And thus was Mary Flannery O'Connor described by some cheeky bastard whose name I can no longer recall. I have just finished reading Flannery: A Life of Flannery O'Connor by Brad Gooch (2009), and turning the last page, I feel I have lost a friend. Reading a detailed account of her life, and her death from Lupus at the age of 38, and visiting her home, Andalusia, at Milledgeville, Georgia several weeks ago has immersed me in her world. Every night for the past week, I have ended my day with her. Living here in Georgia as I do, the towns and places she speaks and writes of are intimately familiar to me; Atlanta, Savannah, Milledgeville. Through her I have come to know places, and the culture and mores of the American South, at a deeper level. But more than that, she's been good company and a friend in the way that good writers and good books are: in their words you find yourself, a better self, a deeper self. And with them at your side, you feel less alone.
My relationships with books have been some of the most real of my life. If you are a reader you will know what I mean by this. I cannot remember a time in my life when I could not read. I know I was reading and writing in kindergarten, and my teacher angered my mother by telling her she had "ruined" me, because I was supposed to learn these things in school, not already know them when I got there. In spite of this, my kindergarten teacher wanted to fail me and make me repeat the year, because apparently I was so quiet that she thought I was socially awkward and needed another year to adjust to the other children. If she had bothered to ask me, I would have told her that I didn't find I had much in common with the other children because they could not read yet, so I preferred to spend my time painting rather than talking. But she did not ask.
At home, my circle of friends was large, spanning the globe and the centuries. My grandfather and I read the National Geographic together, my grandmother and I read together every afternoon during the month of June, which I always spent with them at their home near what is now the Oregon Dunes National Seashore. The only child in a family of very modest means, I was spoiled in two ways: my parents and grandparents spent time with me teaching me skills and telling me stories, and while I was not allowed to ask for things, I was allowed to choose any book I wanted from a bookstore. This thrilled me to the very marrow, prompting spontaneous pirouettes of glee, and very early I developed lists of books to read, books to purchase, books to borrow, books already read, books I loved, books to give as gifts, books to read again, books that really should be written, and books that I would write. My hall table now holds books borrowed from Nell, books to give to Nell, notes on books as heard on NPR that sound worthwhile, books to finish because I started them, books to tuck away discreetly before the in-laws visit the next time, books I'm flirting with but haven't made up my mind about reading yet and really should make a decision about before next Thursday night, when Nell comes over for a glass of wine, and declares, "Oh GOD! Look at this! We're such book-sluts!"
Long, luxurious afternoons inhaling books and the smell of hot boxwood. Days spent with chicken pox eating caramels and reading all of the Laura Ingalls Wilder books in quick succession. Pneumonia and Margaret Mitchell. David Copperfield in one fevered night. Picking up Paul Reiser and David Sedaris in public places and reading entire books standing up, laughing so hard strangers look at me with a mixture of pity and envy. The month I read War and Peace, and then almost everything else Tolstoy wrote, and fell in so in love with being in the middle of that wonderful book I walked around bereft for a week when I finished it because I didn't know where my bookmark lived. Baths that have started out hot and turned cold without me noticing. Sunny fall afternoons reading Nathaniel Hawthorne on the front steps, with a cup of Red Rose tea, as Hawthorne should always be read. May Sarton's diaries every spring, Plant Dreaming Deep, entering deeply into one writer's life, and by doing so, entering more deeply into my own.
The act of writing is the act of taking your skin off, and the act of reading is the act of temporarily wearing another's skin. To see their world through their eyes, to share in and value their experiences. Thomas Merton's epitaph of O'Connor, on the back of Everything That Rises Must Converge read "I write her name with honor, for all the truth and all the craft with which she shows man's fall and his dishonor." (Gooch, pg. 372). Thank you Flannery, and from one plain gal to another, you did tell a damn good story.
Copyright 2011. All Rights Reserved.
Friday, September 30, 2011
Tuesday, September 27, 2011
Twenty Pieces of Advice to a Young PT
In the spirit of keeping my fingers limber while I toss ideas around in my mind, wait for them to settle, and collect the courage to write about larger, tougher, even less popular issues than I usually write about. This, from 2010:
Twenty Pieces of Advice to a Young PT
1. Give your Clinical Instructor (CI) time to get to know you. You know you can do the job, but they have just met you and need to observe you for awhile before they know they can trust you to do your thing. You have to earn their trust with your behavior and your skill, and that takes time.
2. CI's differ, just like people, because amazingly enough, CI's ARE people. Some will want to micromanage you, some will give you a longer rein right away. Don't make assumptions about someone's likes and dislikes, ask them what they prefer.
3. Keep a running list of things you need to look up or review. It will help the next day and in the long run. Develop your special interests and then don't be timid, offer your knowledge and opinions in a humble yet confident way.
4. You are the student and that's okay. Some people will completely ignore you, some will assume you know absolutely nothing because your tag says student, and some will have as much confidence in you as you have in yourself. In the end you are just passing through. Learn as much as you can, give the best care you know how, and let the rest go.
5. You will not click with everyone, CIs, coworkers or patients, and that's okay. With some CI's and patients you will get along like a house afire and genuinely make friends and "chosen family". With others a strictly business relationship is all that is required. They are your boss, treat them as such, and then go home.
6. Go to different states, different cities, and different hospitals if you can. You will meet people with a wider experience, varied perspectives and get to be a temporary local in great places. Every place is what you make it. If you aren't loving it, maybe you need to put a little more love into it.
7. When your first, second and third choice for clinic falls through, be excited! This only means that the experience you are truly meant to have is coming your way. Three out of four of my original choices were changed to something else, and I ended up loving what I got instead of getting what I thought I wanted.
8. Be assertive and brave and open to all new experiences. The ones you never considered can turn out to be the best ones. Go up on the high wire, the view is great!
9. Laugh at yourself regularly. Here's a little known secret: CI's don't actually expect you to be perfect. They expect you to be competent and get better with practice. That's a big difference. Perfect will make you crazy. Practice will make you better.
10. Never underestimate the value of repetition. Perhaps you, like me, sometimes get bored by repetition. No matter. There is value in it and you will come to respect the ability of the brain and the body to remember a piece of information or a skill with repeated exposure and practice. Soon things will be second nature, and then you can add a little style.
11. "To thine own self be true." Know yourself. Know if you are an introvert or an extravert, know the signs when you need a little rest or silence, and know that it's okay to ask for what you need. If you sometimes need silence to concentrate, learn to express that professionally and with good humor, because you don't want to get to that frazzled point and then snap someone's head off before you know you've done it. If you have a quirky sense of humor, express that appropriately. If you like to use your body in your work you will discover that. People differ in what makes them happy, pay attention to what makes you happy in your practice, where you get bored, where you need "more cowbell."
12. Find your tribe. PT's are a pretty varied group. What part of PT gives you that "all systems GO!" feeling? Warning: it may not be what you expect. This is why it is vitally important that you try everything you possibly can, including working with different age groups, different approaches and different hospital and corporate environments.
13. Be organized. I'm not talking about freakish organization here, I'm talking about keeping a basic calendar and a few labeled manila folders. Print your syllabus, mark your dates, allow for the inevitable SNAFU. Really. Don't make yourself, your CI or your professors crazy over such a simple thing. Get and keep your "poop in a group" with regard to papers.
14. Learn all you can about your organization. Know the mission, the goals, the basic structure of the organization and demonstrate your knowledge early. Ask your CI if you can spend an afternoon in specialty clinics, with other PT's who have specialty knowledge, etc. This will help you broaden your experience.
15. Develop a gentle hand with people, literally and figuratively. Your patients aren't feeling well, they have pain, or they would not be coming to you. Start gently with them, you can always add more pressure, force, energy, intensity. Think of it as coaxing a kitten. Watch their face, watch their eyes, pay attention to what you feel beneath your hands. Ask, ask, ask. Ask them for feedback. More? Less? Here? There? Better? Worse?
16. Know your anatomy. You've heard it everyday for three years. It really is your best friend in the end. PT's are maestros of the body and in order to play well you have to know your instrument, inside and out, upside down and sideways.
17. "People are crazy." And that's okay. A wise friend offered me that bit of advice a long time ago, and now I offer it to you. It explains a lot of situations, and I say it lovingly. We are all crazy in our own way. Your patients, their families, your co-workers and innocent passersby on the street are "whole body preps" - they come with a past, a present and future, they sometimes come with mental challenges of various sorts, mental illness diagnosed or undiagnosed, fears, frustrations, needs, wants, memories, hurts, foibles and ticklish places. Treat them gently, they have placed their trust in you. Treat yourself gently, stay focused, know your boundaries, and do your best work in the midst of the craziness around you.
18. In the end people are responsible for themselves. I would love to tell you all your patients will be grateful, that they will always adhere to their program, they will follow your advice to quite smoking and eat smaller portions, but alas, some will and some will not. You will continue to do your job by considering the whole person and counseling and treating them holistically. However, you cannot "make" them do these things. You can explain in ways they can understand, you can break tasks down so they are less daunting, you can instruct, encourage, demonstrate and modify. People must meet you half way and do their part. Explain that good PT treatment and good outcomes is a partnership.
19. Laugh if you can, cry if you must. You will be with people in some incredibly intimate moments, and the more appropriate humor you can demonstrate the more comfortable everyone will be. Dealing with "Brother Ass" can be incredibly funny, and it's okay to laugh WITH your patient. You will also work with patients and families who are facing a very hard time in their lives, some may even be dying, and relatively soon. Unless you are made of stone you may shed a few tears, too. Remain composed, be discreet, keep your focus on the patient, and have a big boo-hoo later in private if you need to, there is no shame in it.
20. Throw your hands in the air and enjoy the ride. Individual days may be long, but the experience itself will go by fast. Don't forget to enjoy yourself, and be thankful for the opportunity.
Twenty Pieces of Advice to a Young PT
1. Give your Clinical Instructor (CI) time to get to know you. You know you can do the job, but they have just met you and need to observe you for awhile before they know they can trust you to do your thing. You have to earn their trust with your behavior and your skill, and that takes time.
2. CI's differ, just like people, because amazingly enough, CI's ARE people. Some will want to micromanage you, some will give you a longer rein right away. Don't make assumptions about someone's likes and dislikes, ask them what they prefer.
3. Keep a running list of things you need to look up or review. It will help the next day and in the long run. Develop your special interests and then don't be timid, offer your knowledge and opinions in a humble yet confident way.
4. You are the student and that's okay. Some people will completely ignore you, some will assume you know absolutely nothing because your tag says student, and some will have as much confidence in you as you have in yourself. In the end you are just passing through. Learn as much as you can, give the best care you know how, and let the rest go.
5. You will not click with everyone, CIs, coworkers or patients, and that's okay. With some CI's and patients you will get along like a house afire and genuinely make friends and "chosen family". With others a strictly business relationship is all that is required. They are your boss, treat them as such, and then go home.
6. Go to different states, different cities, and different hospitals if you can. You will meet people with a wider experience, varied perspectives and get to be a temporary local in great places. Every place is what you make it. If you aren't loving it, maybe you need to put a little more love into it.
7. When your first, second and third choice for clinic falls through, be excited! This only means that the experience you are truly meant to have is coming your way. Three out of four of my original choices were changed to something else, and I ended up loving what I got instead of getting what I thought I wanted.
8. Be assertive and brave and open to all new experiences. The ones you never considered can turn out to be the best ones. Go up on the high wire, the view is great!
9. Laugh at yourself regularly. Here's a little known secret: CI's don't actually expect you to be perfect. They expect you to be competent and get better with practice. That's a big difference. Perfect will make you crazy. Practice will make you better.
10. Never underestimate the value of repetition. Perhaps you, like me, sometimes get bored by repetition. No matter. There is value in it and you will come to respect the ability of the brain and the body to remember a piece of information or a skill with repeated exposure and practice. Soon things will be second nature, and then you can add a little style.
11. "To thine own self be true." Know yourself. Know if you are an introvert or an extravert, know the signs when you need a little rest or silence, and know that it's okay to ask for what you need. If you sometimes need silence to concentrate, learn to express that professionally and with good humor, because you don't want to get to that frazzled point and then snap someone's head off before you know you've done it. If you have a quirky sense of humor, express that appropriately. If you like to use your body in your work you will discover that. People differ in what makes them happy, pay attention to what makes you happy in your practice, where you get bored, where you need "more cowbell."
12. Find your tribe. PT's are a pretty varied group. What part of PT gives you that "all systems GO!" feeling? Warning: it may not be what you expect. This is why it is vitally important that you try everything you possibly can, including working with different age groups, different approaches and different hospital and corporate environments.
13. Be organized. I'm not talking about freakish organization here, I'm talking about keeping a basic calendar and a few labeled manila folders. Print your syllabus, mark your dates, allow for the inevitable SNAFU. Really. Don't make yourself, your CI or your professors crazy over such a simple thing. Get and keep your "poop in a group" with regard to papers.
14. Learn all you can about your organization. Know the mission, the goals, the basic structure of the organization and demonstrate your knowledge early. Ask your CI if you can spend an afternoon in specialty clinics, with other PT's who have specialty knowledge, etc. This will help you broaden your experience.
15. Develop a gentle hand with people, literally and figuratively. Your patients aren't feeling well, they have pain, or they would not be coming to you. Start gently with them, you can always add more pressure, force, energy, intensity. Think of it as coaxing a kitten. Watch their face, watch their eyes, pay attention to what you feel beneath your hands. Ask, ask, ask. Ask them for feedback. More? Less? Here? There? Better? Worse?
16. Know your anatomy. You've heard it everyday for three years. It really is your best friend in the end. PT's are maestros of the body and in order to play well you have to know your instrument, inside and out, upside down and sideways.
17. "People are crazy." And that's okay. A wise friend offered me that bit of advice a long time ago, and now I offer it to you. It explains a lot of situations, and I say it lovingly. We are all crazy in our own way. Your patients, their families, your co-workers and innocent passersby on the street are "whole body preps" - they come with a past, a present and future, they sometimes come with mental challenges of various sorts, mental illness diagnosed or undiagnosed, fears, frustrations, needs, wants, memories, hurts, foibles and ticklish places. Treat them gently, they have placed their trust in you. Treat yourself gently, stay focused, know your boundaries, and do your best work in the midst of the craziness around you.
18. In the end people are responsible for themselves. I would love to tell you all your patients will be grateful, that they will always adhere to their program, they will follow your advice to quite smoking and eat smaller portions, but alas, some will and some will not. You will continue to do your job by considering the whole person and counseling and treating them holistically. However, you cannot "make" them do these things. You can explain in ways they can understand, you can break tasks down so they are less daunting, you can instruct, encourage, demonstrate and modify. People must meet you half way and do their part. Explain that good PT treatment and good outcomes is a partnership.
19. Laugh if you can, cry if you must. You will be with people in some incredibly intimate moments, and the more appropriate humor you can demonstrate the more comfortable everyone will be. Dealing with "Brother Ass" can be incredibly funny, and it's okay to laugh WITH your patient. You will also work with patients and families who are facing a very hard time in their lives, some may even be dying, and relatively soon. Unless you are made of stone you may shed a few tears, too. Remain composed, be discreet, keep your focus on the patient, and have a big boo-hoo later in private if you need to, there is no shame in it.
20. Throw your hands in the air and enjoy the ride. Individual days may be long, but the experience itself will go by fast. Don't forget to enjoy yourself, and be thankful for the opportunity.
Wednesday, September 21, 2011
Tribal Wanderer
"The snowflakes fall, as winter calls, and time just seems to fly...Is it the loneliness in me that makes me want to cry?" - Whispering Pines, by Johnny Horton
Although I've always said that home is wherever I hang my stethoscope, lately I've begun to wonder if that is true. My entire life I have been the one who leaves, and I have liked it that way; jobs, towns, schools, groups, friends, organizations. I pack my little red suitcase like I used to pack my little red wagon, and I ease on down the road. New experiences call to me like the sirens called Odysseus; countries I have not seen, skills I have not mastered, wines I have not tasted. I have always viewed my life as incredibly short, and in my heart I know that one hundred years will not be enough time to experience all that I want to experience. I'm secretly hoping the Hindus are right and I get several lives, because there are so many things I will not get to do in this one. Like the clever north wind in the movie Chocolat and the people it influenced, I disappear from pictures, lives and memory. Yes, ladies and gentlemen, I am a tribal wanderer. And now, much to my own surprise, I am about to wander home.
Is there something deeper in us than we know that defines home? Something that calls us home on a cellular level? Something that is always there, no matter how far away we travel, no matter how long we stay away? What is it that calls me back to this place? They are my earliest sense memories, but is that it? With each passing year, I find myself less willing to spend any time or energy on experiences, places or people that don't feel right. Who among us really knows how much time we have allotted to us? Why spend it in the wrong place? No place else has ever smelled right, although they smell good in their own right. Other places have felt good, and I've enjoyed them. But they have not been home.
For there is something about the pine trees there that looks right to me. The way the top of the Western Hemlock tilts over slightly, branches held at honest Charlie Brown angles. The way the mist hangs in the air and the way the sea smells when I stand beside it. The way dark falls early in the winter, wrapping me in a blanket of night as I read the thoughts of centuried others, and try to write my way into, and out of, my own. The slick of the roads as I drive to the coast, a plaid thermos of hazelnut coffee on the car seat beside me, singing the Johnny Horton songs my grandparents used to sing, and that I now play out into the darkness of heaven in hopes they might hear. The smell of a smokehouse full of fish caught that day, moss on the fallen trees on a wooded path that looks like a dinosaur might wander through. The first strawberries of June, the first snowfall in late Autumn. The first time I felt I might want to stay somewhere, and the first time I admitted it.
Although I've always said that home is wherever I hang my stethoscope, lately I've begun to wonder if that is true. My entire life I have been the one who leaves, and I have liked it that way; jobs, towns, schools, groups, friends, organizations. I pack my little red suitcase like I used to pack my little red wagon, and I ease on down the road. New experiences call to me like the sirens called Odysseus; countries I have not seen, skills I have not mastered, wines I have not tasted. I have always viewed my life as incredibly short, and in my heart I know that one hundred years will not be enough time to experience all that I want to experience. I'm secretly hoping the Hindus are right and I get several lives, because there are so many things I will not get to do in this one. Like the clever north wind in the movie Chocolat and the people it influenced, I disappear from pictures, lives and memory. Yes, ladies and gentlemen, I am a tribal wanderer. And now, much to my own surprise, I am about to wander home.
Is there something deeper in us than we know that defines home? Something that calls us home on a cellular level? Something that is always there, no matter how far away we travel, no matter how long we stay away? What is it that calls me back to this place? They are my earliest sense memories, but is that it? With each passing year, I find myself less willing to spend any time or energy on experiences, places or people that don't feel right. Who among us really knows how much time we have allotted to us? Why spend it in the wrong place? No place else has ever smelled right, although they smell good in their own right. Other places have felt good, and I've enjoyed them. But they have not been home.
For there is something about the pine trees there that looks right to me. The way the top of the Western Hemlock tilts over slightly, branches held at honest Charlie Brown angles. The way the mist hangs in the air and the way the sea smells when I stand beside it. The way dark falls early in the winter, wrapping me in a blanket of night as I read the thoughts of centuried others, and try to write my way into, and out of, my own. The slick of the roads as I drive to the coast, a plaid thermos of hazelnut coffee on the car seat beside me, singing the Johnny Horton songs my grandparents used to sing, and that I now play out into the darkness of heaven in hopes they might hear. The smell of a smokehouse full of fish caught that day, moss on the fallen trees on a wooded path that looks like a dinosaur might wander through. The first strawberries of June, the first snowfall in late Autumn. The first time I felt I might want to stay somewhere, and the first time I admitted it.
Monday, September 19, 2011
Rhythm Method
Music: Siuil a Run, by Clannad; and Rising of the Moon, by Column MacOireachlaigh
"I bear orders from the captain, get you ready quick and soon, for the pikes must be together by the risin' of the moon. By the risin' of the moon, by the risin' of the moon, with your pike upon your shoulder, by the risin' of the moon." - Rising of the Moon, Column MacOireachlaigh
In his classic book, Running and Being, George Sheehan says that if the game is played in your rhythm you will win, and if it is not, you will lose, and the real trick of life, and running, is to make sure it is always played in your rhythm. I have felt this for years in my running, in guitar, more recently in fencing, and flying. There is that moment in all four experiences where you reach perfect rhythm with yourself, let go, and fly. Everything becomes easy. The piece of music is in your perfect key and your voice and your instrument vibrate as one. Your legs seem to lengthen, your breathing becomes deep and ancient, and you never have to stop. Your weapon flies, you score every touch and laugh because it is so easy. Your muscles relax and the plane almost flies itself. These moments are special, and you remember them, not so much for their rarity, but because it is favored country, the place where you live, the place that is cellular home, deeply true in your DNA. You remember it, you seek it, you're a little in love with it, if the truth be told, because you know the difference between it and a game that is played not in your rhythm.
For three years, in my doctoral program, I was a fish out of water. A mid-life career changer, I was surrounded by twenty-something college athletes and cheerleaders. Yes, the kind who build pyramids and win awards in national competitions. As you might imagine, we had a lot to talk about. Over the three years, I came to enjoy and respect them for their many good and unique qualities. If they thought about me at all, I think they relied on me for what I could always be counted on to do: come through. Be older. Carry the conversation. Teach the class. Volunteer. Take big chances and make a fool of myself in front of big crowds. And in the end, win awards for doing just that. My best friends were a few others who were just like me in that we were all unique. A pediatrician from Russia. An orthopaedic surgeon from China. A chemist from Nigeria. An engineer who runs marathons. We stuck out because we were older, more experienced. Introverts in a sea of extroverts. We stuck out because we stuck out, the thing an introvert hates most yet cannot help but do.
Three classes of 40 students each, pressed together in a few classrooms on the top floor of a converted parking garage. No windows, sweltering in summer, freezing in winter, smelling year round of formalin and formaldehyde, cadavers, athletic sneakers and sweat. An only child, I suddenly had 39 younger brothers and sisters with whom I spent every waking moment. We saw each other in the best and worst of circumstances, successes and failures happened together, with everyone watching. When you succeeded or failed it was in front of the crowd. Tears and fears and feelin' proud were shared with the entire class not always by choice but because we were hard workin' sardines in a can. What I had always hated most, being human in front of others, I gradually came to trust, because I trusted them.
We made allowances for each other, and over the course of three years, I gradually found a way to integrate my own rhythm into the larger class. Before every exam I ever took, I could be found on my own, separate from the chattering crowd, with my headphones in my ears listening to Irish drinking songs, in traditional Gaelic, and non-traditional English. They knew not to bother me as I paced the halls, playing the bodhran drums to blow off steam, or busily running my hands over an imaginary skeleton or body, tracing nerves, combining music with kinesthetic learning, visualizing everything in my head for later recall. However odd it may have seemed to others who relieve their anxiety by talking, it was my rhythm and when I played in it, I always won. When the high scores and awards came, and the inevitable surprised looks, I found it was best just to smile, shrug and put my headphones back in.
Find a way to play the game in your own rhythm. If you do, you will win. If you don't, you will always be at odds with yourself, and you will always lose. Find your rhythm, stand in it, and then start running.
"I bear orders from the captain, get you ready quick and soon, for the pikes must be together by the risin' of the moon. By the risin' of the moon, by the risin' of the moon, with your pike upon your shoulder, by the risin' of the moon." - Rising of the Moon, Column MacOireachlaigh
In his classic book, Running and Being, George Sheehan says that if the game is played in your rhythm you will win, and if it is not, you will lose, and the real trick of life, and running, is to make sure it is always played in your rhythm. I have felt this for years in my running, in guitar, more recently in fencing, and flying. There is that moment in all four experiences where you reach perfect rhythm with yourself, let go, and fly. Everything becomes easy. The piece of music is in your perfect key and your voice and your instrument vibrate as one. Your legs seem to lengthen, your breathing becomes deep and ancient, and you never have to stop. Your weapon flies, you score every touch and laugh because it is so easy. Your muscles relax and the plane almost flies itself. These moments are special, and you remember them, not so much for their rarity, but because it is favored country, the place where you live, the place that is cellular home, deeply true in your DNA. You remember it, you seek it, you're a little in love with it, if the truth be told, because you know the difference between it and a game that is played not in your rhythm.
For three years, in my doctoral program, I was a fish out of water. A mid-life career changer, I was surrounded by twenty-something college athletes and cheerleaders. Yes, the kind who build pyramids and win awards in national competitions. As you might imagine, we had a lot to talk about. Over the three years, I came to enjoy and respect them for their many good and unique qualities. If they thought about me at all, I think they relied on me for what I could always be counted on to do: come through. Be older. Carry the conversation. Teach the class. Volunteer. Take big chances and make a fool of myself in front of big crowds. And in the end, win awards for doing just that. My best friends were a few others who were just like me in that we were all unique. A pediatrician from Russia. An orthopaedic surgeon from China. A chemist from Nigeria. An engineer who runs marathons. We stuck out because we were older, more experienced. Introverts in a sea of extroverts. We stuck out because we stuck out, the thing an introvert hates most yet cannot help but do.
Three classes of 40 students each, pressed together in a few classrooms on the top floor of a converted parking garage. No windows, sweltering in summer, freezing in winter, smelling year round of formalin and formaldehyde, cadavers, athletic sneakers and sweat. An only child, I suddenly had 39 younger brothers and sisters with whom I spent every waking moment. We saw each other in the best and worst of circumstances, successes and failures happened together, with everyone watching. When you succeeded or failed it was in front of the crowd. Tears and fears and feelin' proud were shared with the entire class not always by choice but because we were hard workin' sardines in a can. What I had always hated most, being human in front of others, I gradually came to trust, because I trusted them.
We made allowances for each other, and over the course of three years, I gradually found a way to integrate my own rhythm into the larger class. Before every exam I ever took, I could be found on my own, separate from the chattering crowd, with my headphones in my ears listening to Irish drinking songs, in traditional Gaelic, and non-traditional English. They knew not to bother me as I paced the halls, playing the bodhran drums to blow off steam, or busily running my hands over an imaginary skeleton or body, tracing nerves, combining music with kinesthetic learning, visualizing everything in my head for later recall. However odd it may have seemed to others who relieve their anxiety by talking, it was my rhythm and when I played in it, I always won. When the high scores and awards came, and the inevitable surprised looks, I found it was best just to smile, shrug and put my headphones back in.
Find a way to play the game in your own rhythm. If you do, you will win. If you don't, you will always be at odds with yourself, and you will always lose. Find your rhythm, stand in it, and then start running.
Tuesday, September 13, 2011
Looking for Superman
Today my last patient of the day was a bilateral below the knee amputee who could only see me if I was approximately 3 inches from his face, and could only hear me if I literally shouted at the top of my voice into his ear. "He had hearing aids, but destroyed them during one of his spells. Medicaid won't pay for anymore. He's on medication now, and he's really calm," his son informed me. It was the end of my patient treatment day, and my voice, never particularly loud, was fading, as many of my patients are hard of hearing. I do everything I can to preserve the dignity of my patients, and one of those kindnesses I try to extend includes not shouting at them. Today, as I treated the blind, the deaf and the lame, I could not help but think of Helen Keller, and Anne Sullivan.
To say his home was humble would be an understatement, and yet as I settled into my history and physical of the man, I noticed, as I often do, the warmth in his face, and in the face of his son. These are ordinary people, on an ordinary street, on an ordinary day in America. Dogs ran to greet me at the door, smells assaulted me. There was garbage, there was animal feces, and the man had what he referred to politely as, "sometimes I leak a little, ma'am. Sometimes I don't make it in time." "Yes sir. We're going to work on that," I shouted into his left ear, trying not to breathe too deeply, so I could keep going. "We're going to work on your strength, and speed, so you can." In a world that sometimes seems filled with unsolvable problems, this is one I can solve.
Wisdom will happen to you when you least expect it. It does not happen to me in church, or sitting at a cafe reading de Beauvoir, or walking through the woods, although I find peace in these places. Wisdom happens to me in the heat of a needy moment, and makes me want to believe in an attentive God. It taps me on the shoulder and turns my head around, before I make a mistake. Today, that nudge from within, that whisper in my ear: Ask this man to show you what he can do. "Sir, before I offer any suggestions, would you show me how you get from the wheelchair to the commode, and the commode to the bed?"
And in a maneuver with no less than a dozen distinct and precarious steps, he did, describing each move proudly. When he finished, his thick glasses were smudged, steamed with sweat, and sat crookedly on his head. "Hey, Superman," I said as I reached out and straightened them, as I so often do for my patients. He sat panting with effort, looking like a super hero, capable and proud.
His eyes were tiny behind the thick lenses and four crooked teeth beamed at me in an open-mouthed smile. "Well, sir! I'm mighty impressed, and I don't impress easily." He threw his head back and laughed. I reached out to shake his hand, and he clasped it and pulled me down so he could see me clearly. "When are you coming back?" "Next week," I said, and suddenly, I couldn't wait to get there. I know Clark Kent when I meet him, I thought, on an ordinary street, on an ordinary day in America.
To say his home was humble would be an understatement, and yet as I settled into my history and physical of the man, I noticed, as I often do, the warmth in his face, and in the face of his son. These are ordinary people, on an ordinary street, on an ordinary day in America. Dogs ran to greet me at the door, smells assaulted me. There was garbage, there was animal feces, and the man had what he referred to politely as, "sometimes I leak a little, ma'am. Sometimes I don't make it in time." "Yes sir. We're going to work on that," I shouted into his left ear, trying not to breathe too deeply, so I could keep going. "We're going to work on your strength, and speed, so you can." In a world that sometimes seems filled with unsolvable problems, this is one I can solve.
Wisdom will happen to you when you least expect it. It does not happen to me in church, or sitting at a cafe reading de Beauvoir, or walking through the woods, although I find peace in these places. Wisdom happens to me in the heat of a needy moment, and makes me want to believe in an attentive God. It taps me on the shoulder and turns my head around, before I make a mistake. Today, that nudge from within, that whisper in my ear: Ask this man to show you what he can do. "Sir, before I offer any suggestions, would you show me how you get from the wheelchair to the commode, and the commode to the bed?"
And in a maneuver with no less than a dozen distinct and precarious steps, he did, describing each move proudly. When he finished, his thick glasses were smudged, steamed with sweat, and sat crookedly on his head. "Hey, Superman," I said as I reached out and straightened them, as I so often do for my patients. He sat panting with effort, looking like a super hero, capable and proud.
His eyes were tiny behind the thick lenses and four crooked teeth beamed at me in an open-mouthed smile. "Well, sir! I'm mighty impressed, and I don't impress easily." He threw his head back and laughed. I reached out to shake his hand, and he clasped it and pulled me down so he could see me clearly. "When are you coming back?" "Next week," I said, and suddenly, I couldn't wait to get there. I know Clark Kent when I meet him, I thought, on an ordinary street, on an ordinary day in America.
Friday, September 9, 2011
Hello, is this thing on?
This is my very first test post from the road. Or, from the airitport lounge on the way to the sky. If this works it will open up new writing possibilities. For the approximately five of you who are interested.
Monday, September 5, 2011
The Skill of Disappointing Others
The incense is sandalwood, the candles are pear, and I am once again contemplating the mind of Camille Paglia as I settle into my evening and try to make sense of my day and the cosmos. Today, frank conversations with families about rehabilitation potential, the sort of conversations no clinician really wants to have. Their lives are changing in big ways, and they want me to tell them it will all be okay, that it will be the same as it was before, and I can't. It won't be the same, but it WILL be okay, and I try to help them see that. I try to guide them as best as I can, with grace and tact, and help them see positive aspects of situations where they can only see the negative. I am an optimistic pragmatist, lighting candles against their darkness, one step ahead of them on the path. They keep their eyes on me and that candle, as I lead them into their dark and tell them not to be afraid. We grasp hands as we hurtle toward heaven.
At the end of the day, a good hard run through the cemetery in the pouring down rain makes me feel alive again. I connect with the earth by running her roads, splashing through her puddles, a run that is a swim and my dolphin-self is delighted because I don't have to choose between water and earth. A hot bath with sandalwood oil and a quote I love from Paglia (1992, in Sex, Art and American Culture, from her work Sexual Personae: Art and Decadence from Nefertiti to Emily Dickinson), worthy in my mind of preserving here, because it rings so true for me:
"Jung says every man has a repressed female self, the anima, and every woman a repressed male self, the animus. In my case, it was the anima that took longer to emerge, for the animus was never repressed. I remember my fifth-grade teacher making me stay after school because of some shoving and wrangling, I was always fighting with boys to be first in line. Furious, she pushed a dictionary toward me and made me look up the word aggressive, which I did, hot tears of shame rolling down my cheeks. Colorful incidents abound, such as when, as a student shopping in Liggett's drugstore at Yale, I broke my umbrella over the head of a rash molester. From childhood to the present day, I have considered it my task to challenge, by word and deed the public standards for female behavior. Marooned in the conformist, domestic Fifties, I felt little connection with the boy-chasing girls of my time. Instead, I was galvanized by late-night movies from the Thirties and Forties which showed quite a different kind of woman, either bold and pioneering, like Katharine Hepburn in Woman of the Year, or elegant, sophisticated and sexual like Marlene Dietrich in Dishonored. Film became my door into a lost world. What I was glimpsing was the first phase of feminism, born from the push for the vote and then peaking in those rugged individualists, the brilliant career women of the prewar era, like Dorothy Parker..." pp. 110-111.
She had me at wrangling and shoving. While I don't agree with everything Paglia writes, I do agree with quite a bit of it, and I certainly relate to her experience of kicking against the barn door of convention. Her stories brought back my own memories of being sent to the principal's office in the fifth grade for leaping on a boy who was teasing me, wrestling him to the ground and sitting on his chest while I punched him mercilessly. Or the third grade, when I slammed my Miss America lunchbox down on the head of another neighborhood boy who would not leave me be at the bus stop. Or the age of three, when I stood up and whacked the neighbor boy over the head with my toy shovel. For some reason I find it comforting to find out that Paglia sports a similarly checkered history, and writes about it so eloquently.
At the end of the day, a good hard run through the cemetery in the pouring down rain makes me feel alive again. I connect with the earth by running her roads, splashing through her puddles, a run that is a swim and my dolphin-self is delighted because I don't have to choose between water and earth. A hot bath with sandalwood oil and a quote I love from Paglia (1992, in Sex, Art and American Culture, from her work Sexual Personae: Art and Decadence from Nefertiti to Emily Dickinson), worthy in my mind of preserving here, because it rings so true for me:
"Jung says every man has a repressed female self, the anima, and every woman a repressed male self, the animus. In my case, it was the anima that took longer to emerge, for the animus was never repressed. I remember my fifth-grade teacher making me stay after school because of some shoving and wrangling, I was always fighting with boys to be first in line. Furious, she pushed a dictionary toward me and made me look up the word aggressive, which I did, hot tears of shame rolling down my cheeks. Colorful incidents abound, such as when, as a student shopping in Liggett's drugstore at Yale, I broke my umbrella over the head of a rash molester. From childhood to the present day, I have considered it my task to challenge, by word and deed the public standards for female behavior. Marooned in the conformist, domestic Fifties, I felt little connection with the boy-chasing girls of my time. Instead, I was galvanized by late-night movies from the Thirties and Forties which showed quite a different kind of woman, either bold and pioneering, like Katharine Hepburn in Woman of the Year, or elegant, sophisticated and sexual like Marlene Dietrich in Dishonored. Film became my door into a lost world. What I was glimpsing was the first phase of feminism, born from the push for the vote and then peaking in those rugged individualists, the brilliant career women of the prewar era, like Dorothy Parker..." pp. 110-111.
She had me at wrangling and shoving. While I don't agree with everything Paglia writes, I do agree with quite a bit of it, and I certainly relate to her experience of kicking against the barn door of convention. Her stories brought back my own memories of being sent to the principal's office in the fifth grade for leaping on a boy who was teasing me, wrestling him to the ground and sitting on his chest while I punched him mercilessly. Or the third grade, when I slammed my Miss America lunchbox down on the head of another neighborhood boy who would not leave me be at the bus stop. Or the age of three, when I stood up and whacked the neighbor boy over the head with my toy shovel. For some reason I find it comforting to find out that Paglia sports a similarly checkered history, and writes about it so eloquently.
Saturday, September 3, 2011
A Glass of Wine, Camille Paglia, and Thou
The end of summer, and I sit on my deck in the heavy Georgia heat with a glass of Cabernet Sauvignon and a copy of Camille Paglia's essays on "Sex, Art and American Culture." It is Labor Day weekend, and I am celebrating the end of summer. Tomorrow I will be swimming and feasting and toasting with friends by the lake, but tonight I savor the end of a season and dig deep into Paglia's essays.
The trees are the rich, deep green of early September, a few early leaves have begun to fall. My early morning runs are pleasant, and while evening runs are still hot, my core body temperature remains at a manageable level and recovery is swift again. This summer has passed in the blink of an eye, and I have had little time to enjoy the pleasures of summer I usually indulge. Last summer marked the end of my doctoral program, and while it was busy and stressful, it was more flexible than this summer has been. I spent a wonderful eight weeks in Florida, working at a fantastic hospital, being adopted as a temporary local in a great neighborhood, taking salsa classes, running along the waterfront, even joining a wine club. I feasted on tuna steaks and fruit, wrote interesting and worthwhile research papers, took off down A1A whenever the spirit moved me. By day I helped kids walk again, at night I explored new places, music, people. It was heaven, and I knew I was in it.
This summer, the dailiness of a full-time plus caseload has made the summer go by faster than any summer I can remember. As I am sitting on my deck tonight I hear my neighbor moving about on his deck, and smell the pleasant smell of his cigar. I suddenly remember it has been ages since I brought my guitar outside to play and sing, lighting candles and working up new songs and pretending no one hears me. For years now, I have brought my guitar outside to play on hot summer nights, and on most I would hear my neighbor raise his window very slowly, open his french doors, and settle his dog. At first disconcerting, as I do not sing in front of anyone but fireflies, I gradually got used to his presence through the smell of his cigar, and my playing picked up again. It was a sort of gentleman's agreement, I think. I never acknowledged his presence, and he never closed his windows.
The end of summer, and I realize how few of summer's pleasures I have indulged this year. It's time to wipe off my guitar, and bring it outside again. I know the fireflies will appreciate a tune or two, and unless I am completely mistaken, so will my neighbor.
The trees are the rich, deep green of early September, a few early leaves have begun to fall. My early morning runs are pleasant, and while evening runs are still hot, my core body temperature remains at a manageable level and recovery is swift again. This summer has passed in the blink of an eye, and I have had little time to enjoy the pleasures of summer I usually indulge. Last summer marked the end of my doctoral program, and while it was busy and stressful, it was more flexible than this summer has been. I spent a wonderful eight weeks in Florida, working at a fantastic hospital, being adopted as a temporary local in a great neighborhood, taking salsa classes, running along the waterfront, even joining a wine club. I feasted on tuna steaks and fruit, wrote interesting and worthwhile research papers, took off down A1A whenever the spirit moved me. By day I helped kids walk again, at night I explored new places, music, people. It was heaven, and I knew I was in it.
This summer, the dailiness of a full-time plus caseload has made the summer go by faster than any summer I can remember. As I am sitting on my deck tonight I hear my neighbor moving about on his deck, and smell the pleasant smell of his cigar. I suddenly remember it has been ages since I brought my guitar outside to play and sing, lighting candles and working up new songs and pretending no one hears me. For years now, I have brought my guitar outside to play on hot summer nights, and on most I would hear my neighbor raise his window very slowly, open his french doors, and settle his dog. At first disconcerting, as I do not sing in front of anyone but fireflies, I gradually got used to his presence through the smell of his cigar, and my playing picked up again. It was a sort of gentleman's agreement, I think. I never acknowledged his presence, and he never closed his windows.
The end of summer, and I realize how few of summer's pleasures I have indulged this year. It's time to wipe off my guitar, and bring it outside again. I know the fireflies will appreciate a tune or two, and unless I am completely mistaken, so will my neighbor.
Thursday, September 1, 2011
The Trouble With Art Museums (2002)
THE TROUBLE WITH ART MUSEUMS (short fiction, 2002)
Marie opened the box she had brought with her from home. The corrugated tan box was soft, frayed at the edges, almost paper-like in some spots. She had used this box to move her belongings from desk to desk, office to office, life to life, for over twelve years. She had used the same box on her move from Great Falls to Helena, from Helena to Austin, and now from Austin to Marietta, Georgia. Each time, she had carefully wrapped her picture frames, small crystal vase, silver potpourri bowl and matching desk accessories (a gift from her Aunt Violet, God rest her soul) in newsprint and secured them for the journey to the new city. The box was filled with newspapers from every city in which she had lived.
She carefully unwrapped her personal items and arranged them on the large, empty, putty-colored metal desk. From the bottom of the box, the last item she took out was the first item she had put in when she had packed her box in Austin. The item was a new wall calendar, full of pictures of great works of art, from the Museum of Art in Boston. Boston! Marie had never been to Boston, but it sounded like a wonderful place. Her supervisor at MacroTech in Austin had given her this calendar as a parting gift. Marie sighed, remembering Constance, Connie, a friend as well as a supervisor. Marie remembered the many lunchtime walks she and Connie had taken through the office park, a rather non-descript place that was brightened by Connie's description of the wonderful museums in her home town. Connie had brought the art alive, talking about the artists and their lives, often bringing a book about a particular movement to share with Marie. She would miss Connie, but Marie had promised that she would not stop thinking about art, that she would continue to explore museums and read some books about her favorite artists. Maybe she would even take up painting herself. Why not? There were so many things in life to enjoy, to try.
Marie tacked the calendar to the putty colored wall at the left of her desk, flipping it open to January. The painting for the month was "Starry Night" by Van Gogh. Van Gogh's works made Marie's heart race, she could feel the tension in the swirling, whirling paint, the intense colors. She always though that Van Gogh must have been the most intensely unhappy and intensely happy person who had ever lived. To create such beautiful paintings, so alive, so breathtaking! What a great gift. Marie wondered if she could ever create something that beautiful. It might be enough, she often thought, just to try.
Marie looked about the cavernous room, filled with putty-colored desks, and putty-colored chairs. Putty on the walls, putty on the chairs, putty, putty everywhere, she thought. The room reminded her of a pumpkin patch filled with the Lumina white pumpkins her grandmother used to grow. The clock at the front of the room shone on the desks like a large, storybook moon, lighting them up, casting shadows on the uniform emptiness. Not a scrap of color. How could a room like this exist? Marie's desk, by comparison, was already a riot of color. The calendar drew the eye like a beautiful jewel, the colors of the Van Gogh, though only a small print, looked like a spray of sapphires on the wall.
Seven forty-five. Everyone would be arriving soon. There were so many people to meet on the first day of a new job. Marie smiled as she imagined her new co-workers gathering around her desk, bright-eyed and friendly, perhaps noticing her calendar and, discerning her interest in art, striking up an intense conversation and inviting her to join them for lunch. Perhaps in this office people even went out for happy hour! Marie wriggled in anticipation, feeling the carefully pressed creases of her new red suit. Oh, this was going to be fine! A new city, a new job, and soon, new friends! She touched the calendar, rubbing it excitedly like a talisman.
"Good morning!" She called out a cheery greeting to the man who had just entered the room. The man stood at the coat rack just inside the door. He took off his tan overcoat, exposing a grey suit underneath. He looked around, saw Marie, and lifted his chin in greeting. Once free of the overcoat, he picked up his briefcase and walked down the center aisle, looking neither left nor right. Marie readied herself for conversation. "My name is Marie Beckwith." She beamed a genuine smile in the stranger's direction.
The man stopped at one of the desks and put down his briefcase. He checked his breast pocket for eyeglasses. "Well. I'm Harold Smythe." He reached over and turned on his computer, staring at the blank screen, absently jiggling the mouse. Then, he pulled out his putty chair, sat down and began to point and click. As Marie stood by her desk, lips parted slightly and eyebrows raised in anticipation, she started when Harold looked up from his computer screen. He looked at her (rather, at her red suit) and then at the calendar. Then he looked back at his computer screen.
Marie took the opportunity. "Do you like Van Gogh?" Good! Good opener! Everybody likes Van Gogh. Really, what wasn't to like? Van Gogh was known, safe enough, unlike Salvador Dali whom nobody really understood or a contemporary political artist who might be inflammatory. Everybody had seen this picture, it was a good thing to get started on. She smiled brightly as she leaned casually against the edge of her desk. The metal edge felt uncomfortable on her thigh.
"Who? Oh. I don't have much time for that arty stuff." He directed his gaze back to his computer screen. And that was it for Harold Smythe.
Marie looked out the window. Well, I guess he's just busy, she thought. Most people don't mean to be rude, she reminded herself. Besides, people were starting to stream in the door. A few more men, mostly women, young, old, thin, heavy, carrying all manner of bags, lunches, newspapers. They were boisterous as they stood by the coat rack, hanging their tan, brown, or putty overcoats on misshapen wire hangers. A plump woman sang out "One, two, three, there ya be!" A burst of laughter issued from the knot of women. One of the men chimed in with "Oh you women! Any little thing sets you off!" Hearty laughter all around. Marie noticed that she was nodding her head and smiling in a very determined way, trying to discern what was clever about the conversation. There must be something funny, or they wouldn't be laughing. I'm just new, she thought, they are just repeating punch lines to funny old stories. After I've been here a while, I'll laugh too.
The group turned an about face like a well-trained core of cadets at a military training academy. They proceeded forward as a unit, eyes front. They stopped when they saw the red suit coming toward them. "Good morning! I'm Marie Beckwith, new account representative." Marie extended her hand and smile warmly.
The plump woman in the front spoke for the group. "Well. Marie. I'm Lois. I'm sure you'll like it here at Taylor, Tate and Vaughan." Marie stood there with her hand extended and her eyebrows raised for a few more moments as she waited for the woman, or anyone, to shake her hand. No one did, although they did all smile putty-colored smiles at her. "My goodness," Lois spoke for the group. "What a bright red suit." The group dispersed to their desks, leaving Marie standing alone in the center of the room. Computers clicked on, proceeded through their series of beeps, and the second hand on the moon clock inched forward another notch.
Marie used the time she expected to spend getting acquainted with her coworkers to familiarize herself with the accounts that had been assigned to her. Periodically, she looked up from the pile of manila folders and studied the people in the room. Across the aisle sat a moon-faced girl with small eyes. The name plate on her desk said Betsy Morrisey. Betsy Morrisey. Betsy Morrisey. Marie said the name over and over to herself under her breath. This had been a habit of hers since she was a little girl and had sat alone in the back of the car on long car trips with her parents. The moon-faced girl turned and looked at her.
"Are you saying my name?" she asked dully, as if she were speaking from very far away, from the very surface of the moon. Her lips were flat, spreading out like the Sea of Tranquility in the middle of her face. Marie watched the lips move. She wanted the girl to say something else so she could watch her lips form the words. Marie realized the girl was waiting for an answer.
"Saying your name? Well, I guess I was. Please forgive me. I noticed your name rhymed, and I like to play with words. Words are funny, aren't they?I mean one word just leads right into the next and pretty soon you have poetry. Why, I read somewhere that most poets get started in the poetry business just because they like to play with words. I just love words. I really do. Say, who do you prefer, Robert Frost or Emily Dickinson?" Marie waited expectantly for a reply. None arrived. Betsy looked at Marie as children who have never had to move always look at the new kid on the first day of school, disdainfully, blissfully unaware and uninterested. Marie smiled weakly. Betsy turned back to her computer screen.
I guess I won't be having lunch with Betsy, Marie chuckled to herself. She called her account contacts and made an appointment for get-acquainted visits throughout the week. Noon arrived and a few people brought out lunches from home. Smells of egg salad and tuna wafted around the room, mingling with new carpet smell and an undercurrent of Calvin Klein's Obsession. There's always one woman who wears too much Obsession, Marie thought. She leaned around her cubicle wall and knocked playfully on the file cabinet of the man behind her. "Hi there!" She looked at his name plate. "Ronnie. Is there any place good to go for lunch here? I'm starving. First-day on the job, you know, nervous-hungries."
"Lunch? Never eat it myself." The man patted his stomach and cocked his head in the manner of a former marine who is about to tell you what is wrong with Amurrica today. "But if you go in for that sort of thing, you got your choice around here. Yessir, the Thorson Family Barbecue is about two blocks down Front Street, and the Jones Brothers Southern Style is around the corner on Water Street. Both good places. The man gave Marie a big smile. She noticed he had a thick neck and a moon-face similar to Betsy's.
A moon-faced man behind me, and a moon-faced woman to my right. I have two moons orbiting me. Just like Mars! Marie suddenly felt rather wicked inside her red suit inside her putty-colored cubicle. "I was sort of hoping for someplace with a salad bar. Is there someplace where people usually go?"
"You girls! Always watching your figure! Well I guess if you don't watch it, none of us fellas will either, am I right?" He chuckled. Marie's eyebrows knitted into a quizzical look in spite of her determination to get along with each and every one on this, her very first day. Every time it happened, she was dumbfounded when someone called grown women "girls." Still, he was the only person who had shown any signs of being friendly. She decided to ignore it and move on. "I don't know of any place with a salad bar, ma'am. About half the folks here bring their lunch. I don't rightly know what the others do."
"It's too bad there isn't an art museum nearby. In Austin, my colleagues and I used to bring lunches from home and go to the art museum grounds. Sometimes a band would play. Then we would stroll in the museum for a little while."
The man held up his hands in the "whoa" position. "The trouble with those art museums is that they've got no Christian values. I mean, the nudity is one thing, that's okay I guess if it's tasteful and all. But some of these artists, like that Mapletree fella, they got no common decency. I can't take my kids to see something like that."
Marie gave a non-commital nod. She didn't really care for "that Mapletree fella" either, not her taste. But she was troubled by something else in the man's tone. He, along with Harold Smythe and Betsy Morrisey, seemed determined not to like art. They acted as if purple howling dogs would show up on their front stoop at the stroke of midnight if they gave into creative, or any other, desire. Marie glanced at the clock. Noon. She gathered her thoughts, her things, and left.
That afternoon, her pre-order of office supplies arrived. When Rita, the unit secretary, brought the box back to Marie's desk, she lingered, making small talk and looking enviously at each brightly colored item Marie pulled out of the box. "Gee, I've never seen anyone use folders in those bright colors before. I didn't know folders came in purple and yellow. Ooh! Look! Red, too! What are you going to use the red ones for? Everybody in this office orders green." Rita's whole face was lit up. It was the most curiosity Marie had seen on any face in the office.
"Color adds life. I'll color code my clients, red for restaurants, yellow for wholesale food distributors. You should order some colored folders too, Rita. I think things could use a little more color around here." Marie was feeling expansive, almost giddy. She grinned at Rita, whose bright but blank face reminded her of a bolt of cotton calico, full of the promise of what it might become under the right artistic hand.
"I think I will. Wow, you know, I've looked at the pink folders a dozen times. I've just never had the guts to buy them. They cost extra, you know." Rita was hesitating. Spending extra money on something just because it was beautiful seemed not only frivolous, something her mother had discouraged, but downright unpatriotic and probably un-Christian. She looked pleadingly at Marie.
"Rita, I think that if you are surrounded by beautiful, artistic things you will be more productive. As a matter of fact, I think we should hang some prints or photographs in this office. Good for morale, and good for business. I'd be happy to pick them out."
"Do you think? I have a catalog...at least, I think I still have it, I may have thrown it away. It's full of prints and things for offices." Rita giggled, the promise of adventured seemed to well up in her, gurgling to the surface and splashing over. "Oh my goodness! Oh my GOODNESS!" She walked away from Marie's desk toward her own putty expanse at the front of the office. She continued shaking her head and waving her hand in the air as if she were at that very moment testifying at a church revival.
After 20 minutes of rooting around at the bottom of all six of her desk drawers, Rita pulled out a faded, creased catalog of Fine Art Prints Suitable for Today's Office Environment. On the front of the catalog, a politically-correct crowd gathered in admiration around Monet's Irises. Rita beamed and held the catalog up so Marie could share in her victory. Inspired for perhaps the first time in her work, Rita brought the catalog right back to Marie. She was panting with excitement. "Okay. Pick. I'm ready." Rita licked the tip of her pencil and held her notepad aloft...
(Part 2 to follow in next entry)
Marie opened the box she had brought with her from home. The corrugated tan box was soft, frayed at the edges, almost paper-like in some spots. She had used this box to move her belongings from desk to desk, office to office, life to life, for over twelve years. She had used the same box on her move from Great Falls to Helena, from Helena to Austin, and now from Austin to Marietta, Georgia. Each time, she had carefully wrapped her picture frames, small crystal vase, silver potpourri bowl and matching desk accessories (a gift from her Aunt Violet, God rest her soul) in newsprint and secured them for the journey to the new city. The box was filled with newspapers from every city in which she had lived.
She carefully unwrapped her personal items and arranged them on the large, empty, putty-colored metal desk. From the bottom of the box, the last item she took out was the first item she had put in when she had packed her box in Austin. The item was a new wall calendar, full of pictures of great works of art, from the Museum of Art in Boston. Boston! Marie had never been to Boston, but it sounded like a wonderful place. Her supervisor at MacroTech in Austin had given her this calendar as a parting gift. Marie sighed, remembering Constance, Connie, a friend as well as a supervisor. Marie remembered the many lunchtime walks she and Connie had taken through the office park, a rather non-descript place that was brightened by Connie's description of the wonderful museums in her home town. Connie had brought the art alive, talking about the artists and their lives, often bringing a book about a particular movement to share with Marie. She would miss Connie, but Marie had promised that she would not stop thinking about art, that she would continue to explore museums and read some books about her favorite artists. Maybe she would even take up painting herself. Why not? There were so many things in life to enjoy, to try.
Marie tacked the calendar to the putty colored wall at the left of her desk, flipping it open to January. The painting for the month was "Starry Night" by Van Gogh. Van Gogh's works made Marie's heart race, she could feel the tension in the swirling, whirling paint, the intense colors. She always though that Van Gogh must have been the most intensely unhappy and intensely happy person who had ever lived. To create such beautiful paintings, so alive, so breathtaking! What a great gift. Marie wondered if she could ever create something that beautiful. It might be enough, she often thought, just to try.
Marie looked about the cavernous room, filled with putty-colored desks, and putty-colored chairs. Putty on the walls, putty on the chairs, putty, putty everywhere, she thought. The room reminded her of a pumpkin patch filled with the Lumina white pumpkins her grandmother used to grow. The clock at the front of the room shone on the desks like a large, storybook moon, lighting them up, casting shadows on the uniform emptiness. Not a scrap of color. How could a room like this exist? Marie's desk, by comparison, was already a riot of color. The calendar drew the eye like a beautiful jewel, the colors of the Van Gogh, though only a small print, looked like a spray of sapphires on the wall.
Seven forty-five. Everyone would be arriving soon. There were so many people to meet on the first day of a new job. Marie smiled as she imagined her new co-workers gathering around her desk, bright-eyed and friendly, perhaps noticing her calendar and, discerning her interest in art, striking up an intense conversation and inviting her to join them for lunch. Perhaps in this office people even went out for happy hour! Marie wriggled in anticipation, feeling the carefully pressed creases of her new red suit. Oh, this was going to be fine! A new city, a new job, and soon, new friends! She touched the calendar, rubbing it excitedly like a talisman.
"Good morning!" She called out a cheery greeting to the man who had just entered the room. The man stood at the coat rack just inside the door. He took off his tan overcoat, exposing a grey suit underneath. He looked around, saw Marie, and lifted his chin in greeting. Once free of the overcoat, he picked up his briefcase and walked down the center aisle, looking neither left nor right. Marie readied herself for conversation. "My name is Marie Beckwith." She beamed a genuine smile in the stranger's direction.
The man stopped at one of the desks and put down his briefcase. He checked his breast pocket for eyeglasses. "Well. I'm Harold Smythe." He reached over and turned on his computer, staring at the blank screen, absently jiggling the mouse. Then, he pulled out his putty chair, sat down and began to point and click. As Marie stood by her desk, lips parted slightly and eyebrows raised in anticipation, she started when Harold looked up from his computer screen. He looked at her (rather, at her red suit) and then at the calendar. Then he looked back at his computer screen.
Marie took the opportunity. "Do you like Van Gogh?" Good! Good opener! Everybody likes Van Gogh. Really, what wasn't to like? Van Gogh was known, safe enough, unlike Salvador Dali whom nobody really understood or a contemporary political artist who might be inflammatory. Everybody had seen this picture, it was a good thing to get started on. She smiled brightly as she leaned casually against the edge of her desk. The metal edge felt uncomfortable on her thigh.
"Who? Oh. I don't have much time for that arty stuff." He directed his gaze back to his computer screen. And that was it for Harold Smythe.
Marie looked out the window. Well, I guess he's just busy, she thought. Most people don't mean to be rude, she reminded herself. Besides, people were starting to stream in the door. A few more men, mostly women, young, old, thin, heavy, carrying all manner of bags, lunches, newspapers. They were boisterous as they stood by the coat rack, hanging their tan, brown, or putty overcoats on misshapen wire hangers. A plump woman sang out "One, two, three, there ya be!" A burst of laughter issued from the knot of women. One of the men chimed in with "Oh you women! Any little thing sets you off!" Hearty laughter all around. Marie noticed that she was nodding her head and smiling in a very determined way, trying to discern what was clever about the conversation. There must be something funny, or they wouldn't be laughing. I'm just new, she thought, they are just repeating punch lines to funny old stories. After I've been here a while, I'll laugh too.
The group turned an about face like a well-trained core of cadets at a military training academy. They proceeded forward as a unit, eyes front. They stopped when they saw the red suit coming toward them. "Good morning! I'm Marie Beckwith, new account representative." Marie extended her hand and smile warmly.
The plump woman in the front spoke for the group. "Well. Marie. I'm Lois. I'm sure you'll like it here at Taylor, Tate and Vaughan." Marie stood there with her hand extended and her eyebrows raised for a few more moments as she waited for the woman, or anyone, to shake her hand. No one did, although they did all smile putty-colored smiles at her. "My goodness," Lois spoke for the group. "What a bright red suit." The group dispersed to their desks, leaving Marie standing alone in the center of the room. Computers clicked on, proceeded through their series of beeps, and the second hand on the moon clock inched forward another notch.
Marie used the time she expected to spend getting acquainted with her coworkers to familiarize herself with the accounts that had been assigned to her. Periodically, she looked up from the pile of manila folders and studied the people in the room. Across the aisle sat a moon-faced girl with small eyes. The name plate on her desk said Betsy Morrisey. Betsy Morrisey. Betsy Morrisey. Marie said the name over and over to herself under her breath. This had been a habit of hers since she was a little girl and had sat alone in the back of the car on long car trips with her parents. The moon-faced girl turned and looked at her.
"Are you saying my name?" she asked dully, as if she were speaking from very far away, from the very surface of the moon. Her lips were flat, spreading out like the Sea of Tranquility in the middle of her face. Marie watched the lips move. She wanted the girl to say something else so she could watch her lips form the words. Marie realized the girl was waiting for an answer.
"Saying your name? Well, I guess I was. Please forgive me. I noticed your name rhymed, and I like to play with words. Words are funny, aren't they?I mean one word just leads right into the next and pretty soon you have poetry. Why, I read somewhere that most poets get started in the poetry business just because they like to play with words. I just love words. I really do. Say, who do you prefer, Robert Frost or Emily Dickinson?" Marie waited expectantly for a reply. None arrived. Betsy looked at Marie as children who have never had to move always look at the new kid on the first day of school, disdainfully, blissfully unaware and uninterested. Marie smiled weakly. Betsy turned back to her computer screen.
I guess I won't be having lunch with Betsy, Marie chuckled to herself. She called her account contacts and made an appointment for get-acquainted visits throughout the week. Noon arrived and a few people brought out lunches from home. Smells of egg salad and tuna wafted around the room, mingling with new carpet smell and an undercurrent of Calvin Klein's Obsession. There's always one woman who wears too much Obsession, Marie thought. She leaned around her cubicle wall and knocked playfully on the file cabinet of the man behind her. "Hi there!" She looked at his name plate. "Ronnie. Is there any place good to go for lunch here? I'm starving. First-day on the job, you know, nervous-hungries."
"Lunch? Never eat it myself." The man patted his stomach and cocked his head in the manner of a former marine who is about to tell you what is wrong with Amurrica today. "But if you go in for that sort of thing, you got your choice around here. Yessir, the Thorson Family Barbecue is about two blocks down Front Street, and the Jones Brothers Southern Style is around the corner on Water Street. Both good places. The man gave Marie a big smile. She noticed he had a thick neck and a moon-face similar to Betsy's.
A moon-faced man behind me, and a moon-faced woman to my right. I have two moons orbiting me. Just like Mars! Marie suddenly felt rather wicked inside her red suit inside her putty-colored cubicle. "I was sort of hoping for someplace with a salad bar. Is there someplace where people usually go?"
"You girls! Always watching your figure! Well I guess if you don't watch it, none of us fellas will either, am I right?" He chuckled. Marie's eyebrows knitted into a quizzical look in spite of her determination to get along with each and every one on this, her very first day. Every time it happened, she was dumbfounded when someone called grown women "girls." Still, he was the only person who had shown any signs of being friendly. She decided to ignore it and move on. "I don't know of any place with a salad bar, ma'am. About half the folks here bring their lunch. I don't rightly know what the others do."
"It's too bad there isn't an art museum nearby. In Austin, my colleagues and I used to bring lunches from home and go to the art museum grounds. Sometimes a band would play. Then we would stroll in the museum for a little while."
The man held up his hands in the "whoa" position. "The trouble with those art museums is that they've got no Christian values. I mean, the nudity is one thing, that's okay I guess if it's tasteful and all. But some of these artists, like that Mapletree fella, they got no common decency. I can't take my kids to see something like that."
Marie gave a non-commital nod. She didn't really care for "that Mapletree fella" either, not her taste. But she was troubled by something else in the man's tone. He, along with Harold Smythe and Betsy Morrisey, seemed determined not to like art. They acted as if purple howling dogs would show up on their front stoop at the stroke of midnight if they gave into creative, or any other, desire. Marie glanced at the clock. Noon. She gathered her thoughts, her things, and left.
That afternoon, her pre-order of office supplies arrived. When Rita, the unit secretary, brought the box back to Marie's desk, she lingered, making small talk and looking enviously at each brightly colored item Marie pulled out of the box. "Gee, I've never seen anyone use folders in those bright colors before. I didn't know folders came in purple and yellow. Ooh! Look! Red, too! What are you going to use the red ones for? Everybody in this office orders green." Rita's whole face was lit up. It was the most curiosity Marie had seen on any face in the office.
"Color adds life. I'll color code my clients, red for restaurants, yellow for wholesale food distributors. You should order some colored folders too, Rita. I think things could use a little more color around here." Marie was feeling expansive, almost giddy. She grinned at Rita, whose bright but blank face reminded her of a bolt of cotton calico, full of the promise of what it might become under the right artistic hand.
"I think I will. Wow, you know, I've looked at the pink folders a dozen times. I've just never had the guts to buy them. They cost extra, you know." Rita was hesitating. Spending extra money on something just because it was beautiful seemed not only frivolous, something her mother had discouraged, but downright unpatriotic and probably un-Christian. She looked pleadingly at Marie.
"Rita, I think that if you are surrounded by beautiful, artistic things you will be more productive. As a matter of fact, I think we should hang some prints or photographs in this office. Good for morale, and good for business. I'd be happy to pick them out."
"Do you think? I have a catalog...at least, I think I still have it, I may have thrown it away. It's full of prints and things for offices." Rita giggled, the promise of adventured seemed to well up in her, gurgling to the surface and splashing over. "Oh my goodness! Oh my GOODNESS!" She walked away from Marie's desk toward her own putty expanse at the front of the office. She continued shaking her head and waving her hand in the air as if she were at that very moment testifying at a church revival.
After 20 minutes of rooting around at the bottom of all six of her desk drawers, Rita pulled out a faded, creased catalog of Fine Art Prints Suitable for Today's Office Environment. On the front of the catalog, a politically-correct crowd gathered in admiration around Monet's Irises. Rita beamed and held the catalog up so Marie could share in her victory. Inspired for perhaps the first time in her work, Rita brought the catalog right back to Marie. She was panting with excitement. "Okay. Pick. I'm ready." Rita licked the tip of her pencil and held her notepad aloft...
(Part 2 to follow in next entry)
Return of "Bad Poetry Never Dies"
Written after watching an episode of Unsolved Mysteries, circa 2001. It was very cold that day.
GARRETT'S COVE IN WINTER
The cold dawn, the cold night
Chilly laughs of nervous fright
Emotionless knowing, glacial stare
The cold-shouldered newcomer, who spoke unaware.
Frigid morning, shaking sleep
Frozen feet stamp off the deep.
Long night full of shivering fits
The second hand sweater, all she could get
Dead ashes of a fire she could not restart
In a brutally cold, judgmental heart
Unaffected usualness, chanted intonations
The cold shoulder he gave to her self-revelation.
Woman-half-girl, too young to see
How love grows cold, or will never be
Long hard stares from an angry man
Neighbors don't help, unsure if they can
Deep down they know, but refuse to see
Cold fears they carry, "That might have been me."
Icy ground, icy air
Accusatory husband with a stony blank stare
Followed by outbursts, shouts without thought
Sinking realization: It was all for naught.
Hard won forgiveness, stingily given
The cold, dingy corner into which she was driven.
Broken-nailed fintertips scrunched into her palm
Callous executioner, performing with calm
A cold report, oh yes, the neighbors heard
They heard too, the car, pull away from the curb
Into the January snows, that wintry day
A lover-turned-killer, who just sped away.
Lonely mist, the sleet begins to fall, when
A midnight phone call! Upsetting us all
Bare feet hit the hard wood of the floor
Her echoing laughter will ring no more.
One wintry day we laid her to rest,
Shame filled our mouth, "How could we have guessed?"
The silvery cold room where the murder took place
Wrinkled worry-fright on a small child's face
Pennies forgotten laid out on the track
He ran out of his childhood, and he's never been back
He looks into steamed windows, feeling always alone
Fifty years later, a little boy grown.
Numb waves of confusion, his eyes focus afar
The breeze stirs his heart, a door left ajar
Tinsel tracks of late autumn dew
A shiver acknowledges all he's been through.
Grey stones, his seat by the sea
Silent, impassive, wondering what this day will be.
The slow gray coldness of a lonely man's hands,
The blue regret he feels as he looks out on his land.
The chilly call of geese as they fly overhead
Reeds in the mist, the season now dead.
Years flew by, how no one knows
"It's just how things are."
"It's just how life goes."
Snowflakes that fall in the lost midnight
Drifts on the ground in the frigid moonlight
The blue black emptiness of each winter's eve,
He shivers and trembles and wants to believe
That God is here, that She is here
Above him, around him, that voice in his ear
That wakes him hello, and soothes him down deep,
That comforts him, lulls him, and loves him to sleep.
GARRETT'S COVE IN WINTER
The cold dawn, the cold night
Chilly laughs of nervous fright
Emotionless knowing, glacial stare
The cold-shouldered newcomer, who spoke unaware.
Frigid morning, shaking sleep
Frozen feet stamp off the deep.
Long night full of shivering fits
The second hand sweater, all she could get
Dead ashes of a fire she could not restart
In a brutally cold, judgmental heart
Unaffected usualness, chanted intonations
The cold shoulder he gave to her self-revelation.
Woman-half-girl, too young to see
How love grows cold, or will never be
Long hard stares from an angry man
Neighbors don't help, unsure if they can
Deep down they know, but refuse to see
Cold fears they carry, "That might have been me."
Icy ground, icy air
Accusatory husband with a stony blank stare
Followed by outbursts, shouts without thought
Sinking realization: It was all for naught.
Hard won forgiveness, stingily given
The cold, dingy corner into which she was driven.
Broken-nailed fintertips scrunched into her palm
Callous executioner, performing with calm
A cold report, oh yes, the neighbors heard
They heard too, the car, pull away from the curb
Into the January snows, that wintry day
A lover-turned-killer, who just sped away.
Lonely mist, the sleet begins to fall, when
A midnight phone call! Upsetting us all
Bare feet hit the hard wood of the floor
Her echoing laughter will ring no more.
One wintry day we laid her to rest,
Shame filled our mouth, "How could we have guessed?"
The silvery cold room where the murder took place
Wrinkled worry-fright on a small child's face
Pennies forgotten laid out on the track
He ran out of his childhood, and he's never been back
He looks into steamed windows, feeling always alone
Fifty years later, a little boy grown.
Numb waves of confusion, his eyes focus afar
The breeze stirs his heart, a door left ajar
Tinsel tracks of late autumn dew
A shiver acknowledges all he's been through.
Grey stones, his seat by the sea
Silent, impassive, wondering what this day will be.
The slow gray coldness of a lonely man's hands,
The blue regret he feels as he looks out on his land.
The chilly call of geese as they fly overhead
Reeds in the mist, the season now dead.
Years flew by, how no one knows
"It's just how things are."
"It's just how life goes."
Snowflakes that fall in the lost midnight
Drifts on the ground in the frigid moonlight
The blue black emptiness of each winter's eve,
He shivers and trembles and wants to believe
That God is here, that She is here
Above him, around him, that voice in his ear
That wakes him hello, and soothes him down deep,
That comforts him, lulls him, and loves him to sleep.
Bad Poetry Never Dies
Looking back over files of Very Bad Poetry Written While In A Funk. This, from 2002:
FADE TO HAPPY (2002)
I've often thought lately
That maybe I'm not that bright, less than some.
A dangerous, self-defeating thought?
Perhaps an invitation to be content
An open door to understanding and acceptance.
A whisper to move into
A new thought space
One where I do not judge myself
In the same old ways.
One where I know myself to be valuable
Without an entry fee of IQ points
Without a dossier of Important Accomplishments
But a new party, where the other guests
Are more like myself.
Flawed, but curious, open, changing
Unwilling to be impressed by the old academic games
Or to judge everyone else by the same standard.
No need to shake them down
To make sure they are less
So that we are more.
An open field, where I can spin
Arms open, looking up at a clear blue sky
And all the limiting voices from outside, from inside,
Just fade away.
FADE TO HAPPY (2002)
I've often thought lately
That maybe I'm not that bright, less than some.
A dangerous, self-defeating thought?
Perhaps an invitation to be content
An open door to understanding and acceptance.
A whisper to move into
A new thought space
One where I do not judge myself
In the same old ways.
One where I know myself to be valuable
Without an entry fee of IQ points
Without a dossier of Important Accomplishments
But a new party, where the other guests
Are more like myself.
Flawed, but curious, open, changing
Unwilling to be impressed by the old academic games
Or to judge everyone else by the same standard.
No need to shake them down
To make sure they are less
So that we are more.
An open field, where I can spin
Arms open, looking up at a clear blue sky
And all the limiting voices from outside, from inside,
Just fade away.
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