Rerun Time: How to Leave a Party in Ten Easy Steps. Or Maybe Fewer.

For your viewing pleasure, I’m resurrecting some old posts that might have been lost in the literary action. This story is mostly true, and paints me in an odd light. Which is to say, completely accurately.

Years ago, I was invited to a party.  I’m not saying it was the last time, but it might have been.  I don’t remember.  The host was a wonderful friend of my beau at the time and I enjoyed this friend’s company, so I believed I could only enjoy his friends’ company as well.  This beau, I’ll call him D, believed, as I did, that the best social activity involved three, maybe four people at most, and could quickly be ended at a moment’s notice when necessary, by which I mean when we started to panic and became unable to respond politely to conversation.  Did I mention social retardation?

The party, unfortunately, was three hours away from home, so we came prepared to stay at this party all night. Yes, all night.  No escape route, no pre-agreed upon means of begging out when, not if, we began freaking out.  The first few folks we met seemed nice enough.  D and I parted ways, making our way around as guests arrived, being introduced and making brief eye contact before reverting to the floor-stare.  We met occasionally as we circled the second floor apartment, giving a quick, “You okay?” and a restrained nod to each other in passing.  Gradually this gave way to lingering moments wherein one of us would say, “Are you sure?  You don’t look well.”  We took turns sublimating our own mounting panic to console the other.

Frankly, I think we did quite well.  It must have been a full hour into this shindig when our glances over the sea of heads began to acquire a wide-eyed look, the look one might see on the face of the horror movie star when he realizes the meth-fueled axe murderer is in the house.  At this point, we understood that it was time.  Time to find the way out.  But how?  How could we insult this dear friend and escape unnoticed from a second floor apartment in a hugely tall house?  We had backpacks!  A bottle of vodka to contend with!  (A note to those of you who believe that alcohol subdues neurosis – you are mistaken.  There are not enough greyhounds in the world to obliterate the fear that dwells within a true social misfit.  Alcohol can only make escape significantly more challenging, and potentially illegal.)

D leaned his head towards the bedroom where our cumbersome packs were lying, unaware of their fates, and I followed with relief that he must be feeling like me.  We needed out.  NOW.

Quickly, we ran through the possibilities.  We could just say goodbye to our host and go.  That would be the reasonable thing.  But we were supposed to be staying there, could hardly be that rude to a friend surrendering his bedroom, opening his home to us even while having to perform the tricks of party emcee. And besides, reasonable was not one of our strengths.  We could sneak out, hoping he wouldn’t notice until much later when we would have some time to invent a plausible excuse without exposing our true natures.  But how would we sneak?  The halls and rooms were all filled with the creative folk of Charlotte, the haute-art and then us.  A couple of hillbilly hippies, laden with back packs.  Back packs of all things!  We might have passed ourselves off as Appalachian Trail hikers gone astray, D in his overalls, I in my boots.

At the same moment, we noticed the window.  We guessed it looked out over an alley beside the house, and slowly walked over to it to see for sure.  D raised the heavy window and peered out through the screen-less opening.

“It looks like maybe 30, 40 feet.  I think it’s too far for us to jump.  But there is ivy and stuff growing up the side here…maybe we could climb down?”

I leaned out beside him, “Are you crazy?  We’ll never make it.  But our stuff might.”

We removed the bottle of Bowman’s from his bag, and with only the briefest hesitation, dropped our bags into the darkness.  With a satisfying whap they hit the ground.  At least our stuff was safe, even if we were not.

At this point, there was no turning back.  We emerged into the frippery once again, this time as a united front of anxiety and borderline panic, seeking out our host.  We slunk up to him, telling expressions on our bloodless faces.  His eyes slowly rose from his conversation to take us in:  the crazy leading the inept, and with his face falling he nodded.  “You are leaving.  Thanks for trying.”

We ummed, cleared our throats, and bowed awkwardly to those who might have heard, making our way to the stairs.  Once safely in the truck, we sped towards downtown Charlotte, to a nice, orderly hotel room, towels untouched by any people with faces we might have to deal with, neat white tile, and not an artist in sight.

Tags: socially awkward, what's the opposite of philanthropy

I Lied to My Shrink, and Other Hazards of Breastfeeding

This post is actually over at Breastfeeding Moms Unite, written for Melodie upon her request.

It was an honor to share it with her, and I hope you’ll pop on over and read it.

It concerns – you guessed it! Breastfeeding. So don’t say I didn’t warn you. But it’s also about me, and might prove interesting.  Or horrifying. Hard to say.

Tags: borderline personality disorder, Breastfeeding, medication, mental illness, nursing, psychiatry

What Not To Wear…Hunting Edition

This is the time of year when a young man’s fancy turns to…mossy oak.

Years ago, when I first returned to the south-ish after a stay in the wilds of North Jersey, I met a fellow we’ll call…aw hell, we’ll call him Ed, because that’s his name.  He was a true southern gentleman, but I’m sure it was the big truck and the drawl that got me. I’m a sucker for a country boy.

He invited me to go hunting with him on Thanksgiving morning, and I accepted.  That’s right – I said I’d go.

Let’s not pretend that you haven’t done anything foolish just to be near a particular member of the gender of your choice, mmkay?

On said morning, I awoke at the crack of two a.m. because hunting is one of those things that one begins before normal people are awake, since you look so freaking ridiculous in that getup. Seriously.

I showered so I would be fresh for the object of my affection, and plastered deodorant under my flowery, delicate underarm area.

Do you know where this is going?

At no time did Ed inform me that deer can smell! How was I supposed to know that they liked hippies and would flee from anyone who tried to gussy herself up a bit??

Needless to say, the trip was a wash, despite Ed’s spraying me with something I can only describe as “Deer Funk” and putting his own layers of scent-lessly-washed camouflage on top of my cute outfit. Let me tell you, I was glad I’d put on that deodorant.

But we sat under a tree, back to back, in the still hush of pre-dawn. The fog gave way to the bright golds and reds and rusty browns of a southern forest, and I was there to witness it. Only an hour from Washington D.C., I sat in utter stillness and quiet, keeping the company of a man who knew the language of his place.

And I still smelled pretty.

Tags: city girl, Ed Tober, forest, hunting, The South

Truck Body

I helped bore holes into the body of the truck that we would later make love in, in a field by a pond with tall grasses and moonlight.

It made me feel big and important, the way a little girl might feel working beside her father, but I understand that’s not the right way to feel.

Perhaps the right way is to feel proud to be included in the piecing together of something bigger, in the grinding of metal into metal,

The gluing of bolts, attaching of parts.

We built something, and you never questioned my skill or adeptness,

Neither with trucks

Nor people.

But all these years later

As I put myself together from the shards

of memory

I see I might have been better

equipped to deal

with trucks

than men.

Tags: being human, memory, poem, trucks

Revisiting

The house I grew up in is now a store.  A running and walking shoe store, to be exact.  The point is, you can walk in whenever they’re open and see the dining room where I played piano and made up songs about my brother’s stuffed animals, the kitchen where I learned of my parents’ fears about this new scourge, AIDS, and whether my dear uncle would be safe, the bedroom where I first dreamed I loved a boy, and the living room where I was shaken, not stirred, for being such a bad, bad girl.

Of course, it’s all shoes. And Lycra-bearing athletic wear.

But I ran into an old friend the other day who said she’s been in there, just to see the house where I lived when she knew me. Which makes me wonder if other people do the same thing.

Does my best friend from those days still try the front steps tentatively, afraid she might fall in again when the rotting wood gives way?

Do kids who grew up in that neighborhood rush by the house, worried that the huge St. Bernard might still be there, lurking in the bushes?

Does the boy down the street, who is the father of one of my best friend’s children, still come to climb the big magnolia tree? Does he go all the way to the top the way we used to and make the tree sway and dip and almost let him go?

Does the boy I loved but not enough sometimes drop by in the night to throw pebbles at my bedroom window?

I only live a mile away from that house now. And at night, sometimes, I hear the little tap of pebbles and rise up and go out into the dark quiet of my town to walk the abandon streets.

I walk to the Chinese gardens where I’d meet my friend to perform the secret, sacred rituals of growing up in a place so circular, I can still see myself, way back there.

In a house filled with running shoes.

Tags: childhood, memory, mourning, youth

Movement

The weather is like this: cooler, when you can just put on a sweater and only feel as if maybe a coat would have been better. The leaves are falling and smell of sweetness and decay. The crisp football air feels good.

But there is an argument. This homecoming game littered with high school angst is anything but. It is a saying goodbye, a fight, a tug of war between friend and lover in which friend wins. No amount of quoting Beckett and playing Kathy’s Song is going to get her back now.

And he says, “So this is it? That’s all there is?”

And neither friend nor lover hears the threat, as lover is pulled away willingly from a quarrel gone awry. They have no idea the echo those words will carry through the rest of their lives. Those words are weightless and float up into the night sky to rest like stars that look small, insignificant, untouchable.

But in the paper the next morning, the friend reads and instantly knows he is gone. As she lays the paper down to shake the idea of what she wants to believe is someone else’s shocking, violent death, there is the knocking at the door that anyone who’s heard will never forget the sound of.

And no matter that she is shaking her head and saying, “No, no,” as she opens the door. It is “Yes” and their lives all change trajectory, ever after, from the impact.

Tags: loss, memory, mourning, suicide

Of Secrets We Are Made

Years ago

in psychotic stupor

or schizo-affective nightmare

my brother dug into the clay muck

of ourstory.

He flung

the muddy

words onto the page and

into my life when

he delivered the mess to a

friend.

Hands sullied, eyes burned by

earthy secrets,

I balked,

embarrased at the lies and

fossils he unearthed

I couldn’t yet name

or remember.

Now I unwind the words that snaked

their way into my psyche.

They followed

me through the years

to where I am now without memory

still. But I hold the dim light out,

reaching into my history,

tenuous,

fearful of what truths

are hidden in soiled words

from

a mind made

of the same stuff

as mine.

Tags: abuse, Poetry, secrets

Dear Ask and Ye Shall Receive,

I just submitted my blog for your analysis the other day, and realized too late I’ve made a grave mistake.

First of all, that damn little box that asks us “who we are” is ridiculously filled with a few sentences that probably have little to do with who I am. I mean, when someone you’ve never met asks you who you are, what do you say?

I’m Jennifer.

I’m in a courageous battle for my mental health.

I have three kids that I’m pretty sure I’m steadily ruining.

I write, I knit, I help women have babies. I’m twisted and dark, and sometimes it accidentally shows.  I pretty much do other things so I’ll have stuff to write about.

But see, now I can’t write. I find myself thinking…what will you like? What will my followers think? What if I suck ass?

So do me a favor. Tell me I suck ass. Because I’d like to be free of this albatross and move on to something more lucrative or respectable like pharmaceutical sales, or circus performing.

Thanks for the great service you perform for the blogosphere.  Rock on.

-BKT

Tags: Ask and ye shall receive, blogging, sucking ass, Writing

Why Bloggers Disappear

Riiinnnnngggg.

Riiiinnnnnggggg.

“Mmmphh. Hello?”

“Bob? Bob, is that you?”

“Alan?”

“Yeah, listen. I uh, I just needed to talk to you for a sec. You awake?”

“Alan. Man, I can’t believe it’s you. But it’s like four a.m. here.”

“I know, I know. I’m sorry.  It’s just, you know that thing with the blog, and the month off and everything?  I’m losing it. I mean, I had to quit, you know? I was never sleeping, I was just commenting and replying, commenting and replying, all the time.  It got so bad, I just never went to bed. I’d reply to a comment and as soon as I hit “Post” there would be another one. And then there’s the witty banter, the innuendo, the double, triple, even quadruple entendres! I mean – that’s a lot of shit to live up to! It’s like I’m always on. It was sucking up all my resources, all my good stuff was being wasted.  I mean, not wasted, you know…just…”

“Look. Alan, it’s good to hear from you. I’m glad to know you’re okay and everything. I guess. I mean, you’re okay, right? I’m just not sure where you’re going with this.  I’m a little confused.”

“I need a favor. It’s not much, it’s just that you’re the only one that I think can pull it off.”

“Uh…well, what is it?”

“I need you to tell them I’ve been abducted by aliens. Or I’m dead or something.”

“What in the hell are you talking about?  Alan, are you seriously okay? Are you alone? Is there someone…”

“I know, I know. It sounds crazy. I just can’t stop myself! And then I was thinking, maybe if everybody just left, I could quit. I thought I could do it. Really. But then I started making up aliases and doing it anyway! Half the comments in my thread are me!”

“Half? Really? I figured maybe 10% or so, but…”

“Look! I’m dead serious. I can’t get any real work done and I have bills to pay! I’ve lost thirty pounds because I’m so keyed up I can’t eat.  It’s just a small favor, Bob. Remember I did all that editing for you last year? Do me a solid.”

“A solid.”

“A solid. I swear, I won’t need you again. Not like this.”

“I don’t know, Alan. This is all a little weird. Are you sure you’re okay?”

“Hey, uh…Bob. I’ll call you back, okay? Just um, come up with something, and we’ll go over it together to make sure it goes over just right.”

“Is that your keyboard I hear? Are you commenting right now??”

“Bob, dammit! Just do it. I’ll call you in a couple days.”

Click.

Tags: imagined conversations, things that keep me up at night, why I'm a writer and normal people aren't

Brautigan

This is a piece from my “creative” blog.  I have no idea why I initially separated the work. Perhaps because that other stuff is darker, less conversational.  It could continue to stand alone as a short fiction piece or it might be the beginning of a longer story. We shall see.

***

She knew you could see something in her. She could tell, even then, before she understood the significance of temptation.

They all stood around the green room between Annie, Get Your Gun scenes, James dressed as – what was he? No matter.  And she was a snake dancer in Buffalo Bill’s Wild West show.  A little girl, wrapping herself with a creepy toy snake and luring unsuspecting men.

She and James talked about Kerouac – he saw her reading On the Road – and other writers. He understood something about not belonging, or maybe he didn’t. Maybe he just wanted, but knew better. He must have been ten, fifteen years older than she was, but he still appealed to her.  He would not have been the first one twice her age to hold her hand, or to kiss her. She would have let him, too, if he had stepped up to her and leaned toward her, or allowed his arm to rest too long against hers when they sat side by side. And she had the anticipation of something that she didn’t recognize yet, something held out in front of her like power, or gold.

But she watched as James instead indulged the attention seeking of another girl, two years older than her. The older girl’s needs were greater, or at least louder, than hers, and impossible to evade.

She felt jealousy, covetousness, unseemly desire, none of which she was allowed to show. To whom would she show it?

She wanted him to take her away, or touch her, or satisfy that craving inside her. To see her and name her: desirable, wanted, loved.

Instead, he brought her Brautigan. Revenge of the Lawn.

She kept the book for so many years it barely held together any more. She held onto it as a possibility, a hope that she might again find someone who could stand in the face of her power and not crumble and fall, and succumb.

It could be that these memories are childish infatuation stories, composed of ephemera and youth, but she still remembers with gratitude the one person who took nothing from her, and gave her Brautigan.

Tags: before it went wrong, creative, little girl lost, Writing