Another Day as a Fright Mask

(Photo: Woman in a Hat, Pablo Picasso)

A day before I leave. The steroids have partially worked, as I said, but my mouth is still lopsided, my face is still swollen, I can’t smile, speak well or pronounce some words. The other unexpected side effect: if you do rather poorly on steroids to begin with, coming off of them is also problematic. I’ll be simply minding my own business and suddenly discover perspiration running down my face in a river and into my eyes, down the side of my nose and off of my chin. The doctor said, "Yes, that’s normal," and all I could think of to say was, "How is it normal?? I wasn’t on them that long!"

Doesn’t matter. If you have a pronounced sensitivity to steroids, you don’t have to be – and apparently, I did. Uncontrollable rage, swollen face, puffy eyes, exhaustion, nausea, sweat running down my face and dripping off my chin – gee, let me go on steroids more often, what fun!

And then, to top it all off, let me go sit somewhere in the first ten rows of a concert, right in the midst of a herd of really bitchy, vicious women, all in desperate need of industrial-strength Midol, all in heat and lusting over the same three guys!!

Grrrr ..... well, actually, the way I feel, I’ll fit right in with that crowd.

Marie Claire sends me a face cream sample – guaranteed to rid my face of ... well, not lopsidedness, exactly, but I’m thinking: it may soften out the swollen eyes a little bit. I try it. Hmmm. It actually does seem to even out the skin tone so that my eyes don’t look so bruised ... but I no sooner think those words when my nose starts running again.

Yay. Allergies. First thing that works and it makes my nose run worse than it did a few minutes ago, along with giving me some badly bloodshot eyes.  I spend the next twenty minutes blowing my nose vigorously. Rinsing my face off doesn’t help.

Next, I develop a phlegmy allergic throat clearing that reminds me of Mo Collins’ character, "Lorraine" , from Mad TV, who did the same thing: cleared her throat with a loud "ahem-hem-hem!" every 30 seconds. Now, I sound just like her, thanks to this godawful allergic reaction. All I need to do is wear a pair of polyester stretch pants pulled up to my tits, like ‘Lorraine’ did.

I can see it now: during the Il Volo concert, Piero begins to sing his solo - soft, peaceful, romantic. He’s interrupted by a loud, "Ahem – hem – hem!" from the fright-mask wearing, drooling chick in the 3rd row with snot running out her nose. He stomps off the stage in a rage, snarling, "I can’t work under these conditions!", except he snarls it in Italian, which makes it sound so much more sexy than in English. Deprived of Piero, the enraged audience tears me to pieces and leaves my bloody body bits strewn over the streets of Manhattan . Yup. I can see it now. Hey, but on the bright side, at least I’ll be back home!

So much for the face cream.

Don’t know if this is a good thing or a bad thing, but we’re not in a drought zone. Well. Obviously that’s a good thing but I didn’t want to sound as though I were sneering at those who were. Yesterday I was able to get ahold of some New England corn-on-the-cob, and am noshing away on some as we speak. I can’t get enough of it.

The sonnet cycle (Cover Page, Acknowledgements, Introduction, Table of Contents, a whole messa sonnets, Author Biography) has now officially been sent out in three different directions – all three publishers (who have no problem with simultaneous submissions) will make their decisions by December, so the cycle is now officially out in the world, awaiting judgment.

I had the strangest reaction when the third of the three went out from the post office. I discovered I wasn’t so much concerned with whether or not it garnered recognition or praise, or even acceptance, but more relieved that it was away from ME, as odd as that sounds. In the hands of others the Cycle was in the realm of the possible, however remotely, while in my hands, it was in the realm of the, if not the land of the Dead and Dying, at least the land of the Doom and the Gloom, which is where I’ve been camped out for a while.

Truth be told, I don’t expect anything resembling recognition, praise or acceptance. Not that I think I’m turning out crap, but because poetry as an art form has long ago fallen into the hands of the Ivory Tower PIP ("Preciously and Irritatingly Pretentious") Squeaks ("Insignificant rodents who squeak"), who write such ridiculous nonsense that no one on the PLANET has any idea what they’re preciously and pretentiously squeaking insignificantly about.

[Graphic courtesy of inkbot.design. Text courtesy of the dictionary.]

And again, I point accusingly at the University of Michigan Hopwood Awards people, most of whom need to be kicked widdershins around Angell Hall in their cellulite-laden, pretentious, prissy, squeaky and wobbly buttocks – for the crime of never even acknowledging submissions – and from students!, who have years ahead of them in the real world to be treated like crap, and don’t need to be treated like crap by their own alma mater, when they haven’t even started out in the world. Not that I’m holding a grudge or anything. Really. :p

The poetry that has fallen out of favor – accessible poems that most normal people enjoy quoting and memorizing because they’re readable, inspirational and actually make sense – don’t have any outlet except perhaps Reader’s Digest, and I don’t know anyone who reads that anymore. In fact, I can’t even remember the last time I’ve seen a copy, except in a doctor’s office, packed to the gills with medical advertising so detailed and nauseatingly specific it was sickening.

Need proof of the pretentiousness of today’s poetry? Go search randomly through inspirational or moving "Quotations" that people use, and if it was a quote drawn from poetry, Carl Sandberg was probably the most recent poet quoted. Maya Angelou occasionally. MAYBE Billy Collins. Pretty much everyone else has been incomprehensible. And that ought to tell you something.

All the other poets quoted are the classics. Browning. Dante. Byron. Shelley. Pound. Eliot. Thomas. And THAT ought to tell you something, too.

I swear, after I retire I’m going to publish a poetry anthology called, "Poems for REAL People", or perhaps "Poems for SANE People" and deep-six every single poem that reads even remotely "pretentious".

Conversely, every poem written by, "Joe Schmoe of Schmoe’s Farm, Nebraska" in praise of his pet cow, Daisy Mae? Shoehorned right in there. No joke. Some people just deserve to be heard.

[Pause]

Okay, maybe not. But still.

As a perfect example of my insane world, this trip to Manhattan. Naturally, when I had made the various reservations for things, I had printed out the receipts and itineraries. As I was actually getting ready to pack, I couldn’t find any of them. I had to spend most of yesterday calling all sorts of places and asking them to confirm reservations and re-send receipts. Huge waste of my own time.

I discover that the itinerary that I was supposed to have received from VIP Nation for the tickets had not arrived in the mail as promised. I only have a receipt, not the instructions about where to pick up the tickets, or at what time. I call them. The most appalling response I’ve ever heard: if your concert is in less than 5 days from now, you have to e-mail us; we won’t talk to you on the phone. SAY WHAT???? I begin to feel nauseous, anticipating the worst.

I e-mail them with all of the pertinent information I have on the receipt. Here’s their response:

Thank you for contacting VIP Nation. If a response is applicable, we will get back to you as soon as possible. Regular business hours are 9:30am – 6:30pm Pacific Standard Time, Monday – Friday.

I sent them the e-mail at 2:00 PM my time, which would make it 11:00 AM their time. They had until 6:30 PM on Friday to respond intelligently. They did not respond.

"If a response is applicable"??? The concert is on the day after Labor Day. These cretins have disappeared for the Labor Day holiday, since, according to this e-mail, I will not hear from them before the concert, as I’m leaving for New York the morning of the 4th. I have no itinerary for this. No instructions. My stomach begins to clench into a rock hard knot, as yet another event that could have made me happy is destroyed by the stupidity of VIP Nation, who doesn’t give a crap if they kill people by viciously dumping them in a vat of anxiety and stress or not. And then people wonder why I feel uneasy leaving the house.

An e-mail – Itinerary, Beacon Theater – arrives at 1:10 a.m. Sunday morning, as I’m on the verge of cancelling the entire trip. Apparently, they just enjoy torturing people for the fun of it. They send me a revised version of the same thing on Monday. I’m left staring at all these e-mails, wondering, "WTF?"

I call for the car service; reserve a trip to South Station tomorrow morning. By this time tomorrow, I will be in Manhattan. I know exactly what I’m going to do as soon as I get outside of Penn Station – soak in energy. I am so much healthier, more at home, more confident when I’m home. Massachusetts sucks your energy right up; Manhattan pours energy directly into your veins and capillaries. I’ve been so starved for it. Passing through her in a state of anxiety and grief was ineffectual. Tomorrow will be different.