Victory Laugh

I have been thinking a lot lately about how we answer what people don't say to us. 

Recently, I tried an experiment. Now, I should stop here and say I haven't always had the best of results with my experiments. Just ask my chemistry teacher or, more recently, my hairdresser, who has taken away my scissors. Or Mom, who even in her advanced years well remembers my paper dress experiment of 1966 involving used grocery bags and a stapler. But I put the past behind me and bravely went where few women have gone before. I tried to create intimacy using an inanimate object. Yes, dear reader, I told the truth on a blind date.

Said experiment began with me reporting my intention to make my living as a writer. The rest, as Shakespeare wrote, was silence, though my still-superior distance vision caught his raised eyebrow and that blink of smugness around the upper lip. I stopped speaking, and in the quiet, could hear these factions bickering within myself, little generals, each with their own hats and flags. 

General Hostess-- wearing a pink WWII helmet and exposing far too much cleavage--whispered frantically, "say something nice for a change!" Her life-or-death mission? To keep the party rolling, so to speak, making sure that everyone is pleased, even if she doesn't ask anymore if she is or isn't. She went to a state school, where degrees are done in four years on the dot, and started their first elocution club. 

She was quickly overpowered by General Burnhim, dressed in battle fatigues and wearing Prada night goggles on her head, shouting, "palm his nose cartilage into his brain; do it now, woman, do it!"  

Then there was General Whine, suggesting I cry, in her best breaking Rene Zelwigger voice, while she fiddled with the netting over her pith helmet. And the one who never speaks unless spoken to, General Sayyes, who had taken off her hat in the presence of male authority. She simply looked at me with pleading eyes, begging me to remember not to bite and kick outside of a sexual context.

And then, I couldn't help it. I started to laugh. And it grew, becoming the contagious kind that encourages itself and makes your nose run. I was not laughing because I knew he would answer me with some social reply. What he thought didn't matter. I was laughing because I knew something all those facile generals, planted there long ago by who knows what 1940's movie or blatantly bad ideal of life, did not know. They had been stripped of their weaponry, and were so busy trying to be in charge they did not realize they had lost the war. I had the hill, and they were way out-gunned.  

He did, eventually, wish me luck "with such bad odds," which only set me laughing again. Obviously, he had not heard about my war record. But that's okay. I won't be seeing him again. He's been shipped out to one of the far territories, somewhere cold. Reporting to General Notlaid, I hear.

Screenwriting for Dummies

There really is something to be said for sitting down to a movie after an excruciating work-day spent pretending that you give a shit. Unless, of course, the movie asks you to give a shit, and then gives you characters you would only become interested in if they set themselves on fire. 

A Backdraft-worthy blaze was the ending I was hoping for while watching "Helena from the Wedding," an indie film that should come with a warning label: Contains Senseless Whining and Human Stupidity. Instead, what I got (SPOILER ALERT. KINDA.) was a guy who we were supposed to believe had matured. We knew this because he seemed to be happy his wife was not dead. Gotta love those education plots. 

I know, I know. We women just don't get you dudes. We just don't understand how hard it is to be going along, thinking you actually like your wife, when--WHAMMO--a model you met at a wedding a couple of years ago ends up in your luxury cabin for New Year's Eve. And she's wearing--gasp--low-rise jeans! Who saw that coming!

Except it's not your cabin. It's your father's because you aren't able to actually make the kind of living that could buy such a place. It seems the task of income-earning falls to your wife. Whoops! I'm sorry. Did I say something that threatens your masculinity and thus forces you to try to prove your manhood by going out into the woods with a pair of binoculars and spy on the model as she takes a bath? My bad. Clearly I should have known from you moist-eyes that you were sensitive, and prone to massive boundary violations in the name of keeping your mojo intact. But I guess I should have deduced that you felt robbed of your wild nature from the male director's painful shots lingering on the taxidermy, subtly signaling to the audience WATCH FOR METAPHOR!

So, for your enjoyment and possibly true education, here's the real-life ending. At least in the film featuring the kind of women I know. You know, the ones that read. 

INT. CABIN - NIGHT

ALEX, the cocaine he has just snorted with his buddies wearing off enough for him to recall leaving the vial of it on the floor of the jeep his wife is now driving on ice-covered roads, is staring out the window onto the snowy hillside. He was outside watching for her to come back, but it was so cold out there. And, besides, he can watch from in here and also watch Helena, the hot model that he could have married, damn it, if he had only known that someday she would be born and then come to his house, and then have amazing sex with him and not fall asleep after taking care of a house full of guests like his wife did last night. He chokes back tears of all his lost hopes and that time he lost the streamers off his tricycle.

HELENA crawls around on the floor looking for a missing piece to the backgammon game. We can see the small of her back is exposed between her jeans and sweater. Alex forgets he is supposed to be looking out the window and wondering if his wife has gone off the road into a tree then found by a cop who decides from the coke he has just pocketed that she's just a Jane Doe and leaves her for the sheriff to find as goes home to his respectable wife and black lab named Darkie to watch internet porn. Instead of remembering he is worried, Alex adjusts his kaki Land's End trousers and watches Helena. 

Helena, turning quickly to search under the couch, catches Alex wiping drool from the front of  his reindeer sweater.  

                                                                 HELENA
                                                         (to Alex) 

                                           Can I help you with something, dough boy?     

                                                                 ALEX
                                           Ugh, no, no. I was just looking at, I mean, with you.

                                                                HELENA
                                           Hmmmm. I see that.

                                                                             ALEX
    (finding something he thinks of as courage but which is              actually a horribly distorted sense of his importance)

                                                         You're hot. I mean, you must know that, right? That men look at you. That must happen to you all the time.

                                                                          HELENA

                                                         And I should find this idea appealing?

                                                                          ALEX

                                                         Uh, I guess. I mean, I would find it "appealing" if women thought I was hot.

                                                                          HELENA

                                                         I would find that worth reporting to the Vatican.

                                                                          ALEX

                                                     Hey, what's that for?

                                                                          HELENA

                                                         Hmmm. Let me see. Ever since I arrived you have been leering at me, then giving me this scary-clown smile when I stare you down, like I should giggle in delight that you want me, just waiting for the moment when your wife, my friend, who has been watching this behavior and gone out for a late night drive on black ice rather than watch any more of it, dies so I can have you for my very own.

                                                     Does that sum it up?

                                                                          ALEX

                                                         Well, not when you say it like that . . .

                                                                          HELENA

                                                     Let me tell you what is going to happen, Alex. I kind of like this place. I could us a spot just like this, to unwind. You have a talk with Dad. Tell him that you need him to let me come here whenever I want.

                                                                          ALEX

                                                              (excited)

                                                         And I'll meet you here?

                                                                          HELENA

                                                     Nooooo, actually, Alex, you will tell Daddy I am not to be disturbed. And then I won't tell your wife about your little trip into the woods with the binoculars earlier today.

                                                                          ALEX

                                                         Whhhaa, what are you talking about?

                                                                          HELENA

                                                     I have a new bathroom word for you, Einstein: mirrors.

EXT. CABIN - NIGHT

ALICE, Alex's wife, pulls up to the cabin. She is safe. She walks toward the cabin and sees Alex at the window, watching for her, his face filled with worry. As Alice walks closer, looking at the window, Helena rises up from where she has been crouched on the floor. Alice stops. It looks as if Helena has been blowing Alex. Everyone is frozen for a few moments. Helena and Alice lock eyes.  Helena is the first one to smile. She is looking at Alice, her smile continually growing wider. Alice smiles back at her friend, and starts to laugh, as does Helena. Slowly, at first, but by the time Alice gets to the door, she is doubled over, howling and crying in fits of laughter. Helena opens the door, hysterical, as they hug. 

They compose themselves, look at each other, sputter, and start all over again. It's just like college, except for the blue ray player and tonight's appetizer of balsamic glazed figs.

Finally, freezing, they wrap their arms around each other tightly and walk, stomping off the snow, into the warm fireplace light. 

THE END

Silence is Black

I was told Friday night that I was not "very cheery." The tone of voice with which this statement was delivered made it clear it was an accusation, and not the compliment I take it to be. I agreed, as it was not only true, but not a point one can argue when dressed completely in black, which, as a poet, is required in our contract. I then said nothing, noting I was feeling a psychic static run through me, as if I'd accidentally bitten down with a filling onto a piece of foil. 

So, I silently assessed, Good Girl was still hanging out in me somewhere, just waiting for her opportunity to point out to me once again that I might actually have a boyfriend if I would simply wear pastels and not say things like "I find that highly flawed logic" to men trying to make dinner conversation on a first date. She was pretty smug, feeling sure her time had finally come, and soon life would be a series of make-overs and giggling girlfriends doing each others hair. She has, you see, remained perpetually 16--that awful delusion age when you believe that your breasts have brought with them unending potential for a gorgeous life, if you can just find the right top to go with them.

Artists are not actually known for being highly socialized, or good at pretending, which I believe are very often the same thing. I actually have only two speeds: the truth, or silence. I've learned to allow myself that constipated look as I remain quiet, as people take it for thoughtful listening instead of the low-level frustration I'm really experiencing at not blurting out my insightful but potentially-insulting observations. This accounts for my near hysteria when I finally do hit upon something both witty and impersonal. I shout it out, like a trader in the stock exchange whose "sell" number has finally arrived, further cementing my reputation as one of those friends best kept to Facebook.  

I decided to have a talk with this inner teen, to put her down once and for all. She could, I decided in the cab going home, leave willingly, listening to reason and experience. Or I could silence the idiot using a water glass filled with ice and vodka.  She chose the latter, which left me with puffy eyes the next morning but a quieted soul, residing once more in my authentic intense nature. And smiling, which can look exactly like cheerful. As long as I'm not talking.

Professor Canine

My dog, Chili, watches me constantly, as most dogs do the source of all their comforts. I am producer of organic salmon kibble, the bit of high-fat cheddar, and cool water in a hip stainless bowl. I have even procured a memory-foam bed that she insists, through her stony posture, now move with her as she shifts from sleeping underfoot in the entry way to blocking the fire exit of my bedroom door. And yet, her attention on me is not only suspended, but rendered utterly irrelevant on our walks to what we humans call the park, but which she clearly views as the regular coming of the Rapture.

These long walks began with the goal of finding our way back to Chili's hips, as they had been disguised beneath the seal-shape she'd taken on from her preferred state of sloth--interrupted only by trips to the food or UPS man. I did not expect what I got, which has happened before, though usually I'm on a blind date at the time. Every morning and evening, Chili becomes completely herself--no one's pet, no one's companion. She stands at our elevator and waits, knowing it is this conveyance that will bring her what she seeks, those perfect nervous objects of desire: squirrels. 

Trying to keep Chili from squirrels has been yet another lesson that nature has presented me, that rough and tumble class time at the foot of a furry Gandalf that has no interest in teaching anything. No. Chili's only interest is on the gray creatures she was born to chase. And I have learned in this mossy green classroom all I need to know from her, and wonder now who exactly rescued who in this relationship.

Chili is not distracted from her squirrel hunt by human laughter at her bald display of passion, nor their commentary on the futility of her chase. In fact, she does not think of them at all. Genetic muscle moves her up, scratching at tree bark, moaning like a lover, her tail wagging with simple perfect pleasure. Some stop to watch her: the artists, library-book toters, or weary workmen. They then go on to where they've promised to be, buoyed by the rare sight of that much common sense. 

My job, so far as I understand it, is to keep her from those metal objects with gas pedals on the right, as the game goes afoot the next street over. And I do. I keep her safe enough to live the life she's meant to have, and just that much, not a single caution more. That, too, I have learned from tugging too hard and finding she would rather choke. She's made me cry twice in my life: once when she abandoned her Zen bark-less nature to defend me from a psycho schnauzer, and the day she gagged on my pull and pulled against me toward a so-close squirrel, rooting for herself more than me, until I picked the right side to be on. 

I've stopped hoping that she catches one someday. Instead, I smile and watch her, and let her show me again. And I remember, again, the necessary joy of the chase.   

Fantasy Island

Nearly a year has passed since I've moved back to NYC full time after years in our long-distance relationship, cheating on it constantly with the moist welcome of London, and occasional romps with the dark nights of Rome. Then there is perfect couture of Paris, of course, but we don't speak of those things. At least we don't commit them to paper.

So, I have to decide again. Should I stay or should I go?

I have fantasies. In one of them, I'm living in a cottage somewhere. A thatched roof is involved, something from "A Quiet Man," sans the wife-beating John Wayne, who I would have knifed then used same to eat my supper. In my close-up, there are many suspensions of disbelief. There is no mention of how I make a living, for starters. Or how I've managed to start an organic garden when I've killed every plant I've ever had but a cactus that thrives on neglect. My cottage is all about absence. Absence of appointment reminders, the need to find my glasses, and tourists blocking the door of the train. I'm wearing white, and it's slimming.

I find my cottage fantasy best in small doses, as reality seeps in quickly on this one, seeing as I had a brief stint in a hellish bucolic atmosphere in a past life in a New England town called West Springfield, which had no adjacent North, South or East, nor even an over-arching Springfield. Those hamlets, apparently, had been abandoned for towns with roads. I made it until mud season when I stepped into the driveway and my leg sank a foot into the ground, taking my Joan and David kidskin flat with it. I removed the other, stuck it in the hole, showered, and drove away, not stopping until I got to a town with street lights and a Gap.

Disappearing, in truth, is the narrative thread of all my fantasies and has been one of the high points of my nomadic life. I love the blank slate of what's next, the potential before it's been dulled by habit,  numbing routines and the mental exhaustion of ducking other's expectations for my life.

This co-exists with a rabid hatred of moving companies, a distrust of realtors and their over-scented bodies, and anxiety about approval processes that morphs at warp speed into rage as someone decides whether or not to allow me to be gouged for 600 square feet living under a flamenco dancer.

But, for now, it's all good. There's still time to imagine a life of Zen nothingness. Of changing without change. I think I will wear white.   

Birthday card

It's raining, and I have a cold. But, as it turns out, I also have peanut butter. I think of Brad Pitt whenever I eat peanut butter, just the way he says it in "Meet Joe Black, " with all the emphasis on the butter. This of course proves that he indeed is Death come a 'callin in that movie, as I didn't really need another reason to find him irresistible then to pair him with my favorite high-fat food.

After exhausting my memory bank of bare-Brad moments from the greatest films of all time, I also think of my father when I eat peanut butter. Dad used to slather it on to what we called hard rolls, meaning fluffy white nutrition-free bread with a crusty exterior, usually with a few poppy seeds clinging on for dear life. As if the hydrogenated/sugar/substance with some peanuts wasn't enough creamy mouth feel, Dad would slather on butter. And he would eat a couple of these--three if the Yankees were losing.

Today would have been my Dad's birthday, had he lived through such habits, which he did not--leaving us ten years ago to find our own way to the store and answers to arcane movie trivia. I think he would be horrified at the organic soy peanut spread that skims my toasted whole-grain pita. And that's okay. I have a lot to live for. Two "a lots," as a matter of fact: my son and my daughter. And today I'm feeling the gratitude for these marvelous adults that are both friends and my off-spring. They survived me, somehow--I suspect by turning a blind eye to my lefts, and following my rights, and then mixing in themselves: a brilliant alchemy that created people I not only am delighted to mother, but would flagrantly beg to be my friend.

When I look back to when they were kids, I never daydreamed about how they would turn out. Most of the time I was simply holding on, trying to do no harm. And I'm glad, because maybe I would have been some bent tiger mother, tying them to a piano bench because it made me feel successful. I like to think not, but you never know. I wore aqua lycra pants. That should call anyone's judgment into question.

So, Dad, happy birthday, from me and the grand-kids. You would like how they turned out, I am sure. They both love me, and peanut butter.