Outside in February’s cold, getting a breath of fresh air, I am grateful for the wool socks that keep my feet warm inside my slippers.
I hope he is still wearing the wool socks I bought him. His feet were always so cold. He wouldn’t have spent so much on socks before. Didn’t know the extra dollars could make him warm. So much love in a couple of socks. If she asked where he got them what would he say?
Another night, I blush with pride remembering- he once thought enough of me that he bought me this hat – a green wool cloche, at Everything Natural. Once, I took a picture of me with the dog, and I’m wearing it. I texted it to him.
I wonder why the day he bought the hat is so fuzzy. How do I know where the hat came from but the rest of that day is a blur? Living in the moment leads to forgetfulness. Always letting everything go … I hope I wrote about it in a journal somewhere. Give myself a smile if I find it someday. I was always more inclined to write about bad days, because I needed the writing on those days, to support. The good days, we think we’ll never forget. But we do.
He is in the process of forgetting me. I am afraid of becoming invisible.
I remove my wool socks as I climb into bed. Grateful for the day I loved myself enough to buy a weighted blanket. The closest simulation to the feeling of being held, I read in some article about coping with isolation during pandemic quarantine.
“Taste “I Make Funny Sounds Just Talking in Real Life…” We have for your listening pleasure Sunday at 11am est Episode 410 of “Troubadours and Raconteurs with E.W. Conundrum Demure” on WFTE Radio (www.wfte.org)
Episode 410 features a wonderful conversation with Playwright, Poet, Professor, Baker and Candlestickmaker – Kitty Belle Burbank.
Kitty Belle and I discuss Being Reliable, Puppets, Trudy & John, Algorithms, Fake Famous, Her Relationship Status, the Unpopular, Adam Curtis’ Documentary, Soul! and Ellis Haizlip, Voices, Feeling Connected, an Alternative to Facebook, Getting to Spring…
Episode 410 also includes an E.W. Essay titled “Oh, Man.” We share five poems by the late, great Lawrence Ferlinghetti. Our Associate Producer Dr. Michael Pavese reads three andI read two. We have an E.W. poem called “Note to An Administrator.”
Our music this go round is provided by these wonderful artists: Django Reinhardt, Stephane Grapelli, Tito Puente, Tom Waits, Fiona Apple, Thelonious Monk, Green Tea Peng, Bransford Marsalis and Terence Blanchard.
Commercial Free, Small Batch Radio Crafted in the West Mountains of Northeastern Pennsylvania… Heard All Over The World.”
*This program will also air on Radio Free Brooklyn. Archived link will be posted when available.
By some miracle, I opened up a script in progress I haven’t worked on since Dec. 2020 and turned out a couple of pages after my meditation/yoga today. FadeUp says I’m at 26 pages. I was initally inspired by digging into #MeToo gray area. The women who don’t want to talk about it. The ones who stay silent in order to succeed. I began with the urge to write a small cast comedy about an unfunny topic. The working title, “Pussy Grabs Back” was more unique when I first thought about it. Now I feel that joke has been made. By the time I am finished, the play may already be outdated. Or at least it feels that way. I can’t keep up.
But just for today … I was able to slip into the play for long enough to remember why I love writing plays most of all. I lost all sense of the real outside world for those moments when I was in the scene. In my characters’ heads, writing their words, imagining them walking around in space. What are they doing now? What are they really thinking/feeling in this moment? I don’t need to ask these questions. It is automatic. One moment, I was half-listening to the end of a podcast I played on purpose while I was working because I can’t focus when it is too quiet … when I came back out of the play, two guys I couldn’t place were discussing prime minsters of Turkey. What? When did that start? How did I not notice one podcast episode end and the next introduce itself.
There is such satisfaction in that immersion. In the getting lost in the creation … this is the goal. More time for that.
I love writing poetry because it allows for a sense of completion. My poetry doesn’t try that hard. It’s immediate; honestly just trying to remove the weight from my chest. It gives me something to share with people while my real work, plays they will never read, take years of my life to complete. I like that the poetry can mean something to people who aren’t poets, who aren’t academics or literary scholars. This matters more to me than for the work to be popular.
I’ve considered writing an essay titled “In Praise of the Unpopular.” I may still do it but considering that I’m here groaning about lack of time … I should prioritize.
I don’t mind working. I enjoy all three of my jobs but I always feel like I’m not doing well enough at any of them. And the worst feeling, the one that there’s not enough time in the day to work on my play scripts. I’ve been known to spend hours walking around the house avoiding the work I have to do because I can’t stand the thought of looking at the computer screen for another second.
I spend too much time alone thinking about how I’m working too hard to feel like I’m not making progress.
Unlike my students, I don’t want to be famous. I just want to be considered valuable enough to get one job that won’t kill me to replace the three that certainly will if I keep up this pace for too long. It’s just not smart to be too busy working at low-ish paying jobs to have time to write and market the words that will qualify me for a job that will leave me the time and sanity and head space to write. Follow that?
Unlike my students who often write about the fear of not being successful, I am not afraid. I consider myself successful enough. I raised two amazing independent girls mostly by myself. I went back to school for my MFA. I really do like the work I am doing right now. I have years enough left to write. But I do long for balance. I work hard enough that I deserve to save for retirement like other people. At my age, I shouldn’t be panicking because I don’t have a safety net. I am wise enough not to blame myself for this.
This today from a podcast interview between former surgeon general Dr. Vivek Murthy and social research scientist Dr. Brene Brown that came out last April – I finally got around to listening to it today. It’s still relevant. I’m still teaching and still feel compelled to do what I can for the collective youth and young adults whose lives I touch. -ag 2/21/21
“When I think about my children; when I think about collective children; when I think about what I worry about for the next generation, It’s actually this: I worry that we’re not setting our children up to believe in themselves, to recognize their true source of power and self-worth and we’re instead telling them that your value is conditional. It’s based on your ability to acquire a bunch of extra things, it’s based on circumstances. And if you can’t reach those, if you can’t “succeed,” that means you are less valued and that starts a downward spiral when it comes to loneliness. Because the less secure we feel in our worth, the less likely we are to believe that other people want to hang out with us, the more we start to retreat into our shell.
The insidious thing about loneliness that lasts for a long time is it also chips away at our self-esteem and you come to believe that maybe the reason you are lonely is you are not likeable or you are not loveable. …unless we make a conscious decision to shift something in our culture that tells us what self-worth is defined by then we will continue to lead people to a place where they don’t feel they are enough and that unfortunately is a recipe for loneliness.”
Dr. Vivek Murthy on Unlocking Us with Brene Brown, April 2020.
At least this year he doesn’t have to spend hours looking for a Valentine’s Day card that doesn’t say “I love you.”
Where you saw a red flag, I found a cushion. The words had been said to me before. And hadn’t I said my share too? More confession than promise or pledge. The syllables we remember barely resemble those said.
Just letters representing sounds, compounded into patterns struggling to give solid form to the phantoms and fumes that cling evasively to the seafloors of our souls – unspeakable things better left unspoken.
In the end, it was his action I read all wrong.
Mistaking caution for care, when over and again he said he didn’t want to hurt me. I misconstrued carnality for affection; pity for concern. I confused his trepidation with tenderness and his generosity for devotion. Believed the sharing mattered more than the secrets, that our friendship trumped the unreasonable rules of romance.
It didn’t matter what he didn’t say so long as he wanted me part of his every day…
Miranda’s father waited until the day she was born to say the words. Their power was not potent enough to protect me from the cruel weapons he hurled without hesitation when I finally swam for shore with our girls on my back, away from his sinking ship my love could not repair.
Time has a way of tearing our best intentions to bloody shreds. Today’s right thing is tomorrow’s regret.
Don’t try to make sense of the dating rites of the mentally ill. It is a haphazard lattice of quicksand and landmines laid by the injured in unconscious trauma.
Spare your lecture in the obviousness of clues. There are warning signs on the way to heaven.
I was more concerned for him than me that after six years of increasing intimacy – habituation still lacked inhibition. Even when the warmth of my love appeared to penetrate his permafrost, I never saw him slip from the balance beam he walked between compartments so precisely erected.
He couldn’t relax even as my nurturing hands kneaded tension away. So many evenings I watched him pass directly from tension into sleep, breathing still unsteady, words muttered not meant for the living, not at peace even in rest.
(first draft – may play with this one some more because it made me laugh – ag)
My relationship status is:
Haunted. Signing up for self-defense classes. Terrified of being alone for the rest of my life. Still in shock. Good enough to be nominated but not good enough to win.
The book was better. I love myself, dammit. Empty nest; broken heart. Abandoned without answers. I’m rubber; she’s glue. Socially awkward workaholic. None of your beeswax.
bitter angry PTSD Pending psychoanalysis I haven’t signed up for. Enjoying my own company, but it would be nice to have someone else to run things by.
Disappointed, but grateful for the good times. (To the tune of Merle Haggard) Are the Good Times Really Over? And were the good times really as good as we remember? And are the bad things that happened really that bad when all is said and done? Still can’t stand the thought of a man telling me what to do.
Demisexual running out of time. Mourning the loss of my ovaries. Mulligan or no? You scrolled through the pictures – it’s pretty much just me and the cat.
Refuse to be framed as anyone’s crazy ex- My own family functions are more than I can handle. Don’t make me go to yours, too.
Lost in a black hole with no delusion that anyone will ever love me again. F#%K YOU.
Just kidding; I’m DivorcedSingle. Confused. Too old for this sh!t. xoxo
P.S. If you’ve been divorced for 18 years are you still “divorced?”
from Chapter 11 “Simply put … I had become a broken heart. As winter moved into spring, then spring into summer, I found myself losing the man I loved. I was falling or had fallen out of a story. The story of a love I wanted very much. Too much, probably, and the pain of loss had deranged me. Falling out of a story hurts. But it’s nothing compared to the loss of an actual person – the loss of all the bright details that make up that person. All the flashing, radiant fragments that constitute an affair or a love. If there has been a betrayal, you may find yourself holding each of these fragments up to a new light and rotating them there, watching each one grow an unwanted shadow. I found myself there.
It threw me for a moment. Maybe longer. It was hard to tell with all the commotion the IT crew was making in the background of that first on-campus, in-person class, what exactly was to blame for my struggle to focus.
I had arrived 20 minutes early to test the tech and prepare to teach. What appeared to be a flat screen power issue we thought one person could fix turned into a three-man job. A projector and movie screen were brought in and set up as I tried to remember key points from the syllabus. Cords were taped down. One guy talked loudly on the phone as I tried to take attendance. I had forgotten to bring the sign-up sheets I used to use. Zoom has been taking attendance for us in these 10 months since we went home for Spring Break and stayed at home because of the C19 pandemic. I had to learn how to interact with a real flesh and blood class all over again, this time with masks muffling voices and making it harder to breath through anxiety. I pulled the field notebook I always carried out of my purse and looked for the next blank page to write their names down.
It had been a while, also, since I used the notebook. I forgot he had written in it. I was the one who always had pen and paper at hand and we sat next to each other for so many days for so many years… he got used to reaching for it when he wanted to record something clever someone had said. I wasn’t prepared to be exposed to the sudden intimacy of his handwriting in front of my students. I lost my breath in a second’s glimpse of his small, restrained mostly uppercase letters sandwiched between my more expansive, creative scrawl.
I found a blank page soon enough and carried on as well as could be expected given the ruckus of technical difficulties. It wasn’t until later, when in privacy I retrieved those names written down, that I turned back to past pages and spent time with his notes, allowing myself to feel the essence he left behind in the ink. The notebook would have to be replaced with a fresh one, despite so many blank pages left. I couldn’t afford to walk around the with the trigger of his presence, once so close and now lost, in my purse.
What a loss we, all of us in society, suffered when so many anonymous electronic words came to replace handwritten letters vibrant with personality. He didn’t write me letters. It was a rare joy whenever I got to see his reluctant script. I am the one who succumbed to the passion of hard copy handwriting that would, in the end, be my downfall …
On January 10, 2021, I wrote this letter as part of a nationwide letter-writing campaign, organized by Be An #ArtsHero in partnership with The Dramatists Guild of America, imploring the incoming administration to prioritize commitment to the Arts. I recorded this the day after the Inauguration and its delightfully arts-filled ceremonies, eyes still swollen from crying tears of relief, joy, appreciation and hope that better days are on the way.
*Page views of the letter itself can be found a couple of posts ago.