Some college kid emailed me a while back (a year or so?) because she wanted her name removed from one of my LJ entries. Problem was that I a) couldn't find the entry in question and b) I didn't really care all that much. I wrote her back that she'd have to be more specific because I couldn't find the entry in question (it was a press release about my short story Mudo being published in the Santa Clara review that included mention of one of her poems being in there as well). Mind, I didn't write the release - just c/p'd it from the website that ran the story. Anyhow - my likely guess is that she is either 'zomg so embarrassed by the poem now that she's 'gotten so much better' in the past four years or she wants to claim that it hasn't been published before so she can resubmit it somewhere and claim to give them first time rights. Whatever. So not my problem either way. She never wrote back.

Now, fast forward about a year later and she suddenly sends me this charming email. Yes, this is what they teach you in college!

Hi charisma:

I emailed you a long time ago about the Livejournal entry where you mention my name (Some Annoying College Chick) in the news where your poem was accepted to the Santa Clara Review. I can't remember what your response was, and I tried to access it on my Livejournal account (which I have since deleted) in order to reread why you didn't immediately do what I asked. I am writing to you again to ask that you please delete the post, or edit my name out. Since the request doesn't affect you in any way, I can't understand why you wouldn't honor it. A quick response would be appreciated.

Thank you,

Some Annoying College Chick

Oh yeah. That's going to make me care so hard right there. Then I noticed because I didn't respond to this IMMEDIATELY (I was sleeping, kid) - I got a message on my facebook. No, she isn't a friend or anything- she just estalked me to make EXTRA SURE I got her VERY IMPORTANT MAIL.


Subject: follow up

I don't mean to be annoying but I just wanted to make sure you got my email about your livejournal post with my name in it. I am asking that you please edit it out. This is not the first request.

Thank you,

Still Some Annoying College Chick


Guess what? You ARE annoying. In fact, by now, I'm more inclined to go in and edit the entry to make your name stand out in three inch tall sparkly glitter text than I am to remove it. I gave her the following reply:

Why I didn't immediately do what you ask? Oh well let's see ...

If you could link me to the entry, I would edit it -last time you mentioned this I tried searching for it and can't find it and that was the end of it because you didn't contact me again until now. I really don't have much interest in digging through 10 years of entries to do a silly thing like edit out a name - especially since the tone of this message is rather rude. I'm under no obligation to do so, and it's hardly a top priority. You're the one who wants something here, so I would suggest asking politely and providing a link to the entry that you want edited - and an apology wouldn't hurt either. Might make me more inclined to honor your request as you are quite right and it does not affect me in the slightest.

Is this response quick enough for you?

--L


I suppose she figured she better tone down the condecension a bit if she wanted her PRECIOUS NAME to be preserved, so I got the following:

L:

Didn't mean to come off rude--the reason why I probably did is because I didn't think it would require the digging you said it does, and with no access to the reply it's hard for me to understand why someone wouldn't, yes, honor, another person's request for privacy. I found the entry with relative ease, but perhaps because I was looking. The entry can be found here: http://charisma.livejournal.com/683883.html.

Thank you very much for replying quickly, and thanks in advance for doing me this favor.


Making excuses for your behavior for the win! Oh, this is probably why - it's not that she was being snotty about it, of course not.


Dear Annoying College Chick,

I guess there's one thing they don't teach you in college - if you're going to ask someone to do you a favor, great or small, a little politeness goes a long way. Being a right bitch about it earns you a scathing live journal entry, with your precious name removed of course - but you sure as hell know who you are. Let's hope you actually learned something today - even well-educated academics (like you undoubtedly are) have to crawl out of their holes to deal with the public every now and then. Also.. you're not exactly attending an ivy league school there.

Also x2, re-reading my Santa Clara review - your poetry kind of sucked. Googling your precious name - it still does. Oh and by the way - there seem to be about ten or more other people with the same completely generic name that you have - so unless you go on a little quest to hunt down each of them to preserve the sacred purity of your name - you're still nobody special to the internets.

No love,
Me

The lilacs are blooming, which always puts me in mind of the Walt Whitman poem. I performed that and O Captain, My Captain once for high school forensics (public speaking sort of deal - not to be confused with the dead people kind) and I have been fond of them since. Other signs of spring - a herd of eight deer spotted by the side of the road, the birds flying in pairs, all sorts of insects and animals starting to run about again.

I went for a bike ride with my brother today, and would like to go walking this weekend if the weather and time permit.

I am just about to start reading Geek Love which Ash and Jess both said was really good. I am also going to start in on some comics as recommended by Dien, but I do not know where to start as yet. Too many choices!

I am feeling a little unwell today, though likely from allergies. There is swine flu reported in the next county over, but I'm not going to get paranoid over it. Aus made dinner for us tonight - he's such a good husband.

Our shed should be here in about a week- then it will be time to get the book business going again. It is also almost time to put the houseplants out on the deck for the growing season.

Meme time:

(stolen from Jeffie - which I totally pronounce as Hef-ay sometimes in my head just because I can)
1. Tell you why I friended you.
2. Associate you with something - fandom, a song, a color, a photo, a word etc.
3. Tell you something I like about you.
4. Tell you a memory I have of you.
5. Ask something I've always wanted to know about you.
6. Tell you my favorite user pic of yours.
7. In return, you must post this in your Lj.

There has been little I've had to say lately, and part of that I suppose comes from the dullness of the routine - the back and forth a million times a day driving kids and husband and mother to where they need to go. It is very easy now to lose track of individual days, sometimes even weeks go by and I make no tracking of one day as any different from any other.

Today something happened.

Jeanette had a seizure outside her workplace, just as we were pulling up in fact to pick her up for a doctor's appointment (she hadn't been feeling well). She was lying there convulsing on the ground surrounded by her co-workers, and there was a sort of surrealism to it like sound and sight and all just spiraled and distorted. There is just something that happens when you see your child lying there on the ground and you think about when they were born and how this might be the last moment you will see them and all the things you fight about seem petty and insignificant. There are a lot of times when I do not like how the kids are right now, these teenage years and their attitudes of entitlement and how they are often rather belligerent and self-centered. But still, there is the hope that you will have years beyond these times in which things can balance and normalize and at least get back to some semblance of the affection you had for each other in younger years.

And in a moment you wonder if you have lost that chance forever, and then she comes out of it and you release a breath you didn't realize you were holding and you will know that you love this child no matter what shitty things she says to you on a nearly continual basis because that is just the way of things.

My father died as the weather was turning warm, as the flowers were starting to bloom and life was renewing itself. I always thought that a particularly ironic time to die, and at this time of year my thoughts ever turn to death and really I thought I would be more likely to be the one lying on the ground having a near-death because of all the problems I have. You never think it will be your child. Old people sure, you expect it somewhat, and when you are sickly yourself you kind of think about the possibility. But not a kid, not you kid.

It's like that.

Nathan visited us for a few days last week. That was really nice. I went to the Bus Stop Cafe, and my friend Joey was performing there and asked me to come up and read one of my poems during his set and I did with him and his friends providing background music. That was really nice. There have been some good times, some points of light. I am writing a lot. I am still working on my German (plucking away at the new language, word by word). We have purchased our shed and it will be on the way soon and we have a sort of business plan.

Hanging in there, though sometimes it's a lot more 'hang' and a lot less 'in'.

Tomorrow's agenda includes finding a neurologist then figuring out how we're going to pay for one.

Fireflies on the River - Laura Cushing


wrote and recorded this today

I read my poetry at an open mic in Pitman tonight- a venue called Underground Wordz.

It was so fun! I had a wonderful time. My friend Joey took me there, and he played the guitar most excellently, and I got up on stage and did three poems (and I was so nervous because it had been a while but I did it). Then I read my poetry while people played drums and African guitars and bells in the background, then played with a shakey bell thing while other people did their thing - and there was fruit salad and scary metal and I had a wonderful time. I hope this means I will start doing this again more often.

I have a new laptop - well, a refurbished laptop - but it's a nice one - to replace the one I had that was on its last legs. This laptop is pretty nice- and surprisingly, I'm enjoying Vista. No complaints so far at any rate.

My niece is still staying with us, with no signs of when she might go back to VA. I wouldn't mind this so much if I didn't hear her up half the night in the room right next to ours - which is very difficult when we have to get up for the morning. Also, the room is our daughter Brenda's room and she's getting upset - especially since Jolene has moved all her things into Brenda's drawers where Brenda's things used to be. Visitors are nice... for a day or two. Maybe three? This is entering week two.

I am considering reading poetry again. It's like life is shoving me in that direction - first, my friend Bryan messaged and told me about this open mic night at Bogart's - then the very next day, Joey was telling me about the same exact thing and urging me to try that and some of the other mics he goes to. Granted, he's a singer/songwriter/guitarist - but he knows a lot of poets and some of the mics are for both so... it could work. It seems like he's also willing to give me rides with him from time to time to get to them, which would be nice at least at first so I can learn where they are at. I can't believe I'm even considering opening up this whole can of worms again, but there you go. It was nice to get to catch up with Joey though- to explain a little about who he is for those who havent' been keeping track, I've known him all my life. My brother's best friend since like - third grade or something like that? Basically, he's like family to me. I loves Joey, but I haven't really sat down and talk-talked to him for quite a while. And he played some of his music for me, and wow, is he good these days! So it'll be nice to get to see him perform too. Maybe I'll bring my video camera and do some taping - I need to get back to working on my columns on a regular basis anyhow. I am still wary about the whole business.

Got my 'payment' for the comic scripts today. Let's just leave that at that.

We walked around Batsto a few days ago, when the weather was warm - always been one of my favorite places to think about things. I have put some of my thoughts into order, at least, if nothing else. There is much to be done, if I choose to do it. We shall see.

Am quite feverish today, with lungs full of fluid, and pain. Stupid dampness.

Looking forward to the inauguration tomorrow, but with a little bit of anxiety. I hope things go smoothly. I can't wait to have a real president again.

Need to type up worst poem ever written tomorrow - it's oh noetry from when I was 16!

Found out I am an 11-hour-footnote in someone's life. Impressed or embarrassed, I cannot decide.

If you have Gather, please vote for my submission here - rate it ten stars if you like it, so I can be one of finalists for the contest!

All Aboard the Crescent Line
by Laura Cushing

1. Penn Station, NY
A Columbia University student
backpack on his shoulders
i-pod in ears, a going-home smile,
checks the schedule - all on time.

2. Market St. Station, PA
A Chinese couple exchange
glances and bites of sweet
and sour chicken as they
wait for the child to arrive.

3. Union Staton, DC
An intern going south
dries her goodbye tears
in a handkerchief borrowed
from a political friend. Business
will bring her back soon.

4. Culpeper, VA
A slight delay in schedule
causes a long conversation
between a woman and a man
that ends in an exchange
of addresses and promises.

5. Greenville, SC
A young sailor helps an
old woman with packages.
An old veteran helps a young
woman with her baby
carriage and his kind words.

6. Birmingham, AL
A man and woman whisper
heads bowed, hands held.
Will the ticket take them
far enough from troubles?
They hope, they dream.

7. New Orleans, LA
You spy a crescent moon
outside our train window,
and turn to me, saying
"This is it, our last stop.
We're finally going home."

I just read a poem that makes me want to write poetry again. Wow, do I like this poem. I want to write poetry again. Better poetry than I wrote before.

I've also been longing to work on my fiction again. Oh how I long to work on my fiction again. I should do these things instead of just thinking about them. But there are so many other things to write, things that are paying me, and none of this is paying me.

And then there's the games, and oh I want to start walking again, and I need to go back on my diet (I've already started drinking water again like I should be, lots of good refreshing water).

I have to find time, and balance. There's so many things I want to do.

My brother is doing some work on our family genealogy. I think it keeps him busy, since he is lonely since his wife died. It's fascinating the things he's finding out. I like thinking of all the lives that are no longer living, but somehow alive in me. It makes me wonder if pieces of me will live on, either genetically or intellectually. Part of the reason I've been keeping this journal so long now is to have a record of my thoughts, to be more than just a name and a footnote when I die. We see the names of these relatives, signed on censuses. We learn the places they worked, the occupations, the addresses they live. I want to be remembered by more than a line on a piece of paper, than by a building that will far outlive me but won't contain any memories of me.

My kids don't care right now because they are teenagers, but someday maybe they will care to look back and see what I thought about when I was the age they will become when they do develop an interest. Or maybe they'll never care, but their children or their grandchildren will - and they'll look back through these things and find some similarities to what they think or feel.

I think that would be amazing.

I want to write poetry again. But it's hard to find the words.

I know there are people to whom music means nothing. They either don't particularly care for it, or they listen to it casually and don't really find much commonality with it. But I can't imagine life without music. It seems like there's always some song going around in my head - most of my dreams have soundtracks, and I usually wake up with some song that stays with me throughout the day- or sometimes several days in a row. Because of the Soundtracking article I've been working on about cover songs, lately that song has been the Johnny Cash version of "Hurt."

Everyone I know goes away in the end

and you can have it all, my empire of dirt

are particularly poignant the way he sings them. And if you watch the video, it's even more so. He made the video when he was dying - and it is clearly a swan song, a goodbye and a closure to a lifetime of great work. I wonder if I will have that opportunity? I can't write music. But I do want to write something that lives beyond me.

Michael's story is the work I have the most hope in right now. When I'm finally able to edit that, to put it together- I think that will be my testament, at least until a better one comes along. It will do. It will do well. I don't know what is preventing me from editing it. I make plans. I don't follow through. Maybe I'm scared to progress to the next step, and it holds me back. This is something I need to overcome.

And I want to write poetry again.

Decisions are made on cellular level,
tiny molecules broadcasting signals
critical damage refuses to heal.

Recovery gives way for alarm.
Defenses are raised; a wall of
repurposed skin grows thick.

Future invaders keep away,
for hearts too, scab like holes
like indifferent pieces of meat.

Got a poem accepted for publication, unexpectedly. It was one I submitted like... months ago, and I'd completely forgotten the submission until I got the email today.

It included this nice notation of what the poetry editor had to say about it:

"I like this. It's interesting that these sad lonely men made an impression on the narrator; it says as much about a little girl as it does about several old men. Nothing seems forced. And, had the author been less graceful, she could have made this a lot longer, but, thankfully, she is graceful, and the poem has dignity."

Poem is "Those Met Briefly" and it will be published in the 2007 Summer/Fall issue of Plain Spoke. Looking forward to reading this mag!

The car is our vardo, our gypsy
caravan. We speak our words
for cheap bread and expensive
wine. We pray for the ins of
Ginsberg, the knack of Kerouac.
We are a living limited offer, our
infinity bartered for such a short time.

Leigh pushed me through the cellar door

and the cellar stank of roots and earth



floorboards creaked and marked our berth

the light bulb over head burned bare



She closed behind us the cellar door

and we buried our secrets there.



cellar-door is

the most beautiful

word we'll never again say

"Your poems are too personal," he says. "Remove the you; the I. What is left? That's your poem."

Imagine this poem
without you, without I.
Maybe it exists in
the vacuum of space.

Maybe there are no words at all.

Maybe this is not a poem,
but a stone. Imagine it a brick,
a massive quarried brick,
heavy with the wisdom of
the ancients who placed it
perfect atop a step pyramid.

Climb up. Stand on it. Get comfortable. Now look up.

Overhead, the sky is expansive and blue.
Overhead, the yellow sun shines.

Time travel. Look up again.

The same sun. The same sky.
The same brick.

"It's still kind of personal," he says.

James, or Jimmy D as we called
him,`had Jimi Hendrix hair
and a Bob Dylan smile.
He had this way of putting
everyone at ease, making
everyone feel a part of something
expansive and kind.

I think I admired him most
for the way he never spoke
about anything important.
It was smile, nod, yes and no,
always what you needed to hear.

I never did master that skill
I tend to open myself too freely
let out all the secret things
in casual conversations.

Laura, It really drives people away,
Jimmy'd said, one night on the boardwalk,
when you talk about yourself too much.

The other night
we were driving with the signal on,
blinking two miles down the highway
before we noticed we should turn it off.

We'd just passed the rows of neon palm trees
and headed down the expressway.
Maybe we were trying to lose ourselves,
or just the city, but your foot was holding
the pedal halfway to the floor
and your voice was wistful
when you asked Remember how Jimmy never
really said anything?

Yeah, I said. I remember that about him.
I wonder where he is now?

Maybe he escaped, you said. Maybe he's
found his true voice on the coast, maybe it's
the whisper of the sea touching the sand,
or the birds shrieking in the sky.

Maybe he found God, I replied.

I always thought he was God, you said.

Me too, I answered, and turned away.

I.

I remember when I met you,
how I expected your indifference
but never your praise. The way your hair
framed your face like a picture
of humility was unexpected, too.

On the way home, the drive in the dark,
I saw the white lines through wet eyes
and wove over the lanes like a web
to make the memory stick. Along the
way, I grew tangled up in your life.


II.

This night, you escaped. I saw your face
in the mirror when I looked behind my
eyes, and let you go. I stopped
wanting to become you, stopped
fictionalizing our story, not wanting
to read the end.

There was never any doubt
that I loved you, in the way a child
loves the careful danger of the monster
beneath his bed. I let you out,
on occasion, to terrify me into believing
that darkness was external.

It isn't.

III.

I've stayed up later than my regrets;
by now they've walked the streets
to find sleep in the doorways of strangers.

Tonight I closed the closet door,
let my hand dangle from the blanket,
left the light off. I was unwary,
and the freedom it brought was bliss.

I don't need to believe in you anymore.