Art and the Absinthe Drinker

There is something about the supposedly mystical qualities of the mind-altering substances of yore, particularly absinthe, that’s intriguing. Intriguing, that is, in the slightly forbidden way that allows you to imagine it, wonder about it, romanticize it, observe it from afar—and then slam a book closed with a shudder, just as you sense that if you turn one more page you’ll have gone too far.


I’ve often found myself mesmerized by the great volumes written and the art produced by writers and artists under the influence of absinthe. So much has been written about absinthe and its effects, its iron grip on those who were seduced by its charms, or sought refuge in is delicate green poison—hence, the feminine personification of it as “The Green Fairy” or “The Green Muse,” suggesting an imaginary femme fatale, a powerful, other-worldy force and inspiration. Some of the greatest painters in history—Picasso, Van Gogh, Toulouse Lautrec, Modigliani, Manet, Degas, and others—have represented—and/or been inspired by or created under the influence of, for better or for worse, The Green Fairy. Oddly, many of their paintings have portrayed absinthe’s “victim” as female.

Some of the world’s most celebrated literary figures—Oscar Wilde, Rimbaud and his lover, the fin de siècle poet Verlaine, Hemingway—have famously drunk absinthe, some to their detriment; some have been brought to their knees, others completely ruined by its ill effects. Whether muse or demon—or both—absinthe holds an important and mythical place in art and culture.

Why the mystique? Does absinthe deserve all the hype? The sad fact is that, however fashionable absinthe--banned in this country for decades until recently--has become, it has, in the past, driven people to ruin. But with the passage of decades and even centuries, these "ruined" writers and artists and philosophers and visionaries now belong to the ages; their pain no longer affects us personally. Their legacies have endured in spite of their personal torment and it is possible to separate the art from the artist. And suffering and art, as we know, seem to go hand in hand.


Let's be honest about the appeal of absinthe to 21st-century art lovers. There's no shame in liking the sinuous melody with which “L’absinthe” rolls off the tongue or being enchanted by the elixir's beautiful luminescent green color, reminiscent of jade. There is a certain fantastical charm to the notion of a Victorian absintheur, an eloquence—and elegance—to the “absinthe ritual,” to the Pontarlier-style absinthe glass and bistro spoon and fountain and sugar cube. And it’s easy to look at it that way—after all, there is a cushion--the cushion of time--between Edwardian and Victorian absinthe drinkers and us.

Time is a healer, and so is art. When we see the absinthe drinkers in the paintings here, we don't see the illness and suffering, the vomiting, the jitters, the tears, the lost fortunes, the broken marriages of those in the throes of addiction--we see the beauty of a Picasso or a Manet or a Degas. But if you linger just a bit and look a little deeper, you will see the pain of addiction--look at the lost expressions on the faces, the lonliness, the despair. Absinthe drinker or crack addict? It's just a question of semantics.

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A Painting That Says It All

This is how I feel today. Thank you, Edvard Munch, for portraying so vividly and accurately what no words could every convey:

Bad Parenting 101: The "Balloon Boy" Hoax

I’m lucky. Despite a youth fraught with loss and emotional upheaval, brought about by forces and situations beyond my control, I was blessed with parents who lived for their children. Who loved their children unconditionally and whose personal wants and needs took a backseat to the welfare of their kids. Whose mission in life was to ensure that they raised children who would be strong, honest, moral, safe, and secure. Who’d never ask their kids to do something they knew was wrong.

My family was the quintessential “we didn’t have money, but we had love” family. Our love for each other was—and is—passionate and boundless. My parents punished us when we misbehaved and, on those occasions, it truly did hurt them “more than it hurt us”—so much so that I remember actually feeling sorry for my father once when I was sent to my room after dinner for the evening. I could see the veiled look of turmoil on his face as he said “no dessert or television tonight,” but he stuck to his guns, knowing that it was teaching me a lesson—that it was helping me to learn about consequences.

My parents’ love and the strong foundation they gave me have seen me through some tough times. When I’m faced with a dilemma, I try to imagine what they would do, and it helps, though they are gone. Their love and strength have also made me savor all the goodness in my life. They were and are my role models.

What would I have done, what kind of person would I be if my parents hadn’t been the people they were? If they hadn’t taught by example and by lessons? I believe that, in general, people are inherently good, that we are born with at least a basic innate sense of human decency, compassion, and instinctive knowledge of right and wrong.

But the power our parents wield, just by virtue of being our parents, supersedes everything else—what we learn in school, in church, from our friends—at least when we are very young. So I can’t help but worry about children like poor little Falcon Heene.

The six-year-old, known now (though I hope the moniker doesn’t last) as the “balloon boy” after his media-whore father, Richard (and, likely, his mother, Mayumi) staged an elaborate hoax in which Falcon was reported to have vanished into a giant helium balloon, and his two brothers have suffered at the hands of their parents who are, simply put, irresponsible, reprehensible, selfish, thoughtless assholes. How will this little boy’s life be shaped by these creatures and what they’ve put him through?

The parents—at least the father—will likely do some brief jail time. The mother, who at the very least was aware of her husband’s antics and, more likely, colluded with him, may or may not. In any case, it is the children—particularly Falcon—who will suffer the humiliation, rage, and confusion of having parents who’ve taught them how to lie and cheat in order to get what they want.

Falcon will be teased and taunted relentlessly by classmates and peers, maybe even strangers who recognize his name, for years to come. He may seek psychological therapy. He may look for answers—or solace—in drugs, alcohol, or worse. He may eventually turn his anger to someone else—like a girlfriend or a spouse—or he may turn it inward.

Unless he has other—better, stronger—role models around him, and perhaps even if he does, he may perpetuate his parents’ legacy by replicating it with his own children.

What this father did—and what this mother either allowed to happen or actively participated in—is despicable. Their child was so scared—scared to tell the truth, scared to go against his father—that he became sick and vomited twice on national TV. The parents may serve some time, yes. They may have to pay restitution. More than likely, they’ll get a slap on the wrist. It is their children who will pay for their selfishness and stupidity for a long time to come.

All for what? So another sick, pathetic narcissist could have a shot at 15 minutes of fame.

Julius and Ethel

I’ve recently become fascinated with—and riveted by—the case of Julius and Ethel Rosenberg. And this fascination came about in the most serendipitous (actually, quite ludicrous) way.

Normally, fascination with such a topic would be out of character for me, since, among other things, I’ve never had any real interest in American post-WWII politics/government issues—and what little interest I may have had at one time was squelched by a quick overview (via a PBS special on Nixon) of McCarthyism. And spies? Espionage? My knowledge of espionage begins with Get Smart and ends with James Bond.

So how did I come to the Rosenbergs? Well, it’s kind of embarrassing, but I tend to learn lots of interesting things by stumbling upon them inadvertently, so here it is:

I was looking through some bookmarked websites on my computer and deleting those that I haven’t used in order to declutter and free up some space. One of the bookmarked sites was labeled “Atomic-Age Color Schemes,” and I remembered that, about five years ago, I’d decided to change my letterhead and logo and their colors from a dated, sedated purple with block print to something more “me.” I wanted something hip but not trendy, something subtle but that definitely reflected a certain zeitgeist. Warhol/sixties/Woodstock would have been too pat, too in-your-face.

When it comes to style, color, and design, I have very diverse tastes, which include everything from true primitives and rustic to Victorian to psychedelic, and though I tend toward Old World wood-and-stone (I hate steel-and-glass) and classic earth-and-sun tones, I love some of the classic 1950s design elements: Eames and Noguchi; curvilinear, naturalistic, sleek but not “cold” silhouettes; and gorgeous, inventive, “atomic” color schemes (i.e., teal or turquoise with mustard-brown or black, seafoam green with pale, calamine-lotion pink, etc).

The site I had bookmarked was no longer working, so I Googled “atomic-age color” and, then just “atomic age,” and before I knew it, I’d stumbled on a site about the Rosenbergs. Of course, I’d heard of them and knew—or thought I knew—the basics: They were the couple who were “executed for spying” in the 50s, and they went to the electric chair at Sing Sing, which is located in Ossining, not far from where I live.

But on this site, there was a picture of Ethel and Julius Rosenberg, locked in a passionate embrace and, for the first time, I studied the vaguely familiar photograph. The people in it seemed so in love, so desperate for each other.

I did some reading, and then some more, and just could not pull myself away. I delved deeper into their story and, the deeper I delved, the more questions I had. I was intrigued. One image that really got to me was a photo of Ethel Rosenberg, standing by a sink full of dishes in a housedress and holding a towel. She looked so, for lack of a better word, innocent. I felt an overwhelming sense of pity for this woman, and for the two little boys I’d read she left behind. How could this diminutive, tenement-dwelling housewife and mother have passed secrets of the atomic bomb to the Soviet Union?

I’m on my second book about the Rosenbergs and my first documentary film, Heir to an Execution, by the Rosenbergs’ granddaughter, Ivy Meeropol. Since that documentary was made in 2004, though, it’s been pretty much confirmed and accepted that Julius was, in fact, a spy and, last year, the Rosenberg’s convicted co-conspirator, 92-year-old Morty Sobell, who spent nearly two decades in Alcatraz and other prisons for his part in the crime, “confessed”—after more than half a century of denials—to being a spy himself.

Still, the only real conclusion I’ve come to so far—I still have a lot more reading to do—is that Julius indeed spied for the Soviet Union, but Ethel was sent to the electric chair for three reasons: 1) because her brother, Soviet spy David Greenglass, sold her out to save himself and his lying, spying wife; 2) because the government played to the national hysterical “red scare” and paranoid anti-Communist sentiment of the time; 3) and because President Eisenhower apparently felt that if he spared Ethel merely because she was a wife and mother—the fact that she was most likely innocent of the crime for which she was charged was not an issue—the Soviets would take that as a sign of weakness and consider it a green light to begin using female spies!

According to admitted spy Morty Sobell, Ethel’s only crime was that she was married to Julius. In 1953, apparently, such a crime warranted execution. The fact is, while she may have known of her husband’s activities, all evidence indicates that she took no part in them. And on that day when the 12 FBI men came to their small, humble apartment and arrested Julius—in front of his two little boys, who were listening to The Lone Ranger with their parents—they couldn’t have cared less. They just wanted to get the Commies.

Chilling, compelling, maddening—and very sad.

Bob Dylan thinks so, too. Here are the lyrics to his song, Julius and Ethel, recorded in the spring of 1983 at New York’s Power Station:

Now that they are gone, you know, the truth it can be told;
They were sacrificial lambs in the market place sold --
Julius and Ethel, Julius and Ethel.
Now that they are gone, you know, the truth it can come out;
They were never proven guilty beyond a reasonable doubt --
Julius and Ethel, Julius and Ethel.

The people said they were guilty at the time;
Some even said there hadn't a-been any crime --
Julius and Ethel, Julius and Ethel.

People look upon this couple with contempt and doubt,
But they loved each other right up to the time they checked out --
Julius and Ethel, Julius and Ethel.

Eisenhower was president, Senator Joe was king;
Long as you didn't say nothing you could say anything --
Julius and Ethel, Julius and Ethel.

Now some they blamed the system, some they blamed the man;
Now that it is over, no one knows how it began --
Julius and Ethel, Julius and Ethel.

Every kingdom got to fall, even the Third Reich;
Man can do what he pleases but not for as long as he like --
Julius and Ethel, Julius and Ethel.

Well, they say they gave the secrets of the atom bomb away;
Like no one else could think of it, it wouldn't be here today --
Julius and Ethel, Julius and Ethel.

Someone says the fifties was the age of great romance;
I say that's just a lie, it was when fear had you in a trance --
Julius and Ethel, Julius and Ethel.

Looking for Light in All the Wrong Places

I'm looking for a light read. You know, chick-lit. Something along the lines of The Nanny Diaries perhaps, or maybe even a Bridget Jones or an In Her Shoes--something I can put down without a bookmark, pick up whereever, and not miss anything important. Something that won't stay with me for days or weeks, something that won't haunt me, something that won't change my life or challenge my way of thinking. Something that won't break my heart.

Yes, I've been rethinking my reading list. It's getting me down. It's much too heavy. I need to lighten up, I know, at least when it comes to books. That's what I tell myself, but I've been through this before--it'll pass.

Here before me--in my living-room bookcases, sandwiched between Dostoyevsky and Oscar Wilde; in my bedside bookshelf, adjacent to Elie Wiesel's Night and Alice Miller's The Drama of the Gifted Child--are stacked and strewn the remnants of my past futile attempts to "lighten up" my book list.

Let's see...I've got Rachel Ashwell's pastel-infused Shabby Chic--in hardcover, yet--which I bought during my short-lived (and very laughable) "I can do it--I can be a suburban housewife!" period in 2003. Then there's The Bitch in the House, a collection of Erma Bombeck-on-steroids essay-rants written by disgruntled wives, mothers, etc., which I bought the same year, when I'd had enough of the suburban housewife thing and tried to gracefully ease myself out of it. The book's binding has barely a wrinkle and I don't remember a word.

Why do I bother? It never works out, this light-seeking thing. The truth is, when it comes to literary pursuits, darkness is much more compelling, whether truth or fiction. Reading the dark stuff helps me write better, too. Sometimes it makes me angry--and that helps me write. Sometimes it makes me sad--and that is a writing catalyst, too.

So, I'll go back to reading The Lovely Bones and, when I'm finished, I'll tear into The Brother by Sam Roberts, a well-received biography of David Greenglass, the scum-sucking pig whose testimony--largely lies, he admitted, told to save his own ass and that of his atomic spy wife--helped seal the fate of his sister, Ethel Rosenberg, who died in the electric chair in the early '50s. After that, there's a controversial bio of Rasputin that I've got wait-listed.

Dark? Yes. But much more interesting than Bridget Jones's white granny panties.

No Lifeguard On Duty: The Empty Pools Aesthetic

I’ve often delved, here and elsewhere—perhaps in an attempt to arrive at some personal understanding, revelation, or, even someday, catharsis—into the nebulous topic of melancholy. For better or for worse, it’s an indelible part of my psyche.

When I was a young child, I didn’t know that this “thing” was melancholy. But my intuition told me that, most likely, none of my paste-eating first-grade classmates looked at swimming pools in summer, filled with laughing, splashing kids, and shuddered silently at the thought of what they’d look like empty and ice-covered in winter, with the sky darkening and the wind howling around them. When they went to a carnival or a fair, they probably weren’t thinking about the carnies packing up the rides onto trailers and going home to some ramshackle flat in some moth-eaten town where they’d while away the months until next summer.

Well, maybe my friends didn’t go quite that far, but, through the years, I’ve realized that I’m not alone in my inability—or unwillingness, or both—to pop a happy pill and pretend that life’s just a bowl of cherries. Instead, I try to savor life—the light and the shadows. And I've found that many people--even the happy-go-lucky sorts--feel that way, too.

As I wrote for Crawdaddy in an essay on nostalgie de la boue, I’ve always had a fascination with—and simultaneous aversion to—images, art, music, and literature that consider the shadows--and often find value and even beauty in the shadows--without actually tipping the scales into the macabre or blatant darkness. For instance, while I love the nuances of Hawthorne and Poe, your standard-fare haunted-house and bloodsucking-vampires fare just don’t do it for me. Similarly, while rich, melancholy melodic and lyrical subtleties in a song like “Rockin’ Chair” stir my soul and make me feel more alive, Goth and death metal leave me cold and strike me as posturing.

Some time after my baby died in 2002, I decided to see a grief counselor. He offered me a little insight, but I had to fight my own battle (or, as my Mother always advised me, to "keep my own counsel."). We did, however, click on a personal level and have remained friends. One day, during the course of regular conversation, we got to talking about art and life and I mentioned to him that even as a kid, I'd found certain imagery—empty swimming pools, water swirling down storm drains, ghost towns, the smell of old books—at once interesting and spooky. I thought it was some soul-baring, outlandish revelation.

He didn’t blink an eye. “It’s very common,” he told me. “It has to do with loss. Childhood loss and fear of loss.” Because I had experienced early traumatic loss, he said, I’d developed a beyond-my-years understanding of the finite and the transitory. Seeing those pools filled and imagining them empty was a child’s way of processing the meaning of loss, the fact that nothing stays the same. Writing it now, it seems like a no-brainer—but then again, I’ve always had to take the circuitous, back-woods route to discover the obvious.

Turns out many, many, many other people have the same fascinations-cum-aversions. Some of these people are artists, writers, musicians, and photographers. Over the years, I’ve done a lot of research and exploration, and have found scores of books and websites dedicated to things like ghost towns, urban decay, and other nostalgie de la boue topics.

Recently I came across a critically acclaimed series of photographs entitled, eerily, No Lifeguard On Duty, by well-known photographer J. Bennett Fitts. The photos are of, of all things, abandoned swimming pools across America. I was amazed at both the glowing media coverage and the "me too!" web comments his work has received. They're creepy, but they touch a nerve. Maybe it's like artistic rubbernecking; on one level, it's repulsive, but you just can't look away.

Check out his pictures at www.jbennettfitts.com and see if you, too, get that sort of sinking feeling in your stomach-- followed by a sense of relief that, in fact, you're not there, you're here--safe--and that they're just photographs.

I'll See You in My Dreams

I had never intended the focus of this blog to be about grief and loss, and that is still not my intention. It just happens that usually, when I am compelled to "free-write," it is because my soul is restless and when my soul is restless, and I feel that I am about to climb out of my skin, it is often because of that nagging, gnawing, lifelong shadow-companion of mine, grief.

Maybe it's because the only ways I really can communicate--or pretend to communicate, or imagine that I am communicating--with those who are gone are 1) to dream about them and 2) to write.

At one point in my life, about 20 years ago, I became receptive to the concept of lucid dreaming--and for a while, it worked. And I can tell you for a fact that lucid dreaming is not bullshit; it is a legit phenomenon. I practiced and was able to "will" my dreams, at least partially. I kept a journal during that time and felt very connected to my psyche. But that was a long time ago. I was more emotionally agile and resilient then, less wounded, less jaded, less resigned to the fate that is mortality.

When I write about it now, the New Agey tone of the language embarrasses me--I think of how I used to go to Garland of Letters on South Street in Philly to by Champa and Patchouli or Woodstock chimes, but cringe when I saw the weekend Buddhists looking for some of the dharma--crystal healing and chakra balancing is not my cup of tea at all. But being able to conjure up a dream about someone I love who's gone--that, to me, was not New Age mumbo-jumbo. It was a real experience; a gift. But it's gone now, just like those I once held and hugged and laughed with, made love with, cradled, cared for--they're phantoms.

In the past 10 years, my once fanciful, once hopeful dreams have given way to nightmares and dull-aching, bottomless-pit dreams of eternal loss--the themes are similar, but the imagery varies: sometimes I'm reaching for my Mother, who's just inches away, but I'm blocked from touching her by an invisible glass wall; sometimes I'm hearing my brother's voice, but it's garbled, as if under water; sometimes I'm placing my baby in a cradle, only to realize upon closer inspection that it's actually a grave; sometimes, I'm holding a telephone receiver, trying to connect to a departed love, excited at the prospect of finally hearing his voice again, only to find that the number's been disconnected or that he's not "at home."

It's fucked up. It's ravaged me. It's taken my youth. It's taken my innocence.

But it's given me things, too. It's given me more compassion. And empathy. And understanding. It's shown me that love does not die--ever.

Some Thoughts on David Carradine

I’m gonna say this only once: I had a crush on David Carradine when I was a kid. A pubescent kid, to be exact. The year was 1974, and, like many kids—albeit, not adolescent girls—in America, I watched Kung Fu every week. My father was impressed—and a little perplexed—that I was so fascinated by what was, for an 11-year-old with pictures of Fonzie on her wall, a relatively serious and complex show. But my Mother was on to me.

She knew my type. She knew it had nothing to do with Kwai Chang Caine’s martial arts prowess or the wise life lessons imparted on young Grasshopper by Master Po. She knew it had more to do with his proclivity for walking barefoot through dusty Old Western trails with tousled hair and a five-o-clock shadow, and for the quiet strength and apparent gentleness of his demeanor that belied the ass-kickin’ rogue underneath.

David Carradine was not your typical hunk. He was not conventionally—or even unconventionally—handsome. In fact, most of my friends at that age, who were eagerly awaiting the transformation of Donny Osmond’s peach fuzz to real facial hair, would have screamed “Eeeewwww!!!” if they’d had any inkling that I thought he was something that was a whole new concept to me: sexy.

So I kept it to myself. And pretended to be interested in the Old West. And my Father continued to be impressed with my interest in Americana—however fictionalized—while my Mother half-smiled knowingly, once in a while giving me a quick wink, every time Kwai Chang Caine kicked somebody’s ass and then, sweaty and spent, drank cool water from a metal cup or winced as he rubbed a sore muscle or a bare shoulder.

David Carradine was not a teen idol. There were no pictures of him in Tiger Beat. So I resorted to Photoplay, which was on its last legs at the time and not read by anyone under 40. The only magazine story I remember had a picture of David (smiling, if I recall correctly) with his girlfriend, Barbara Hershey—whose name at the time was Barbara Seagull—and their toddler, a boy named Free. Wow, I thought, Kwai Chang Caine’s a hippie.

Kung Fu ended, but my “thing” for David Carradine did not. Though my crush dissipated quickly, my admiration for Carradine grew. At about the same time that I was discovering Dylan, listening to his music and reading about his love for Woody Guthrie, I saw Carradine as Guthrie in Bound for Glory. That was it. David Carradine had earned a permanent place in the Cool Hall of Fame.

Over the years, whenever I happened to see Carradine in a film or on TV, I watched it and, almost always, I was impressed. He even made Yellowbook cool as its lotus position-sitting spokes-guru in 2006. I generally cringe at respected actors and musicians doing commercials, but somehow, David Carradine, looking a little more like Neil Young than Kwai Chang Caine, made the commercial at once kitschy and cool.

Last week, when I found out that David Carradine had died, I got a pang of sorrow. I have to say that my heart raced when I read the words “found dead.” As speculation spread regarding how he died, my main thought was that it didn’t matter. What mattered was that he was gone. David Carradine marched to his own drummer. Who is anybody to judge him?

My hope is that his family finds peace. And that his soul finds eternal comfort, and that, in his next incarnation, he is just as cool as he was in the last one. And that he is remembered for his incredible body of work, for his free spirit, for his talent as an actor and as an artist—his paintings and drawings are impressive—and for the 72 years the world had the pleasure and honor of his company.

Gregory

Hot Lips was just about to lay into Frank Burns again when the phone rang. My mother clasped both hands to her heart, expecting the worst, just like she did every time the phone rang. And, just like I did every time it rang, I jumped out of my skin. Not because I was expecting bad news. But because it was so Goddamned loud. It was louder than the fire bell at school. I hated that phone. Even for 1979, it was archaic—powder blue and heavy, with a rotary dial that you could hear from upstairs and a ring that you could hear from down the block.

Nobody had powder blue anymore and rotary dials, oh my God, forget it. It was like Archie Bunker’s phone or something. But then again, we didn’t have a phone at all until 1971, and then it was only because my grandmother had gotten really sick and my mother needed to be readily accessible in case something happened. Before my grandmother took a turn for the worse, my mother would have to go to the drugstore at 7th and Porter to use the pay phone inside the store. The drugstore phone booth was not one of those scievy metal phone booths, like you’d see on the street, the kind you had to stand up in. It was wooden and had a seat and a door with a knob. It even had a little fan that you could turn on and off. I actually didn’t mind my mother having to use the pay phone, because I liked to sit in the phone booth with her and, almost always after she used the phone, she’d let me sit inside and wait for her—unless someone else was waiting to use it—while she got herself a couple packs of filterless Pall Malls and some rock candy for me.

I wasn’t really that self-conscious about not having a phone back then. I never thought we were poor; I just figured that the kids who had phones were rich, like the Brady Bunch kids. Maryanne Revak was rich, I knew. She lived on the same block as me, but she not only had a phone downstairs, but a push-button princess phone in her room, which also had a pink shag rug. Her father worked at Domino Sugar, so they could afford it. I knew they were rich, the Revaks. They even had an open staircase—exactly like the one on The Brady Bunch. You could look down from the top stair and see people sitting in the parlor down below. Nobody I knew had anything like that—nobody!

I wasn’t an envious kid, so it didn’t bother me that Maryanne had fancy steps and a carpeted bedroom. I had my parents’ love, and even at an early age I knew that not every kid got to experience the intense love that my family shared. Sometimes I wished I had a princess phone or carpeted floors, but usually, I didn’t think about it.

The only thing that bothered me was that we didn’t have a shower. Even now, it’s hard for me to say. I knew my parents didn’t have money to spare, but not having a shower? Even homeless shelters had showers! We had a shower curtain around our tub, so nobody would really know unless they opened the shower curtain while they were in our bathroom. Even when we did have a shower—when I was really little—it wasn’t built into the wall, like Maryanne’s or Debbie's and Linda’s. Their showers came out of the wall, and their tubs were connected to the wall and flat against the floor. Our tub was big and deep and had ugly claw feet that reminded me of the gargoyles on the JYC building across the street. “People pay alota money for a tub like that,” my mother told me. Yeah, sure. Where? Where do they pay a lot for a tub like that?

South Philly had always been stuck in a time warp compared to other places, and my family was stuck in a time warp compared to the rest of South Philly. While the people in our neighborhood seemed to be 20 years behind the rest of the world, my family was at least 40. Not only didn’t we have a car, but neither of my parents had a drivers’ license—or had even ever sat behind the wheel of a car. So, even in our old-fashioned neighborhood—where, at the height of disco, a scissor-and-knife man who wheeled a pushcart with a pull-down seat and a pedal-driven, motorized grinding wheel still walked through the streets hawking his sharpening services by yelling “Niy-EEVS! SIZZZ-ERRRS!—my family was considered old-school. I felt like Mary Ellen in The Waltons.

So, when the phone rang that night, I wasn’t just pissed off, I was mortified. The screens were in and the parlor window was open, so the whole neighborhood could hear our stupid antique phone, even with the fan running. Even though it was only May, my mother had the fan running continuously, “to circulate the air,” she said.

I rolled my eyes, sighed, and walked to the phone—slowly, looking back at the TV to see if Major Houlihan was finally gonna clock Frank this time. “Hurry up!” my mother yelled impatiently, still holding her heart.

I blew a huge bubble then sucked it back in before lifting the receiver.

"Hello?” I asked, cracking the gum I’d just sucked in.

“Put Daddy on, Babe.” It was Mindy, my brother Gregory’s wife, and
she sounded very serious.

“What’s a matter?” I asked.

“Baby, I can’t talk now. Put Daddy
on—please!”

“He’s not here. He went to the library…”

“Go get him. Hurry!”

“Where’s Gregor…?”

"Gregory’s in the hospital! Go get him,
now!”

I dropped the phone and ran past my mother, barefoot and crying.

“What is it? What is it?” What’s wrong?!” my mother cried, following me out the door.

I jumped off the top step, and ran through the dirty street, which was now also wet with the rain that had just started to fall. That almost-summer rain smell—wet asphalt mixed with concrete—filled the air and tears filled my eyes.

My fear hadn’t yet taken hold—at least not enough to keep me from using my upper arms to push my tiny 34-Bs together to create a semblance of a cleavage as I ran past Donny and Petie DePasquale on the corner of the 601 Bar. I didn’t know about teasing then. At 16, I was as boy crazy as a Catholic girl with strict parents and two older brothers, 6-foot-four and 6-foot-five, could be, but nothing more. In fact, compared to my friends, who’d either gone all the way or who’d at least had hickeys, I was totally innocent. “Sheltered,” is what my mother called it later. I’d French kissed, but only with steady boyfriends.

Donny and Petie were my brother’s friends, and I’d known them since I was a baby, but in the past year or two, they’d started looking at me treating me a little differently and, I’d recently noticed that they both had hair on their chests and sizable bulges in their jeans. I had never seen a penis, but I felt Billy’s after the junior prom, though only through his jeans. He was my steady boyfriend, sort of, so it was okay to touch as long as we didn’t go under each other’s clothes. I had no desire to go any further. What I felt scared me a little, and I had no problem waiting until I got married. I liked the way those bulges looked in pants, but I didn’t want to know any more.

I could see my father now, but he couldn’t yet hear me calling him. I didn’t yell as loudly as I could have; I didn’t want to scream in the street like all the dirtballs and degenerates in the neighborhood did all the time. I’d wait until I got closer. After all, this wasn’t the first time. We’d gotten many calls about Gregory, and everything always turned out okay. My father would talk to Mindy, calm her down, Gregory would come home, and everything would be back to normal—well, normal for us anyway.

I caught up with my father at Fifth and Porter, about two blocks away from our house and three blocks before the library. My dad usually went to the library on Wednesday evenings, when they were open til 8 o’clock, and I hated to bother him.

“Dad! Dad!” I cried, a little out of breath now after running two blocks.

He stopped and turned around just as I reached him, his arm wrapped around the stack of books he’d planned to return.

“Dad, Gregory’s in the hosp…”

“Jesus God,” he said, the color draining from his face. My father had been in and out of the hospital recently and he didn’t need this aggravation. But this time, I sensed sadness, not just aggravation. It ruffled me a little.

“Dad is he gonna be alright? Is he gonna be alright?” Whatever my father’s answer was would be The Answer. The Correct Answer. The Only Answer. I always felt like my father had a direct phone line to God. He was so honest, so strong, so sincere. My mother used to say he had Abe Lincoln’s morals and Gregory Peck’s face. God liked my dad. He and my dad had a close personal relationship, I always thought, probably because my dad was so good. So, if my dad said Gregory was gonna be alright—even though he didn’t know what had happened, or where Gregory was—then he was gonna be alright.

“Well, I hope so,” my father said, shaking his head slowly back and forth as he turned around and put his arm around my shoulder. “I hope so.”

As we started to walk back home, it struck me that I’d never seen my father look so shaken or dejected. Did he know something that I didn’t? They were always hiding things from me, my parents, so it wouldn’t surprise me. Always hiding things about Gregory. I’ll bet he knows something, I thought.

“Well, what if he’s not? What if he’s not, Dad?!” I demanded.

“Then we bury him.”

Gregory had been in trouble for as long as I could remember. And everyone always told me that I had an incredible memory. “Trouble” was a catchall my parents—especially my mother—used for all of Gregory’s problems. When the truant officer came to our house when I was three years old to find out why Gregory, who was almost 16, wasn’t in school, I knew he was in “trouble.” When I was four years old and my parents told me that Gregory would be spending Christmas with my Uncle Sarge and Aunt Florence—whom I’d only seen once in my life—I knew that what it really meant was that Gregory was in some kind of “trouble.” And when I was seven and I saw the reflection of pulsing red light through my bedroom window and heard my mother crying, heard my father saying “I have a young girl here, officer! I don’t want her to hear this!,” I hid my head under the covers, because I knew Gregory was in “trouble.”

In my mind’s eye, I can see myself lying in my blue-and-white plaid stroller, drinking Karo and water (that’s what the ladies gave their babies in the sixties to settle a stomach; moms didn’t worry about caffeine and sugar back then) out of a bottle, biting hard on the rubber nipple to make the sweet elixir come out faster, watching the white fringe on the canopy blowing in the light breeze, trying to kick it with my newly-polished white baby shoes.

I couldn’t have been an infant, because my shoes were hard-soled--brown soles with white stitches all around; I know, because I remember, clear as day, banging them against the metal foot rest of my coach—that’s what they call strollers in South Philly—banging them hard then soft, hard then soft, until the motion of my mother rocking the coach up and down, rolling it back and forth, lulled me to sleep. Maybe I was one, or 18 months. I was old enough to know that, when my mother whispered, something was wrong. My mother had a full, hearty voice; even her whisper was loud. But when she whispered—or spelled; spelling was even worse, but she didn’t start doing that until I was a little older—that meant something was wrong. And that something usually had to do with Gregory.

And, even as a baby, before I could form the most basic words, or articulate my thoughts or feelings, I knew that I was safe in my coach, safe in my crib, safe in my mother’s arms. And I knew there was chaos and discord all around me, in that primal, intuitive, pre-verbal way that babies know things.

So, while my mother rocked me back and forth in the coach, leaning against our front step and whispering to Pearl Learner, I looked at the fringe and kicked my feet, in tandem with the rocking motion, loud enough to drown out the whispering.
I have no memories of a cold, wet diaper against my skin; no memories of matted, sweaty hair being combed out for a class photo by a frustrated, stressed-out mother; no memories of sticky, smelly undershirts soiled with caked-on Gerber baby carrots or applesauce. That wasn’t my world. That was Petey DeNaro’s world. He lived next door and was the one of Sue and Dee DeNaro’s six kids who was closest to my age, and was never clean or fed, always smelled like piss, and had dirty black fingernails and green snot running out of his nose.

Sometimes I was jealous of Petey, though, ‘cause in the summer, he was allowed to walk outside with no shoes or socks, even if he wasn’t going in his wading pool. His mom let him go in the street and cross by himself, before he was even in kindergarten. And he was allowed to go under the fire plug at night in the summer, when the guys would turn back it on once the cops had stopped coming around for the day. His brother, Junior, had a wrench that he stole from a police car, so as soon as a cop would come by and turn off the hydrant, Junior would go in the house, grab the wrench, and turn it back on.

Usually, by 7:00 or 8:00 pm, the cops would get tired and give up, and the teenagers and the guys on the corner would turn the plug on and keep it on for hours. Petey would be under the plug with them. Sometimes, if it was really hot out, my mother would let me stay out with Debbie and Linda, while she sat on the step talking with their mother, Mary. But we weren’t allowed to leave the step, so we just sat and told stories, or listened to the radio quietly. Usually, by about 9 o’clock, Chickie or Minnie Cooper would start screaming out the window that there was no water pressure and somebody would have pity and turn off the hydrant. Then the party would break up and we would all go in.

Yeah, the DeNaros lived right next door to us, but Petey’s world was not my world. My world was one of Snowy White-washed crisp, clean undershirts and socks; downy-soft cloth diapers that were picked up weekly by Sylvia at the laundromat or “Sylvia The Laundry,” as she was know; warm baths and baby powder; three hot, homemade meals a day; saying prayers with Daddy and bedtime stories before bed—and my parents spelling and talking in Pig Latin.

"I found p-i-l-l-s in his drawer,” I’d hear my mother whisper to my father. Or
“d-o-p-e.” They didn’t call drug addicts junkies in those days. The term, the term that I remember, the term I hated was “dope fiend.” I didn’t know what “dope” was and I had no idea what “fiend” meant, but it sounded so ugly. Like “monster.”

There was a bunch of guys with alternately funny and scary names like Fat Back, Slim Back (no relation to Fat Back), Monk, Turk, and Paulie Duck, who I knew were “dope fiends.” And then there were the “good kids” who got “caught up” with the “dope fiends.” They all had regular names, like Joey Marciano, Joey Iella, Joey LaTerra, Joey Carto, Johnny Rosanno, Johnny McCabe, Tommy and Ralphie Monteferrante, and Irv Ballaban. And, of course, Gregory. Like Gregory, they all came from good homes and, like Gregory, they were all good-looking, clean-cut, well-liked, and respectful of their elders. Johnny Rosanno and Joey Carto both OD’d in the same year—1968. I didn’t know what OD meant. I just knew that they were dead. I didn’t know what dead meant either. But I knew they weren’t coming back, and I knew that after they died, my mother was screaming, crying, and praying more than usual for a long time. My Grandmother was frying breaded smelts on Christmas Eve when Gregory came in crying about Johnny Rosanno. My mother whispered to my Grandmother, but I heard her anyway: “Overdose.” Johnny was 18, the same age as Gregory.

I knew it was bad when my father said he didn’t want me to go to school on Thursday. I was in 11th grade and had missed only three days since freshman year, once for a fever and once, for two days, because of strep throat. “You better call into work, too,” my father said, in the same dejected tone he had the day before, when I’d told him that Gregory was in the hospital. “Tell him you’re not sure when you’ll be back.”

My father was just as big on not missing work as he was on not missing school, and now he wanted me to miss both. I called my boss at my after-school job at the Steak and Sub Pub in the Gallery Mall, and told him that my brother was in the hospital. “God will do what’s right,” he said. Now what the fuck did that mean, “God will do what’s right?” And who did he think he was to even bring God into this? Fuckin’ faggot!

All we knew was that Gregory was in a coma. Apparently, he’d had a seizure and choked on his own vomit, all in the span of about a half-hour, the time it took for Mindy to walk to Settlement School and pick up the kids—five-year-old Melanie and two-year-old Jessica-- from daycare. “Coma,” I said to myself. “Coma. Coma. He’s in a coma.” It wouldn’t sink in.

The phone rang all day that day, and my parents were back and forth between answering the phone and whispering in the kitchen. I had to stay home in case there was news from the hospital and, since we were going up there in an hour or so, anyway, I took the opportunity to write a break-up letter to Billy Marlette. It was something I’d wanted to do for a long time—we had nothing in common, anyway—and somehow, my brother being in the hospital gave me balls of steel. I needed somebody to lash out at, and he was the perfect choice.

I walked with my parents in total silence to 11th and Porter to wait for the trolley. It was still raining but, since Jefferson Hospital was right on 11th and Walnut, at least we wouldn’t have to walk in the rain when we got off.

There was a big poster of Snoopy on the door of Gregory’s room, which also had a small window. I thought that was odd. I’d never seen a hospital-room door with a window. When we got there, my other brother, Jeff, who was eight years older than me and five younger than Gregory, was standing outside of Gregory’s room in the hallway, along with Donny and Petie.

Petie came over and hugged me. “Ah, there she is, there she is,” he said. “There’s my girl.” Petey had always reminded me of Gregory, except he was about 10 inches shorter. He looked a lot like Sonny Bono, except with wavy hair and a goatee, like Gregory. I hugged him back and started to sob. He hugged me tighter and didn’t say “everything’s gonna be alright,” as I thought he would. That scared me. But by then, I’d stopped looking for cues. Gregory was in real bad shape.

My parents walked over to the front of Gregory’s door to speak to the doctor, who talked to them for just a minute, shook my father’s hand, patted my mother on the shoulder, then left. My father was as white as a ghost and I could see that he had tremors. “He has severe brain damage,” I heard him tell my brother. “If he lives, he’ll be a vegetable. If he lives.” I pretended not to hear as I went over to hug my mother. Just then, a priest—a very tall, bespectacled priest dressed in a black robe and clasping his black rosary in front of him--ran by and into Gregory’s room. I freaked out, crying and screaming “No!,” and started to run toward the door, but my brother Jeff grabbed me in his arms and held me with all his might as I flailed my arms and legs. “Shhh, shh,” he said, trying to calm me down. “Stop, you gotta stop!”

“Greg! Gr-e-e-g! Gr-e-e-g! Oh my God! Gr-e-e-g!” I screamed. I couldn’t stop sobbing or calling his name and had a hard time catching my breath. “Greg…Oh God! Don’t let him die! Please don’t let him die!’

My parents went to church almost every Sunday and, though my father was by birth Russian Orthodox and never formally “converted,” it was close enough that he just adopted Catholicism as his religion and was a fairly observant Catholic. My father had always said his prayers every night before bed. My mother, who was fairly religious, prayed regularly, too, but her prayers were usually in the form of Novenas to St. Jude, most likely for Gregory’s salvation, which she’d said diligently, in nine-day, nine-week, or nine-month increments for what seemed like years.

But on Thursday night, when I went into their room to say goodnight, my mother and father were on their knees with their eyes closed and their hands clasped tightly on either side of the bed praying for Gregory.

I don’t know how I missed the phone ring, as loud as it was, but I did. It was my parents’ creaky bedroom door that woke me up in my bedroom, a tandem room that was attached by another door.

“Ma…Dad,” it was Mindy, sobbing. “Ma…Dad…it’s over.” I could hear Jeff in his room down the hall, sobbing and banging on something—the wall? The floor?—and screaming over and over “What did you do, Greg? What did you do?”

My teeth began chattering uncontrollably and my stomach grumbling, as if my bowels were about to give way. My entire body was trembling severely, but I could not move. It was like being in a dream where you try to scream but no sound comes out. I could not move, couldn’t turn my head or lift my arms. I wanted to jump out of bed and run to my parents, but my body wouldn’t move. I learned later that there was a term for this: hysterical paralysis, a condition brought on by severe trauma.

My poor parents were slow to rouse. Perhaps it was denial, if not utter disbelief. I heard my father say “Wha…what?” in a slurred, groggy voice. But my mother, who wore a hearing aid but slept without it, needed to be shaken. “Mom! Mom! Get up!” Mindy called. She was crying.
“Is Gregory okay?” my mother asked.

Then there was sobbing. Wailing. Screaming.

“Mom, no. Mom, it’s cardiac arrest.”

“Well, is he coming home?”

“Ma, he’s gone.”

I heard myself screaming, I felt my eardrums aching, my stomach turning inside out from the vibrations of the screams, but it was all coming from somewhere outside of me. I felt as if I had left my body and was watching this scene from another place.

Mindy came into my room and tried to move me out of bed. I held onto the blanket from my bed, and carried it out of the room, slowly.

My parents were walking through the hallway, and my mother was wailing “My son! My son! My son!” Then she collapsed onto the floor and my father fell down to his knees on top of her, trying to lift her.

Somewhere in the tumult, my mother realized that it was May 25—the same date that her mother had died eight years earlier—and began to call for her mother.

Somehow, maybe with Mindy’s help, my body got out of a nightshirt and into clothes. Mindy’s friend Dottie showed up at 3:00 am, in the pouring rain, to drive us to the hospital. The 15-minute drive seemed like an eternity, as the rain beat mercilessly on the windshields and the car swerved and straddled the trolley tracks on 11th Street.

The whole way there, I shuddered. Amid the sobbing and wailing, I saw Gregory for a moment by myself. I put my head down on his chest and heard nothing—no breath, no smoker’s wheeze, no nothing. Just hollow, empty nothingness.

Gregory couldn’t have a Mass of Christian Burial, because he had not been baptized in a Catholic church and had not been married in a Catholic mass. That did not, of course, prohibit the Catholic church from taking my father’s money every week in the collection basket.

The Russian Orthodox wake gave me nightmares for months. The priest looked like Rasputin and chanted my brother’s name in Russian, along with some archaic and spooky Russian prayers, as he swayed the gold incense burner bearing back and forth, filling the room with the putrid aroma of frankincense that mixed with the smell of funeral flowers.

My father knelt down in front of the casket and rested his head and arms on Gregory and sobbed. I had seen tears in my father’s eyes only once, when his sister died, but now he was crying like a baby. My heart broke for him. In all those years of tough love, in all those years of spending his measly house painter’s salary on lawyers and bail and rehab and therapy, in all those years threatening to call the police, in all those years of telling Gregory to pack his bags and leave—my father really loved Gregory.

“Oh, my precious little boy,” my father cried, his tears falling on the 6-foot-4 man who was his first born. “My little baby, my precious son!”

I went into the bathroom, exhausted from grief and the physical stress my body had been through, and vomited. When I came out, the funeral director was closing the casket.

Jeff held me with both arms as I felt my legs gave way. I remember my
feet not touching the floor as the pall bearers carried Gregory’s casket through the door to the hearse.

“Don’t put him in that car! No please don’t put him in that car!” I cried. Jeff held me there until Gregory was in the hearse.

Then we all followed behind for my brother’s last ride.

Cradle Me, Mama, Cradle Me Again

I grew up in the city--the inner-city, actually--and have always considered myself a city chick. It's part of my identity. Like being female. Like being my mother's child or my son's mother.

Having grown up in the "'hood," as my son calls it with pride--though it really wasn't the "'hood" back then, but a friendly, warm, working-class family neighborhood-I learned early the benefits of a sassy mouth and a "don't mess with me" attitude. The mouth, I'm afraid, is ingrained in me. But the attitude is a bit of a protective device. Except, that is, when it comes to defending someone I love or something I believe strongly in. When it comes to my family and my loved ones, I'm no holds barred.

I've always been able to handle life, to roll with the punches. But otherwise, there's nothing tough about me--not tough in the city sense, anyway. I never "hardened" like some city girls did. I always had compassion, always a sadness, could always cry at the drop of a hat--just thinking about something sad or someone being hurt. No street smarts at all, both of my brothers told me. When you're 12, being ultra-sensitive can be endearing, I suppose. As you get older, it becomes a bit more of a liability.

Still, being vulernerable is one thing. Feeling vulnerable is another. It has taken years--I've come to terms with my vulnerability. Every loss has weakened me substantially--physically, spritually, emotionally--and the effect is cumulative. And the physical pain I've had in the past couple of years uses up any tiny reserve of strength I've built up.

Sometimes I feel so fragile. Sometimes I feel that I am going through life with my arms up in front of my face, trying to deflect the blows. Afraid that if I fall, I won't be able to get back up. And when I see those words in print, I think "Boo hoo hoo, poor poor pitiful me. What a wimp I am!" And that gives me a little more strength to fight another day.

I guess this is what it is to be an orphan. I should be used to it after nearly 14 years, but I'm not. My mental image of myself used to be of a strong-willed, spirited girl eager to learn, ready to go anywhere, meet anyone, do anything. Now it is of that little girl, curled up in a fetal position, holding her doll, crying for Gregory. And in my mind, I often hear the last part of the refrain from "Stoney End"--more poignant words have never been uttered: "Cradle me, Mama, cradle me again."

The Knell

Gone but not forgotten
Your insidious epitaph
creeps into my soul
my sanity
my dreams
fever dreams
dreams of quicksand
dreams of ashes
like noxious green poison

Botticelli Would Have Loved Your Face

Botticelli would have loved your face
With countenance divine and eyes so dark
And wild hair full of snowy fragrant cold
Your heart of thorny pain your love so stark

Botticelli would have loved your skin
And chiseled jaw ripe dewey lips so fine
I lie asleep inside your manly womb
adrift deep in your salty honey brine

Botticelli would have loved your soul
His canvas lighted by your radiant hue
Your shadows not for anyone to own
In death he'd see eternity in you

The Sad Case of Susan Boyle

Am I the only one who thinks Susan Boyle is being exploited? Am I the only one who thinks she’s been treated in a dehumanizing, patronizing manner?

Two weeks ago, the 47-year-old unemployed Scottish charity worker was a lonely spinster, completely unknown—except to the mean, cruel, self-centered people who mocked and ridiculed her for her lack of physical beauty and perhaps for her seeming quirkiness or eccentricity.

Then Susan Boyle snagged a spot on the British TV show Britain’s Got Talent. And, at first, it looked as if Susan was in for more of the same—only this time, it would be, not a private shaming, but humiliation in front of an international audience of millions. Chief among the hateful, heckling horde was smug, smirking Simon Cowell, a ready scowl on his face. There, in the eyes of many, was pitiful, plain-Jane Susan Boyle, the perfect vulnerable prey for the slithering, salivating, heartless predator that is Simon Cowell, who was ready to pounce, as he’d done so many times before. And there was the audience snickering and scoffing with anticipatory glee.

The snickers and muffled laughter continued for a couple of awkward moments as Susan answered Cowell’s questions. Then Susan Boyle opened her mouth to sing, and out came, as judge Piers Morgan later gushed affectedly on Larry King Live, “the voice of an angel.”

The audience roared and cheered and jumped to its collective feet, and Cowell’s scowl turned into a radiant smile, artificially whitened teeth a-glow, cheeks flushed, dollar signs all but radiating in his now-dilating pupils. Laurels were tossed at Susan’s previously frumpy feet, and the praise flowed out of the judges’ mouths like so much liquid shit out of a never-been-pumped septic tank. Susan Boyle was a star!

Aren’t these the same pompous bastards who wouldn’t have given this woman the time of day 10 minutes earlier? Aren’t these the same egomaniacs who would have deemed Susan Boyle unfit to have breathed the same air as them if she’d sung out of key?

Last week, Larry King joined the media circus as ringleader and though, obviously genuinely impressed and even taken with Susan’s vocal chops, proceeded to ask her a raft of moderately insulting questions, such as whether or not she was going to change her apparently too-dowdy-for-Larry look. Absolutely not, Susan told him. “Why should I?” Good for you, girlfriend! Stick to your guns. Larry and his satellite guest, Morgan, fawned and gushed disingenuously over Boyle, talked about her in the third person as if she were Simon Cowell’s prize-winning pig, and otherwise dehumanized her under the guise of kudos and congratulations. Morgan even went so far as to ask Susan for a date (gag me); sadly, she said yes. I’d be curious to know whether the date actually happens.

The whole world, it seems, is in love with Susan Boyle. Susan Boyle, whose best friend—her mother, who died in 2007—had been her inspiration and her champion, the person who encouraged her to audition for the show. Susan Boyle, who’s excited about her newfound fame not because of the potential riches that will accompany it, but because “now,” as she candidly put it, “I won’t be lonely anymore.”

Well, I hope you’re not lonely anymore, Susan. You seem like a good person. Of course, you will have lots of potential new suitors—many of them will be handsome and successful. Many will profess their undying love. I hope—I really do—that one of them is real. And I hope you love him, too. I hope you don’t mistake having people around you for not being lonely. But I know you won’t, because you’re not only talented—you’re smart. So, if you don’t find what you’re looking for—whether that’s love or companionship—don’t settle.

You were a gifted singer before last week. Nobody can take that gift from you. But now—in the eyes of those who seek to profit from your talent—you are a commodity. Should you lose your voice, should the public grow tired of you, you will be tossed out like trash by the same people who professed their love, respect, and admiration for you when they first heard the “cha-ching!” of your angelic voice. They call the shots—but only if you let them.

Don’t let that happen, Susan. You are in the driver’s seat. In our society, for better or for worse, money equals power, and power equals freedom. You’ve earned your freedom. I hope you will cherish it and not allow yourself to become a pawn or a prisoner—and, if you’re so inclined, I hope you'll also allow yourself to tell Simon Cowell to fuck off.

I Never Got to Feed My Baby

It is a mother's most primal instinct--
to feed and nourish, to nurture her baby.
To give her baby food, sustenance
as she has given her baby life.
I never got to feed my baby.
I was swollen and sore,
aching for her to latch on.
But she was lifeless.
Cold and lifeless.
Lifeless little beautiful Snow White angel
with slender fingers and little bow lips.

The report said "Stomach conents: empty."
That was the final blow.

Words That Wound

It’s funny—not “ha ha” funny but “strange” funny—how a smell, a sound, or even just a word can affect us. This happens to me all the time. I am going about my business, and, out of nowhere, something—something intangible but very real—comes along, blindsides me, fucks up my psyche, and messes with my equilibrium.

Sometimes that’s a good thing, even welcome—like when I inadvertently stumble upon a few bars of a long-forgotten song on the radio that reminds me of someone I love, or of a particularly happy time.

Usually, though, it’s melancholy—not necessarily unwelcome; just unsettling. Those are times when I catch a whiff of an older woman in a store wearing my Mother’s perfume, or I pass a construction worker on the street who resembles my brother Gregory, or I see a new Mom pushing a stroller and am instantly transported to when I was a new Mom.

But every once in a while, it is a brutal sucker punch. This happened just the other day, in the most innocent and banal of circumstances. I was editing an article on great restaurants with a focus on their desserts. Then came the word that cut through my heart: “macerated.” The dessert being described was made with macerated cherries. But I was catapulted to where I was the last time I heard the word “macerated.”

It was in my Baby’s autopsy report. It had been a year after her death before I could bring myself to read it. And that was the word that was used to describe the condition of her body. Until then, I’d only ever heard that word used to describe fruit. So I looked it up, and sobbed, and swore I would never look at that report again. And I never did.

Now I was seeing that word again, used the only way it ever should be. I took a deep breath and put it out of my mind, then continued, with trepidation, editing the rest of the article. I didn’t see that word again. Thank God.