Madness and Soy Milk

I usually steer very far away from drama. Give me the news straight. Take the sugar coating off, stamp it into the carpet and make a crystallized floor but by all means, don't tip toe on it.

The idea of madness is entirely different. I cling to madness, to chaos, to the unknown, to what cannot be determined but only experienced. Madness is the second between jumping off of a plane and the moment the parachute opens into the wind; you are ignited by the power of risk.

My poetry collection begins with the quote, "There is wisdom that is woe; but there is a woe that is madness." Moby Dick

This line encompasses my poetic place in the world. It is the human I strive to be. A contained madness, dedicated to disrupting a perfection to make it an imperfection, which is actually a perfection. 

Bits of Madness for your afternoon coffee: 

1) Call it WWE, call it "RIP HIS HEAD OFF," call it Saturday Night: I was a big fan of Hulk Hogan when I was younger. Not because of his presence in the ring but because of his incredible mustache. This was the extent of my WWE knowledge. When friends got tickets for the WWE event taking place just minutes from our house, we went without hesitation. The fighters entered the ring and the next thing you know, I was transformed into a mad woman screaming on the top of my lungs. I'm an ex-boxer and very fond of one on one combat (strange for a poet, I'm sure) but WWE? 

The next morning Doug was talking to my mother, "you should have seen your daughter." I heard her say, "sometimes you need to let your hair down."

Letting your hair down = embracing madness. 

2) Call it a photo: Occasionally (okay, like every day) I look through the pictures of Rylee on my phone. She grows so much on a daily basis. I love starting from the first picture Doug took of her and scrolling through her progress. The fact that we created a human who smiles when you say "I love you," who holds onto your shoulder when you pick her up, who jabbers on about everything and nothing is just amazing; it's madness. 

The picture I always stare at the longest is this one: 

It was taken on her 36 hour birthday. The early am she was born, our family and friends were in the waiting room. They waited until 2am to see her. The doctors were in and out that entire night checking in on us. The next morning brought a whole slew of visitors until about 9pm. The next day on her 36 hour birthday, no one visited. Doug had to go to work. I thought I had gotten the hang of the routine: change, feed, change, put her to sleep. Wakes up crying 20 minutes later: change, feed, change, sleep. At 10am, I did this and ordered breakfast but she didn't go back to sleep. She stayed awake staring at me. We spent an hour just looking at one another. I sang her songs and kissed her forehead. I was a Mother. Madness. 

3) Call it words: I began a book titled, "Madness, Rack, and Honey." This is a collection of lectures by Mary Ruefle. I sat reading with soy milk and tea:

"And the lesson is always the same, and young poets recognize this to be one of the most important lessons they can learn: if you have any idea for a poem, an exact gird of intent, you are on the wrong path, a dead-end alley, at the top of a cliff you haven't even climbed. This is a lesson that can only be learned by trial and error." 

Poetry relies on madness, spontaneity. I constantly have to remind myself that planning should be for social events and Rylee's feeding schedule (although this can also be a subject of madness). My poems have to talk amongst themselves in the moment. They need to jump out of a plane and not know if the parachute will open. 

"In life, the number of beginnings is exactly equal to the number of endings: no one has yet to begin a life who will not end it." 

Do all beginnings in life have an end? I'm not sure about this one. This is why grief is so maddening. The life of our loved ones may end in a physical sense but their death, the memory of the loss is an infinite amount of time. It is like the poem. Although the ending has a last line it lives on in a maddening way. 

***

I find the fact that time passes so quickly to be utter madness. 

Fill your day with surprises, 

A 

Getting to know those you already love

One of my favorite things to do is fire off random questions to those I love the most, to those who I think I know everything about. We are a forever changing species (at least I hope I am) and learning about someone is a forever game. When you love what that person is about, watching them evolve and change is almost a privilege. So, while sitting in bed staring at the ceiling or while in the car driving to the grocery store I may ask:

What's your favorite movie at the moment?
Favorite or most prominent childhood experience?
First crush?
Favorite meal?
Who inspires you?
If you could be an animal what would you be?

Sometimes, I know the answers. Other times, I am surprised. It's this surprise I hope for.

When I found my father after being estranged for 13 years, we communicated almost solely on a question to question basis. He was homeless living in Florida and I was living in a small rent stabilized apartment in Brooklyn. This was during a time people still used pay phones. On occasion we would speak but mostly, we wrote our questions.

We didn't communicate about why he left or why his drinking habit was so hard to kick. We utilized time to show our affections toward one another, to try and find the definition of Father and Daughter.

After months of correspondence I booked a trip to visit him. Sitting in the rental car, he pulled out a piece of paper and said, "I wrote down a list of things I thought were important for you to know."
"Really?" I looked at him, slumped into the passenger seat.  He unfolded a piece of paper and read, "Jiff peanut butter is better than Skippy. Read the news. Play an Instrument. Fall in love with someone who loves you back."

At first I laughed. But he was sincere. He peered over his bottle cap glasses with his signature "don't I look serious" face. This moment not only took me by surprise but it has stayed with me all of these years. He is gone now. Swept off by alcohol and cancer. No matter how dysfunctional our relationship started (and ended), it was submerged with love- the desire to know someone you care about.

Going to the mailbox can sometimes leave me feeling lonely. For years, I expected to open it and find different sized envelopes smelling of dust and sweat. Letters that were inquisitive and sweet. On the days I feel the void of my father, I open a large wooden box holding our correspondence. I sit on the floor and rummage through, feeling grateful for the permanence.

Guess my favorite color. I bet you'll be surprised,
A

In 5 minutes

Last year, my brother was in a serious motorcycle accident. He was in the ER for the first few hours. My brother's best friend, my mother, Doug and I all sat in the waiting room holding hands and taking turns seeing him one at a time. Visiting hours were only once an hour for 5 minutes.

The 1 year anniversary of his accident has me thinking, what's in 5 minutes?

When I was in 1st grade, my teacher Miss. Pontiflio was having a hard time keeping us quiet. I can't remember exactly what we were up to but I suppose the normal ruckus a bunch of 6 year-olds cause. She shut off the lights to signal a timeout and told us that we wasted 5 minutes. To make us understand the length of time 5 minutes fills, she made us sit in the dark with our heads down. I remember feeling like 5 minutes was a forever of time.

5 minutes.

It was 4:15pm. I was getting ready for work. My apron spinning in the drier. I left my phone on the steps and walked through the living room. The dogs were sleeping on a small round carpet. I stood in the washroom for a minute thinking about the night ahead of me. The apron was warm and I folded it neatly. As I started up the stairs, Doug said I missed a call from my brother 5 minutes ago. "That was fast. He just left here 20 minutes ago. You listen to it." He picked up the phone and Doug's face turned from its usual charming expression to a deep frown. I knew what this meant. We sat on the stools in the kitchen hugging each other and waiting to hear back.

5 minutes.

3 years ago I was living on my best friend's couch writing poems about old cottages and damaged flowers. I cooked her vegetarian dinners and planned a 6 week road trip. Exactly a week before my departure we went out for wine and tapas. After fully engorging ourselves on manchego and an earthy cabernet, we decided to go dancing.

Her suggestion was a local bar known for it's wet bar smell, large dance floor and underage customers. I fought this in the cab ride but she convinced me with "$1.00 drinks for ladies" before 11pm. It would be our first stop. We walked in, received a stamp and headed to the bar. The dance floor was filled with people 8-9 years younger than us. They were jumping up and down blowing kisses in their cameras.

I was at the bar for 5 minutes when the bartender walked by me and winked. I pretended to think this was cheesy but he was cute. So, when he did it a second time I sorta smiled. He leaned over the bar and I met him half way. Our cheeks bumped and for the next 5 minutes, I waited for him to come back. He asked to call me and I scribbled my name and number on register paper.

I woke up at 6:15am. Michele was still sleeping. I sat staring at the ceiling thinking about the night, my trip and a poem swirled itself around my head. 5 minutes later, a text popped up on my screen. "Hi, Anastasia. This is Doug. I just want to say how nice it was to meet you. You are gorgeous. Here is my number."

5 minutes.

The waiting room was filled. Other families. A woman waiting alone. A homeless man singing oldies. I walked to the window and asked for a pass to see my brother in the ER. "Visiting hours are not for another 5 minutes." I told her that my brother was in Brooklyn visiting me. He was on his way home. The sun was shining and someone hit him on his motorcycle and I didn't know anything about his condition. "Please," I asked, "don't make me wait any longer." The door buzzed open.

5 minutes.

If you are particular about your avocados it can take 5-minutes to pick the right one. Your hands gently pressing into the skin. It shouldn't be too hard; ripe enough that your fingertips can feel the soft green vegetable inside.

If the line at the coffee shop is long, you could be waiting 5 minutes to place your order. You might wait the same amount of time for your hot beverage.

The lines painted on the street probably take 5 minutes to dry.

It takes less than 5 minutes to hit a motorcycle waiting in a toll booth.

5 minutes.

He was laying face-up breathing heavy. I said, hi and he looked me in the eyes. I  held his hands. I kept peering around the curtain for the doctor. I wanted to ask questions. He didn't know much. I told my brother that Anthony, Mom and Doug were in the waiting room. He nodded. A small buzz sounded for visitors to return to the waiting room. I tried to hide behind the curtain but they spotted me and gently guided me back.

5 minutes.

I'm a card person. When Doug and I were first dating I would leave him lots of notes and cards. It wasn't to get anything back but simply to express how wonderfully lucky I felt (feel). After he opened a card left under his pillow, he mentioned he had something planned for me. I told him that this, truly wasn't necessary. A few weeks later, the holidays had arrived. His family flew in from Hawaii and Florida. We drove up from Brooklyn to stay at his parents' house.

It started snowing. He woke me up early Saturday to spend the day together. "But your family is here, really it's okay." We went to a nail salon and I got pampered like never before. On the way home, I held his hand and the snow laced the window-shield.

When we got out of the car, he tugged me inside. I resisted. "Let's take a picture in the snow. It's so beautiful." He was racing me inside and up the stairs. 5 minutes to get from the car to the living room where a fire place was lit. Where he took a box from the mantel. Where I thought it was an earring. Where he bent down on one knee. Where I screamed, "Of Course." Where our families came barging into the room.

5 minutes.

My brother was in ICU for 2 weeks. Little did I know, I was in my first trimester with Rylee. I slept on the train to Harlem a few times a week. I stood next to him watching his breath. The doctors told us he would get worse before better. They didn't tell us his lungs would fill with fluid. They didn't tell us whether he would make it or not would be a question in every single one of my 5 minutes. The thought of losing my brother took up all of these clusters of time. I wanted nothing more than to take him home with me.

5 minutes.

It was earlier than I usually wake up on a Saturday. The train was speeding by underneath our apartment. The sun was heating the bathroom at an abnormally fast rate. I stood over the test and looked in the mirror. It felt like 5 minutes before the digital test read yes.

I creaked into the bedroom and tapped Doug on the shoulders. He buried his head into the pillow with happiness, then sat up to hug me. 

5 minutes.

The bad days felt like really bad days. In my memory it was raining and no one had an umbrella. All of New York City walked around soaking wet, blowing their noses and worried about a brother hooked up to too many monitors.

As a man with lots of bad luck, my brother was a professional fighter. The universe found ways to torment his body with disease, electricity and now an accident. His eyes were closed. I stared at  his heart rate monitor. The nurse told me his heart needed to beat slower but it raced up and up and up. "Don't even think about it. You better fight."
  
5 minutes x two weeks.

The days piled up into weeks. The amount of tubes entering my brother's body started to decrease. He made his way into the Physical Therapy wing. This is where I told him he would be an Uncle. This is where he learned to walk again. It's where we made fun of Mom and of each other again. It's where I mocked him for being all tied up and unable to squeeze my knuckles or punch me in the ribs.

We shared a sandwich and he said, "that baby is the reason I made it."

***

That's it for now. My heart is big and beating with gratitude for the love that exists in my life.

Hug as many people as possible,
A

Living on a Question

I’m a pretty talkative person. My family would probably tell you that I don’t shut up. This is probably true when it comes to those I am the closest with but I am not a "tell my life story to a stranger" kinda gal.

When I was pregnant with Rylee it was really hard to get around this. My nickname was “beanpole” growing up or the clever play on my maiden name,  “where’s your butt Werner?” Pregnant, I looked extremely pregnant even in my second trimester. Going through something that pretty much everyone can relate to, coincidently brought on a thousand questions from strangers.

At this particular state in my life, I worked part-time at a friend’s store: a woman’s boutique shop. The questions were always the same and in the exact same order:

How many months are you?

Is it a boy or a girl?

Are you thinking of names?

I seriously thought of making a fill in the blank maternity shirt. (A poet has to make money somehow, right?) I tried to turn conversations away from the seedling in my belly… “The last book I read was” or “There is supposed to be a storm today” or “So…Mitt Romney?” No matter how hard I tried, their eyes would wander on my stomach. On a few rare occasions, some even tried to go for a rub. (I am not The Buddha; I will not bring you luck.)

In the hospital, I thought about the new presence in my life. The new space she would fill and how exciting this was. I coincidently, thought about how my stomach would shrink (hopefully) and people would see me as an individual again. But questions remained and they turned to:

How old is she?

Boy or a girl?

What a cuttieee.

  

I started to expect people to talk about the little girl attached to my hip. After all, she is the creation I am the most proud of. If I am standing in line at CVS and you don’t look over my shoulder to see my sidekick lounging in her stroller, I’ll think you are heartless. Ok, maybe not.

One of my very very best friends is pregnant. While I told myself I wouldn’t smother her with questions about the pregnancy, I realized it is almost impossible. I’ve begun to realize that we ask questions to share an experience that changes everything. It frustrates you, blows your mind, and fills you with love like never before. And when you know someone else has the privilege of experiencing this, you want to ask.

What I decided to do was ask the different questions. I had one friend who asked me the good questions during my pregnancy: Are you getting sharp pains down there? It’s weird right? Eat a lot of ice cream! Brute honest questions helped me find reality. After all, we don’t live on a rainbow. We live in a place where people read books, hurricanes take out an entire city of families, and where voting matters.

Good questions, then, are vital.

Since the day my friend began trying to become impregnated and during my last few months of pregnancy with Rylee, we’ve openly discussed the wild process of pregnancy and motherhood. For the sake of art and openness, here are the questions (verbatim) that have emerged from the last four months:

 
                                 How’s the sexin’ going?
(Insert picture of app with lots of “hearts” indicating sexin’ was happening just fine)     
                               Wow…is your bed still on its feet?


Want to go out for Nutella Creeps?
Damn *Crepes
                               I would prefer creeps.


                              Any word from your Aunt Flo?
Nope J
(Insert picture of recently peed on preg stick…POSITIVE)
                              lerekjd,mdsvlsdvksdoigsdoghsdg


                                How is hubby responding?
He is high-fiving me.


Did you have a c-section? Baby doesn’t have a cone head to be a vagina baby.
                                 Haha. Vagina Baby all the way.

Holy Fucking Nauseous ness.
                              Yay. Go Baby! P.S. I got a breast infection.

Hey, how’s your boob?
                           Much better. How’s the pukes?


                              How are the dreams?
Sex dreams?
                               Haha. No. Well sure. Vivid dreams when preggs.


(Insert sonogram pic)
                              dfhsdflsdfpsdjfdspgjtyerihwefsdf


Can I eat a hot dog?
                               ……

 
                             How’s the little human?
I’ve popped blood vessels in my face from puking.
 
 
And …my favorite from this morning…
 
Any remedies to help with this preg constipation?
 

And a few hours later….
                                        Did you poop?
 

I should have made the title of this post, “Did you poop?” It’s a personal question, yes. A question perhaps you shouldn’t ask a pregnant woman you meet on line at CVS. “Did you poop?” is a question that emanates concern, interest and sincerity of someone’s condition.

Life needs questions. My challenge for you today: ask someone you care about a real question. One that matters; it doesn’t have to be about poop.

For realz,

A

Caffeinated Blood

Today, I slept a full 6 hours.

I woke up at 4am wondering why Rylee hadn't cried yet. I went to her crib and heard a small snore; she was still sleeping! I snuggled back in bed until she signaled for me at 6am. I never slept much anyway so the lack of sleep that comes with being a new parent, isn't something I really complain about. Unless, of course, you told me I didn't look so good. Then, I might tell you to stick a sock dirty diaper in it. 

Having a baby is actually good training for being productive. You have no choice. You love this little human more than you can possibly describe to anyone. So, you'll roll out of bed 30 times if you have to. You'll forget to brush your teeth (not all the time). You'll call your cousin the wrong name. You'll ask someone what day it is three hundred times until it's the next day and it doesn't matter anyway. Through all this, you keep plugging along. You smile and coo and cuddle that little human. She doesn't know that sometimes you sleep on the toilet just for a few minutes of shut eye. 

So...when the glorious day comes...the day every parent brags about....the day she sleeps through the night....you feel like someone injected caffeine into your big momma veins. 

This is the day, that I conquer the world. Am I president yet?  

Today, I read a brilliant poem by Leigh Stein. 

The Bachelorette, Season 8, Episode 5

EPISODE 5

I know I sound like I'm on my death bed, but 

I don't want them to think that I'm not having fun. 

Good girls are hard to come by. 

Isn't that cool?

I want a guy that doesn't take himself too seriously.

I, myself, am taking this very seriously.

Please enjoy your short imprisonment.

You kind of learn what they're into and 

then maybe you'll get into it. 

The good part is: you kiss his lips 

and some poison is left to kill your own self.

May the best Romeo win.

I think loving someone is giving yourself completely 

to them, giving them an eternal kind of love.

I really like my kisses with Sean.

Sean is totally my prisoner of love tonight.

It's all or nothing: that's kind of the theme of this 

whole endeavor. Fuck my life, man.

I want something that lasts forever 

and that I'm so sure of.

If you have the balls to say "fuck my life, man" in poem, I'll adore you. If you have the talent to pull it off, I'll want to be your friend. If you have killer couplets (and some poison is left to kill your own self./ May the best Romeo win.) that lead up to it, I'll want to be your best friend. 

Leigh Stein, will you be my best friend? Check YES or NO. Actually, don't check yes or no. Who made up that game anyway? If I am rejected it is forever on paper. Maybe we could string two cups together. You could tell me yay or nay. If it's nay, I'll drop my cup or give it to someone I don't like to drink out of. Yep, much better than paper. 

*

I'm typing really loudly now and this coffeeshop's mascot, a big winged fly has now landed on my shoulder. I suppose he is asking me to leave. 

As my father, the sailor used to say...

Bye for now, 

A 

There. The first has been written.

Apparently, I'm not so good at this beginning thing. 

Give me a poem to start and maybe it'll be better than this. 

I've written this first, 8 times. This is the 9th. Instead of 

attempting a paragraph on who I am and how I got here, 

I'll just let you figure it out.