Remains of Our Days (L)

Were you really just here? Are these dim, lake lit memories real? Can I step back into them if I call them up? Will I ever be able to finish writing a sentence without a child beckoning, requesting, opening up their never closing baby bird beaks for the last drops of me?

Sigh, I remember, I remember. Just a few days ago their voices were on the other end of a tinny poor reception cottage phone and I slept until 11.

I will write more, I will dig up and spit out our stories.

Where the Title Comes From

So sorry I haven't been as present as I'd like to be but that will change very soon.  I find the whole thing a bit daunting but hopefully that will go by the wayside as a rhythm develops.  But anyway, the title. Each year Marty, Linda and I go to a rustic cabin on a lake (the water) in a remote part of Maine (the wild) and for a few days,  try to let go of our everyday roles and responsibilities and mindsets and just reconnect: drink lots of beer and wine and eat grotesquely colored, overly processed foods and  spontaneously sing show tunes around a campfire, or Cowboy Junkies tunes, and most importantly, say whatever comes to mind knowing we won't be judged no matter how outrageous or banal it is.  Kind of like being boys (see Linda's earlier post) but with more theory.  Belching and scratching are encouraged.   

The title is from a Yeats poem that resounds with all three of us, but everyone really, as we all seek the path back to innocence, uncomfortably knowing full well it will never the same, but needing that magic to live as sure as we need water and air. It happens in September and my little human children, I look forward to seeing you soon in the forgiving embers of the firelight where we'll foot it the night, weaving olden dances mingling hands and mingling glances till the moon has taken flight; to and fro we leap and chase the frothy bubbles, whilst the world is full of troubles and is anxious in its sleep.  

   

Al and G, sitting in a tree.... (Marty)

OK...you'll have to forgive me. I google my friends occasionally, just for fun of course...and I came across this article, from the NY Observer, Al...f**king hilarious, Bumsy! (I edited names...)
Luckily for me, my name is the name of a famous motorcross rider, so when you google me all you get is him.
Love you!
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Alessandra and Garrett
Met: Fall 1999
Engaged: March 4, 2003
Projected Wedding Date: May 7, 2004
Alessandra was hardly an hour into her first date with Garrett before she had swooned- literally . Yes, folks, she's a fainter!

Alessandra, the copy chief at W, collapsed in a midtown gutter after sharing her first smooch with Garrett, a longtime bartender at Patrick Kavanagh's, in the back seat of a cab going from Swift's. "I'm deadly," he said impishly. (She claims it was low blood sugar.)

He spirited her back to her apartment in the East Village-"Do you know how hard it is to hail a taxi when you have a woman lying on the ground?" he said-where he fortified her with Irish breakfast tea loaded with sugar and cream and tucked her into bed. "And he slept in the bed with me," she said. "Clothes on."

After a two-year marriage to a florist foundered, Alessandra had spent a year touring Europe on her orange '93 Harley before taking a job tending bar at the Leopard Lounge on Second Avenue. The boyishly handsome, blue-eyed Garrett was friends with another staffer and often hung around. "I thought he was adorable. He had such a kissable face!" said Al, who is 37 and dark-haired, with a sexy beauty mark on the tip of her nose. Nor was she put off by his long yarns about a misspent youth in Monaghan making petrol bombs. She began referring to him as "Rump-o." She became "Bum-sy." (They both melted into giggles when we asked them to explain the monikers.)

Garrett, 32, moved into her apartment three years later. He's taking motorcycle-riding lessons and working on his grammar. "He has punctuation problems," she said gravely. "He's always starting sentences in the middle."

Maybe that's why he let a photo album full of pictures and a round diamond set in platinum do the talkin' over dinner at Artisanal one special evening. "She was crying before I even gave her the ring," he said. They celebrated their engagement at Patrick Kavanagh's, then gave up drinking for Lent the next morning. But they were off the wagon by nightfall. "Everyone kept buying us champagne!" she said.

Following a sober wedding ceremony with bagpipers at St. Patrick's Old Cathedral (Alessandra said she's checked the wording on the invitations "400 times"), all hell is expected to break loose at the New York Botanical Gardens. The reception will feature an open bar, which is apparently unusual at Irish nuptials. Heaven knows why.

Oh, There WILL Be Blood!!! (L)

I just finished watching "There Will be Blood" with C. I can't remember the last movie we watched together and it took two nights to finish it. This is what I knew beforehand, Daniel Day Lewis had won the Oscar and it was supposed to be a long and dusty tale of greed and the beginning of oil in America.

It sounded boring. The title also made me worried me that there would be mafia street gangs covered in oil. But my mother had it on Netflix and wouldn't be watching it for awhile, so I snatched it.

As the shadowed light played over Danny boy's aging face and ridiculous mustache, his character a bit bent and hobbled by an early accident, I found myself longing for the Lewis of old who wooed and smelled of women or carved a canoe from a tree while wearing few clothes. My mind nimbly skipped over memories of his left foot. I once almost saw him as Hamlet in a London Theatre. I got as close as opening the program to see an insert that said "Due to an illness, Mr. Lewis will not be playing the role of Hamlet. It will instead be played by this wanker who nobody cares about." I later read that he had had a nervous breakdown from getting so involved as the character in "My Left Foot".

But we are all aging and getting more boring by the day, so I tarried on. I did stop to consider that he would make my top ten list of people that would make you uncomfortable to have for dinner. He seems too noble and modest. His magnificence is in his acting. He'd probably demur all questions and either be all British and smugly intelligent or incredibly socially awkward.

When I saw the first couple of people in the film get conked in the head with metal tubes that have something to do with drilling, I thought "oh good, there's the blood bit". Ha!! There was so little blood when he finally shot someone in the head, I didn't know the bullet had struck until he was burying him. I rewound it and like a fool watched to see if he'd actually killed him (Hello, he was digging a hole and rolling in a body!). But nothing could prepare me for the senseless bloody bludgeoning he delivered at the end of the movie, as he declared "I'm finished" and the credits rolled.

I was finished too, what a crap full of depression and uncharacteristic violence. Just when you thought he'd become decent, he'd do something even shittier. Why do people like this stuff? God, I had to top off my wine glass to get the taste of that movie from my mouth. If I ever do have Mr. Lewis over for dinner, I'm going to make him declare "I am a false actor! I make movies that no one should see!" and then I'm going to slap him in the face a few times and make him take off his shirt just to see if he's still worth it.

The Vulcan Syndrome (Marty)

Men in the South -- at least those whose mamas I have met -- are generally raised to keep their emotions to themselves. They are rock hard with a fabulous smile; stone silent while opening the door for you; will fight for you 'til the death...while never ever telling you exactly how they feel about you, or anything else for that matter. This exactly describes both my father and my husband, and about any other Southern raised boy I've ever met. They seem so strong and solid, chivalrous and charming. That is...until they get older. And then we have the phenomenon I like to call....The Vulcan Syndrome.

Those of you who are Star Trek fans will know exactly what I'm talking about. Vulcans are a race of humanoids who are bred to give logic all of their brain power while suppressing their more wishy-washy and manipulatable emotions. They are deemed unnecessary for a full functioning life. The consequence is that, as vulcans age, they are no longer able to keep full suppression on their emotions, and they come out in explosive ways. Outrageous mania, rampant rage, or full fits of uncontrollable bawling. The controlling mechanism effectively breaks, unleashing a river of lifelong suppressed feelings.

I've noticed this consequence in my 72-year-old father, and in other men of his generation. My father gets inexplicably and uncontrollably weepy at the most inopportune moments...he really had to have help to finish his toast at my wedding reception (yes, I know, fathers are allowed to shed a tear at their daughter's weddings, but blubbering like a schoolchild during the toast? Really?). He's done the same just having a conversation wtih me about life. Never, in my youth, would my father allowed me to see this side of him. It actually weirds me out a little bit.

I am not the crying girl. I am not the girl who bawls at beautiful wedding dresses, or throws crying fits to get her way with her boyfriend. I do not cry when I am "happy." I am not the girl who uses tears to manipulate other people. I am the angry girl...the one who will squint and puff out and very quietly (or very loudly, whichever is appropriate) but strongly encourage you to see things my way. This has worked out very well for me. Until my recent discovery.

Apparently, the Vulcan Syndrome age for women is....36. At 36 I found myself tearing up at "A League of Their Own" one day on television even though I had seen it a hundred times. The ending where all the ladies of the women's pro league were welcomed into the hall of fame, got to me. At 37 I found myself tearing up at a f**king Hallmark commercial. And by the ripe old age of 38? "A League of Their Own" will put me straight through a box of tissues. I cry when the people on "America's Got Talent" realize their lifelong dream of performing in front of a crowd and are, themselves, crying. After serving on a heartbreaking jury trial for 8 days in April, I came home with a 6-pack, a bag of Munchos, and a jar of Pepperocini and went through them all just before beginning my two-hour bawling session on behalf the people in the trial. That one shocked the shit ouf ot me. Hell...I teared up at Linda's last entry!

I mean, I can't even claim "hormones" as a factor. If you've read this blog, you already know I have no children, which is when a lot of women find that their emotions go haywire. So imagine my surprise that here I am--- a broken Vulcan. But at least I have learned something about myself along the way. I know that my experiences have given me appreciation of and respect for the unknown factor. I know that I will embrace whatever comes next. I know that the young twenty-something friend of mine starting life with her new husband loves that I share her happiness so openly on my face. And I know that tissues are expensive...toilet paper works fine.

Glowing (L)

Months ago, I asked F if she wanted to grow her hair out and donate it to cancer patients for wigs. In true middle child form, she shrugged her 7 1/2 year old shoulders and said, "sure". This past weekend, there was a Relay for Life in our area and they had a Pantene Beautiful Lengths collection for wig hair. I heard about it last minute and it never occurred to me to walk. Earlier in the day, I saw a girl who was going to donate her hair wearing a "Granddaughter of a Survivor" t-shirt. I said to F, "Oh, I wish I had thought to get you a shirt saying that, your Nannie had cancer (breast cancer), and she would like you wearing it.", F shrugged again. Suddenly, I realized, she could have "Daughter of a Survivor" on there too. It's hard for me to think of myself in those terms. I feel, comparatively to most, I'm a "mini" survivor. I got off easy with an early stage thyroid cancer, there is no radiation or chemotherapy to fix it, just radioactive iodine.

RI was what I was experiencing this time last year. The worst part of it, next to being crazy and depressed from the lack of thyroid hormone (they have to let it drop as low as possible for the treatment) was having to be isolated from my children during it, as I was "radioactive". Crazy, lonely, sad and radioactive in an empty cottage for nine days isn't much fun, but it beats chemo and radiation any day.

I remember the first time before my second surgery when a nurse referred to me as a "cancer patient", I almost corrected her saying, "No, you're mistaken, I have a cancerous tumor but I don't have cancer". In the past, cancer was not something I possessed, but something that was cut out of me. Suddenly, it seemed, I was supposed to be its owner. This tumor had done a little dance during pathology to show it could break outside the borders, and apparently when it's an actual gland that's affected, there's no unnecessary tissue or skin for it to spread to. When it goes, it goes for gusto to the necessary places. I had to wait until after the iodine treatment to see if it had wandered, it seemed it had not, and voila, here I am a mini survivor. And thus, here my F was, a daughter of one.

When my niece came over to borrow something that day, I said to her, "Hey, she could have 'Cousin of a Survivor' on there too!" My niece is a true survivor, but it was before her memory can access. She just smiled as she always does and said, "Yeah she could!". Three's the magic number right? So, out came the magic marker on the shirt. I was surprised to notice F on the floor highlighting all the letters after I wrote them, she was now past shrugging.



I was so proud of F as we stood in line to get her hair cut at the Relay for Life event. I also felt unexpected guilt at not walking myself as I looked around at all the people with their Relay t-shirts. But mostly, I felt a giddy comfort being in this giant space of carnival style celebration where the word cancer was not whispered or feared, where survivors were a sort of celebrity. I didn't feel a connection with that title here, both for the ease of my experiences and for my lack of participation in the event. The little narcissist in me did feel a tiny bit of pride that what I had gone through could somehow translate into increased light on F. Then I noticed the girl who we knew sitting in the chair waiting to have her hair cut. Her mother was beside her, face swollen with tears. Her grandmother stood behind her, post chemo hair coming through about a quarter of an inch. The crowd roared with applause as she cut her granddaughter's hair. I felt humbled.

The powers of the universe must have agreed, F was soon ushered into a chair to the side and back, where no one noticed her. The woman who sectioned her hair into ponytails asked me, "Do you know a survivor here?". I paused then nearly whispered, "yes, me". She asked me to wait for a picture and I heard her murmur into the photographer's ear "mother, survivor, daughter" and point before she handed me the scissors. I think she took a picture, I only saw the flash of my husband's camera. The people who clapped were our little family. The photographer never asked our names so she could use the photo. I think she somehow sensed from the smile and health of my face and the lack of commotion around us, whatever our story was, it wasn't newsworthy. I've never felt so grateful to be ignored.






F's hair is cute and suits her. She may have shrugged indifferently when I asked her, but she's hugged me about 10 times a day since the Relay. There is a new light of connection between us, this simple act has been bonding somehow. I can barely keep my hands off the baby softness of her new bob, she seems to fit better in my arms tucking surely under my chin. I'm pretty sure if you saw us, you'd notice a faint glow.

Phi Beta Bitches (L)

Alessandra and Marty,
Envy can strike you in some funny places. I remember reading about the male cast of Lord of the Rings and how they became this fellowship of brothers and all got a tattoo together. I longed for that summer camp style bonding as a grown up. I fantasized myself one of the boys at the local pub sharing a laugh with my best buds. Then I read Liv Tyler's account of her time on location, it sounded lonely and isolated. I realized, I could mentally join the crew, but I'd still be a girl.

For as long as I can recall, I have wanted to be a boy, although I did not like being mistaken for one. When I was four, I insisted on being called "Tommy". Later, my greatest dream was to have the nickname "AJ" because it sounded cool. My best friend through most of grade school was Ward Shaw. I called him my "soul brother". I loved my actual brother, who was mostly nice to me and tried to shape me in his image. I played the trumpet, read X-Men comic books, and was a sniper in the Army of our back fields. My sister played the flute, spent an inordinate amount of time working on her tan, and was exceptionally mean to me. It was very clear to me at a young age that boys had more fun. This was also reinforced to me in my sexist white trash home where my brother didn't have to fold laundry because it was "squaw work", and instead got the superior job of burning the trash. I wanted to be one of my brother's posse so badly that I married his best friend.

Eventually, I learned a careful selective process of picking girlfriends can eliminate much of the cattiness I detested in women. I truly believe my friends are the best of the best of the female species and I get support, perspective and empathy from them that seems virtually unattainable from the boys in my life. I also learned that I like girly things, like long hair, high heels and fingernail polish. But I never quite lost the envy of the simple loyalty and companionship that a group of male friends seem to represent.

Then there was Alessandra and Marty. I think the thing that separates our little triumvirate from any other female friendships in my life is its traits of masculinity. Ours is the closest I will ever get to male bonding. I think we all individually have lived similar younger lives of preferring male company. You two are pool sharks, we were all once upon a time probably the winner of many a beer funnel contest (Marty, I'm sure you could still drink any man under the table), Al drives a Harley, my tongue could make a sailor blush, I could go on and on about how boyish we are. Who else could I have to my camp in late September in Maine when there's no heat except the burn from our alcohol and an outdoor campfire? More importantly, our personal relationships are more like men. We pick up our friendships' threads with no venom or blame when it drops. Marty understood when I was pregnant and bleeding (ok, we're a little female) and couldn't make her wedding. Al understood when I brought a girl and not my husband (no, not gay) to her wedding. We just don't get mad at each other and stop speaking, we just never stop. That camaraderie is lifelong and in our blood and we never ask the other to prove it. It's all the best of a fraternity with none of the dues. But I still kind of want to be a boy...