When I said the word it felt like a live fish in my mouth, like I’d never heard it, never knew what it meant, like maybe I never said it before. How could that word be about me? It blasted my ear like a tumble from a front loader.
So today, when “run away” flashes though my mind, it’s not just fear of the creative, it’s not just the special vulnerability of having to create art and knowing it just might be shit. No, I’ve always hoped someone would save me from the moment, the task, the possibility of foolishness, uselessness or failure.
Of course it’s the favorite stuffed animal that takes the most journeys and therefore increases the odds of disappearance. And face it, how long will a kid cry when she loses the toy she didn’t really care about? I don’t think my four year old lost the bear. And while I tend to misplace things, I always find them. The disappearance of Yellow Bear still mystifies me. Yes, I blame myself.
I need to know, how did it go for you? How did you do it? How did you negotiate all the unknowns? How did you discover and tame your feelings? How did you learn to live with sadness and fear? How did you take care of yourself? I want to know with all the intimacy we’ve never had, that I never knew was possible, that you never allowed maybe anyone.
Who isn’t haunted by the roaches that creep through the brain’s kitchen at 4 a.m.? I couldn’t see and create myself when no one else even bothered to see me. So I signed up for some expensive coursework. You can’t cram for exams at the School of Hard Knocks.
Rudy Bernstein called on me at my family’s house. I had heard of him. He was a cousin—distant, you know. But one of my other cousins knew him because her brother went to school with him. She told me he was very handsome and very smart. He had studied Greek and Latin in school. She [...]
Carole was amazing. She was beautiful—curly jet black hair, a luscious little body and a fiery temper and wit. She was smart but she wasn’t all dried up like those college girls my buddies married. She was full of life and love—really sexy, not just dolled-up. She would talk to me about what was happening in her life. She needed someone to talk to and someone to appreciate her.
In unconnected hours face-to-face, drenched in the ice-water of failed intimacy, alone finally becomes loneliness. My strong right-side withered under worm-eaten embraces, preoccupied hearts, and habitual sex.
I’m doing a lot of writing to flesh out the characters and components of my upcoming play–currently called Ephemory and I’m going to share these pieces here. Please comment in any way you like–ask for more–suggest your agreement or differences or confusion or ?? with what you find here. I welcome your contribution. Ephemory will [...]
In those days, my body’s insistent desire came from the fear of alone-ness: am I undesired and undesirable? But longing, no–not longing. All the love and affection seemed dried up and blown away. After all those futile attempts to make the marriage work there was no more fantasy left.