel so disenfranchised from the ambiguity.

Popeye Said It Best

2008-02-01T09:51:00.000-08:00

Several months ago in the midst of a conversation with a colleague, he suddenly stopped abruptly mid-sentence. “I can’t believe how honest you are. You don’t hold anything back, do you?” Well, I can’t say whether it was a compliment or a criticism – probably a bit of both.

I would love to say that my forthrightness stems from some noble impulse. But that would be a lie. And perhaps honesty is not the right word for it at all, because the concept of honesty assumes conscious intent. And it’s really much more basic than that. I simply do not know how to be otherwise.

My bluntness, though, has not been a boon. If I could play the part - and shut up f*ck up when the occasion calls for it - I would probably be more successful. I would undoubtedly have more friends. People would probably respect me more. And believe me, I’ve tried. But like a suit or dress that’s too tight, it keeps me from being able to breathe. Maybe it’s a copout, maybe I’m just lazy, or maybe I’ve finally just accepted myself, because, like the good sailor says, I am what I am.

Right Me Up

2008-01-31T07:12:00.000-08:00

I was watching “Good Morning America” before I left for work this morning - I find the Diane Sawyer/Robin Roberts duo strangely soothing at 7:30 a.m. - when I caught several minutes of a piece about the Damanhur Temples of Humankind, thirty miles north of the city of Turin. The Temples were built beginning in 1978 and are a handcrafted place of worship. Amazingly enough, the Damanhur Temples were carved inside a mountain without the knowledge or permission of the Italian government (1).

While that’s quite a feat in and of itself, even more fascinating is the group of people that live there, the Damanhurians. The Damanhurians somehow still believe that humanity has the potential to live free of discord and at one with nature (their society is an eco-based one). The Damanhurians (about 800 people) live communally, have their own language and have managed, despite all odds, to retain faith in the goodness of humankind.

Wow. I want to join them. I can just see myself now, bathing in streams, sleeping under the stars, never to be bound by the pressure to wear foundation and eyeliner again. I’ll be able to read and to write, to hike and see the world from a new and more pure vantage point, to listen (and sing along to) Pavement and Patti Smith with impunity. I’ll pick out a new name - like Phoenix Renee - to symbolize my rise from the ashes. I’ll get over my addiction to caffeine and will never have to deal with the disapproving looks of other women as they give my shoes and handbag the once-over in department stores or subway platforms. Cry Freedom!

There is the little problem of my student loans. But if the Damanhurians can build a temple in a mountain without the government even realizing, surely they can handle a few less-than-scrupulous creditors, right?

(1) – Thanks to Good Morning America, Thursday January 31st, as soon as I figure out the proper way to do an internet citation (Blue Book WHERE ARE YOU?! ) I’ll edit this.

If you want to find out more about the Damanhurians, go to http://abcnews.go.com/GMA/Story?id=4216350&page=1.

Title from the song “Right Me Up” by State Radio

About Seeing the Whole Chess Board

2008-01-30T08:37:00.001-08:00

Recently I made a very bad decision. For months I have chastised myself about it, examined and re-examined just where I went wrong in my thinking, what part of my rationale was (so obviously) faulty, why I was so misguided. Was I desperate to escape something? Impulsive? Just overly confident that by making a change I could "make things right"? I think maybe I was, in my childish way, clinging onto the belief that there are sometimes easy solutions to things. I haven't grown up as much as I would have hoped, in fact maybe I haven't grown up at all.

Anyway, a friend sent me this quotation yesterday:

"The choice may have been mistaken, but the choosing was not."
- "Move On" lyrics, song covered by Barbra Streisand, 2006

Thank you for making me see that what I lacked at the time was not necessarily maturity or good sense, but peripheral vision. Why did I think I would have been exempt from myopia?

On Music, or How a Little Red iPod Changed My Life

2008-01-30T07:16:00.000-08:00

I was recently discussing music with someone, and when I told him how fanatical I was about it, his natural assumption was that I must be a musician of some sort. Sadly, no, I do not sing, nor do I play any instruments (aside from some truly dreadful attempts at a rendition of “Faith” by George Michael during karaoke, and several equally unfortunate years of wasted piano lessons). I have, in all honesty, no musical ability whatsoever (aside from a strange penchant for memorizing lyrics). But music is almost as basic to my existence as air or water.

It sounds counterintuitive, but music and lyrics written by others enable me to express myself in a way that would otherwise be impossible. I find that when I try to put thoughts, emotions and feelings into words, something is always lost in the translation. It’s almost as if I am trying to speak another language without knowing the vocabulary. So I rely on music to do that for me. Music is my interpreter. It enables me to make sense of my thoughts and emotions; it gives me the tools to reconcile myself to my circumstances, whatever they may be. It gives me a connection to my past – memories that are often so transient and ephemeral that they are in danger of being lost forever in the impenetrable web of neurons and neurotransmitters that comprises my cerebrum.

Because of my obsession with music, people are often surprised to hear that I rarely go to concerts. In thinking about this, I guess it’s because music is a kind of solitary exercise for me, much like meditation or even prayer. I think music may be the closest I will ever come to any sort of true spirituality. Concerts are, in my reality, too often about pleasing crowds. Which is not to say that there aren’t occasions on which music raises a group of otherwise disconnected individuals to a newer level of awareness and understanding, - as those lucky enough to attend Woodstock or those whose religiosity makes a choir something holy can surely attest to. But I’m not a religious person and watersheds like Woodstock happen once in a lifetime, if we are that lucky.

So for me, right now, I’ll take my music from the earphones of the little red iPod nano my sister got me for Christmas. (Thanks H). Unless Tom Waits or Springsteen want to come over and give me a private concert; if you see them, let them know I’ll be waiting.

On Questions

2008-01-29T10:26:00.000-08:00

The mathematician Johann von Neumann once said, “In mathematics you don’t understand things. You just get used to them.”

It’s obvious to me that von Neumann appreciated something very fundamental about life. That being said, I kind of wonder if he was ever truly able to reconcile himself to an existence of acceptance without understanding. If so, I wish I could ask him how.

I now have to make my confession – by most people’s standards, I think too much. Yes, it’s kind of annoying to some (especially my close friends and my sister, who is tiring of my incessant attempts at analysis), but it’s always been in my nature. I am, to be quite honest, more of an observer of life than a participant. The background has always felt more comfortable to me than it’s more glamorous and highly coveted counterpart. Popularity, although I aspired to it at some point, has in truth never suited me at all. I think – I hope – that I have finally reached the point where I am able to accept that it’s just as legitimate to be a watcher as it is to be a doer.

This tendency sentences me to the endless task of trying to reach an illusory goal. I know it’s futile, but it’s as addictive to me as shoes or espresso. I simply can’t exist without it. Growing up, the most consistent thing people said to me in the way of unsolicited advice is that I was “too intense”. It’s off-putting to many. If I separate myself from myself, I can see how my ceaseless rumination and scrutiny can be truly tiresome. (Certainly my ex-boyfriend found it so; I think I simply exhausted his patience). As one friend recently told me, I am “too much in my own head”. Maybe it’s narcissism. I prefer to label it sensitivity to the hundredth power.

This begs the question: what has all of this taught me? The answer, of course, is absolutely nothing. This makes it sound like it has been a supreme waste of time and energy. And maybe it has. But it’s the single lesson I am most grateful for in this life.

I have been able to create a sort of rough outline, an ever-evolving philosophy applicable to my own life and experience, and it is this: chaos theory reigns supreme. Things don’t happen for “a reason”. That statement is, to me, an attempt to create order in a world where there simply is none. (A caveat: I am speaking only for myself here. I would never presume to make a generalization about anyone else’s life, beliefs or value system). Believing that there is some master plan behind things may make for a more palatable reality, but as it applies to my own life, I think it’s an extended exercise in self-delusion. I cannot see things as “meant to be”, because that statement necessarily assumes that something higher has made that value judgment. And that’s simply not a concept I can live with. Objectivity may be a lofty goal, but it’s one that does not exist in the realm of humanity as I have experienced it.

This isn’t to say that we should not try to structure the chaos. As much as I personally believe that it is impossible, I also know on a visceral level that as people we could not survive without earnestly continuing the attempt. So we assign meaning to the things that happen. We create some purpose for our struggles. We have to do so in order to survive. The cerebrum demands it of us. And I think it’s as beautiful as it is useless. I am not a religious person, but that is the only God I know of.

Several years before my mother died, she sent me a card with a quotation from the poet Rainer Maria Rilke:

“..try to love the questions themselves as if they were locked rooms or books written in a very foreign language. Don't search for the answers, which could not be given to you now, because you would not be able to live them. And the point is to live everything. Live the questions now. Perhaps then, someday far in the future, you will gradually, without even noticing it, live your way into the answer.”

Well, I simply cannot help searching for the answers, Mom. But I’m growing to like living the questions a little better.

A Eulogy for 2007

2008-01-29T10:03:00.000-08:00

So I wrote this on December 31st and it's a little out of date, but what the hell, I am posting it anyway...

Dear 2007,

I guess it’s time for me to see you off. Perhaps you think I should be doing some deep introspection now, thinking about what you taught me and how I’m going to start over in 2008. But in all honesty, that would actually be a disservice to you and your forebears.

2007, I don’t believe in New Year’s resolutions any more than I believe that things happen for a reason. I don’t think people change in response to some arbitrary date on a calendar, and I don’t believe in clean slates or in some internal “reset” button. My own life has shown me that the human experience is necessarily cumulative. Separating one year from the next might be a comfortable classification system to help order the world, but I have found that it’s a pretty useless way in which to make sense of the psyche.

I hope you understand and won’t hold it against me. I’m grateful for you – what you gave to me, and even for what you took away. But no year exists in a vacuum. So I suppose what I’m saying is that I’m not really saying goodbye to you at all.

Let me tell you what I hope for in 2008, which is in all honesty the same thing I aspire to every day. I can’t find the words myself really, so I’ll let Eddie Vedder tell you because he put it better than I ever could.

Excerpt from "Rise", lyrics and music by Eddie Vedder, from the soundtrack to "Into the Wild"

Such is the way of the world

You can never know

Just where to put all your faithAnd how will it grow

Gonna rise upBurning back holes in dark memories

Gonna rise upTurning mistakes into gold

Hmmm, I guess the word for it is transcendence?

With love and appreciation (and admittedly a tad of resentment),
-M

A Dedication

2008-01-29T09:06:00.000-08:00

So I start with a brief tribute, because it seems appropriate...

When I was in college, I mentioned to a friend that I wanted to write a memoir one day. She looked at me, laughed and said “What do you have to say that anyone would want to read?” Well, to this day I still have no answer. Probably nothing. But I don’t write to interest or entertain other people – I’m frankly not capable of that ambitious an undertaking. I write for myself, and I do it simply because I have to. My writing is probably not particularly good and I don’t aspire to move or inspire anyone. It’s much more visceral than that, and to be honest, more selfish. So if anyone ever reads what I write with the expectation of being entertained, he or she is most likely to be pretty disappointed.

That being said, it’s taken me years to start writing on a (somewhat) regular basis. I lack discipline, I lack focus, and most of all, I am completely lacking in understanding. I think what enabled me to finally start doing it is the realization that I don’t have to understand in order to write – in fact, I write in order to try to understand.

So at the outset of this blog I am starting, I want to make a dedication. I’m not going to put it in my own words, because despite the fact that I sometimes talk incessantly, I’m often not very good at communicating my feelings to the people I care most about. I often want desperately to tell them how much they have meant to me, but the words get trapped inside my throat and the sentiments never see the light of day. So I’m going to use someone else’s words. But the feelings are my own, and even if the people I am dedicating this to never get to read it – and some surely won’t, because they have passed on – I at least am acknowledging, if even only to myself, the difference they made in my life.

So, to Betsy (RIP, dear angel), Susana, Sue (the Foster family!), Steve, Celeste, Sarah (the Thomas family!), Susan O, Bernadette, Connie, Chuck (all the Waciseks), Amy (The McGovern-Berkowitz family), Susan-Joan, Dee Dee, Julie, Ilissa, Jeanne, Esere, Christy, Rachel, Nancy, Silvana, Eneze, Quiana, Lucretia, Angela (RIP), Nellie (RIP), Deborah, and to my late grandmother, Concetta Colosi DiFabio(RIP), to my father, Barry Alan Gluck (1944 – 1992) , and most of all, to my mother, Marilyn Ann DiFabio Gluck (1948 – 2004) and my sister, Hillary Constance Gluck (the two best friends and most inspirational heroes a person could ever ask for ) – thank you for making me believe that something pure, honest and real still exists in this world. I love you.

Excerpt from “For Good”, from Wicked, lyrics by Stephen Schwartz, sung on the Wicked Cast Album by Idina Medezel and Kristin Chenoweth and copied from the website http://www.musicalschwartz.com/wicked-for-good.htm:

GLINDA
I've heard it said that people come into our lives for a reason bringing something we must learn and we are led to those whohelp us most to grow if we let them and we help them in return and we are led to those who help us most to grow if we letthem and we help them in return

Now I don't know if I believe that that is true but I know I'm who I am today because I knew you...

Like a comet pulled from orbit as it passes the sun, like a stream that meets a boulder halfway through the wood...who can say if I've been changed for the better? But because I knew you I have been changed for good

ELPHABA
It well may be that we will never meet again in this lifetime so let me say before we part: so much of me is what I have learned from you you'll be with me, like a handprint on my heart
now whatever way our stories may end I know you haverewritten mine by being my friend... Like a ship blown from it's mooring by a wind off the sea like a seed dropped by a skybird in a distant wood who can say if I've been changed for the better?
But because I knew you... I have been changed for good

GLINDA
Because I knew you...

BOTH
I have been changed for good

ELPHABA
And just to clear the air I ask forgiveness for what you blame me for...

GLINDA
Well I guess there is blame to share...

BOTH
And none of it seems to matter anymore

GLINDA (same time as Elphaba)
Like a comet pulled from orbit as it passes the sun, like a stream that meets a boulder halfway through the wood

ELPHABA (same time as Glinda)
Like a ship blown off it's mooring by a wind off the sea, like a seed dropped by a skybird in the wood

BOTH
Who's to say if I've been changed for the better?

GLINDA
Because I knew you

ELPHABAbecause I knew you

BOTH I have been changed for good

- January 29th, 2008.