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.

Day #27 on my Search for a Soul Mate

Has anyone noticed how appallingly pretentious poetry has become?  Pretentiously written, pretentiously reviewed, accessible only to the pretentious.  I hadn’t really paid all that much attention to poetry as a rule (like many people, I considered the art form ruined by the excessively pretentious) – and then I found this little gem, while researching Ivy for my Day Book:

MY WINDOW-IVY.

Over my window the ivy climbs,

Its roots are in homely jars;

But all the day it looks at the sun,

And at night looks out at the stars.

The dust of the room may dim its green,

But I call to the breezy air:

"Come in, come in, good friend of mine!

And make my window fair."

So the ivy thrives from morn to morn,

Its leaves all turned to the light;

And it gladdens my soul with its tender green,

And teaches me day and night.

What though my lot is in lowly place,

And my spirit behind the bars;

All the long day I may look at the sun,

And at night look out at the stars.

What though the dust of earth would dim,

There 's a glorious outer air

That will sweep through my soul if I let it in,

And make it fresh and fair.

Dear God! let me grow from day to day,

Clinging and sunny and bright!

Though planted in shade, Thy window is near,

And my leaves may turn to the light.

Mary Mapes Dodge

I loved the last line:  “and my leaves may turn to the light”.  Considering how often we lose out on poetry such as this – simple, touching - thanks to the snootily pretentious snobs among us, I was thinking of starting a “Real People Poetry Anthology”.  Anyone who has been previously published in a pretentious poetry anthology is barred from submitting anything to the anthology without issuing an apology to the 99% who are the REAL poetry people  (to steal a phrase from the Occupiers).  And yes, if you suspect I’m still holding a grudge against the University of Michigan Hopwood Award people for not even offering a simple thank you to the students who submit heart-felt poetry to them … you’re probably right.  Those Hopwood People really do need an “anti-pretentious spell” cast on them.  Really.

Written on Thanksgiving, 2011

7:30 A.M.  Turkey is in the oven.  Salad and relish in the serving dishes.  Giblets waiting for the gravy-making hour.  Stuffing waiting to go in the oven an hour ahead of time.  Pie is made and ready to go in the oven when the turkey is done.  I have something to be seriously grateful about.  The Lioness of Courage.  I ordered her a shrine.  Painted red, with flames.  [www.bethamine.com, in case anyone wants to see a nice affordable wall shrine.]  As I’m employed elsewhere, I can’t do the full Ancient Egyptian rites of temple service that the priests appointed by Ramses II would have conducted for her – that would take all day - but I can do the best I can.

Here in the United States, “Thanksgiving” can either be a day of thanks for all sorts of things, or a Day of Guilt and Atonement, considering the way westerners thanked the hosts who took pity on them for their stupidity in not preparing for a New England winter properly.  I know of at least two states that wisely decided to stop celebrating Columbus Day and instead celebrate Indigenous Peoples Awareness Day, or something to that effect.

I decided to move the injection time back an hour a day until I reach the evening medication hour – somewhere around 6-7 p.m – which is when my vacation ends and I’ll be going back to work.  I wanted to do it at night when I wasn’t worried about needing to leave for work.  Today will be the first day when I do it (inject myself with insulin) on my own.

Instead I discovered how easy it is for the Bayer pharmaceutical company to steal money out of the pockets of diabetics.  I got my test meter in 2005.  It used Ascensia Autodiscs (the test strips that are used to test my blood glucose).  Last time I bought autodiscs I bought quite a few boxes so that I wouldn’t have to buy them again for quite some time.  That “some time” just rolled around, so I went into CVS to buy some more.

WRONG!!!  Bayer had stopped making them.  I was told my meter was “too old” – five years is too old??!!?? – the University of Michigan Health Service gave me these things in 2005.  Too old??!!??  Only in the land of Greedy Shareholders and Criminal Management is it too old – had Bayer any conscience, they would have made these meters to last a lifetime.  Now they don’t even last five years, while still working perfectly. 

I now had to buy a new meter, new lancets and new testing strips.  The lancets were so weak they didn’t puncture anything.  The tester was so poorly designed it kept kicking out error messages.  The cost was astronomical.  I came home so angry I was prepared to go kick in Bayer’s front door and curse them and their greedy shareholders out, because, trust me when I tell you, the only reason they did this was to heist money out of the pockets of diabetics and put it into the pockets of shareholders.  (Note to all the idiots complaining about the OWS protestors?  1):  stop listening to Fox News because they are lying when they call protestors drug adicts and alcoholics.  Watch Global Revolution TV and see for yourself how desperately unethical ALL of the major news outlets are, and 2) Here’ a good reason why people are complaining.)  And of course I came home without the correct test strips and sat on my bed in tears, unable to test anything.