4/12 - Spring
Dear Nanny -
Easter has come and gone, and it was the first, ever, that I made a conscious effort not to be antisocial. I remember when you and gram were alive, I would simply sit with the two of you at extended family gatherings, feeding you wine and cheese, and quietly discussing who people were with you Nan, then repeating myself in a loud, forced whisper to gram, who wouldn’t hear us the first time around. “What?” she would ask, then I would lean in toward her to tell her about so and so’s whosiwhatzit, and her hearing aid, without fail, would begin to buzz. Poor Gram. She took so much abuse because of her hearing aids. Do you remember what my dad and I used to do to her? We used to walk into a room that she was sitting in, and we would speak to her without making sounds, simply moving our mouths and using body language, and without fail she used to check her hearing aids, realize what her rotten son and granddaughter were doing, and she would dismiss us with her hand and say, “Oh you, . . . go away!” Remember? You used to say, “The Hell with them, Kae.” Remember?
Anyway, I kept thinking of you yesterday on Easter, thinking how much fun it would have been to have you there at Amber’s new house, decorated beautifully with your old parlor furniture, and that gorgeous copper table that you used to have in front of the fireplace and bookshelves. She has very similar taste to you; you would love their home. Nanny, You would love Ellijah and Jane; they are like night and day, like most siblings that I know. I have told you all about sweet Ellijah...well Nan, you ought to see Jane. Nanny, she is without a doubt one of the silliest, potentially ill-behaved but most adorable looking brown eyed sweeties that I’ve ever encountered. She is a wackadoodle, even at 2 ½ , and isn’t phased even slightly by authority, imminent danger, tumbles down the stairs, or her brother’s neighborhood friends. Jane is part of the game, or it will not go on. Nanny she is a riot, and unbelievably bright.
Yesterday, she and Ellijah, Amber and Colin handed me an Easter package to open, and sat around me giggling while I opened it. “Oh cute!” I said, tearing through a basket loaded with chocolate, and fruit chews. “Look very closely,” my sister laughed. I pulled out two boxes that said Little Chocolate Bunnies on them, but the boxes had been torn open. And when I peered through the cellophane display window on the boxes, both rabbits were missing their little chocolate heads. I examined them in disbelief, looking at the little bite marks that rounded the bunny necks, and the outside of the box where it had been torn, and everyone cracked up, clapping their hands.
“Sick joke,” I said to my sister, as she proceeded to explain that Jane had seen her put them in a bag and away upstairs, and took it upon her two year old self to venture upstairs into the closet, tore open the boxes with her teeth, bit the chocolate heads off, and then placed each one back in its box, closed them, and put them back in the bag in the closet, and ventured downstairs. Amber said that when Jane was coming down the stairs both she and mom said, “Jane, what’s in your mouth?” And she mumbled, “Nothing,’ and smiled a big, chocolate grin. She’s great, Nan; I think that she’ll do her own thing.
As for the antisocial thing, I didn’t pretend that I was feeling sick and disappear to the upstairs to fall asleep in El’s bed. Nor did I sneak through the garage and take a power walk through their neighborhood after I ate to burn off calories that I pictured as fat deposits on my belly; Nor did I hide in the basement and drink incessantly, and then go outside to sit by myself, and I didn’t even fantasize about throwing up in the bathroom, or about running into oncoming traffic. I ate Easter dinner, I carried on conversations with adults who are probably uncomfortable talking to me because I normally seem peculiar to them, but I made an effort, and I tried to desperately stave off every “how’s school?” or “when’s your teaching year over?"
I simply gave them an estimate, and avoided saying, 'oh, well I cracked up in February and haven’t taught since, and because of the numerous drugs that I have tried to take in the last eight weeks, my judgment has been hindered, and I don’t feel that I can be a responsible educator in this condition ...but Lithium is helping. By the way, I’m looking for work. Do you need me to take care of your children?'
Anyway, knock on wood or whatever Nan, Lithium and Prozac together are helping, and the fogginess has subsided substantially I still have this stop, pause and think thing that I do when I take a step. I don’t quite understand it, and it’s rather difficult to explain. Oh wait, I have the perfect example. There is a fantastic film that I recently saw called “Love Liza,” starring Philip Seymour Hoffman and Kathy Bates; great actors. You probably remember Kathy Bates from “Fried Green Tomatoes.” I think that you saw that, at least I’m pretty sure that you read the book.
Well, Phillip Seymour Hoffman is one of those fantastic, realistic, and multifaceted actors that doesn’t receive half the acknowledgment that he should because he’s not an adonis. Remember Johnny Depp? Hoffman play’s fantastic, unorthodox parts like he does, but he never had the “21 Jump Street” to get him noticed. Anyway, I love the actor. The film is a sad, sad story about a man who’s wife commits suicide, and leaves him a letter, hence “Love, Liza.”
Out of desperation for self-medication for pain, and to try to assuage his obsession with the unopened suicide letter from his young wife, he begins to huff mass quantities of gasoline in order to asphixiate himself and make his time in his empty house more bearable. Meanwhile Kathy Bates’ character, Liza’s estranged, yet nurturing mother desperately attempts to convince him to open the suicide note, so that they both may have a better understanding as to why she did it, but to no avail. But the part of the film that I found most intriguing, in addition to the remarkable acting was the director’s conveyance of deep sadness through slow human movement. Every one of Philip Seymour Hoffman’s physical movements was slow, deliberate and separated by pause, separated by close up shots of heavy breathing and confused thought. The opening scene shows him pulling into his driveway in silence with a bouquet of flowers with him, and the only sounds are the external sounds of trees, passing cars, birds, and his breathing as he silently stares ahead, contemplating his next move toward the house. Nothing seemed automatic; it was too painful for him to venture toward the door gracefully; deep sadness corterizes those nerve endings. Eventually, after painfully watching him do nothing but crinkle the cellophane wrapped around the flowers, he opens the car door into the sound of spring, closes the vault behind him, and walks. It’s as if he is relearning the process of walking, which I would imagine could pose as an extended metaphor for the grieving process after losing love.
He eventually makes it to the door, but pauses before entering again. When he enters, the shroud of silence is overwhelming, and his deliberate movement can hardly hold him up. The camera actually reveals what “heavy” feels like. Not a heavy bag of groceries, or a heavy box that is only intermittently such, but a heaviness that works with gravity in our reality, in conjunction with gravity one inch above our reality where lost souls reside, shackling a burdened soul to a confused fog.
My weird cranial pauses feel like THAT. It used to just feel like confusion, but now it has actually manifested itself as physical pauses in movement, or speech, where I actually stop to reassess my thoughts, and my mind is silent, and my body is silent with it. It is highly peculiar, but it certainly could be worse.I felt it once before, about a month after you had died. I just wanted to talk to you, so I drove to your gravestone, and I collapsed next to your grave and cried my eyes out in the grass, talking to you a mile a minute. After sobbing myself into a semi-comatose state, I fell back in my car and drove to your home. The walk up the cobblestone path, next to the garden against the stone wall of your house, holding the beautiful picture window where you told me a garter snake had slithered across your open toe sandal once was overgrown, but not so much that it looked as if it hadn’t been tended to in too long. I made my way up the wooden steps onto your patio, overlooking poppa’s old peach orchard and strawberry patches, down into Miltown, NJ. Your cat Sweetheart’s bowl was empty and had leaves in it, and all of your wooden furniture was covered in crunchy plastic, with lingering puddles of rainwater here and there.
It just looked to me like you hadn’t been home in a while, so I spread out on the warm clay concrete patio, and closed my eyes, and waited. I waited until I had the courage to slip the key out, turn the lock and enter your sunny kitchen, taking in the old familiar scent of your home. I waited until I had the courage to sit down at your kitchen table that now rests cluttered with stuff in my apartment. I waited until I had the courage to call out “Hi Nanny,” without any response. I prayed to the warm sun to give me the strength to accept silence. I then went in, closed the door behind me and I stood. I just stood for a long time, listening to the cruel ticking clock that still beat life. My feet were stuck to the kitchen floor, and I stared at the table and chairs where I used to sit and listen to your stories, and I pictured you in your glasses sitting on a kitchen chair with a cushion, watching the Yankees on the Kitchen TV, between snacking on a bowl of potato chips that you’d secretly refill several times while working on an afghan for someone.
I counted the ticks for a while, but they became masked by the rush of blood and heat in my ears. I slowly moved toward the kitchen table, looked right into the living room that led into your lilac bedroom, and froze. I was afraid to look at the bookcase because I might see your reflection in the glass, and I was afraid to move forward for fear of seeing you and Poppa around the corner in the living room, and I couldn’t move toward your bedroom for fear of not finding you at all. So I tearily said, “I miss you Nanny and Poppa,” and I stood in the same spot and cried until the glue softened, and I was able to leave. Were you there?
Love, Ana
Friday, November 19, 2010
Friday, October 22, 2010
Dear Frieda...listen
4/3 - Listen
Dear Frieda –
I feel comfortable telling you everything in person, with the exception of how I met Jack. It places a whole new twist on why I don’t want to continue being an educator, doesn’t it? I didn’t continue to teach when Jack and I decided to make a go of it, I worked in the fashion industry as a Stylist’s Assistant, and then I bartended. I waited a year until he was finished with school, until I pursued another teaching position. . . and I procured a maternity leave English position, and it turned into a full-year, then this year, until I cracked up and had a break down. Although I really respected the people that I worked for, I always had a looming feeling that somehow my past would sneak up on me, and I would be misunderstood as some sort of strange bird, rather than just a woman who fell in love with a younger man. In the world of education, those perceived as strange birds are not welcome. When I was teaching Hawthorne’s, “The Scarlet Letter,” I constantly envisioned myself as Hester Prynne. Although, I wasn’t an adulteress with a scarlet “A” on my chest, but I had an “L&T” for lousy teacher, or a “W” for weirdo or wild woman, or worst of all a “N” for nonconformist.
I’m not even one of those conforming nonconformists who claim to be odd, but have jumped on a “what’s odd now” bandwagon. I am my own bird, and that is one of the many reasons that Jack and I were so attracted to each other; he, too, is a unique soul. When he was my student, we formed a platonic friendship that oozed our attraction for one another, but we controlled our unspoken passion, and applied it to art. I was the theater director, so every day I stayed after school for theater practice, and Jack and another student Lynn and I would have art therapy sessions, where we would sit, listen to great music, and would create fantastic oil pastel collaborative murals, while we’d talk about everything and anything. I was blown away by what Jack and I had in common, as was he; his quiet introspection and passion for art and music were/are refreshing, and there was nothing young about him; he is an old soul, and although chronologically he was 17 or 18 years old when he was my British Literature student, his eyes and his mind said differently.
Unfortunately, another thing that Jack and I have in common is our mental illness, although he is not medicated and VERY changeable. I remember that was one of the first things that I recognized about him; he shuts down and nods off, and I thought that he was a junkie. But then I watched closer and noticed his obsessive-compulsive habits, and profound sadness dripping from his green eyes and crooked smile. In addition to being Manic Depressive, he has Tourette’s Syndrome and Narcolepsy. He doesn’t have the atypical “fuck you, damn you,” kind, but instead suffers from twitches and vocal tics that are exacerbated by stress and his downward mood swings. . . and then he falls asleep. But it’s amazing Frieda, when he plays music, he doesn’t twitch at all. Nor does he when he sleeps. But when he becomes depressed, his physique, his demeanor, everything shows it; his body exudes misery, and it is really difficult to be around.
Hopefully he will be able to attain medical benefits through a job, or will be able to afford a prescription plan. Is there a prescription plan for guitarists? No? I thought that I would ask. Health care certainly is a financial kick-in-the-bottom, isn’t it?
A positive thing about us both suffering with such strange afflictions is that we empathize with one another, and we can talk each other back into the world of the living when it seems like nothing is worth it. He and I have saved each other many times; people definitely join for a reason, even if it is unusual circumstances, don’t you think?
Regards, Ana
Dear Frieda –
I feel comfortable telling you everything in person, with the exception of how I met Jack. It places a whole new twist on why I don’t want to continue being an educator, doesn’t it? I didn’t continue to teach when Jack and I decided to make a go of it, I worked in the fashion industry as a Stylist’s Assistant, and then I bartended. I waited a year until he was finished with school, until I pursued another teaching position. . . and I procured a maternity leave English position, and it turned into a full-year, then this year, until I cracked up and had a break down. Although I really respected the people that I worked for, I always had a looming feeling that somehow my past would sneak up on me, and I would be misunderstood as some sort of strange bird, rather than just a woman who fell in love with a younger man. In the world of education, those perceived as strange birds are not welcome. When I was teaching Hawthorne’s, “The Scarlet Letter,” I constantly envisioned myself as Hester Prynne. Although, I wasn’t an adulteress with a scarlet “A” on my chest, but I had an “L&T” for lousy teacher, or a “W” for weirdo or wild woman, or worst of all a “N” for nonconformist.
I’m not even one of those conforming nonconformists who claim to be odd, but have jumped on a “what’s odd now” bandwagon. I am my own bird, and that is one of the many reasons that Jack and I were so attracted to each other; he, too, is a unique soul. When he was my student, we formed a platonic friendship that oozed our attraction for one another, but we controlled our unspoken passion, and applied it to art. I was the theater director, so every day I stayed after school for theater practice, and Jack and another student Lynn and I would have art therapy sessions, where we would sit, listen to great music, and would create fantastic oil pastel collaborative murals, while we’d talk about everything and anything. I was blown away by what Jack and I had in common, as was he; his quiet introspection and passion for art and music were/are refreshing, and there was nothing young about him; he is an old soul, and although chronologically he was 17 or 18 years old when he was my British Literature student, his eyes and his mind said differently.
Unfortunately, another thing that Jack and I have in common is our mental illness, although he is not medicated and VERY changeable. I remember that was one of the first things that I recognized about him; he shuts down and nods off, and I thought that he was a junkie. But then I watched closer and noticed his obsessive-compulsive habits, and profound sadness dripping from his green eyes and crooked smile. In addition to being Manic Depressive, he has Tourette’s Syndrome and Narcolepsy. He doesn’t have the atypical “fuck you, damn you,” kind, but instead suffers from twitches and vocal tics that are exacerbated by stress and his downward mood swings. . . and then he falls asleep. But it’s amazing Frieda, when he plays music, he doesn’t twitch at all. Nor does he when he sleeps. But when he becomes depressed, his physique, his demeanor, everything shows it; his body exudes misery, and it is really difficult to be around.
Hopefully he will be able to attain medical benefits through a job, or will be able to afford a prescription plan. Is there a prescription plan for guitarists? No? I thought that I would ask. Health care certainly is a financial kick-in-the-bottom, isn’t it?
A positive thing about us both suffering with such strange afflictions is that we empathize with one another, and we can talk each other back into the world of the living when it seems like nothing is worth it. He and I have saved each other many times; people definitely join for a reason, even if it is unusual circumstances, don’t you think?
Regards, Ana
Saturday, October 2, 2010
Dear Jesse...Stars
3/19 - Stars
Dear Jesse -
Did I ever tell you how I met Jack? I know that you know short of the long, the scandalous condensed version. But did I ever tell you how it really happened?
It was my first day as a teacher, and I was so nervous and especially fearful of one class that I had to teach; British Literature in a Geology lab. I was nervous because as a student teacher at this school, I had a talented guitar player named Ernie in a Public Speaking class that I taught with Goldie. She was the reason that I procured the teaching job in the first place, and when I looked at the class rosters, Ernie was in my class. You may think that it sounds ridiculous that I would be frightened by a 17-year-old guy, but it’s me we are talking about. If you catch me on a strange day, I am afraid of my own shadow, literally. He was different, interesting, talented, unusual, artistic, and I was intimidated. It was my first teaching job, and I was afraid that I would be inadequate, uninteresting, and unable to use my creativity as an educator, and he would see right through my “educator” facade. Ok, so I was a bit analytical, but when I am nervous, my mind races. It was the first time in my life that I had to be somewhat serious to make a buck, so I thought.
I didn’t have a classroom, or even a desk for that matter; my home base was the stage in the auditorium, which was fine by me. It was quiet, secluded, and it had a piano on the stage that I could play when I was feeling especially down. In addition to teaching British Literature, I was also the Theater teacher, and in charge of productions for the year. It was quite a feat, considering I had no experience as a theater director ...but I figured it out. Eric Fienstein, a young teacher who had given up, happily, his role as the theater director helped me considerably. He was great.
I remember I had the first period free, so I sat on the stage in the auditorium and took in the feeling. It was green, and outdated, and there was a row of windows at the top of the room that sunlight shone in through, and dust danced against the toothpaste green cinder block wall. The back of the stage was borderline creepy. There was a storage space behind the curtain that I became very familiar with, later. It was unusually cold; ghostlike. I played with the light board and switched on the red and blue lights, lay back on the freshly waxed wooden stage, and stared up, secretly hoping that they would fall on me, to end the anxiety. I fantasized about the headline, “New Teacher Crushed by Theater Lights: Students and Teachers Shocked.”
The lights were warm, and if I closed my eyes, it almost felt like I was lying under the sun. I tried meditating to net the butterflies in my stomach. Then I played the piano, and when I stopped I swore I heard someone clap in the distance. “Was that for me?” I thought.
There were ten minutes until I had to go to the science lab to teach British Literature. I then fantasized about running out of the side door in the auditorium to my car, never to return. Then I sat silently in the musty auditorium, and smelled the linseed oil drifting in from the art rooms next door, coupled with the faint sound of the chorus learning a Christmas Carol in September ...and the bell rang. I somehow collected myself, tightened my bun, fixed my pencil skirt and glasses, slipped my heels back on, and grabbed my grade book, textbook, and pencil box off the table I had behind the curtain. I left my quiet, curtained tomb and ventured into buzzing mayhem; high school kids in new clothes, rushing to their lockers talking about summer, and parties, and their last class: “that teacher’s a bitch,” and “his breath smells like coffee.” I quickly popped a mint into my mouth as I made it down the hall toward my class, and I heard, “that’s a teacher? Are you sure she’s not a narc?” I started to get really nervous. I thought that the tight bun, pencil skirt, glasses and lipstick would transform me into a seasoned-looking adult.
I took a deep breath and entered the classroom, glancing at the pathetic British Flag that I made out of construction paper the day before in an attempt to make it look less scientific. Then I glanced down at the cart of textbooks that I was to assign to each student. “Christ,” I thought, “the books are larger than some of the freshmen students. How the hell are they going to cart these around?” I attempted to look busy to avoid making eye contact with the students who were venturing in. I know that it was not a good public relations tactic, but a necessity when faced with peeing in your pants.
Then the bell rang, and the majority of students were there, physically, not in spirit, and I turned around and smiled. “Welcome to British Literature … I’ll be your host, Miss Guida!” My lame attempt at humor dove and bombed like a kamikaze fighter jet. The class just stared at me, emotionless. One kid yelled out, “Hi Miss Guida.” His name was Jimmy Varga, a student who I grew to adore, and who passed on from a heroin overdose two years later.
“Hi, and who are you?”
“They call me Vargs,” he said with a big smile. He had a mohawk that was slightly off-kilter, like his grin. He was great!
I looked over at Ernie who was staring down at his desk, drawing on it, and I decided to conquer my fears immediately. “I know you,” I said, and walked over to his desk. Then all the males, the majority in the class said “oooohhh,” and made cat calls. "C’mon guys,” I said, trying to unsex myself. “Oh god,” I thought “Did I sound flirtatious?”
Ernie looked up and smiled and said “hi.” My fear was conquered. Then I decided to take attendance. As I reached over to grab my book, I dropped it on the floor, reached over to get it, my glasses fell off, and I overturned my ankle leaning over to pick everything up. Everyone got hysterical at my expense, but I was glad. The ice was broken. I called out each of their names, and silently labeled them to myself as I made eye contact: “Stoner, stoner, motorhead, confused, airhead, intelligent, stoner, stoner, stoner, stoner, and stoner.” I found it ironic that I had been one of the majority when I was in high school. Then the door swung open five minutes into the class and a tall, swanky fellow rushed in, reeking of cigarettes, breezed by me, gave a second look and said “hello, hello, hello. Trick Petersen’s the name. I’ll sit back here.” Everyone was laughing. “You’re late.” That was my attempt at being a disciplinarian. “I know,” he said. At least he was honest and didn’t try to bullshit me, I guess.
As they were completing preliminary “getting to know you” exercises that I had for them, I looked out at the sea of bodies and thought “So this is my fate; I have a group of unruly derelicts to contend with for half of the year (block scheduling).” Boy, was I wrong. Although they could be difficult, they were one of the greatest groups of individuals that I have ever encountered. I’ll never forget them ... especially the day that they taped Bob Greenwich to a chair, with his consent of course, and I didn’t notice until we had a fire alarm, and everyone went out, while I untaped Bob, laughing like a Hyena. We both swore to secrecy.
When that first class was over, I felt like I could’ve handled anything. I had another free period until my Theater Arts class, so I was collecting my things to go to my sanctuary, the auditorium. As I was squeezing through students walking into their science class, commenting on the British flag on the bulletin board, whispering “is this the right class,” I got stuck in human traffic, face to face with a very tall, green eyed stranger. We stared at each other for a moment, which seemed like lifetimes, and I turned away, afraid of what I felt.
“Hello Miss Guida,” he smiled, unafraid.
“Hi,” I said pushing by, to no avail.
“I’m Jack,” he said gently as I passed.
I knew him, and I had never met him before.
“Hi Jack,” I shouted back, as I made my way toward the auditorium.
I was different, somehow. I’ll tell you more later.
Love, Ana
Dear Jesse -
Did I ever tell you how I met Jack? I know that you know short of the long, the scandalous condensed version. But did I ever tell you how it really happened?
It was my first day as a teacher, and I was so nervous and especially fearful of one class that I had to teach; British Literature in a Geology lab. I was nervous because as a student teacher at this school, I had a talented guitar player named Ernie in a Public Speaking class that I taught with Goldie. She was the reason that I procured the teaching job in the first place, and when I looked at the class rosters, Ernie was in my class. You may think that it sounds ridiculous that I would be frightened by a 17-year-old guy, but it’s me we are talking about. If you catch me on a strange day, I am afraid of my own shadow, literally. He was different, interesting, talented, unusual, artistic, and I was intimidated. It was my first teaching job, and I was afraid that I would be inadequate, uninteresting, and unable to use my creativity as an educator, and he would see right through my “educator” facade. Ok, so I was a bit analytical, but when I am nervous, my mind races. It was the first time in my life that I had to be somewhat serious to make a buck, so I thought.
I didn’t have a classroom, or even a desk for that matter; my home base was the stage in the auditorium, which was fine by me. It was quiet, secluded, and it had a piano on the stage that I could play when I was feeling especially down. In addition to teaching British Literature, I was also the Theater teacher, and in charge of productions for the year. It was quite a feat, considering I had no experience as a theater director ...but I figured it out. Eric Fienstein, a young teacher who had given up, happily, his role as the theater director helped me considerably. He was great.
I remember I had the first period free, so I sat on the stage in the auditorium and took in the feeling. It was green, and outdated, and there was a row of windows at the top of the room that sunlight shone in through, and dust danced against the toothpaste green cinder block wall. The back of the stage was borderline creepy. There was a storage space behind the curtain that I became very familiar with, later. It was unusually cold; ghostlike. I played with the light board and switched on the red and blue lights, lay back on the freshly waxed wooden stage, and stared up, secretly hoping that they would fall on me, to end the anxiety. I fantasized about the headline, “New Teacher Crushed by Theater Lights: Students and Teachers Shocked.”
The lights were warm, and if I closed my eyes, it almost felt like I was lying under the sun. I tried meditating to net the butterflies in my stomach. Then I played the piano, and when I stopped I swore I heard someone clap in the distance. “Was that for me?” I thought.
There were ten minutes until I had to go to the science lab to teach British Literature. I then fantasized about running out of the side door in the auditorium to my car, never to return. Then I sat silently in the musty auditorium, and smelled the linseed oil drifting in from the art rooms next door, coupled with the faint sound of the chorus learning a Christmas Carol in September ...and the bell rang. I somehow collected myself, tightened my bun, fixed my pencil skirt and glasses, slipped my heels back on, and grabbed my grade book, textbook, and pencil box off the table I had behind the curtain. I left my quiet, curtained tomb and ventured into buzzing mayhem; high school kids in new clothes, rushing to their lockers talking about summer, and parties, and their last class: “that teacher’s a bitch,” and “his breath smells like coffee.” I quickly popped a mint into my mouth as I made it down the hall toward my class, and I heard, “that’s a teacher? Are you sure she’s not a narc?” I started to get really nervous. I thought that the tight bun, pencil skirt, glasses and lipstick would transform me into a seasoned-looking adult.
I took a deep breath and entered the classroom, glancing at the pathetic British Flag that I made out of construction paper the day before in an attempt to make it look less scientific. Then I glanced down at the cart of textbooks that I was to assign to each student. “Christ,” I thought, “the books are larger than some of the freshmen students. How the hell are they going to cart these around?” I attempted to look busy to avoid making eye contact with the students who were venturing in. I know that it was not a good public relations tactic, but a necessity when faced with peeing in your pants.
Then the bell rang, and the majority of students were there, physically, not in spirit, and I turned around and smiled. “Welcome to British Literature … I’ll be your host, Miss Guida!” My lame attempt at humor dove and bombed like a kamikaze fighter jet. The class just stared at me, emotionless. One kid yelled out, “Hi Miss Guida.” His name was Jimmy Varga, a student who I grew to adore, and who passed on from a heroin overdose two years later.
“Hi, and who are you?”
“They call me Vargs,” he said with a big smile. He had a mohawk that was slightly off-kilter, like his grin. He was great!
I looked over at Ernie who was staring down at his desk, drawing on it, and I decided to conquer my fears immediately. “I know you,” I said, and walked over to his desk. Then all the males, the majority in the class said “oooohhh,” and made cat calls. "C’mon guys,” I said, trying to unsex myself. “Oh god,” I thought “Did I sound flirtatious?”
Ernie looked up and smiled and said “hi.” My fear was conquered. Then I decided to take attendance. As I reached over to grab my book, I dropped it on the floor, reached over to get it, my glasses fell off, and I overturned my ankle leaning over to pick everything up. Everyone got hysterical at my expense, but I was glad. The ice was broken. I called out each of their names, and silently labeled them to myself as I made eye contact: “Stoner, stoner, motorhead, confused, airhead, intelligent, stoner, stoner, stoner, stoner, and stoner.” I found it ironic that I had been one of the majority when I was in high school. Then the door swung open five minutes into the class and a tall, swanky fellow rushed in, reeking of cigarettes, breezed by me, gave a second look and said “hello, hello, hello. Trick Petersen’s the name. I’ll sit back here.” Everyone was laughing. “You’re late.” That was my attempt at being a disciplinarian. “I know,” he said. At least he was honest and didn’t try to bullshit me, I guess.
As they were completing preliminary “getting to know you” exercises that I had for them, I looked out at the sea of bodies and thought “So this is my fate; I have a group of unruly derelicts to contend with for half of the year (block scheduling).” Boy, was I wrong. Although they could be difficult, they were one of the greatest groups of individuals that I have ever encountered. I’ll never forget them ... especially the day that they taped Bob Greenwich to a chair, with his consent of course, and I didn’t notice until we had a fire alarm, and everyone went out, while I untaped Bob, laughing like a Hyena. We both swore to secrecy.
When that first class was over, I felt like I could’ve handled anything. I had another free period until my Theater Arts class, so I was collecting my things to go to my sanctuary, the auditorium. As I was squeezing through students walking into their science class, commenting on the British flag on the bulletin board, whispering “is this the right class,” I got stuck in human traffic, face to face with a very tall, green eyed stranger. We stared at each other for a moment, which seemed like lifetimes, and I turned away, afraid of what I felt.
“Hello Miss Guida,” he smiled, unafraid.
“Hi,” I said pushing by, to no avail.
“I’m Jack,” he said gently as I passed.
I knew him, and I had never met him before.
“Hi Jack,” I shouted back, as I made my way toward the auditorium.
I was different, somehow. I’ll tell you more later.
Love, Ana
Wednesday, September 29, 2010
Dear Mother Fate ...Artist
4/24 - Artist
Dear Mother Fate -
You are most certainly a woman, fate. I refer to you as a mother figure because men are such linear thinkers; you couldn’t possibly be masculine. You are way too multifaceted to be male. I picture you as a beautiful, spider-like woman with long, flowing hair, an ageless face, wide, soulful eyes, and an intelligence that is almost tangible. After all, you are the artist who weaves this most remarkable web called life. I picture you as an apprentice to spirit, discussing a creation whether it be animal or human, and choosing the fabrics, rich silks, and threads to create the tapestry that dictates fate.
When we pass on, I envision you blanketing each being in your work as a comfort until the next plane. Each work is like a snowflake; there are no duplicates. And when each being moves on to their next plateau, you take its blanket, and gently quilt it into a fantastic tapestry called existence, and weave and unweave like Penelope to capture the lessons learned in each life, changing the blanket with each beings evolution. No being the same, no fate the same.
The most beautiful work to look at must be how you intertwine lives; the tapestries must creep together like ivy vines, and fit together like puzzle pieces. I wonder if we can follow the evolution of soul mates through your work by studying the repetition of colors and materials that you use. I see emotions represented by things like Gerber Daisies for happiness, and sadness by weighty black smoke, and contentment by crystal blue water, and confusion by ants, and liberation by butterflies. How amazing it must be to see all these things interwoven into one small moment.
When our paths crossed, Jack and me, I think that you must have chuckled as you weaved confusion, attraction, and forbidden into our blankets, now linked with soulful fabrics. After our first awkward meeting in a crowded high school hallway, neither of our lives were ever the same. That was the first stitch, combining my fabric of discontent and sadness to his; the patchwork must show two quilting patches of black smoke and fog, swirling together in slow spirals. Then there was the office job that I acquired during my free period, where I would answer phone calls, and assist students and parents with school busy work. My first day on the job, I was peering through the front glass windows, leading into the High School lobby, and Jack, then a green-eyed stranger caught my eye. We both smiled familiar grins and waved, only my heart skipped a beat; I felt uncomfortably giddy. That must have been where you weaved a rope of dancing fireflies and pink silk into our slowly braiding tapestry.
I tried to shake off the unorthodox tinge of a crush on this younger stranger, but his discovery that I worked in the office window everyday at 1:30 created a series of silent waves and smiles through the glass that would brighten my sullen mood daily; I looked forward to it.
And then one day Jack walked in, or should I say sidled in, twitching nervously before he was diagnosed with Tourettes syndrome; the safety of the glass panes were history. He leaned awkwardly on the front counter, and I jumped up to help him, losing my clog under the desk on the way, laughing awkwardly while trying to slide it back onto my sweaty foot. I nonchalantly wiped my nervous hands on the back of my plaid, wool skirt and I stuttered a “hi there,” trying to speak like a teacher and authoritarian, but wanting desperately to just reach out and push his wavy brown shaggy hair out of his frightened eyes. He wasn’t scared of me, but something had him in shackles. He smiled a crooked grin, and I studied his face, feeling self-conscious about my freckles and unwashed ponytail as we looked at each other for what seemed to be forever.
His entire face smiled and I melted; I pictured the lines in his face as an old man, and how handsome he would be; dramatic etching around his mouth and eyes, on his thin cheeks and under his high cheekbones. He looked much older than his years. My heart realized, that moment, that in the large scheme of things, earth years meant nothing, still my mind couldn’t make sense of it.
There are certain roles that I knew that I was to adhere to, and I prayed that my feelings for Jack, then a mystery, would simply dissipate; after years of missed opportunities, rash decisions, and ill-behavior as a result of my being bipolar and self-medicating, I finally felt like I was doing something right for the first time; I was an English Teacher and a Theater Director in a High School; I had benefits, a paycheck every two weeks, a new car that didn’t require constant maintenance, a boyfriend who I lived with and sometimes laughed with, new clothes, a new respect from others that I had never experienced before:
“So what do you do?”
“Me, oh I’m a teacher.”
It felt good to say those things, I felt like I was finally cleaning up my act.
Oh Mother Fate, you really got a kick out of that didn’t you … me standing there feeling self-conscious and staring at Jack who felt equally as strange.
“Can I help you?” I said, angry that I sounded like a store clerk, afraid that I was too formal.
“Yeah,” he stammered, “I just have to leave now for an appointment. My mom should be outside waiting.”
I was completely lost in his awkward gaze, then silence. I forgot everything, and he just looked at me.
“Oh …” I laughed. “Sorry! I must need coffee, just sign here.” I pointed to a sign-out sheet, laughed awkwardly, and snorted a little. I don’t think he noticed, at least he pretended not to.
“Okay, well have a good day Miss Guida,” he said as he walked out the door.
“You too, Jack. Good luck!”
"Good luck? Why the hell did I say good luck?” I thought to myself.
I excused myself from the office for a moment, and went into the faculty bathroom to beat myself up a little, and to make sure that I didn’t look totally horrible. I sat in a stall, buried my head in my hands, and cried like a baby out of complete frustration, embarrassment, and uneasiness, repeating “Miss Guida, Miss Guida.”
When I got up to fix my face, I chastised myself in the mirror, growling, “Stop it Ana; Don’t fuck up again, Ana.” I was greeted by a fellow teacher who caught me in mid-sentence, so I immediately feigned a contact lens problem, even though I have never worn them in my life.
It seemed that the more I tried to fight it, the more I felt. It was different; I knew him. That is where you must have sealed the circle connecting our tapestries with the brilliant color of hope, because after that incidence, even though it was contrary to my newly found rational judgment persona that I had recently developed, it was all that I could find myself doing.
That evening after I stayed after for play practice, I walked out into the night parking lot sprinkled with a handful of cars belonging to custodians and myself, maybe a lingering coach of some kind. I dropped my life as a teacher into the passenger seat, and I slid into the driver’s seat, took a deep breath and tried to bury my feelings somewhere in my soul.
I wiped a few lingering tears, and tried to concentrate on the life that I knew in the little mountain town in PA. I turned the ignition, and clicked on the radio:
“Coming up The Police, Led Zeppelin, and Boz Skaggs.”
“What a mix,” I thought as I stuffed my mouth with bubble gum, trying to kill my urge for multiple cigarettes. And as I pulled onto the interstate, the low drown of The Police’s, “Don’t Stand So Close To Me,” cradled by Stuart Copeland’s reggae drums overcame the silent air in my car; “Young teacher, the subject of schoolgirl fantasy.”
Now that was a dirty trick Mother Fate; that song sent me into yet another tailspin. Granted I realize that I could have simply changed the station, but secretly, as you know, I enjoyed the drama; there just wasn’t enough in my new life. That must have been the moment where you stuck the embroidery needle into the tapestry for the moment, to call it a rest. I felt the prick, and heard your giggle.
Tell me Mother Fate, do you do all of this for the sake of your own entertainment? Are we simply your pawns, your puppets, your dolls?
Regards, Ana
Dear Mother Fate -
You are most certainly a woman, fate. I refer to you as a mother figure because men are such linear thinkers; you couldn’t possibly be masculine. You are way too multifaceted to be male. I picture you as a beautiful, spider-like woman with long, flowing hair, an ageless face, wide, soulful eyes, and an intelligence that is almost tangible. After all, you are the artist who weaves this most remarkable web called life. I picture you as an apprentice to spirit, discussing a creation whether it be animal or human, and choosing the fabrics, rich silks, and threads to create the tapestry that dictates fate.
When we pass on, I envision you blanketing each being in your work as a comfort until the next plane. Each work is like a snowflake; there are no duplicates. And when each being moves on to their next plateau, you take its blanket, and gently quilt it into a fantastic tapestry called existence, and weave and unweave like Penelope to capture the lessons learned in each life, changing the blanket with each beings evolution. No being the same, no fate the same.
The most beautiful work to look at must be how you intertwine lives; the tapestries must creep together like ivy vines, and fit together like puzzle pieces. I wonder if we can follow the evolution of soul mates through your work by studying the repetition of colors and materials that you use. I see emotions represented by things like Gerber Daisies for happiness, and sadness by weighty black smoke, and contentment by crystal blue water, and confusion by ants, and liberation by butterflies. How amazing it must be to see all these things interwoven into one small moment.
When our paths crossed, Jack and me, I think that you must have chuckled as you weaved confusion, attraction, and forbidden into our blankets, now linked with soulful fabrics. After our first awkward meeting in a crowded high school hallway, neither of our lives were ever the same. That was the first stitch, combining my fabric of discontent and sadness to his; the patchwork must show two quilting patches of black smoke and fog, swirling together in slow spirals. Then there was the office job that I acquired during my free period, where I would answer phone calls, and assist students and parents with school busy work. My first day on the job, I was peering through the front glass windows, leading into the High School lobby, and Jack, then a green-eyed stranger caught my eye. We both smiled familiar grins and waved, only my heart skipped a beat; I felt uncomfortably giddy. That must have been where you weaved a rope of dancing fireflies and pink silk into our slowly braiding tapestry.
I tried to shake off the unorthodox tinge of a crush on this younger stranger, but his discovery that I worked in the office window everyday at 1:30 created a series of silent waves and smiles through the glass that would brighten my sullen mood daily; I looked forward to it.
And then one day Jack walked in, or should I say sidled in, twitching nervously before he was diagnosed with Tourettes syndrome; the safety of the glass panes were history. He leaned awkwardly on the front counter, and I jumped up to help him, losing my clog under the desk on the way, laughing awkwardly while trying to slide it back onto my sweaty foot. I nonchalantly wiped my nervous hands on the back of my plaid, wool skirt and I stuttered a “hi there,” trying to speak like a teacher and authoritarian, but wanting desperately to just reach out and push his wavy brown shaggy hair out of his frightened eyes. He wasn’t scared of me, but something had him in shackles. He smiled a crooked grin, and I studied his face, feeling self-conscious about my freckles and unwashed ponytail as we looked at each other for what seemed to be forever.
His entire face smiled and I melted; I pictured the lines in his face as an old man, and how handsome he would be; dramatic etching around his mouth and eyes, on his thin cheeks and under his high cheekbones. He looked much older than his years. My heart realized, that moment, that in the large scheme of things, earth years meant nothing, still my mind couldn’t make sense of it.
There are certain roles that I knew that I was to adhere to, and I prayed that my feelings for Jack, then a mystery, would simply dissipate; after years of missed opportunities, rash decisions, and ill-behavior as a result of my being bipolar and self-medicating, I finally felt like I was doing something right for the first time; I was an English Teacher and a Theater Director in a High School; I had benefits, a paycheck every two weeks, a new car that didn’t require constant maintenance, a boyfriend who I lived with and sometimes laughed with, new clothes, a new respect from others that I had never experienced before:
“So what do you do?”
“Me, oh I’m a teacher.”
It felt good to say those things, I felt like I was finally cleaning up my act.
Oh Mother Fate, you really got a kick out of that didn’t you … me standing there feeling self-conscious and staring at Jack who felt equally as strange.
“Can I help you?” I said, angry that I sounded like a store clerk, afraid that I was too formal.
“Yeah,” he stammered, “I just have to leave now for an appointment. My mom should be outside waiting.”
I was completely lost in his awkward gaze, then silence. I forgot everything, and he just looked at me.
“Oh …” I laughed. “Sorry! I must need coffee, just sign here.” I pointed to a sign-out sheet, laughed awkwardly, and snorted a little. I don’t think he noticed, at least he pretended not to.
“Okay, well have a good day Miss Guida,” he said as he walked out the door.
“You too, Jack. Good luck!”
"Good luck? Why the hell did I say good luck?” I thought to myself.
I excused myself from the office for a moment, and went into the faculty bathroom to beat myself up a little, and to make sure that I didn’t look totally horrible. I sat in a stall, buried my head in my hands, and cried like a baby out of complete frustration, embarrassment, and uneasiness, repeating “Miss Guida, Miss Guida.”
When I got up to fix my face, I chastised myself in the mirror, growling, “Stop it Ana; Don’t fuck up again, Ana.” I was greeted by a fellow teacher who caught me in mid-sentence, so I immediately feigned a contact lens problem, even though I have never worn them in my life.
It seemed that the more I tried to fight it, the more I felt. It was different; I knew him. That is where you must have sealed the circle connecting our tapestries with the brilliant color of hope, because after that incidence, even though it was contrary to my newly found rational judgment persona that I had recently developed, it was all that I could find myself doing.
That evening after I stayed after for play practice, I walked out into the night parking lot sprinkled with a handful of cars belonging to custodians and myself, maybe a lingering coach of some kind. I dropped my life as a teacher into the passenger seat, and I slid into the driver’s seat, took a deep breath and tried to bury my feelings somewhere in my soul.
I wiped a few lingering tears, and tried to concentrate on the life that I knew in the little mountain town in PA. I turned the ignition, and clicked on the radio:
“Coming up The Police, Led Zeppelin, and Boz Skaggs.”
“What a mix,” I thought as I stuffed my mouth with bubble gum, trying to kill my urge for multiple cigarettes. And as I pulled onto the interstate, the low drown of The Police’s, “Don’t Stand So Close To Me,” cradled by Stuart Copeland’s reggae drums overcame the silent air in my car; “Young teacher, the subject of schoolgirl fantasy.”
Now that was a dirty trick Mother Fate; that song sent me into yet another tailspin. Granted I realize that I could have simply changed the station, but secretly, as you know, I enjoyed the drama; there just wasn’t enough in my new life. That must have been the moment where you stuck the embroidery needle into the tapestry for the moment, to call it a rest. I felt the prick, and heard your giggle.
Tell me Mother Fate, do you do all of this for the sake of your own entertainment? Are we simply your pawns, your puppets, your dolls?
Regards, Ana
Wednesday, September 22, 2010
Dear Jesse - Slumber
The Evening of 4/8
Dear Jesse – Mirror
I’ve spent the last twenty to thirty minutes staring at a reflection of my own pupil on the inside lens of my glasses. I swear that you can see the cells move around in the ebb and flow of my eyeball; it almost looks as if I am looking at DNA dancing around beneath a microscope. It’s mesmerizing, especially when I can almost shut it out like a shutter lens with my eyelashes. They slowly swallow up the image like a Venus fly trap, or if you’d prefer a less gruesome description, like the body-size feather fans of a Burlesque stripper. Sneaky; Feminine; vicious. I know that I’ve experienced this phenomena before, but while in bright sunlight, wearing sunglasses. I probably was out enjoying the weather, not sitting Indian-style on my couch with big, brown, stinky Sherman and two cats, wondering why I cannot sleep, again, for the fourth night in a row.
Sherman is sleeping like a bear, and may I add snoring like one, too (not that I have any clue whether or not bears snore). But he is very bear-like; you haven’t met him yet. He is spread out next to me, all 120 pounds of him, and he looks like a big, chocolate teddy bear, but smells like a sewer. He’s so adorable, and so full of love that I don’t mind his stink. He’s got a boxy Chocolate Labrador face, and a very stout build with beautiful fur, huge paws, and a rolly-polly belly. He is so sweet.
Before he fell asleep, he was cleaning my cat, Mimi. She acquired that name because of her uncanny ability to meow incessantly at the most inappropriate hours of the morning; usually she’ll begin to run in circles, scratch the furniture, climb the wooden beams, and meow at the top of her lungs while on my chest, with her needle sharp stickers piercing whatever I have exposed under the blanket; screaming Mimi. But what can I expect, she had a tough beginning; she was a garbage dump cat at a bar where I worked, and she and I befriended one another when I would sit on the pavement at 2:00 am, feed and pet her after work, before my long journey home. And what do you know ...one day she followed me to my car, meowing the entire way. I’m a regular goddamn Snow White. Right now she sleeps sweetly, like Sherman. Her tabby ears glisten from being groomed by him. Cat’s look so peaceful when they sleep, all balled up. She looks so comfortable.
Okay I’m not alone. The fish are awake, although I’ve never noticed any different. Do fish sleep? They must, although don’t they have to be in constant motion to ensure oxygen through their gills? All I know is that Mini and Maude are seemingly doing what I was doing for twenty to thirty minutes; they’re swimming in tandem around and around the base of their tank looking at their reflections in the glass. It’s sad really ...I should go turn off the light on the tank so that they cannot see their reflection anymore, but I’m afraid they will think that they lost their friends on the outside. I’ll just let them live the illusion, besides it is tremendously entertaining for both me and Gato, a fantastic, old long haired tabby cat that resides here as well, who I love. She belongs to Cala, Jack’s sister; when her home was pulled out from beneath her, she brought Gato to live with me. She’s an old, wise cat, and keeps screaming Mimi in line. She’s spread out on the chest next to the fish tank, with her little face just resting on her outstretched paw, watching the dizzying fish like I am. It seems to be tiring her; her big yellow eyes are slowly disappearing behind kohl black lined Egyptian-looking frames. And...she’s asleep. Maybe if I stare long enough, it will put me to sleep, too.
Thinking of you, Ana
Dear Jesse – Mirror
I’ve spent the last twenty to thirty minutes staring at a reflection of my own pupil on the inside lens of my glasses. I swear that you can see the cells move around in the ebb and flow of my eyeball; it almost looks as if I am looking at DNA dancing around beneath a microscope. It’s mesmerizing, especially when I can almost shut it out like a shutter lens with my eyelashes. They slowly swallow up the image like a Venus fly trap, or if you’d prefer a less gruesome description, like the body-size feather fans of a Burlesque stripper. Sneaky; Feminine; vicious. I know that I’ve experienced this phenomena before, but while in bright sunlight, wearing sunglasses. I probably was out enjoying the weather, not sitting Indian-style on my couch with big, brown, stinky Sherman and two cats, wondering why I cannot sleep, again, for the fourth night in a row.
Sherman is sleeping like a bear, and may I add snoring like one, too (not that I have any clue whether or not bears snore). But he is very bear-like; you haven’t met him yet. He is spread out next to me, all 120 pounds of him, and he looks like a big, chocolate teddy bear, but smells like a sewer. He’s so adorable, and so full of love that I don’t mind his stink. He’s got a boxy Chocolate Labrador face, and a very stout build with beautiful fur, huge paws, and a rolly-polly belly. He is so sweet.
Before he fell asleep, he was cleaning my cat, Mimi. She acquired that name because of her uncanny ability to meow incessantly at the most inappropriate hours of the morning; usually she’ll begin to run in circles, scratch the furniture, climb the wooden beams, and meow at the top of her lungs while on my chest, with her needle sharp stickers piercing whatever I have exposed under the blanket; screaming Mimi. But what can I expect, she had a tough beginning; she was a garbage dump cat at a bar where I worked, and she and I befriended one another when I would sit on the pavement at 2:00 am, feed and pet her after work, before my long journey home. And what do you know ...one day she followed me to my car, meowing the entire way. I’m a regular goddamn Snow White. Right now she sleeps sweetly, like Sherman. Her tabby ears glisten from being groomed by him. Cat’s look so peaceful when they sleep, all balled up. She looks so comfortable.
Okay I’m not alone. The fish are awake, although I’ve never noticed any different. Do fish sleep? They must, although don’t they have to be in constant motion to ensure oxygen through their gills? All I know is that Mini and Maude are seemingly doing what I was doing for twenty to thirty minutes; they’re swimming in tandem around and around the base of their tank looking at their reflections in the glass. It’s sad really ...I should go turn off the light on the tank so that they cannot see their reflection anymore, but I’m afraid they will think that they lost their friends on the outside. I’ll just let them live the illusion, besides it is tremendously entertaining for both me and Gato, a fantastic, old long haired tabby cat that resides here as well, who I love. She belongs to Cala, Jack’s sister; when her home was pulled out from beneath her, she brought Gato to live with me. She’s an old, wise cat, and keeps screaming Mimi in line. She’s spread out on the chest next to the fish tank, with her little face just resting on her outstretched paw, watching the dizzying fish like I am. It seems to be tiring her; her big yellow eyes are slowly disappearing behind kohl black lined Egyptian-looking frames. And...she’s asleep. Maybe if I stare long enough, it will put me to sleep, too.
Thinking of you, Ana
Monday, September 20, 2010
Dear Dr. Freedman - Knots
4/5 - Knots
Dear Dr. Freedman –
I found the perfect description of what a bipolar mood swing feels like, and although I could probably do it justice in my own words, I feel that Kafka’s description in the introduction to “Metamorphoses,” although it was probably not meant to represent a mood swing, is in fact a fine parallel to my severe chemical changeability, or that of anyone else who suffers from this affliction:
“When Gregor Samsa woke up one morning from unsettling dreams, he found himself changed in his bed into a monstrous vermin. He was lying on his back as hard as armor plate, and when he lifted his head a little, he saw his vaulted brown belly, sectioned by arch-shaped ribs, to whose dome the cover, about to slide off compared with the size of the rest of him, were waving helplessly before his eyes. ‘What’s happened to me?’ he thought. It was no dream.”
What do you think? Perhaps this could be a new, innovative approach for you. You could sit your patient down in the comfortable leather chair in your office and ask her/him to close her/his eyes, and you could read that passage, aloud. Then, you ask how he/she can relate to Kafka’s description. I’m sure that the results would prove fascinating. Move over Freud...Jung, and all of your psychobabble cohorts. Make room for Freedman! I realize that it seems as if I am being facetious, but I think that there is some truth to all of this. Why can’t literature, art, and music be used as diagnostic tools (minus the ink blots)? They are all used as therapeutic tools. For instance, my gynecologist has a Monet print above her examination table, and I swear that gazing at it makes placing my feet in stirrups with pot holders just that much more bearable.
Having taught Salinger’s “The Catcher in the Rye,” student reactions that I witnessed to many scenes in the book were very telling about the individual’s state of mind. My favorite one in particular that I feel would be most useful to your profession is the scene in chapter thirteen where Holden Caulfield has just ordered a prostitute from the elevator man, and while he’s waiting in his hotel room he confesses out of nervousness that he is a virgin, while his mind is racing about his experiences with tricky bras, and back seats, and stopping when a girl asks you to stop. He half-heartedly figures that a prostitute will give him some practice at the art, or at least some relief from his floundering mental state:
“Anyway, I kept walking around the room, waiting for this prostitute to show up. I kept hoping she’d be good-looking. I didn’t care too much, though. I sort of just wanted to get it over with. Finally, somebody knocked on the door, and when I went to open it, I had my suitcase right in the way and I fell over it and damn near broke my knee. I always pick a gorgeous time to fall over a suitcase or something. When I opened the door, this prostitute was standing there. She had a polo coat on, and no hat. She was sort of blonde, but you could tell she dyed her hair. She wasn’t any old bag, though.
‘How do you do,’ I said. Suave as hell, boy.
‘You the guy Maurice said?’ She asked me. She didn’t seem too goddamn friendly.
‘Is he the elevator boy?’
‘Yeah,’ she said.
‘Yes, I am. Come in, won’t you?’ I said. I was getting more and more nonchalant as it went along. I really was.
She came in and took her coat off right away and sort of chucked it on the bed. She had on a green dress underneath. Then she sort of sat down sideways on the chair that went with the desk in the room and started jiggling her foot up and down. She crossed her legs and started jiggling this one foot up and down. She was very nervous, for a prostitute. She really was. I think it was because she was young as hell. She was around my age. I sat down in the big chair, next to her, and offered her a cigarette.
‘I don’t smoke,’ she said. She had a tiny little wheeny-whiny voice. You could hardly hear her. She never said thank you, either when you offered her something. She just didn’t know any better.
‘Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Jim Steele,’ I said.
‘Ya got a watch on ya?’ She said. She didn’t care what the hell my name was, naturally. ‘Hey, how old are you, anyways?’
‘Me? Twenty-two.’
‘Like fun you are.’ It was a funny thing to say. It sounded like a real kid. You’d think a prostitute and all would say ‘Like hell you are’ or ‘Cut the crap’ instead of ‘Like fun you are.’
‘How old are you?’ I asked her.
‘Old enough to know better,’ she said. She was really witty.
‘Ya got a watch on ya?’ She asked me again, and then she stood up and pulled her dress over her head. I certainly felt peculiar when she did that. I mean she did it so sudden and all. I know you’re supposed to feel pretty sexy when somebody gets up and pulls their dress over their head, but I didn’t. Sexy was about the last thing I was feeling. I felt much more depressed than sexy.
‘Ya got a watch on you, hey?’
‘No. No, I don’t,’ I said. Boy, was I feeling peculiar. ‘What’s your name?’ I asked her. All she had on was this pink slip. It was really quite embarrassing. It really was.
‘Sunny,’ she said. ‘Let’s go, hey.’
‘Don’t you feel like talking for a while?’ I asked her. It was a childish thing to say, but I was feeling so damn peculiar. ‘Are you in a very big hurry?’
She looked at me like I was a madman. ‘What the heck ya wanna talk about?’ she said.
‘I don’t know. Nothing special. I just thought perhaps you might care to chat for a while.’
She sat down in the chair next to the desk again. She didn’t like it though, you could tell. She started jiggling her foot again - boy, she was a nervous girl.
‘Would you care for a cigarette now?’ I said. I forgot she didn’t smoke.‘I don’t smoke. Listen, if you’re gonna talk, do it. I got things to do.’
I couldn’t think of anything to talk about, though. I thought of asking her how she got to be a prostitute and all, but I was scared to ask her. She probably wouldn’t’ve
told me anyway. ‘You don’t come from New York, do you?’ I said finally. That’s all I could think of.
‘Hollywood,’ she said. The she got up and went over to where she’d put her dress down, on the bed. ‘Ya got a hanger? I don’t want to get my dress all wrinkly. It’s brand-clean.’
‘Sure,’ I said right away. I was only too glad to get up and do something. I took her dress over to the closet and hung it up for her. It was funny. It made feel sort of sad when I hung it up. I thought of her going in a store and buying it, and nobody in the store knowing she was a prostitute and all. The salesman probably just thought she was a regular girl when she bought it. It made me feel sad as hell - I don’t know why exactly.
I sat down again and tried to keep the old conversation going. She was a lousy conversationalist. ‘Do you work every night?’ I asked her– it sounded sort of awful, after I’d said it.
‘Yeah.’ She was walking all around the room. She picked up the menu off the desk and read it. ‘What do you do during the day?’
She sort of shrugged her shoulders. She was pretty skinny. ‘Sleep. Go to the show.’ She put down the menu and looked at me. “Let’s go, hey. I haven’t got all -‘
’Look,’ I said. ‘I don’t feel very much like myself tonight. I’ve had a rough night. Honest to God. I’ll pay you and all, but do you mind very much if we don’t do it? Do you mind very much?’ The trouble was, I just didn’t want to do it. I felt more depressed than sexy, if you want to know the truth. She was depressing. Her green dress hanging in the closet and all. And besides, I don’t think I could ever do it with somebody that sits in a stupid movie all day long. I really don’t think I could.
She came over to me, with this funny look on her face, like as if she didn’t believe me. ‘What’sa matter?’ she said.
‘Nothing’s the matter.’ Boy, was I getting nervous. ‘The thing is, I had an operation very recently.’
‘Yeah? Where?’
‘On my wuddayacallit – my clavichord.’
‘Yeah? Where the hell’s that?’
‘The clavichord?’ I said. ‘Well, actually, it’s in the spinal canal. I mean it’s quite a ways down in the spinal canal.’ ‘Yeah?’ she said. ‘That’s tough.’ Then she sat down on my goddamn lap. ‘You’re cute.’
She made me so nervous, I just kept lying my head off. ‘I’m still recuperating,’ I told her.
‘You look like a guy in the movies. You know. Whosis. You know who I mean. What the heck’s his name?’
‘I don’t know,’ I said. She wouldn’t get off my goddamn lap.
‘Sure you know. He was in that pitcher with Mel-vine Douglas? The one that was Mel-vine Douglas’s kid brother? That falls off this boat? You know who I mean.’
‘No, I don’t. I go to the movies as seldom as I can.’ Then she started getting funny. Crude and all. ‘Do you mind cutting it out?’ I said. ‘I’m not in the mood, I just told you. I just had an operation.’
She didn’t get up from my lap or anything, but she gave me this terrifically dirty look.
‘Listen,’ she said. ‘I was sleepin’ when that crazy Maurice woke me up. If you think I’m –‘
‘I said I’d pay you for coming and all. I really will. I have plenty of dough. It’s just that I’m practically just recovering from a very serious-‘
‘What the heck did you tell that crazy Maurice you wanted a girl for, then? If you just had a goddamn operation on your goddamn wuddayacallit. Huh’
‘I thought I’d be feeling a lot better than I do. I was a little premature in my calculations. No kidding. I’m sorry. If you’ll just get up a second, I’ll get my wallet. I mean it.’”– J.D. Salinger
Do you see what I mean? If a patient could empathize with that passage, and could feel the sadness in the green dress hanging in the closet, rather than simply seeing a missed opportunity for a roll in the hay, it could be a tell-tale sign that he/she has a heightened sensitivity and is prone to recognizing sadness in the inanimate details of life.
For example, I remember when I was living in Hoboken, NJ, and working in NYC, what someone else may have found as excitement in the fast-paced sidewalk traffic, and countless expressionless faces moving quickly to a destination, I found to be the loneliest that I had ever felt. I never understood how so many souls could pass each other without acknowledging one another. The people on the subway and the PATH rarely made eye contact with one another, and that made me desperately depressed. I couldn’t just ignore it.
I remember sitting and watching reflections of faces in the windows behind them change from shadow to blanch with the passing light in the train car. If I stared long enough, I would sometimes see a grin or the color of a person’s eyes hidden in shadow, or a book. Each move was calculated, and designed not to disturb, come in contact with, or include any person in her/his vicinity. Granted, I was suffering from an untreated mental illness, and perhaps I wouldn’t have been so sensitive to these seemingly mundane things if I had been properly medicated at the time, but all I know is that when I would exit the train, and would make my way up the tunnel, tinged with the scent of city, distant hot pretzels, and urine, I understood why Toulouse Lautrec painted prostitutes pulling up their stockings instead of beautiful landscapes or still life; he, too, must have seen depth in sadness. Perhaps it was overwhelming to him, too.
Regards, Ana
Dear Dr. Freedman –
I found the perfect description of what a bipolar mood swing feels like, and although I could probably do it justice in my own words, I feel that Kafka’s description in the introduction to “Metamorphoses,” although it was probably not meant to represent a mood swing, is in fact a fine parallel to my severe chemical changeability, or that of anyone else who suffers from this affliction:
“When Gregor Samsa woke up one morning from unsettling dreams, he found himself changed in his bed into a monstrous vermin. He was lying on his back as hard as armor plate, and when he lifted his head a little, he saw his vaulted brown belly, sectioned by arch-shaped ribs, to whose dome the cover, about to slide off compared with the size of the rest of him, were waving helplessly before his eyes. ‘What’s happened to me?’ he thought. It was no dream.”
What do you think? Perhaps this could be a new, innovative approach for you. You could sit your patient down in the comfortable leather chair in your office and ask her/him to close her/his eyes, and you could read that passage, aloud. Then, you ask how he/she can relate to Kafka’s description. I’m sure that the results would prove fascinating. Move over Freud...Jung, and all of your psychobabble cohorts. Make room for Freedman! I realize that it seems as if I am being facetious, but I think that there is some truth to all of this. Why can’t literature, art, and music be used as diagnostic tools (minus the ink blots)? They are all used as therapeutic tools. For instance, my gynecologist has a Monet print above her examination table, and I swear that gazing at it makes placing my feet in stirrups with pot holders just that much more bearable.
Having taught Salinger’s “The Catcher in the Rye,” student reactions that I witnessed to many scenes in the book were very telling about the individual’s state of mind. My favorite one in particular that I feel would be most useful to your profession is the scene in chapter thirteen where Holden Caulfield has just ordered a prostitute from the elevator man, and while he’s waiting in his hotel room he confesses out of nervousness that he is a virgin, while his mind is racing about his experiences with tricky bras, and back seats, and stopping when a girl asks you to stop. He half-heartedly figures that a prostitute will give him some practice at the art, or at least some relief from his floundering mental state:
“Anyway, I kept walking around the room, waiting for this prostitute to show up. I kept hoping she’d be good-looking. I didn’t care too much, though. I sort of just wanted to get it over with. Finally, somebody knocked on the door, and when I went to open it, I had my suitcase right in the way and I fell over it and damn near broke my knee. I always pick a gorgeous time to fall over a suitcase or something. When I opened the door, this prostitute was standing there. She had a polo coat on, and no hat. She was sort of blonde, but you could tell she dyed her hair. She wasn’t any old bag, though.
‘How do you do,’ I said. Suave as hell, boy.
‘You the guy Maurice said?’ She asked me. She didn’t seem too goddamn friendly.
‘Is he the elevator boy?’
‘Yeah,’ she said.
‘Yes, I am. Come in, won’t you?’ I said. I was getting more and more nonchalant as it went along. I really was.
She came in and took her coat off right away and sort of chucked it on the bed. She had on a green dress underneath. Then she sort of sat down sideways on the chair that went with the desk in the room and started jiggling her foot up and down. She crossed her legs and started jiggling this one foot up and down. She was very nervous, for a prostitute. She really was. I think it was because she was young as hell. She was around my age. I sat down in the big chair, next to her, and offered her a cigarette.
‘I don’t smoke,’ she said. She had a tiny little wheeny-whiny voice. You could hardly hear her. She never said thank you, either when you offered her something. She just didn’t know any better.
‘Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Jim Steele,’ I said.
‘Ya got a watch on ya?’ She said. She didn’t care what the hell my name was, naturally. ‘Hey, how old are you, anyways?’
‘Me? Twenty-two.’
‘Like fun you are.’ It was a funny thing to say. It sounded like a real kid. You’d think a prostitute and all would say ‘Like hell you are’ or ‘Cut the crap’ instead of ‘Like fun you are.’
‘How old are you?’ I asked her.
‘Old enough to know better,’ she said. She was really witty.
‘Ya got a watch on ya?’ She asked me again, and then she stood up and pulled her dress over her head. I certainly felt peculiar when she did that. I mean she did it so sudden and all. I know you’re supposed to feel pretty sexy when somebody gets up and pulls their dress over their head, but I didn’t. Sexy was about the last thing I was feeling. I felt much more depressed than sexy.
‘Ya got a watch on you, hey?’
‘No. No, I don’t,’ I said. Boy, was I feeling peculiar. ‘What’s your name?’ I asked her. All she had on was this pink slip. It was really quite embarrassing. It really was.
‘Sunny,’ she said. ‘Let’s go, hey.’
‘Don’t you feel like talking for a while?’ I asked her. It was a childish thing to say, but I was feeling so damn peculiar. ‘Are you in a very big hurry?’
She looked at me like I was a madman. ‘What the heck ya wanna talk about?’ she said.
‘I don’t know. Nothing special. I just thought perhaps you might care to chat for a while.’
She sat down in the chair next to the desk again. She didn’t like it though, you could tell. She started jiggling her foot again - boy, she was a nervous girl.
‘Would you care for a cigarette now?’ I said. I forgot she didn’t smoke.‘I don’t smoke. Listen, if you’re gonna talk, do it. I got things to do.’
I couldn’t think of anything to talk about, though. I thought of asking her how she got to be a prostitute and all, but I was scared to ask her. She probably wouldn’t’ve
told me anyway. ‘You don’t come from New York, do you?’ I said finally. That’s all I could think of.
‘Hollywood,’ she said. The she got up and went over to where she’d put her dress down, on the bed. ‘Ya got a hanger? I don’t want to get my dress all wrinkly. It’s brand-clean.’
‘Sure,’ I said right away. I was only too glad to get up and do something. I took her dress over to the closet and hung it up for her. It was funny. It made feel sort of sad when I hung it up. I thought of her going in a store and buying it, and nobody in the store knowing she was a prostitute and all. The salesman probably just thought she was a regular girl when she bought it. It made me feel sad as hell - I don’t know why exactly.
I sat down again and tried to keep the old conversation going. She was a lousy conversationalist. ‘Do you work every night?’ I asked her– it sounded sort of awful, after I’d said it.
‘Yeah.’ She was walking all around the room. She picked up the menu off the desk and read it. ‘What do you do during the day?’
She sort of shrugged her shoulders. She was pretty skinny. ‘Sleep. Go to the show.’ She put down the menu and looked at me. “Let’s go, hey. I haven’t got all -‘
’Look,’ I said. ‘I don’t feel very much like myself tonight. I’ve had a rough night. Honest to God. I’ll pay you and all, but do you mind very much if we don’t do it? Do you mind very much?’ The trouble was, I just didn’t want to do it. I felt more depressed than sexy, if you want to know the truth. She was depressing. Her green dress hanging in the closet and all. And besides, I don’t think I could ever do it with somebody that sits in a stupid movie all day long. I really don’t think I could.
She came over to me, with this funny look on her face, like as if she didn’t believe me. ‘What’sa matter?’ she said.
‘Nothing’s the matter.’ Boy, was I getting nervous. ‘The thing is, I had an operation very recently.’
‘Yeah? Where?’
‘On my wuddayacallit – my clavichord.’
‘Yeah? Where the hell’s that?’
‘The clavichord?’ I said. ‘Well, actually, it’s in the spinal canal. I mean it’s quite a ways down in the spinal canal.’ ‘Yeah?’ she said. ‘That’s tough.’ Then she sat down on my goddamn lap. ‘You’re cute.’
She made me so nervous, I just kept lying my head off. ‘I’m still recuperating,’ I told her.
‘You look like a guy in the movies. You know. Whosis. You know who I mean. What the heck’s his name?’
‘I don’t know,’ I said. She wouldn’t get off my goddamn lap.
‘Sure you know. He was in that pitcher with Mel-vine Douglas? The one that was Mel-vine Douglas’s kid brother? That falls off this boat? You know who I mean.’
‘No, I don’t. I go to the movies as seldom as I can.’ Then she started getting funny. Crude and all. ‘Do you mind cutting it out?’ I said. ‘I’m not in the mood, I just told you. I just had an operation.’
She didn’t get up from my lap or anything, but she gave me this terrifically dirty look.
‘Listen,’ she said. ‘I was sleepin’ when that crazy Maurice woke me up. If you think I’m –‘
‘I said I’d pay you for coming and all. I really will. I have plenty of dough. It’s just that I’m practically just recovering from a very serious-‘
‘What the heck did you tell that crazy Maurice you wanted a girl for, then? If you just had a goddamn operation on your goddamn wuddayacallit. Huh’
‘I thought I’d be feeling a lot better than I do. I was a little premature in my calculations. No kidding. I’m sorry. If you’ll just get up a second, I’ll get my wallet. I mean it.’”– J.D. Salinger
Do you see what I mean? If a patient could empathize with that passage, and could feel the sadness in the green dress hanging in the closet, rather than simply seeing a missed opportunity for a roll in the hay, it could be a tell-tale sign that he/she has a heightened sensitivity and is prone to recognizing sadness in the inanimate details of life.
For example, I remember when I was living in Hoboken, NJ, and working in NYC, what someone else may have found as excitement in the fast-paced sidewalk traffic, and countless expressionless faces moving quickly to a destination, I found to be the loneliest that I had ever felt. I never understood how so many souls could pass each other without acknowledging one another. The people on the subway and the PATH rarely made eye contact with one another, and that made me desperately depressed. I couldn’t just ignore it.
I remember sitting and watching reflections of faces in the windows behind them change from shadow to blanch with the passing light in the train car. If I stared long enough, I would sometimes see a grin or the color of a person’s eyes hidden in shadow, or a book. Each move was calculated, and designed not to disturb, come in contact with, or include any person in her/his vicinity. Granted, I was suffering from an untreated mental illness, and perhaps I wouldn’t have been so sensitive to these seemingly mundane things if I had been properly medicated at the time, but all I know is that when I would exit the train, and would make my way up the tunnel, tinged with the scent of city, distant hot pretzels, and urine, I understood why Toulouse Lautrec painted prostitutes pulling up their stockings instead of beautiful landscapes or still life; he, too, must have seen depth in sadness. Perhaps it was overwhelming to him, too.
Regards, Ana
Wednesday, September 15, 2010
Dear Ellijah - Sweet
4/5 - Sweet
Dear Ellijah –
I’m studying a picture that you made for me last year, framed in black and hanging above my window. It is definitely one of the dearest, most beautiful and most telling creations that I have ever seen. I remember that I unwrapped it, and was blown away by how thoughtful it was; there is nothing more beautiful to me than a child’s handmade creation, namely yours. “Wow,” I said, staring at the picture, riddled with splashes of red and black, and blue, and yellow, and purple on white, with a perfect “EL” floating in the left hand bottom corner. You ran over to me, and sat on my lap to tell me all about it; “That’s you, and that’s me, and that’s a boat and we are floating.” You pointed up to the upper right hand corner and said, “that is the sun, and those are storm clouds, but we are safe together because our boat is rubber.” Your mom winked at us and said, “I think that Ellijah just learned about that at nursery school.” I’ll never forget that, or the serious look in your eyes when you explained your creation. Thank you.
You were about three, and had just witnessed me falling apart over Jack. I tried to hide it from you, standing in your kitchen, confessing my anguish quietly to my sister, but you stared up at me with your beautiful green-blue eyes, and little nose peppered with sunlight framed by summer blonde hair, tugging on my green bikini bottom. “Ana, don’t cry. Ana, Ana ...”. You tried to get my attention, but I was too self-absorbed, confessing to my sister that I have been in love with a guy ten years younger than me for a year, a former student, and we weren’t getting along. Your mom just stood there and listened to me, without judgment, and consoled me. I’ll never forget it; she was beyond kind, and I was distraught.
You then disappeared for a moment, and came back and said, “these are for you Ana,” and you handed me two magnets with beautiful angels on them. I leaned down and gave you a huge hug and told you how much I loved them and you said, “they are guardian angels.” “Thank you so much,” I told you, and lifted you onto my hip to assure you that I was going to be okay. Usually you would have had enough of being held after a minute or so, but you held onto me tightly, talking a mile a minute trying desperately in your three year old kind of way to change the subject, to make me laugh like the Ana that you love.
Please forgive me for subjecting you to my heartache El; I swore when I held you for the first time, and inhaled your intoxicating baby-scented skin, that I would never do anything to speed up your childhood. I hope that you hold onto it, love it and live it like your favorite soft blanket, your mommy’s scent, your father’s laugh when he hold’s you upside down, and your little sister’s wiggle; don’t ever let go.
Love, Ana
Dear Ellijah –
I’m studying a picture that you made for me last year, framed in black and hanging above my window. It is definitely one of the dearest, most beautiful and most telling creations that I have ever seen. I remember that I unwrapped it, and was blown away by how thoughtful it was; there is nothing more beautiful to me than a child’s handmade creation, namely yours. “Wow,” I said, staring at the picture, riddled with splashes of red and black, and blue, and yellow, and purple on white, with a perfect “EL” floating in the left hand bottom corner. You ran over to me, and sat on my lap to tell me all about it; “That’s you, and that’s me, and that’s a boat and we are floating.” You pointed up to the upper right hand corner and said, “that is the sun, and those are storm clouds, but we are safe together because our boat is rubber.” Your mom winked at us and said, “I think that Ellijah just learned about that at nursery school.” I’ll never forget that, or the serious look in your eyes when you explained your creation. Thank you.
You were about three, and had just witnessed me falling apart over Jack. I tried to hide it from you, standing in your kitchen, confessing my anguish quietly to my sister, but you stared up at me with your beautiful green-blue eyes, and little nose peppered with sunlight framed by summer blonde hair, tugging on my green bikini bottom. “Ana, don’t cry. Ana, Ana ...”. You tried to get my attention, but I was too self-absorbed, confessing to my sister that I have been in love with a guy ten years younger than me for a year, a former student, and we weren’t getting along. Your mom just stood there and listened to me, without judgment, and consoled me. I’ll never forget it; she was beyond kind, and I was distraught.
You then disappeared for a moment, and came back and said, “these are for you Ana,” and you handed me two magnets with beautiful angels on them. I leaned down and gave you a huge hug and told you how much I loved them and you said, “they are guardian angels.” “Thank you so much,” I told you, and lifted you onto my hip to assure you that I was going to be okay. Usually you would have had enough of being held after a minute or so, but you held onto me tightly, talking a mile a minute trying desperately in your three year old kind of way to change the subject, to make me laugh like the Ana that you love.
Please forgive me for subjecting you to my heartache El; I swore when I held you for the first time, and inhaled your intoxicating baby-scented skin, that I would never do anything to speed up your childhood. I hope that you hold onto it, love it and live it like your favorite soft blanket, your mommy’s scent, your father’s laugh when he hold’s you upside down, and your little sister’s wiggle; don’t ever let go.
Love, Ana
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