September 17: Eerie Shadows, Balloon Viscera, Laura Boss, "I Don't Visit My Father's Grave," Adventures of Stickman

...One night, while working late, Ives, in his fatigue, staggered out to Madison Avenue, for as far as he could see, the office buildings were casting eerie shadows, and he felt the world a lonely and dreadful place.  He often awoke with a gasp in the middle of the night, his heartbeat accelerated, his breathing shallow, his heart filled with sadness, his head with memory.

Ives grieves for a long time.  He grieves so long that his wife considers divorce.  Ives grieves.  His daughter goes to Nepal, comes back, gets married, and has kids.  Ives grieves.  His best friend's wife dies.  And still Ives grieves.  For close to two hundred pages, Ives is in a constant state of sadness

I don't know why, but I thought I would somehow be beyond crying over my sister's death by now.  I had it all figured out.  I allowed myself to be angry and sad for two weeks.  At the beginning of September, back to work and teaching.  No more time for tears or being pissed off.  That was my schedule.

It hasn't worked out so well for me.  I can go for a few hours, maybe a day.  Suddenly, I'm walking to my car or brushing my teeth or eating a banana, and I start crying and can't stop.  I was talking to a good friend from the English Department, and he asked me how I was doing.  I told him about my attacks of sorrow, and he said, "Well, yeah.  You're going to be recovering from this for the rest of your life."

We talked about how the human race is united by tragedy and sadness.

"Why can't we be united by balloon animals or something?" he said.

I told him that, every time I tried to make a balloon dog or swan, it turns into balloon intestines.

"That's it," my friend said.  "We should be united by balloon viscera.  Something that lifts us up from inside."

Saint Marty's had a good day.  Good day working.  Good day teaching.  No anger.  No sadness.  Just balloon viscera raising him higher and higher.

I Don't Visit My Father's Grave

by:  Laura Boss

I don't visit my father's grave
don't put stones on his tombstone
don't say prayers
don't forget him

Adventures of STICKMAN

July 14: Eerie Shadows, Teeth Grinding, Adrienne Su, "Antidepressant"

...One night, while working late, Ives, in his fatigue, staggered out to Madison Avenue:  for as far as he could see, the office buildings were casting eerie shadows, and he felt the world a lonely and dreadful place.  He often awoke with a gasp in the middle of the night, his heartbeat accelerated, his breathing shallow, his heart filled with sadness, his head with memory.

After his son is killed, Ives has trouble sleeping.  Nightmares.  Scratching his arms and legs bloody.  And sadness, tremendous sadness.  Ives feels cheated.  His son, his good and devout son, has been taken away from him.  God hasn't played fair.

Some news from the University of Michigan this morning:  the brain biopsy has confirmed that my sister has lymphoma of the brain.  The neurologist and oncologist are discussing treatment options, including chemotherapy and radiation.  The question is whether or not my sister can survive the treatments.

Recently, I've been having trouble sleeping.  I wake up in the morning, and my jaw hurts.  I've never been a teeth grinder before.  This summer, I'm worried that I'm going to fracture my molars or bicuspids or canines.  I went to the dentist a little over a month-and-a-half ago.  He confirmed the grinding and told me to take ibuprofen and not chew with my back teeth.  For a while, that did the trick.  The last couple of weeks, however, have been a test, and my mouth is failing.

Of course, it's all about stress, and I feel stupid complaining about sore teeth when my sister is fighting for her life.  Like Ives, I don't think God is playing fair.  My sister deserves better.  I will put up with some cracked teeth if my sister will live to see my son graduate from high school.

Saint Marty doesn't need Zoloft.  He needs a miracle for his sister.

Antidepressant

by:  Adrienne Su

The purple pill rattles
out of its bottle,

makes my hands therefore my pen
shake, cloaks me in thirteen

layers of delusionary fur,
stunts my walk, and blurs

each stark moment so it won't
be so stark.  At last I don't

know what time it is
sometimes.  I like this

effect all right, although
I'm still sad.  Night goes

too fast, bringing sun,
whose brash light comes

unwanted into each crevice
of the apartment.  This

could be a matter of life
circumstance and pills might

be the wrong fix, but I know
things won't change if I go

to Spain or take up fencing.
I'd be the same wincing

Adrienne, only armed
or in Spain.  What harm

in staying by the window
to think, wish, swallow

pellets of hope, and not eat?
I'm not unrequited, don't need

company, haven't lost friend
or family.  I just tend

to be a sick plant,
and no antidepressant

can shield me from the sun's
burning; leaves drop one

by one to the sill.  I'll win
my war yet.  My angel isn't

dead, just lost on the moon
or snowed in, gone but soon

to come, nudged out of sight
by another sleep's night.

I like it sprinkled on my Cheerios in the morning