SOOPRISE!

Welcome to Boston, Tom. Say hello to the nice people.

"Hello, nice people."

Good lad.

Tom called me on Thursday night. The conversation went like this.

"Hey, I'm in Pee Body. Isn't that close to you?"
"Peebiddy Mass?"
"Yeah, Pee Body... I'm near Boston, right?"
"What the hell are you doing in Peebiddy?"
"I have this job driving a truck. I've been driving and I ended up in Massachusetts."
"Whoa. That's... Yeah, you're really close! How long will you be here?"

After a few confusing conversations, we decided he should come down to Boston and visit. Three days later we have conquered East Boston traffic, a serious parking problem (he has a 24-foot truck), a skunked dog, incredible poverty, a broken phone, torn contacts, and constant hunger.

AND, we've seen Boston. To be more specific, we've seen Fanueil hall, Coolidge Corner, Government Center, Harvard Square, Coolidge Corner, the freedom trail, Revere Beach, Coolidge Corner, Trader Joe's... wait, that's still Coolidge Corner. Anyway, we've done pretty much everything there is to do without spending money. We're impressive, no?

I'll tell you the real story in 2010, when I'm no longer exhausted.

I got a camera phone.

This has prompted several strange phenomena:

1. A renewed sense of self-created loneliness upon realizing how few people call me and how few calls I can force myself to make
2. A yearning for a real camera (which I cannot afford, nor would I have any idea on how to use one at this point)
3. A game with Papa Biv

The game started the day after I got the phone, when I was excited and sent a photo of government center, asking my father to figure out where I was.

My father called me, sounding peeved, asking what the hell I sent him and why and he didn’t understand it. I gave a lame, giddy schpiel about how pretty Boston can be, and can he guess where that photo’s from, and blah blah.

He seemed unamused, but then again, he guessed wrong.

A week or so later, I sent this inscrutable gem.

No reply, until I called my mom a few days later and she asked about “that nice photo.”

Then today I had a date that ended… weirdly. I was left in downtown Boston during MBTA rush hour and decided to walk around. With the changing landscape I grew increasingly self-pitying and antsy and exhausted, having woken up at four for three days in a row. I headed toward Ugly, for some reason, and looked around me, trying to peer outside of myself. I counted trees, tuned in to birdsong, and watched the Fort Government Center swell and ebb in foot-traffic.

The paved, bricked, molded world was quiet. My legs ached. I was alone. The benches, I kept thinking, are so uncomfortable, but wide enough for the homeless to sleep on. I became a speck in an artless Speck that was trying to be a SPECK. I was disappearing.

My father’s voice is jubilant on my voicemail.

“Well my guess is – the picture you sent, is again, it’s from gov’t center, and it’s on the North Station side looking towards—umm the Oyster House .. and the Haymarket area, on the lefthand side of the square, um, where the ugliest iron sculpture ever created is. That’s my guess. Let me know if I’m right. Love you darlin’. Byeee.”

He’s right. But why did I send that picture?

When I was small I used to try to sleep on my stomach with my arms spread. I would reach for the ends of the mattress, and wonder about the day when they would reach – how good it would feel. I felt I couldn’t truly sleep until my hands could grip the sides.

Now I look down my arm as I lie in bed, think how long it’s gotten. I try to remember my small arms, before chicken pox scars, countless summer burns, bumps, bruises, accidents and temper tantrums. Before I was heavy enough to make much of a dent in the mattress. I wonder if I felt myself set precariously on top of it, like I was balanced on the dome of a zeppelin. Why did I need to hold on? When was I first afraid of sleep?

winds of change

When I come up from the Government Center station at 5:24 in the morning, I have to force optimism. Anyone would, I think, when greeted with a wide expanse of dusty brick nothing overseen by the harrowing jumble of dark concrete they call city hall.

I force myself to look around the corners of that building. I look around the drunk newspaper guy and the haunting scent of urine. In the corners of the world there is soft, felt blue sky and seagulls. The air moves in unpredictable ways, and every four seconds a whiff of sea air reaches me.

Some days that's enough. I stand there for a second and sniff it in and pretend that the ocean is two steps away, that I'm not really sallying forth to serve coffee to the masses. I put into my head a mantra something like "I live here. I actually live here in this city." I think of all the things I love about it, and that they're all within reach. I calm myself.

And THEN I sally forth.

What, I always wonder, propels me? Is it boredom or greed or curiosity? Maybe general embarrassment. At any rate, something is pushing me now. Maybe it's fall coming. I love that season and always feel most capable when the leaves start to turn. I'm sure it has something to do with the rhythm of school - how school was the strongest link to my teeny ego for twenty years. I feel like maybe my brain clicks on in September and all of my life hurdles bow down a bit.

I'm trying to keep this feeling under my skin as much as possible. I can do this. I can look into the world and withstand its long stare back at me. I can do this.

Borrowed Pesto

Borrow, gather, and buy fresh:

2 fat juicy cloves of young garlic. Smush 'em with the broad side of your chef's knife. It's a satisfying crunch and the whole apartment will smell good for hours.

1/2 cup romano, grated from roommate who's in Philly. Promise self to buy her a new tub. Accidentally dump a huge clump of it into your mixture. Swear loudly. Promise self to buy a new tub, and really mean it this time.

1 handful roasted, unsalted almonds from other roomie, who points out their frighteningly passe' "sell by" date but blesses your efforts all the same. (Use in place of pine nuts, because, really, where the fuzz do you find pine nuts and why would you buy them when you can only really use them for pesto and those annoying salads in which all the pine nuts end up in the bottom anyway?)

1 overzealous handful (or two) of the fresh basil that took up 1/3 of your grocery budget, but it was totally worth it. It's the good stuff - kind of pointy and peppery with notes of fennel, so might as well use it before it goes black and sticky.

1/2 to 3/4 cup grocery store olive oil. Not the virgin stuff. Not because you don't have the virgin stuff, but because virgin overpowers the zing and zang of basil and garlic sometimes and makes it taste like every other italian thing anyone has ever made instead of YOUR pesto.

1 smidge of lemon juice. But since you cut up the lemon, throw the rest in your iced tea.

Put it all in the tiny, usually useless Black and Decker MiniPro food processor your dad (er... Santa) got you for Christmas two years ago. Pulse until the acrid smell of burning plastic overcomes the nice basily garlicky goodness you gots goin' on. Stop until the smell floats away. Pulse and repeat.

Add more basil.

And more oil.

Add more basil.


Cook pasta. Immediately put 3/4 of it away in the fridge, slightly melting the cheapo fake tupperware container you put it in.

ERSTWHILE: You have done the following...

Boiled water. Poured it over a 1/2 tsp of saffron. Let it sit overnight. Baked frozen chicken with a little garlic, a little seasoning salt, and the saffron tea.

Ruined abovementioned chicken by essentially boiling it instead of baking.


Get pretty pasta plate (inherited from a dear friend's move), dump remaining pasta on the plate. Spoon out some pesto onto the spagetts and toss it around. Add another spoonful. Aaaaand... another. Put a piece of chewy saffron chicken on the plate, too, not touching the pasta. The whole idea, after all, is to have a little rest from the spiciness of the pesto and force yourself to really taste the subtle saffron flavor. Mmm. That's nice. Even if the chicken is more alike to bubble gum in texture than to any meat you've ever cooked.

Eat it.

Clean dishes. Think to self: maybe I'll share this recipe. At least arahsae will read and enjoy.

Write post. Publish.

disappearing

The spaces between my electrons
(if in fact they belong to me)
expand to allow transparency
spreading like a pulled lace
or a ride-the-whip, or sea
foam losing bubbles. We
(my atoms and I) disagree
on this point - they swear
they never liked solidity
but I abhor even more
invisibility

A fine dither

No Honey Nut O's. No Unnecessarily Sugary Maple Wheat Bites. No Oatmeal Crunchy Flakes of Happiness.

Trader Joe, this means WAR.


(On the bright side, nothing much in my life has gotten me in this much of a flurry for a while, and maybe it's about time I got hoppin' mad about SOMEthing, be it cereal or Syriana.)

Another thoroughly predictable moment in Biv Birthday History

I went home for a looong time. It was supposed to be a short stay, just for a family friend’s bridal shower, but then it was Bug’s birthday the next weekend. I altered my schedule severely so I could be there for the baby’s big One. I had to beg my brother to hold the party on Saturday so I could be there for it.

Then, on the first Saturday, while women crowded our house with linen and perfume and enflamed hair, we got a phone call from Lois. Baby Girl was supposed to be the star attraction at the shower – she’s the flower girl for the wedding – and she was conspicuously missing.

Turns out my brother Cripps had run to the doctor’s office with chest pains. He got to the hospital where they promptly shoved a tube in his chest to re-inflate a collapsed lung. A COLLAPSED LUNG!

How did it happen, the clamourers wonder… The doctors answer, “He’s tall, thin and a smoker.” No, seriously, that’s all they told us. He had numerous x-rays and tests to make sure it wasn’t something else (what else would it be? Free-floating glass shards?) and could find nothing.

I could tell you many many things about the horrors of my week home… Oh, god, many… But I will tell you this: by the end of the week my niece got in the habit of running at me like a euphoric bull and leaping into my arms so I could kiss her kiss her kiss her and tell her how beautiful she is. And Bug eased into me, from uncontrollable giggles to exhausted sweaty sleep on my shoulder.

The tale ends thusly: Cripps came home after a three-day stay in the hospital. He’s unable to lift his own children, but getting stronger. The party magically moved from Saturday to Sunday to accommodate my other brothers. I missed it.

happy birthday to me
i live in a tree
i look like a monkey with enormous breasts and a tight budget but less hair in general
and i smell like chai tea



i smell like chai tea because i have chai syrup all over me. there's some on the inner part of my elbow, some on my collar, some on my ankle... it's better than smelling like a monkey, one must assume.

tired. opening tomorrow. wakey wakey at 4am for opening. thanks for well wishes, m'loves.

3:23 am

As expected, she remembered
What she meant to say. That movie –
The actress’s name and the color she wore;
How it meant something then.
It was too late to call and her eyelids
Were sticky with sleep, though her mind
Prickled with a sense of tulips unfolding,
Asphalt burning, waves ascending
Her grey vinyl siding

On this night in particular
The earth seemed tiny to her,
And she a speck on it, an item
Of infinite minutia, and her thought,
The blue of that actress’s dress
Against a remarkable yellow
Chandeliered wig of curls –
Even more ephemeral, so much
Tinier than any thought, ever.

But to share it would be
To foster some growth. The image would move
From her microcosm
To his – a synapse short-circuit
Across a small city
From sleepy brain to brain. That little thought
Would expand in itself, inhale
And balloon, become a much speckier
Speck. Not nearly an earthly
Feature that satellites
Could photograph from space, but
A bump, a thing, a bubble
Of electricity set out in the world
To glow a bit,
to ebb, to ash.

Her hands know, without groping,
The exact location
Of each number to press to reach him.
Her immoveable eyes need not open.
She considers this – how the dial-tone buzz
Could disturb her, wake her too much.
She is caught in the panic of power,
Knowing that sharing, inspecting
A speck causes life to restart.

She wants this creation, this
Resuscitation. They will share it
And bring it to life. They will
Have it and pull it between them.
It is only color and movement,
Memory and mastery, but her body
Curls around her need for him
To know it. Blue dress. Yellow
Hair. The actress’s name.
Microscopic.

Cheese is good.

Ah, cheese, the greatest manmade substance on this Earth, I laud you.

Starbucks. I'm running around frantically to fill orders and keep managers happy. A mom and small girl, about four years old, stand across the counter, the mother clearly encouraging the child to choose a lunch for herself. They are wearing similar clothing - red checked shirt and red gingham sundress (although it was not sunny enough today to warrant sundressing.)

"Do you want this?" the mother asks.

"No, I do not want that," the girl answers precisely.

"I'd like you to choose something to eat," the mother says.

"I don't know how that was made. Who made that? Did they make that?" The girl looks up at her mother as though she's an idiot to think she'd put something in her mouth that was produced by Starbucks employees.

"Sweetie, it's fruit and cheese. Will you eat a little of it?" The mother's getting annoyed but knows her daughter has the upper hand.

I decide to intervene gently.

"That's very good," I say to the little girl. "The cheese is tasty." I smile.

"I'm not sure if I want that cheese," says the girl, seriously.

The mother looks apologetic. "She'll be impressive in the business world someday," she says. I laugh at the condescending grown-up joke. The little girl hides behind her mother.

"Oh sweetie," I say, "we're not laughing at you."

She whispers to her mother, "that hurt my feelings when you laughed like that."

"We're smiling," I say, "because you're so smart and charming."

She puts out a distrusting bottom lip.

The mom throws a bunch of items on the counter, all expensive and unnecessary, I ring her up, and the two wander off to find chairs.

Moments later I'm running around again, emptying trash, wiping up after spills, sneaking sips of my drink. The girl and mother sit at the tasting bar on high stools. The girl is perched high, sitting on her knees, picking judiciously at her fruit and cheese plate. Apparently my trespasses are forgiven; she smiles at me when I acknowledge them.

"I think I might like this cheese!" she proclaims, showing me a mushed wedge of brie with several tiny bites missing.

Mom smiles a knowing, grown-up to grown-up smile.

"Does it taste good to you?" I ask the little girl.

"It does!" she says, full of amazement.

"Have you tasted that kind of cheese before?"

"No," she says, looking thoughtful, "but it tastes just exactly like white american cheese."

The mother laughs, but I know better by now.

"I'm glad you like it," I tell the little girl.

She appraises me very sternly. "I just didn't know if I would."

You're forgiven, too, four-year-old. Where did this kid come from?

of cabbages and kings

Are we sick of Shane posts?


Me too. Just have him on the brain.

Had another panic attack at work and it got me on a crying jag that would not stop. I figure it has more to do with medication issues than anything else, but it's significant that it was Heart Day, and I had a strong memory of Shane.

And then a daymare.

I remembered the physical feeling of Shane running at me, leaping into my arms like a four-year-old, and then in my mind's eye and touch, I felt the back of his shirt growing wet, his skin peeling away in front and back, his heart boiling out of his body, arms loosening their grip, face resigned... fading... gone.

I think it's my peculiar morbidity that keeps Shane so alive in my sadness. I don't know how his other friends feel him and remember him, but I'm getting worn out by how I feel him.

Before I lost my mind, I used to ritualize everything, and it seemed to comfort me. If there was something to DO every time I felt a certain way, I at least knew what would happen next, even if it wasted my time, hurt me, didn't change the feeling. Things were simply more knowable, and that's always comforting.

When Shane Days came, I would find a way to push a cabbage into people's lives. I would push myself into this super-social wacky persona and shout the gospel of the cabbage to anyone who would listen. Since last February I've grown so tired. I let my memories rise and sink in me as they come. All of this life remains within the borders of my skin.

I think I'm unable to express and spread the joy of Shane because he's now linked with my own private difficulties, which are incredibly embarrassing to me. Shane relates to college, which reminds me of the brain I no longer have and the friends I've abandoned, which reminds me of how my whole life is in constant entropy, which reminds me that I'm a waste of cellular material, etc.

Shut up, JoBiv.

Okay.

GAAAAAAAH!

My litmag summer camp already exists, AND I'M NOT A PART OF IT!

sob

Uncloistered?

I think I have other posts about the phenomenon of self-forgetfulness. Nontheless, I write this one.

I was in NYC this weekend, which was scary and fun and bizarre and adventurous. I was visiting Maria, my dearest American friend from my semester in Ireland, and Gutter, The Brave and Beautiful, long-time acquaintance from El Victoir, friend for many a year now.

Friend. What a meaningless word. I'm also friends with the early morning T driver who smiles weakly at me when I nearly kill myself tripping up the steps. Also friends with my mother, whose calls and worries I dodge with increasing agility.

Gutter and I are friends like this: we know nothing about each other, really, except that we grew in the same fishbowl with similar attributes ignored or undernourished. We were cerebral, lonely, entertaining and unknowable. He loves my family and they him. They've adopted him, want to know him in and out, and his mother probably wouldn't know me from Marky Mark.

Ha. I almost forgot about forgetting. Here I am, back again on topic. My point about my visit and self-forgetfulness is this: I forgot how excellent, sweet and full I feel when I'm with Gutter and Maria. This is the feeling of being with an intellectual peer, an alive soul. I have friends in Boston, of course, and I love them dearly. I didn't know how much I was missing THIS, though.

The link above comes from Sunday's adventure at the Met's Cloisters (very near Gutter's apartment.) We walked steadily up a wooded path cut into a huge cliff, the city dwindling on one side, the river opening up below, the castle-like museum above. It was surreal and brought out a disorienting homesickness. I don't know exactly where that ache of nostalgia connected - it seemed to be a general sensitivity reaching out to a dozen memories of paths, quiet, lungs, views. I felt myself opening a little.

The Cloisters reminds me of the Isabella Stewart Gardner in that many an archway, sepulchre and tapestry has been artfully woven into the building itself in such a way that one feels she's happened upon a pre-existing marvel where everything within it was created there, in timelessness, one culture spiking deep into that place and making sense of itself. Of COURSE there are unicorn tapestries and moorish spanish triptychs glowing with saffron and cobalt. Perhaps it's a peculiarly American attitude on my part to feel like everything was supposed to be in that space. I like that Rockefeller and Gardner shared that same compulsion to tailor palaces for these artifacts they found fascinating. How could a person stand in Paris dumbfounded by the beauty of a medieval sculpture and say, "I dunno, I could find a better place for that." Such arrogance! And yet... the effect... I was wooed and won.

I wrote this, you nosey clamourer, while Gutter practiced piano. He decided to take lessons, bought himself a keyboard with all 88 keys, and has attained an alarming proficiency in a period of months. Did I mention he is a Favorite Person?

My sheet has a long horizontal rip in it. I’m not sure when it happened, and I think this is because its happening wasn’t a singular thing. It’s not like a bolt of lightening felling a tree or a balloon popping. This tear began one day on a microscopic scale. It widened and festered and unzipped slowly. I noticed it, peripherally. I did nothing. Besides notice it, I mean.

Also, I lost my job with the foundation. This was a singular thing. It happened yesterday. I had it, and worked hard at having it, and then yesterday it was taken back.

Also, it's death day. This past weekend I ended up staying over a friend's house. Everyone seemed to want to conk out early, so I asked for nighty-night books from my hostess. She gave me Truth and Beauty, by Ann Patchett, whose work I love. I couldn't read the book, however. Within the first chapter I was introduced to Shane's female counterpart - an underweight flamboyant mascot-of-the-campus woman who flung herself physically into people's arms.

This rip is really big; that's the thing. I can't just go on pretending this sheet is useful. I'll have to take it off and throw it out.

Food glorious...

Remember the devolution of cafeteria food in college? Well, a lot of you went to nice colleges with fairly good food service. I went to St. Bonaventure University, which rated at the top of the Princeton Review's "Is It Food?" list about five years running.

This was the progression over a period of 72 hours:

1. Chicken fingers. Edible.

2. General Xiao's chicken (chicken fingers plus gooey spicy overly sweetened soy sauce). Edible if you found pieces without sauce.

3. Chicken parm. Edible with LOTS of sauce and extra cheese microwaved into a gloppy mess.

4. Chicken soup. Suspect.

Now, I don't have proof that these were the same fingers all the way through. I didn't get them fingerprinted. HAHAHAhahaha... Oh my god I'm so freakin' funny! ... Anyway, can't be certain it was the exact same product, but it became obvious over a period of time that no trucking company wanted to come to the Back O' Beyond, New York to deliver fresh food to us. More importantly, our tuition dollars had to go toward the essentials - fresh paint on the basketball court every season, frinstance.

Either way, I noticed that the food service seemed to order all food by the metric ton, and would not try to hide that fact by altering their offerings on a daily basis. NO, if they had canned peaches, by GOD, no Bonaventure student would go an hour without seeing a canned peach, at least peripherally.

Day 1 of peaches:

"Yay, I looove peaches! In pure corn syrup! Yum!"

Day 2:

"Think I'll put some cinnamon on 'em. There, that's different and still quite yummy."

Day 3:

"Hmm. The syrup is congealing. The peaches are still tender, though..."

Day 4:

"Isn't that yellow color a little startling? Anyone?"

Day 5:

"I... just... can't... Hey, whipped cream, guys!"

Day 6:

"Sorry, professor, I'm late because there was a peach-slide of apocalyptic proportions, the syrup and peaches making the dining hall a veritable slip n' slide of terror. Our lawyers have advised my parents to sue."

Day 7:

"PEACH FIGHT!"
"Dude, I wish peaches had better aerodynamics."

Day 10:

"That little piece of cottage cheese was in there yesterday. Grody."

Day 14:

"I wonder if they biodegrade?"

Day 21:

"Hey kids, guess what's for dinner at the bomb shelter? Clue: it comes out of a can..."

Day 37:

"PEARS! I looove pears...."

All this is to say that I'm beginning to admire our food service and wonder how they got so clever. I'm trying to be economical and clever myself, trying to think of the ways my mother disquised leftovers (ineffectually) and my babysitters got us to eat "good" food (by heaping it with sugar, salt and/or grease).

Here's my quandary: How do I make my italian sausage, red and green pepper, onion, cheese, tomatoes and garlic interesting for one. more. night. I've done the obvious sausage, p&o sandwich. I've done pizza today using frozen naan. Tomorrow I might get out the blender and make a peppery garlicky version of V-8. The sausage I'll stick in my ears.



Having griped so long, I have to admit, I never, EVOR passed up the canned pineapple. Even when I had canker sores. Pineapples are good, man.

Happy happy happy soooprise!

GUESS WHAT I GOT! noreallyguessohmygodit'soexciting...




GROCERIES!

I bought exactly four varieties of vegetables.

Two (or three counting tomatoes) varieties of fruit. One fresh, one frozen.

I bought CEREAL and EGGS.

I bought MILK and YOGURT!

I bought FOOD for-to EAT!

But damn, Sarah, I forgot the cheese.

Quantifying

Things The Novelist never liked about me:

My mercurial attitude toward cats (which I think is only what the species deserves considering its mercurial attitude toward me)

My unfixableness

My fear of
1. spinach
2. exercise
3. family
4. outer space
5. the military

My inability to share an umbrella

My fluctuating ability to sleep (countered with incredible powers of tossy-turny, nightmare-induced fits)

The way I pointed out his eye boogers. At least I stopped trying to pick them out myself.

The way I hated myself.

The way I left his bed messy in the morning. His bed is impossible; old sheets, old mattress, egg-cup foam thing – all askew (see above referenced tossy-turny abilities)

My disdain for frozen vegetables.

My abundant social life. (I kid you not. I’M the social one.)

My untouchable subjects.

My tendency toward disappearance…

Things I never liked about The Novelist:

His fervent need to spread the joy of military history to ME, though repeatedly told of the unwillingness of his audience.

The great agility with which he dismissed my nightmares.

The way he insisted on sharing an umbrella.

His love for me. Highly suspect.

Things I really don’t like about The Novelist now:

His un-love for me.

And the Lord sayeth unto JoBiv, I shall destroy you further!

The Novelist. JoBiv. No longer. He's done with me. Near the anniversary of hospitalization and our first dates.

I am not strong enough for this.

Sleep is for the weak. And JoBiv.

The weak and JoBiv - not mutually exclusive.

I slept through the past week. No, really. I showed up for work here and there, but I didn't exist for anything else outside my bed. Sometimes I took off my pants before I slept. Sometimes I had funny hair when I woke up. I'm sure I had funny hair lots of times but had no proof because I was not inclined to look in mirrors. I was inclined to sleep.

Not so much inclined as fully horizontal.

Everyone I know thought I was injured or hospitalized, except my co-workers. They saw me for four-hour periods of time.

List of people who thought I was dead, injured, hospitalized, or incarcerated:

1. My therapist. I was not in his presence, where I ought to have been, the two times a week I ought to have been there.

2. My psychiatrist. But that was nearly purposeful. He thinks I'm bi-polar and I'm sick of his shit.

3. My chorus. I had a nightmare during that sleep. Someone had pooped in the bathtub and no one would clean it. I kept getting filthier and filthier and wished there were cleaning supplies so I could clean everything and myself.

4. My boyfriend. He actually yelled at me a little (in his way - he generally doesn't yell unless his brother is coming at him with a spatula.) I finally got in touch with him and he was pretty mad. He wants me to be okay.

5. Becca, English Jo, Major Healey, choir Melis, my boss... all people with whom I had made plans. All people who I disappointed.

6. My brother Tom, who has called me twice in the past month, which is weird considering he forgets how to pronounce my name sometimes.

7. My parents. They called, paged, voicemailed, messenger-pigeoned. I was not awake.

Where was JoBiv?

In my bed, having nightmares, waking for short periods of time during which I hated myself utterly for sleeping during the day, ate sliced bread, and went back to my bed. Sometimes I drank tea to wake myself up, but I'd get dizzy and my eyes would slip shut and I found myself in bed again, dreaming of research facilities where little girls forcibly underwent CPR and made papier mache collages of huge serpents, where deformed people were kept standing in stalls with blue curtains that showed their heads and feet, like dressing rooms, where a teenager had to seduce her nextdoor neighbor to keep him from kicking her little sisters' dogs, where I walked up to people who had to hear me but I would walk through them, mute and transient. Or else I was half-awake, pulling out the bad hairs and trying to distract my mind with a funny book or movie or thought - anything.

Is she back to stay?

It's hard to be back but it was hard to be there, too. When I informed my mom that I am alive she mentioned that maybe I shouldn't be working. This year has been hard, after all, and I'm not strong enough to work two jobs, earn my own rent, run my own life.

It hurts, but not because she doubts me when I need her support. It hurts in the place between my ribs and lungs where I can see myself going home to my girlhood bed, her hand sweeping my hair from my forehead and encouraging the tears.

Work clothes shmerk clothes

I currently sit at my new desk. It is a symphony of particle board and wood laminate. It maintains its regal shape by a system of dowels, cams, and lusty screws that twist to the sultry dance of the allen wrench.

It is a wonder.

And it's in my living room. Have you seen my apartment? No? Well, it's bigger than the Beacon St. place, MUCH bigger than the hovel on Queensberry Street, but alas, there are no extra rooms yearning to become offices. Luckily, the living room is FREAKIN' HUGE! and my rather large Ode to Laminate fits nicely in one corner without disturbing the natural flow of life amongst my fellow apartment dwellers.

I'm pretty sure I'll feel a disturbance. I'm the one who works at home. From home. IN home. Hm. Can I do this? I already survived the big Benefit Gala Whooziwazzit last Monday evening. I dressed myself up and kept my heels on and shook hands with as many people as possible, gleaning pieces of their stories from my co-workers. I sipped champagne and passed up the refill, ate strawberries dipped first in white, then milk chocolate and decorated to look like they wore tuxes. I made sure everyone had a good time. If they didn't, I let them tell me why. I told approx. 620 women where to powder their collective noses.

And now, in stark contrast to my heels and gentlewomanly ways, I sit in my pj's and pipe information into a big database. Next I send letters all over. After that I get to learn the true meaning of my job, which is actually many many jobs rolled up into one that should take up 20-30 hours of my week.

I'm thinking I'll put a suit on every day for this week. Y'know, 'til it sinks in.

staccato fermata

staccato:

1.	shortened and detached when played or sung: staccato notes.

2.	characterized by performance in which the notes are abruptly disconnected: a staccato style of playing.

fermata:

1.	the sustaining of a note, chord, or rest for a duration longer than the indicated time value, with the length of the extension at the performer's discretion.

2.	a symbol placed over a note, chord, or rest indicating a fermata.*

panic attacks:

1. staccato fermata



*Thank you Dictionary.com

Now that I'm over myself...

I have to tell you how beautiful the wedding was, how blue-sky 18th century American it was. How amidst opulent surroundings (and food to which I would build altars), there was my stunning Sus in her simple, elegant dress, entirely herself, entirely joyful.

While I dodged social bullets, I got to talk with Liz, my old guitar teacher, for a good long time. I got to catch up with Meredith and Rob, Sus's sister-in-law, various old friends of Sus's... I got to slow dance with my beautiful boyfriend, who, as always, maintained his sparklingly gentlemanlike manners. He watched me and celebrated for me as I was celebrating.

The day after the wedding there was a slightly awkward trip to the Honey Pot Hill Apple Orchard. It was completely slammed with families taking advantage of a gorgeous, summer-like autumn day on Columbus Day weekend. The apples seemed ready for us, waiting patiently in heavy clusters. The first one I tasted was hot on one side from the sunlight, the other side tart and cold.

I walked with my friends, but often couldn't talk for fear of letting something monstrous out.

And on Tuesday I got more time with Sarah and Kristin (and Meredith, who works so close to my apartment that she might as well work in my armpit). I got some good quality SarahandJo time, catching up on all the things a person can't quite speak about in letters or postings.

So, it was a confusing weekend. And because I'm obnoxiously fragile these days, I'm having a hard time sorting out the hurt from the joy. I hate the ambiguity. I hate feeling out of control. I miss my friends so much and we had so little time.

I had some cool-ass shoes to wear for the wedding, though. I'll cling to that.

TAOTA: The Attack of the Acronyms

DBT: Dialectical Behavioral Therapy. Thursday nights at five. The idea is to take emotions like “my Dad pisses me off” and keep them from turning into “I’m a jerk for hating what my dad did and deserve horrific punishment.” Also supposed to give me control over: hair-pulling, obsessive cleaning, panic attacks… It’s group therapy, so it sucks.

IRS: Internal Revenue Service. They think I made money last year. They want the money I have now. Boy, will they be disappointed when they see the Sacajawea coin collecting dust in my piggy bank’s pink ceramic foot.

EMDR: No idea what it stands for anymore. It’s a type of therapy that’s supposed to help archive traumatic memories in a safer place than, say, right nextdoor to your fight or flight instincts. The goal is to reduce nightmares, make many of my memories “less present,” remove my hair trigger. I started a week ago and we only got to the “let’s rip everything wide open and stare inside” stage. Didn’t quite make it to the re-filing. Might explain the panic attacks’ increasing frequency, but that’s just a guess. This therapy currently SUCKS MY HUGE MISSHAPEN WHITE ASS.

TCMF: Terezín Chamber Music Foundation. My new employer! I feel like my life will level out a bit once I have more dependable hours. Do take a look at the website I’m hell-bent on renovating.

raise your hand if you have a job

and bad dreams every morning

money dwindling. bills gathering. cold seeping. clothes decaying.

i'm so tired some days. I curl myself up tight just to remember my body.

my body seems so pointless. why do I have it? it's just a machine that refuses to shut down when all i want to do is shut down. how silly and inconvenient a body is. i have to cover it and clean it and scratch it when it itches, medicate it when it hurts.

how did this brain come to be in this body? or rather, how did these thoughts get to be in this brain, this obnoxious organ that came with the whole package... i want to extract the thinking. i want it all silent and sweet in there.

i don't want to work on my life anymore.

Remember my friend, Jack Sprat? Whelp, he's getting married this weekend and I'm going to NY to witness it.

He's getting married at Saint Bonaventure. This is the first time I've had to return to the campus since Shane's funeral. I think I'll take a walk around campus on Saturday, along the Allegany/Allegheny/Allegeny River. (Seriously, can't remember which one's the town, which one's the River, and which one's the mountains, but I'm pretty sure they're all spelled creatively.)

The back of the St. Bona's campus goes from athletic fields to woods to river. The woods have these amazing raised pathways and ancient trees, occasionally deer, occasionally bears, occasionally grottoes with crudely and sincerely made altars. It makes sense if you know anything about St. Francis and his love and respect for nature. I plan to walk through the woods and visit those places. I don't think God watches me... Well, I have trouble thinking of God... but I do get this sense of the trees and the river and grottoes opening for me, making room, allowing my presence.

I'll have to go down the river trail to the park, too, of course. Must have a ceremonial swing on the swingset. I won't escape Shane there. It's past time to let him catch up with me.

The Facts of Life

I haven't written for a full month.

My hours got cut at the preschool. I now work 2:30 to 6:00. My last paycheck: $47.71. Also, the Brookline classrooms shut down due to mold, mice, caving ceilings and other unfriendly building issues. I have an hour and fifteen minute commute to Watertown to work my 3.5 hours.

I have to go to a wedding on the 19th. My parents have to drive me there and pick me up.

I spent last weekend in NYC. I still don't like NYC. As we rode out on the Fung Wah, we passed a cemetery that went on forever. Most of it was full of tall statues and obelisks. The skyscrapers in the background seemed a cheap imitation.

I've been to three different beaches this summer, three pools, and one pond. I'd forgotten how my body feels when it's suspended by water. Actually, I'd forgotten my body entirely.

A few weeks ago I put aside all the ripped, stained, or otherwise unusable clothing from my dresser and closet. A fourth of my wardrobe remains.

Last night The Novelist and I had dinner with English Jo in Harvard Square. After dinner we walked toward the sound of music. It was a brass ensemble, playing intricate classical pieces, ragtime, jazz... It suddenly felt like I was on vacation.

Within two weeks, I've had a stomach bug, a sinus infection, an ear infection, and back spasms.

Vicious nightmares.

At first, we thought it was laughter. The Novelist and I lay on my bed, on top of the quilt, mumbling about things; how nice the day was, I think. Suddenly we heard it, and we both grew quiet. Then the only sound was that of my hair brushing the pillow as I turned toward the window to hear it.

Laughter? We lay perfectly still, straining to hear.

No, not laughter; hysterical tears. It was a young woman’s voice, overlapping with a strong tenor speaking loudly but patiently. I didn’t realize how tense I was until The Novelist uncurled my hand from his. Show me it’s not violence, I prayed to the noises. Don’t let it be violence.

The sobs jerked out of the woman like each one was a labor pain. She was inarticulate, arrhythmic, sometimes choking and gagging on her own cries. I envisioned her curled up on the floor, hair sweeping the tile, rocking and sobbing.

Was she pleading? Was she angry? The Novelist said, “I thought she was laughing.”

“Me, too,” I whispered. We held our breath, listening.

The man raised his voice again. “You need… settle… be fine… You’re okay.”

“Stop it!” screamed the girl between choking fits. “I have to cry… Stop it!”

We listened for a long while. My ribcage seemed to shrink. I had to remind myself to breathe while I thought and remembered.

That’s the sound I made when Shane died. I didn’t know where the sounds were coming from. I remember those sounds and how much they hurt. It was like dry heaving for hours. I remember the actual sensation… Feeling like my face would crack open in its contortions, feeling the pain in my chest, where my heart was.

Those were the sounds I didn’t make when Grandma died. I started to cry. Someone silenced me. We were in the hospital. I’d disturb people. Those sobs are all the sounds I stopped making.

At some point the cries became a song.

Uaahh huh huh huh huh
Uaaaahh huh huh
Uaahh huh huh huh

“That poor girl.” I had almost forgotten he was there. He turned closer to me and I turned to him, his head below my chin, my hand brushing through his hair to his neck, soothing him. I kissed the top of his head.

“It’s stupid to tell her to stop.” We were silent again, listening.

“It’s a terrible thing to hear a soul being ripped apart,” The Novelist said. For some reason, this angered me. I found my throat clenching and my leg muscles flexing.

“That might not be what it is,” I snapped. “She’ll be… I hope she’ll be fine.”

“It’s amazing how close laughter is to crying, and how laughing can lead to crying and…”

“Crying can lead to laughter, yeah, I know.” Was I being bitchy? Why?

I rolled onto my back again, now holding The Novelist’s hand across my belly. We were still and quiet. Quiet and still.

“I wonder what the purpose is… of laughing and crying,” I said. “I mean, how would crying be a more desirable trait in a mate? How does it work with evolution?”

“It’s probably just something that developed,” said The Novelist. “I don’t know if it’s evolution. Maybe natural selection?”

“Maybe. I just wonder when it started. And whether it’s a trait of a more sophisticated animal. How does it help us?”

“Well there’s so much we don’t know about the brain…”

“I know,” I said. We both took a breath. “I wonder if it’s a trade-off, somehow. Like we get these complicated brains that are capable of amazing things which got us ahead, but there’s a glitch in the system. This brain makes us cry.”

“Hmm.”

We mumbled a while longer, until I was so mumbly that The Novelist declared beddy-bye time. He patiently helped me out of my skirt and let me lie like a dying fish.

I woke a few times, opening my heavy eyes to see him awake, staring at the ceiling. Then awake, sitting cross-legged, noticing me. He swept my hair back.

“I get so tired,” I said.

“I know you do,” he said.

Ahh, Muse...

I found this photo while I was idly cruisin' around some photoblogs. It's beautiful, and there's more beauty to be had at the photographer's website, linked above.

Seeing this made me reflective (like watah! ha!). I spent my Friday night and Saturday with Becca et al. I was feeling really terrible - each little thing could set me off on a snark-fest or brimming tears. And no, before you ask, it is not that time of the goddamned month.

The thing is, I'm making progress with my best pal therapist, and in case you didn't know, making progress hurts like a motherfucker. Every step I take forward feels like a huge one. I think of tiny 7-yr-old Jo trying to emerge from some darkness, lugging a huge sack of memories. With each step, the sack rips a little, letting out words and sounds and images in a fierce mushroom cloud.

This photo, and my images, are making me think of the terror I experience when faced with a choice. Large or small, positive or negative, I become paralyzed with fear.

On Saturday I went to the beach with Becca. I had brought a change of undies and clothes, just in case the water called to me. I didn't think I'd go in. I contemplated that water, let my toes swivel in the sand, and remembered the taste of a surprising wave. I remembered little jo jumping the wakes as they curled. I remembered swimming, swirling, diving, floating; my body weightless, each sensation gentle and reassuring. And then came the question I fear most whenever I make a choice: what if I like it?

Would I actually enjoy myself then? Is enjoyment allowed when I'm not fixed yet? Will I ever work properly?

The water on my calves felt good, but the water on my knees felt better. The water on my thighs felt good but the water on my hips felt better. The water on my chest felt good but the water enveloping me, carrying me, pushing and lifting me... it felt infinitely better.

ten seventy-four

After two straight days of job searching, I have learned that my $90,000 education matches up to jobs which pay $10.74 an hour.

BAH HUMBUG!

The metamorphosis

I may have mentioned before that my brothers hurt me most deeply when they compare me to my Aunt. This aunt.

I realize there is family resemblance. She's a cutie - I don't mind looking like her. We have a similar sense of humor, which, again, I count as a blessing.

But we're also both sad. Joanie's been struggling all her life, still struggles every day. I don't want to believe that I'm similarly doomed. I want to believe that I will have this thing in my ribcage fairly tranquilized for large stretches of my life.

I spent a few days with Joanie when I went home to see the new baby. We had fun. She had fun drawing parallels between us. It felt strange. Everything she said seemed familiar and true. I can't stop thinking about the many ways my life veers toward the tracks she laid.

The elephants are coming!

I'm judging myself by my deeds lately, because it's much easier to hate or love myself with some kind of proof. I create character witnesses in my wake, right? In the fantasy court I hold in my head, each witness must be called.

Including the Mom I brushed off yesterday, knowing that if I encouraged her conversation, she would ask me for food from the school kitchen. Knowing that our supplies are dwindling and she may be the culprit.

Then there are the Toddler teachers, one of whom got a stern talkin' to and relocation because of me. I fell into my old job of Parent Liaison, encouraging disgruntled parents to make phone calls and write letters stating their discomfort with the current teachers. They did. G'bye, lead teacher. Her assistant left with her, swearing some kind of fealty. And now I have a steadier job, which was a happy circumstance, not at all the purpose of my rabble rousing. I'm sleeping a bit easier than my co-workers; my name wasn't on the employee list they stole before they left. They've been calling eight to twelve times a day trying to get me on the phone.

Today I seemed to redeem myself. I had to call in to the preschool to tell them I've been sick (the montezumas! eeek!). I was given the day off (by another character witness who can feel free to call me inconsistent), so I took some time getting home from The Novelist's house. I stopped in at Linda's Donuts, a lovely lil place just inside Belmont. I sat myself at a booth, read some Mitford, ate an omelet... Two older ladies came in. They looked around at the full booths with hopeless sighs, then gestured toward the stools by the window. The one lady was so little that the stool could have been a convenient armrest if she felt like loitering there.

I got up from my seat, taking my food with me. "Excuse me, would you be more comfortable in the booth?" The women heaped effusive thanks upon me. The owner/server kept calling me a Dear (or was it deer?) and praised me each time she went past. "It's hard to have a conversation on a stool," I insisted. No autographs, please.

Okay, so there are three character witnesses right there. But... I couldn't help thinking, wouldn't anyone do the same? Why accept praise for something so obvious? To me, it was like holding a door open for a parent with a stroller - incredibly easy and near second-nature. I felt that maybe we shouldn't be so amazed at these tiny acts. They're much more common sense than common courtesy.

And just now the doorbell rang. It was the mailman with something requiring a signature. I took the pen he offered, signed on various X's, chatted while he shuffled through the mail to find mine... He left, I went inside. Good goddamn, I had his pen!

I grabbed my keys and walked after him up the courtyard.

"I'm sorry, I stole your pen!"

He came out of the neighbors' vestibule and gratefully took the pen back.

"You must be a college student," he said in his Caribbean accent. (That's a broad guess, but I'm fairly ignorant about the island accents and can't be more specific, plus I don't think it's a terribly important detail in the story, except now I've made it important by this lengthy parenthetical.)

"A college student?"

"Yes, or work in a business..."

"Oh... because I know how annoying it is..."

"To lose pens, yes. I knew you had to be a student."

I didn't correct my friend Sherlock. "Exactly," I said. We parted with grins.

Now, if I don't fuck up for the rest of the week I may go to heaven if I die in a sudden elephant stampede this weekend. Let us pray...

The ol' switcheroo

So. I have been trying to live my little life without dwelling on things. I've been trying to find a job that does not involve baby wipes. I've been trying, so hard, to be positive. All of this effort goes completely wasted, however, as soon as I pop my pills and fall asleep. Nightmares, of course. They're always about home and my parents. They're always about entropy, to be very general about it.

Home just... I've been trying, I'm telling you. I show up with a smile, with a determinedly happy attitude. I hug my parents and let myself love them.

And then someone breaks my heart. Usually my father. This time... yeah, it was Dad. With a dash of Mom.

Mom: (In Wegman's parking lot.) I just can't believe I didn't know.
Jo: Know what?
Mom: (eyes ahead) How sad you were. The things you believed about yourself. The things you did to yourself.
Jo: ...
Mom: Kids never tell you what's bothering them when it's really important. I should have seen it somehow.
Jo: (throat closing.) I didn't want you to know. I didn't do anything for attention.
Mom: I know, but still... Why didn't I see it?
Jo: (thought bubble: fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck)



That night we got home a little late with all of our dinner ingredients. My Dad had been golfing with a friend. They celebrated Dad's loss with a few beers and a bottle of wine. My Dad was sleeping it off on the back porch when we walked in.

He awoke, groggy, slurry, told us about his game, and hurried for the corkscrew. The table was set for dinner, with red wine glasses. He brought them into the kitchen and filled half of Mom's glass. I was busy getting myself a soda. In fact, it was flat Fresca, which perhaps I should refer to as fresca. Anyway, I was thirsty, not in the mood for wine for many reasons.

Dad: (bottle hovering over my glass) Joey? How much?
Jo: None, thanks.
Dad: You should really taste this...
Jo: No. THANKS.
Dad: What do you have there... want to spice it up with some rum?
Jo: No, no I don't. I'm thirsty, and alcohol is a bad idea when you're dehydrated.
Dad: Good point, good point. Okay, well you should have some with dinner.
Jo: We'll see.

We entered a nicer conversation about the new nephew, Baby Girl, the places my mother and I had wandered that day...

I turned to talk to my mom, and remarkably, my fresca disappeared. The goblet sat in front of me, my dad's hairy gorilla arm tipping a bottle towards it.

Jo: DAD. No thank you.
Dad: C'mon, just try it...
Jo: I want to finish my soda...
Dad: (gesturing to dump the soda in the sink)
Jo: (undaughterly death stare)
Dad: Hahahaha... just kidding, honey.

Again, we managed to talk of nicer things for a while. Neighbors, school friends and their latest adventures...

Jo: DAD! STOP IT!
Dad: What?? (sloshing wine into my glass, my fresca once again slid beyond my reach.)
Jo: I really, REALLY do NOT want wine.
Dad: Well, it's red. It has ta breathe a little...
Jo: I don't want to have to throw it down the sink. I don't know if I'm going to drink wine at all tonight. You just wasted all that wine...
Dad: Ha! Like any wine goes wasted in this house!

He stole the glass away, put it to his lips, bent his head back...

Jo: OKAY. Alright... I'll drink it... jeeze...

jeeze.

So nice to see you again!

8:15 am (already late for work): Hello, Kevin D., friend from college who still corresponds with my cousin Laura. How's life, Kevin D., now that you've grown out of your stoner phase and wear sharply ironed shirts on casual Fridays? Miss college, you say? I don't. Yeah, I'm working with kids again. Life is okay... Good to run into you!

8:30 am (don't worry, I warned them I'd be late by now): Hello. No seriously, hello. Yeah, I remember you from when Richie was in the toddler room! Yeah, that's right, I worked with the parents. I heard you have a baby girl! Seven months! Oh I bet we'll have a spot open when she's old enough... so good to see you! Have a good one!

3:30 (on the greentop, which is blacktop made of green spongey stuff): Hey, I remember your handsome face. Are you Jimmy? I worked here two years ago! Of course I remember you (because you were clearly born of a jackal)... Well, this ball is for the little kids. ...You're a big kid. ...No, I'd rather keep it for the little kids. ... Because you big kids don't know yourf own strength sometimes. You can kick it and throw it so far, sometimes our balls get lost. ... No. Thank. You. Bye Jimmy.

6:20 (Anna's on Harvard St.) [Waving to punk boy]

6:24 (same as above) Hey! How you doin', yo? Oh I'm fine... How are things with you? I see you took out the big earrings. ... Ew. Infections suck. ... So I'll come stalk you in the fall when they start up auditions. Another hug... how could that hurt, you huggy, punky boy? Alright, see ya.

6:32 (same as above, with expected company.) 'Kay guys, I'm getting in li-... Claudia! [stooping to hug twelve yr old] How are you, sweetie? I was so happy you came to my concert! I was so surprised to see you! Do you get to see Lil Pea these days? What are you doing for the summer? ... No, tell me about you! MIT camp - sounds perfect for you! You have to let me know if you're in any plays or concerts, okay? Ok, bye lovey.

7:18 (at All Saint's, on stairs leading to choir loft/storage space of rehearsal room, gutting two cabbages with a comrade, who then leaves me.) Just you and me, Shane. You and me and flaming cabbages. [sigh]

9:40 (at end of choir party for which cabbage was wrangled) Hi, Cath. Yeah, I'm gonna miss choir this summer... How do I do what? ... Me? Calm and happy all the time? Hunh. I just... this choir is a big treat for me, I guess. I love coming here. I guess. Yeah, have a good summer.

11:03 (in bathroom and bathroom mirror.) I almost see you, social Jo. Other people do, and I can almost make out your shape. Don't turn off your phone. Don't stop writing. Don't stop talking. Keep coming toward me. Keep coming.

The rain let up

and the rain birds started singing and talking and cawing. Does anyone know which birds I'm talking about? I definitely hear crows, but there are at least four other kinds that make a special kind of cacophony after the rain. I feel like they're battle cries, each bird shoving its way through trees and bushes for post-rain territory, getting ready to spread out their forces after huddling for hours, waiting.

Maybe they fight over the drowned worms. Maybe the crows are yelling at Mother Nature. "Bring it on, bitch! We can take it! That wadn't nuttin' but a sprinkle!" And perhaps the other birds, the sweet-voiced smaller birds, are shouting desperately, "Shut the hell up, Crow! What's your deal, man? She'll hear you!"

If you were my therapist, you'd tell me to get out more.

Scary scariness abounds!

It would be hard to ignore this link, since it's RIGHT HERE and so clickable!

I hate this country sometimes.

boithday

There was summa dis










And summa dat













Not so much of this














But a very spicy dash of
THIS!

A prezzie from Becca and co.! Framed! Matted! BIG!







Aaaand, itsy bitsy sharpies, telescoping pens, squishy hold pens, sketchpad, colored pencils... all from Sir Novelist! Cuz he's the bestest!

I'm not even going to tell you how I got peed on today, then rained on, then abandoned, then to 4 hours of chorus dress rehearsal... That was all just fine, because it all ended with a 80 voices singing Happy Birthday in perfect harmony, and tiramisu and chocolate bomba at Vinny's Testes with chorus friends.

Tired.

Old.

G'night.

JoBiv's Best Interaction of the Day

Setting: The Back Bay Fens, where the Walk for Music took place today. I was one of the three women helping the Brookline Chorus to get organized. I stood on the basketball courts on a perfect spring day, the air rife with pollen and sunshine, the musicians of Boston milling about in mass confusion. I stood, looking for Chorus members, directing them to the correct registration tables.

Enter Jerry, a tenor in the choir who looks quite dandy in a red hooded sweatshirt at 73 years old. He has mobile eyebrows and a penchant toward old fashioned dirty jokes that aren't quite dirty enough to be funny or offensive. Despite the symbolic bravery of a red hooded sweatshirt, Jerry looks confused - nay, lost. I wave to him, gesturing for him to come toward me.

JoBiv: Hi, Jerry! Are you ready to walk?

Jerry: I am indeed. What should I... where should I...

JoBiv: Here's what ya do. Proceed to yon table, get a name tag, go waaay down to the end and get a t-shirt, just like this one (points to self), wear it at Tuesday's rehearsal and tell everyone we're twins.

Jerry: (Pause, creased forehead.) BWAHAHAHAHAHAHAhahaha...

JoBiv: (giggling to self.)

Jerry: I've been told we're hard to tell apart. (Wiggles eyebrows in a Groucho-esque manner.)


I have no idea how to construe that as flattery.

Get the can opener, time to crack open JoBiv's brain...

Love that smell of freshly opened brain...



The following items swim languorously therein:


There are two islands, one of poopiness and one of happiness. While on Happy island, Poop Island looms hugely, seemingly on all sides. When on Poop Island, I can only see the guts of Happy Island - all the gimmicks and props that make it function. It seems very, very far away.


I had a dream last night about a huge boat and a false prophet who led his zombie-like followers off the boat and onto another one - a big ship actually. He prayed into a square mirror that was sometimes liquid. Jersey Girl types worshiped him and were slain one by one. The first boat was full of people with mixed intentions, but they were rallied to come together to track down the ship o' Jersey Girls. They found the boat, attacked it, chased down the false prophet. He tried to kill himself but came to a realization while in a conference of Jersey Girl savers. He doesn't want to die, and if he can forgive himself... something dumb like that. Very involved dream, and I think I was merely watching.


I need a new ID but I can't find my birth certificate, social security card, or my sanity.


My teeth, according to Gentle Dental, are shockingly straight considering I've never had braces, but; I need more of an overbite (seriously?) and my wisdom teeth are causing my bottom teeth to crowd a bit. I have to have all four of them out. Masshealth doesn't care if my teeth rot out of my face, if you recall, and the procedure will cost around $990.


I swim in my bedsheets. I feel like a fishy.

Ladies and Gentleman...

Light your cabbages!

(It's Heart Day.)

All's well that ends well...

Not only did my family love the Novelist, he loved them back. He, in fact, had a WONDERMOUS time. He had a much better time than I did, of course, although my experience was not as tragic as previous trips. It was nice to have my anxiety centered on how they'd treat The Novelist, how his weekend would go. It made it a little easier to relax.

Still, the pattern repeated per usual. Get home, say hi to brothers, get to work, ignore comments, ignore comments...

I'm content, stressed, exhausted. Disarmed for a few days. Must aquire reinforcements.

My family has to love the Novelist because...

1. He quotes Monty Python AND So I Married and Axe-Murderer, avec accent
2. He has the following on DVD (to ensure his pure and lovely geekiness)
a. Highlander: The Series. My brothers and I spent way too many summer nights watching this on USA.
b. Season One of The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes starring Jeremy Brett.
3. We have gone to the following Favorite Places of JoBiv and Novelist with mutual glee
a. The MFA
b. The Isabella Stewart Gardener Museum
c. The Long Wharf - where he could actually tell me what all the buildings were because he was a reporter in East Boston for a while.
4. He reads! Voraciously! Historical non-fiction, some sci-fi, the news, any fiction he feels he should catch up on... Smarty McSmarterson!
5. He chews with his mouth closed, opens doors for me, is unendingly polite, but can still joke around in a dry, crazy, ridiculous but pleasing manner.
6. He is completely goofily in love with me and isn't afraid to show it.
7. I love him back.

Did I mention he's coming to Victor for Easter?

JoBiv v. Opening Day

I survived, I guess.

Oddities number one and two: My schedule for the Tuesday instructed me to go to the optometrist, do laundry, and go up to Newbury. I got out of bed, showered, ate something, and set out in record time.

As I headed out to the appointment I was forced to walk around a skinny dude putting up huge lights and camera equipment, right outside the laundry room.

"Hunh," thought I, "I hope I'm not in his way when I do my laundry."

I bravely marched onward, made it to the correct floor at the correct time, announced myself to the secretery of the Boston Eye Group. "That's with a B?" Yes. "10 o'clock?" Yes. "With Dr. Moss?" YES. "Jo Hannah, I have you scheduled for tomorrow morning at 10 am." Good God damn!

I trudged back to my apartment with laundry on my mind. As I came up the steps I was surprised by a full cast in full '50s garb, the skinny camera guy busily setting up shots. I had to walk aall the way around our hedged-in courtyard, realizing that laundry would not be an option. SO! I decided instead to...

Oddity number three: Walk to Newbury Street. On Opening Day. Yes, in fact, I AM a dumbass. By St. Mary's I began to realize my blunder. For some reason I'd thought the game wouldn't start 'til seven or so. I was WRONG, I was wrong I was wrong. By Kenmore, I was getting overwhelmed by the crowds, so I...

Oddity number four: Hid by the banks and listened to a pack of old white men playing New Orleans jazz. The drummer caught me watching an winked salaciously. JoBiv + old men = not so mutual adoration.

Now, realize that I then managed to walk all the way to Arlington without dying or buying anything. Proud of me? I went to this Needlepoint shop where I bought some frickin' expensive yarn for a baby blankie for Baby Boy Biviano (due in late June). Since I bought my yarn there, they let me know I was welcome to return for lessons or guidance in my blankie-makin' process. Nice peeps, yo. By the time I was ready to head back,

Oddity number five: the game was letting out, and I couldn't take the T without crying, so I had to walk back. I guess this isn't an oddity so much as bad timing on my part. And of course, walking was nearly as bad because I had to duck and weave through drunk people. Drunk people + glaring sunlight = SAD. But the Sox won, so all's well. I got home in time to eat a quick dinner, fill up a water bottle, and head off to Good Choir. As the rehearsal came to a close, some people from the Concert Committee looked suspiciously organized for 10pm post-Mozart rehearsal. They invited me to join them for a quick meeting regarding concert venues. (I am on the committee - by choice? Unclear.) So we walked out and tried to figure out a place to meet, when finally it was decided that we should...

Oddity number six: Meet in Honor's car. FIRST of all, yes, her real name is Honor. SECOND of all, it's lucky there were only four of us. We sat, cramped, the dome light on, as we meticulously went through pros and cons of about 13 venues. After this wonderful torture, I finally got home by 11:30.

WHEW!

EXPAND. contract. EXPAND. contract.

Tomorrow I have my second drawing open studio with Gentleman Ben. I need more paper, bigger paper, and I need it by ten a.m. tomorrow morning. I will have to actually wake up tomorrow and face the world, and I'm not sure how I feel about that.

The first week I was out of the partial program, I was puking. My lounging and self-pity were, therefore, justifiable. Two weeks later...

Okay, I have made some progress. I have:

1. Seen my doctor and allowed her to touch me in awful places (first pap smear. Icka)
2. Found an optometrist
3. Discovered that Masshealth doesn't care if my teeth rot out of my face
4. Moved some writing files around so I can access them on this laptop
5. Researched this editor lady at Roaring Brook so she won't reject me too quickly
6. Jobsearched on HigherEdJobs.com
7. Updated my resume, contacted registrars, played with cover letters
8. Experimented with a few gyms in town, imagining a day when I can afford them
9. Resisted the urge to turn off my phone and hide in my bed until I shrivel up into a sinewy mass off gray nastiness

I've left the house once a day, at least! For spans of 4 or 5 hours at a time on occasion!

I've gotten back into reading! I wasn't able to concentrate before. Now I'm zipping along happily (although guiltily, imagining that I could be working for pay somewhere in the world).

I've been able to enjoy the Novelist's company without overanalyzing or denying the positives (until way later, that is).

But then, once in a while I have a day like today. I couldn't quite focus on anything, hated myself for being inside on such a pretty day, hated myself for hating myself, eventually had to leave the house for therapy, was ripped apart (by myself, not the LSW) in therapy, cried my way home, sat back in my Cheap Chic brown chair and watched Gilmore Girls until my eyes buzzed, looked at my phone to see there was a voicemail from my mother which said, with quite a lot of spunk:

"Hi Joey! I'm just calling to tell you we need four tickets for your concert in May. It'll be me, Dad, and the C--'s. We're coming in on the 17th and leaving on the 21st. Everyone's really looking forward to it, and we can talk about it more later if you want to call me. Love you..."

Hmm... 17th, 18th, 19th - Whoa, three days! That's my quota! But no, it get's worse... 20th... 21st!!!

I'm not gonna lie to you; I cried. I had a nice little hissy fit right in my bedroom, threw my phone into the pillowy abyss of my comforter, allowed my throat to close up and my hands to clench. I just let it come. I tried to be gentle with myself, per therapist's orders.

It's okay, Jo. Get angry. Get scared. Get sad. You need to feel all of this now and let the big wave pass. Feeling is NOT self-pitying...

Et ceterAH, et ceterAH, and so forth.

I think it will be good to get out of the house early tomorrow, hike up to the Landmark Center for some art supplies, meet Ben at the open studio, let myself drift and drown a little in the intensity of the world closing in around the point of my pencil.

The curse of the white shirt

It happened AGAIN.

I just searched my own blog for my entries about my demon white shirt, but I couldn't find them. Nonetheless, I want you to reach back into your encyclopaedic memory and recall that whenever I wear a certain white shirt, the rain comes a-pourin' down.

I am, however, getting sharper in my old age. The sky looked clear, the world seemed sunny. But I knew better. I was wearing The Shirt. I had to run errands in Coolidge corner - RadioShack, CVS, hither and thither... I was trying on sandals in Simon's shoe store when I noticed the world outside for a moment. The sun disappeared. People scurried through crosswalks to the safety of awnings. A mist sprinkled the window, tiny specks of water in a huge constellation.

I did not curse my shirt this time. Oh no, I looked upon the gray day with perfect satisfaction. My white shirt has a new, automatic accessory: a blue umbrella. Take THAT, Mother Nature! I am a GENIUS!

Swingin' from tree to tree

Oh how happy I would be
If I were a monkey-key
Swingy-swing swingin' from tree to tree

- copyright JoBiv, thirty seconds ago


I am indeed swingin', from the happy tree to the hopeless tree. Last night at Good Choir, I saw I had a message from The Novelist and went downstairs to check it at our break. The message was an overly dramatic rendition of "You Are So Beautiful" accompanied by his brother yelling at him to shut the hell up. I will save it forevor.

I laughed quite heartily for a minute, then made my way back upstairs to the rehearsal space. And there, near the top of the stairs, my whole body seemed to rock with the swing from that happy warmth into something much more scary. I looked up; there was Gentleman Ben, the 60-something man who attends both choirs and suggested I try out for Good Choir. Ben is a psychiatrist and knows a little about what I've been through, because I knew he was safe, and he worries about me.

Gentleman Ben was shuffling by the door and saw me come up the stairs. He froze, his eyebrows dipping in concern, and I walked over to him.

"What do they have you on? Are you taking Ativan for panic attacks?" he asked.
"No, I told them I was on it before..."
"And they thought you might be addicted."
"Yeah." My eyelids gained forty pounds each. I wanted to close them. I was sure I could sleep standing up.
.
"You look... like you're having a tough time."
"I do?"
"You look tired."

I could feel the tears rising in my eyes and throat. "Yeah," I said. "It's still tough. Not having the support from the hospital, all my days empty..." I backpedaled then, telling him about the opportunities arising in my life, my plans for getting myself back together.

"Have you seen your friend from Singapore? The Indian girl?"
"Meera? No... I haven't."
"Hm."
"She's doing pretty well, happily married, taking photos..."
"Don't you do something artistic?"
"Yeah, well... Yeah, I paint, draw, collage, print..."
"You paint?"
"Yep."
"With what?"
"Watercolors, acrylics, ink..."
"I use watercolors, too!"

At this point I recognized a few things that I love about Ben. He can absolutely nail things on the head, and then he can ease away from the distress if he causes it. A professional.

Ben told me about a figure drawing open studio in town. $15 to just show up and draw, Friday mornings, ten to one. He expects me to be there.

Swoooooosh... A tree of serendipitous ease...

I used to be able to whip up words for any celebration, tragedy, or current drama. People would call upon me for Occassional poetry, a speech, a few words of advice or pith.

These days... I can't find many words to soothe myself, much less soothe others. I try to push away this feeling that any good thing in my life is just a precursor to a kick in the figurative balls, but honestly...

So, Gary Thomas died. No one can tell me how. His memorial service is next Sunday and I won't be able to make it. Besides pure logistics, it's too much - seeing all the ghosts of my high school, Shane's death day (today), my general state of mental unhealth.

Of course I've had more than my share of self-pitying moments this... year. But add this to the list and let it be a kind of eulogy. I always thought that if I ever got talented enough or someone could possibly risk thousands of dollars on me on the faintest whim and I got myself recorded, Gary Thomas would be numero uno on my dedication list.

Why? It's occasionally easy to explain and occasionally... odd. I mean, there's the obvious fact that he was a music teacher, and I spent half my high school career in his room, learning, singing, letting him watch our small dramas unfold. But then I think of the times he wrote me lesson passes so I could get out of study halls or math class because all I needed to do was cry. He let me hide myself in his room because he caught that look in my eyes some mornings. I would drag my sad body into school with tears encrusted onto my face from the previous night's sleeplessness or nightmares. He would ask, "JoBiv, are you okay today? Will we see you at lunch?"

When I was really, really losing it my senior year, there was a carnation sale for St. Patty's Day, raising money for some club. I remembered that day because it was god-awful. My mother had taken me to physical therapy that morning. I had stayed home for a part of each day that week. I had spent so much time in the bathtub, floating, hating myself, wanting to drown. I got school that day, and Mr. T had bought me a carnation. No one else, just me. The message that came with it was appropriate (surprising for him, really), but showed utter faith in me.

Two thoughts cross my mind now - how sad he'd be that I'm still going through all this, and how proud he'd be of my successes. If he could even hear my voice, how strong I can be remembering his faith in me... Does that sound saccharine?

Little. Yellow. Different.

My tears have broken new ground today. I had to talk about things I have never, never, ever, EVOR had to talk about before. It feels like someone dropped a subaqueous mine down my well, and any movement, any scrape, could do me in. And yet, I feel like I have to wait. It may just sit there. It may diffuse itself.

But that's not how mines work, is it?

I am so tired of fragility.

K and I had talked about how she could recognize all her friends by their hands. I wanted to prove it, somehow, and never got the chance.

K's hands are strong, broad, and elegant at the same time. Not to mention immaculately clean.

jLiz's hands seem to pose, but are actually simply graceful on their own. She handles everything as though she were performing a Japanese tea ceremony, but never so static.

Sus's hands are dry, expressive, and capable, nearly naked of rings and things.

Meera's are small, unnecessarily hidden, and a little dry, too. They are happiest while holding something - a pen, a book, a camera.

Sarah's hands are quick, long-fingered, narrow, and always beautifully self-manicured.

My hands are short and wide, sometimes dimpled, very soft except for the hangnails which I can't leave alone, often shaky these days. They're dangerous to me.


I'm thinking of Sarah's hands, though, and her mother's. I stared at this photo for quite a while, seeing the shape of Sarah in them. I thought of my own mother's hands, and how I don't get homesick much at all, except for missing her hands and the sweet way she used to run her them through my hair just to say, "hello, I'm here for you." I can't imagine. I can't imagine. My God Sarah... I'm aching for you.

Ch-ch-ch-changes

Turn and face the strain...


On Wednesday, my clinical coordinator told me that I'm now on half days at the program. I panicked. She said, "Oh no, oh please don't panic..." She's a very lovely woman and we get along swimmingly, so she told me how much she hates telling people they're going to have to leave.

I'm really, really worried. I had half days on Thursday and Friday, which means I missed the morning group and leave before the last group. This is difficult for one big reason - I'm not so good at having time on my hands. Mornings are especially threatening. I'm alone in the apartment, able to sleep in and hate myself for it, able to indulge in my harmful behaviors with no one to stop me. My tactic: I show up early anyway and just sit in their lobby, knitting or trying to read or wandering around the room.

Getting out early is also a problem. I don't really know what to do with myself at two in the afternoon. Usually I get a call from Becca around 3:30, which used to mean I could do some errands and then she'd suck up the rest of my time for three days straight. Now I have too much time by myself, my brain whirs, I think about all the missteps of the day and, surprise, hate myself.

I'm planning ahead, now, with help from therapists. I am going to:

1. join a gym
2. start up my novel project again
3. do something artistic every day
4. join another group for therapy
5. schedule an hour to work on job hunting every day

Only an hour, mind you, so I don't throw myself out my ground-level window. Cuz that would be silly.

I'm trying I'm trying I'm trying... But what will happen when they discharge me next Friday?

Ambivalent about my love life? Well, yes and no.

The Novelist and I, in case you were wondering, are now officially involved. This came as quite a shock to me, to be honest. How could I possibly start a relationship when my life is so off-center, unraveling, disappearing... How is he having a relationship with ME when I am essentially not here? Not me. Not anyone.

And how can I let him be this good to me? That's the main question I come back to over and over again.

I will now spew the following sad and stereotypical statements that self-effacing women often spew when they find a good guy:

I don't deserve him
I'll poison him, bring him down to my level
Once he REALLY knows me, he'll reject me
He's only being nice because he wants some fine JoBiv ass
He doesn't deserve sick JoBiv. NO ONE deserves sick JoBiv.
He must be a complete freak if he wants me.
I only like him because he likes me.
Someone's paying him.
I don't love myself enough to give love to someone else.

I could go on...

But when I'm with him, I enjoy him. I enjoy everything; the flutters of anxiety at the newness of it all, the compliments (since when do I get compliments from boyses?), the closeness, affection, the opportunities for ME to give affection, the conversations, the surprising commonalities, the concern for each other on our bad days, the pull of attraction, the sweetness of growing familiarity...

I have to allow myself to be healthy for him. Can I?

bowl of sad

This is my bowl of sad. It looks small here, but it's actually pretty frickin' huge. It is full of nasty sad things.

F'rinstance, I ran into Pea with her new nanny the other day. That's in the bowl of sad.

And then Uly called me up wondering where I've been. I told him. He changed the subject. That made quite a splash in the bowl, I can tell you. I thought we were at least friends. How silly of me.

Last week my temporary psychiatrist asked me about job prospects and I couldn't control my tears enough to tell him I had none. He said I may need to put it off for a while. There was enough for a deposit in the bowl of sad AND that bug jar of self-loathing.

And the staff at the Program keeps asking why I haven't called AL-Anon. I can't tell them that just thinking about it, diagnosing my father so formally... just the thought makes me think I have to get a much bigger bowl.