Tuesday, December 28, 2010

Ushering out 365

I just saw my postings for December...a grand total of three. It's shameful. All that I can say is that Christmas ate me. Whole.

Glad that's over with, aren't you? I wish I were kidding, but I do look forward to the weeeee hours of December 26. That thought is usually the only thing that keeps me from losing my mind the week prior (I will not even mention last Christmas). Just sitting back mowing on leftovers, picking up stray bits of wrapping paper, smiling that you don't have to endure this sh*t show again until next year.

The lights are pretty, though. I always appreciate the lights.

So, everything is tucked neatly under the belt; Thanksgiving, Christmas, the first blizzard. But, I'm not out of the woods yet. New Year's Eve, which is usually the drunken denouement of the holidays, a night I look forward to because of its calming, celebratory role, has recently become something to fret over. And, of course, it is my own fault. I don't know how to say "no."

While you all are going skating, enjoying cheese plates, maybe even in your pajamas, I will be at a "private" party of god knows how many guests, dressed in a goddamn bustier and who knows what kind of make-up, reading poetry that I wrote in the darkest hours of my obsession and depression, while OTHER POETS WHOM I DEEPLY RESPECT wait their turn to read. Published, well-known Manhattanite people who, I am guessing, have never wiped baby puke off of their turtlenecks or scrounged in their car looking for enough change to buy a roll of toilet paper.

I can only take comfort in the knowledge that most people are afraid of street dogs. And even more afraid of funny women who carry pocket knives and giant cameras.

God help me.

Did I mention that Oprah's network will be filming the event?

I really feel a New Year's resolution coming on...

Monday, December 20, 2010

Lose or muse?

For several weeks now, I've been contemplating this movie that I picked up at the library. It's called "Venus" and I'm sure that whatever you're imagining is probably pretty close to accurate. The premise of the film is that Morris, an old (so old that his dentures barely fit in his sunken head anymore) actor becomes infatuated with his friend's grandniece who's about 19 years old, if a day. Of course, Morris calls her Venus.

It's trouble from the start. She is naturally repulsed by him, especially his rather forward advances...hell, I was repulsed at some of his little stunts and his graphic (albeit honest) language. It was difficult to reconcile the poetry that was coming out of his mouth when you were pretty sure he smelled like piss and death.

And she's 19 for Chrissake's.

Now that I've got my obligatory indignation out of the way; i.e. the predictable response, I feel that I need to defend Morris, or at least nod my head in acknowledgment of his motives.

The dude was near death. He found something that inspired him, and like any human beings who has seen the chronic underbelly of life, who wouldn't cling to the drugged effect of a muse?! Who cares if she's a 19-year-old country girl or a vintage Aston Martin?

Inspiration, sadly, can be a rare phenomenon. In fact, the older I get the further the distance between my "muses." I take them as they come, I don't question it, and I let go when it is time.

By the way, he never slept with her.

Tuesday, December 14, 2010

Hierarchy

Ever feel like it's a true miracle to even get out of bed in the morning? I'm not trying to romanticize it, don't get me wrong. I wake up most mornings with an expletive on my lips and very, very big black circles under my eyes.

And no, the supposed magic eye creme from Lancome doesn't even touch that nightmare. It just makes the black circles softer I guess. I take comfort in the fact that despite the clear markings of fatigue (although, aren't writers supposed to have those) I do have relatively few wrinkles...for now.

Yes, it is a miracle to find the audacity to emerge from the cocoon. It is painful, especially at this time of year when the cold has settled in your bones and the economy continues to spiral in a dangerous nose dive, taking all of us with it.

And yet...I have been to several countries and several regions, and the misery I see here is infused with a hopelessness that I have yet to see anywhere. Perhaps I haven't been to the right places, or to the ravaged places, I'm not sure.

I do know this, or, at least, I've figured it out: Where money is king you will find his queen, misery, close behind.

The pursuit of the dollar has almost ruined me, many times. I can feel it most powerfully around this time of year, a time when the little that I have is competing with the seeming abundance that the rest of the country is rolling in. I begin to want more, more stuff mostly, for my kids. More electronics, more game cartridges, a bigger T.V., a life that requires more batteries than imagination.

But more, I should know by now, has never really made me into more. It hasn't perfected my musical skills, it hasn't made my smile bigger, it hasn't found god for me, it hasn't helped me laugh my ass off at dinner parties with miscreant friends, it definitely hasn't made me a better lover or mother...

So, no more for me, thanks. Gotta keep reminding myself of the things that matter most, or at least a lot, to me; a good cup of coffee, raising kids with wit and common sense, a good proper lay, other people's struggles and the palette called earth.

Friday, December 3, 2010

What ever happened to patience? Really slow, mindful, good old-fashioned patience? Everybody's in such a goddamn hurry to get somewhere or buy something or meet some goal that the very art of languishing has been lost to instant gratification.

This, by the way, is not a lecture. It can't be, I myself am one of the most impatient, sentient beings I know.

Where was I (sorry, little distracted, the kids are watching Harry Potter and Lucian REALLY wants to know the owl's name)? Ah yes, languishing and patience. A long time ago, patience was, in fact, a virtue. Patient people commanded respect. They sat, they listened, they considered the words spoken, they were sure of themselves but not cocky...

Patience was sexy.

Now, it is a burden, a nuisance brought on by the slow-minded. A man who thinks things through is no longer coveted, he is left behind to face the cold alone. He is exiled from the pack for not electing to scurry around and prey on squirrels all day.

Yet, when the pack is running and panting after the insubstantial flesh of instant gratification the patient man, now the lonely man, waits, watches, considers and finally sets his sights on his prey and goes for the throat.

And feasts well at night.

I am learning the value of patience. It is rare to see a patient man, especially at my age when men (of the "me" generation) have little patience for even themselves. And you should see them with children. Asking questions is out of the question.

As I said, patience is sexy stuff. It has clear eyes and a steady voice and exquisite endurance.

I need more of that.