Bad News

Aw being graduated. The freedom. The hometown. The thinking about what you learned in school without actually using it for anything.

"You can't trust the news anymore," my mom says. Somehow a conversation about the difference between Muslims and Islamic radicals has streamlined into a conversation about the inadequacies of mainstream news. That's what happens when we've thrown back a couple drinks at dinner.

"You can't trust broadcast news," I correct her. "That's all crap. If you want better news you have to go to the Washington Post or the New York Times. Those are usually better. Usually."

"Are any of your friends interested in broadcast?"

"No no. I don't associate with...I mean, I don't really have any friends in broadcast," I say. It's not that I don't like their type. Well, OK it is. Broadcast kids are wannabe celebrities who care more about getting their perky smiles, perfectly shaped hair-dos, into your homes than to tell high-quality news. And those fake voices? I mean..come on.

"When Samantha was in Iraq the first time I was glued to the TV," mom says.

"Yeah, that was the worst thing you could have done. Really, newspapers are pretty bad too. The first thing I learned in J school is that you report on DID, death, injury, and destruction, before anything else. Because that's what makes the money. Oh, and don't trust most news bloggers either. They don't know what they're doing."

I cut myself off. I can't talk about newspapers for too long before I start feeling blah. Especially now. Now that I'm post-collegiate. Now that I may eventually become a journalist full-time, which means I could feel pressure to sacrifice some of my strong journalistic ethics to make deadlines, appease editors and advertisers, appeal to the masses who want DID and SEX and all that, but probably need something much different. Before leaving 'cuse I asked my fellow newspaper journalist friend, Andrew, if he feels like he is an idealist when it comes to journalism and he said yes. I am too. Can't wait til we get jaded.

After dinner, I walk down to the Strange Brew for drinks with Lisa, Jake, and a couple of their friends. Lisa introduces me to Chris, a tall blond guy. He breaks the by telling the story about his dad, who, back in the day tried to start a militia. It didn't get passed a couple meetings that involved drinking and ajourning early. We device a plan to make our own militia that would a. be peaceful unless provoked, b. use teepeeing houses as method of retaliation, c. wear argile sweaters, and d. share a scooter for transportation. Sounds like the perfect post-grad plan. I learn quickly Chris is a natural storyteller so it's not surprising he writes a column for the Union Leader.

"How'd you snag that gig?" I ask him.

"I used to have a show on the MILL (local radio station), and I just sort of used connections to weasel my way in."

"Do they run your column on the first page? The Union Leader is the only paper in the U.S. that still runs opinions on page one. In J-school, they use it as an example of crappy journalism. Do they need freelancers? I may need something to fill my time while I'm home."

Chris tells me they've been laying a bunch of people off and replacing them with freelancers. He also tells me that his column is about "Manchester" and they let him write about whatever he wants, because just maybe they realize they need some fresh ideas in the paper to help get a better rep. I'm not holding my breath.

If I had a column that could be about anything, what would I write about? Well it would have to be of interest to readers:

- Why it is that the sketchy people in bars always have the most confidence to approach others?
-50 cool things happening right now that have nothing to do with Grand Theft Auto or Nintendo Wii
- True or False? "After college, it's just called alcoholism."
-Things everybody does/thinks but nobody talks about (this could be fun).
-Politics! (gasp)
- Is there any truth behind "live free or die?"
- Why can't Hollywood make a decent thriller anymore?
- The secret life of modern-day militias

I guess in the end it's hard to say what's important. But I want to know your opinion.

Where do you get your info?
What issues are important to you?
What do you want more/less coverage of?
Do you take the media seriously?
Are you more opt to go for soft (entertainment, etc( news or hard news?

I wonder about the future of journalism. I wonder about how I'll be able to contribute. I wonder if it really matters at all and I really hope it does. And maybe I've been thinking too harshly about the broadcast kids. I mean, they have good hair. That's gotta count for something right?

A presense like nature.

Well. I would have had a great day. I did for sure up until about 3 p.m., no problems because I was cleaning the shit out of the house, making serious progress. I didn't do any writing but I felt okay about it because of all the housework and how much writing I got done yesterday.

And then the sickness came back for real real real (you can use your imagination on what the sickness is).

Came in like a blizzard - dehabilitating, paralizing, chaotic whirlwind. And I was feeling shitty all day about it, having too much energy, worrying about this and that ache or pain. I was feeling so bad about the sickness that I convinced Boney to come to Blake's with me and watch me eat a grilled cheese and pita wedges and an icecream and we talk a lot and I'm staying calm.

Man, that kid's got some problems. Has a formerly preggers ex-girlfriend who lied about losing the baby, uncle that just commited suicide, seriously depressed and finaincially dependant mother, little bro getting other-than-honorable discharge from the Marines. He feels stuck here- anxious for change but obligated to stay. Boney's been my little punk rock friend since high school and I hate to see him upset. Seems like he's got his own sickness bad too. Only his is based on too much stuff dependent on him and mine might be from feeling unneeded.

Needless to say, both suck.

On the way home I stop at the gas station and the man at the counter, who's been watching me says, "Thank God. You just made my night. Seeing a cute red head like you is just what I needed right now."

I blush, probably. And laugh a bit nervously. "Aw, thank you."

"You want a bag for those?"

"That would be great. Do you have paper?"

"Anything for you. Do you want more than one? How bout a couple. Big or small?"

"One's fine. I big one"

"I got my ex-wife on the phone. She's threatening to take me back to court to keep me from seeing my kid. I was supposed to be with him tonight, but it's just me and my boss here and my boss's wife is in the hospital. She's having their third kid. They just took her off the pain killers and she lost the feeling in her legs. So I'm here covering. So you see, you just made me night a lot better."

What to say? "Well. Hopefully she's just making empty threat."

"Yeah. You never met my ex!"

"Well. Have a good night. I hope it works out."

"Have a great night, too. Thanks for coming in."

It's amazing to me. How can doing nothing make someone feel better? It does happen to me too, though. Sometimes the presense of one stranger or another makes me light up. A couple weeks ago I was jogging round a pond in Syracuse and jogged up behind this beautiful woman figure that was just walking casually. Her long black hair was just flowing and shinging in the sun and for some reason she made me happy.

Nature too. Nature doesn't have to do anything at all - just be present, and I am happy.

But the sickness isn't natural. He didn't see the unnatural. He had no idea I had it at all. no idea Nt all what a massive horrible fluke I've been going through all afternoon. Ignorance, I guess, really is bliss. If he saw the sickness, I wouldn't have made his night. If he saw it, he'd be worse. If I saw how much of nature has been destroyed, instead of just the remaining, in tact nature, I'd be worse.

It's better sometimes that others don't know. What they don't know can't bring them down. It makes it easier for me to make them feel better. That matters more sometimes. Other times my sickness makes people sad. Mostly people who love me. And it makes me sad that I can make strangers feel good, but not people who love me. So maybe if I really want to help I should just force it all away, even if it makes me feel like hell. Force it away to make them feel ok.

I hope Boney and the gas guy feel better soon. And the other people I love who I can't help. I hope I feel better soon too.

Omniclimactic

The old Syracuse house has been mostly empty and quite since I got back from New Hampshire. Despite the warm weather and sun, I’m dragging. I’m feeling lazy and at the same time feeling an urgency to get the hell out. I pull the suitcases and boxes from my closet and start to transport my clothes from the bureaus into the luggage. Where is Vaughn? Where is everybody?

Later, some of the family is finally around. “Well, I think I’m leaving on Saturday,” I announce to Michael, my surrogate dad/ landlord in Syracuse, as he’s sorting through laundry. I haven’t seen anyone in the family all day and it seems like during the past few days everyone’s been off doing their own things or hanging with the family. Basically, there’s been quite a bit of Becca neglect in the house. I’m ok with that.

He stops sorting and looks up. “Wow,” he says, “that’s really something. On to the next step of your life.”

“Yeah, I feel ready,” I say. He goes into his usual spiel about how I should be confident in my writing and the hardest thing to do is have ideas so if I’m having those, I need to pursue them. I know. I know. He tells me that I just need to write and then one day my stories will be picked up by Hollywood and turned into films. Michael’s a Television, Radio, and Film professor and former producer at MTV. I smile and feign enthusiasm. He’s got Hollywood on the mind all the time. As great as sreenplay writing sounds, first I’d like to focus on my own craft (literature) before I go seeking to fulfill someone else’s art. He isn't so concerned with me leaving anyways; his first son is flying the coop in a couple days.

I am fully ready and prepared for an entirely low key departure from this house and Syracuse. There will probably be some hugging, some talk of the future. Sharon (Vaughn’s mom) will mention my return in a year for grad school. Vaughn will freak out a little bit more about going to L.A. Then I will get in my car and drive away. I probably won’t think too much about Syracuse during the five-and-a-half hours back to New Hampshire.

I’ve been experiencing and anticipating anticlimactic goodbyes for about a week now.

“This is too sad,” says Ryan when we’re all hanging out and drinking a few beers the night before convocation last Saturday. “I definitely need to see a few people today. I mean, not you guys, but the people I don’t see that often who I may never see again.”

“I don’t really see the need to do that,” I say. Someone seeking people out who I wasn’t all that close to in the first place, and would likely only see via chance over the years, just to say goodbye and have a nice life, then stare awkwardly at each other for a few seconds, doesn’t seem all that important.

“Well, its like, just to tie up loose ends,” says Laura.

“I don’t know. That always felt so anticlimactic to me. I just feel like the people I want to see before I leave are the people I’m usually surrounded by anyways.”

“Yeah. I guess you’re right.”

I don’t mean to be a cynic. I don’t mean to bring down the mood of the people around me. In fact, it’s kind of the opposite. What’s the use of getting ourselves worked up over inevitable goodbyes? I was always a strong believer that if someone is meant to be in your life, one way or another, they will be in it. Did you forget your ability to make shit happen? (Mike was leaving for Hawaii before I was going back to New Hampshire. I wasn’t going to see him before I go to Luxembourg unless I got home. So I drove home for two nights to see him. Come on people. If it means that much to you, make it happen, ey?)

I think our culture has a lot of trouble letting go – of things, of people, of experiences. We get too attached, too comfortable. I’m most certainly guilty of it. More importantly, we come to depend on other people and other things to ensure we have a good time. Many of us forget how to enjoy our own company and have a good time on our own. Freud and the psychoanalysts call it the “other” or the “O:” the person who we need gazing at us in order to validate our existence and give us meaning.

I see it in married couples a lot. Now, I’ve never been married before so I could have it all wrong. But from what I can tell, a lot of marriages fail because people lose their independent identities and cannot see themselves as something other than half a married couple. So they sacrifice themselves and make themselves dependent. And when a person’s happiness depends on the actions, thoughts, and ideas of another person, shit’s bound to hit the fan.

This entry isn’t about married people. It isn’t about independence. It’s about, well, climax. I drove Andrew to the airport yesterday morning around five. It wasn’t a sad goodbye. Yesterday Linz and I had a goodbye lunch. It wasn’t sad either. It was happy and exciting. She is one of those people whose path will cross with mine again. I have yet to feel sad. Even parting with Spencer, my creating writing conversation powerhouse, one of the most positive forces in my writing process, wasn't so bad.

Everyday, I hug and wish well a couple more friends. I am ready to leave, even anxious for it. Let’s not drag this on. I am ready for the next thing. Mike C. says I’m closed off; that I don’t let people in. Sometimes I worry that I may be a Jane Austin and never marry. Sometimes that thought scared me, and it could be completely wrong. Maybe Mike’s right and I’m scared to let people in. Maybe I could be in love with one person, and it would be the most fulfilling thing ever, if I would only let myself get a little vulnerable. Maybe he's right? In many cultures around the world, people never say godobye to others. They stick around the ones they love.

But if it didn’t ever settle in with one person, it wouldn’t be for lack of love. It would be for lack of loving one person more than another, for favoring one person’s love over another’s. I do need people. I need every person who has ever influenced my life for better, worse, neither or both. So why would I ever be sad to set them free? Why would I ever be sad to anticipate more people flowing in and out? Why would I be sad to be something to them too? Maybe it’s not anticlimactic; maybe it’s omniclimactic: timeless, spaceless, and totally great.

Midday through a two night stay in NH from Syracuse.

We're in the heart of the narrow woods, walking up and down hills. Most of the forest is shades of brown, but there's green too; fiddleheads popping up through half-soft leaves. Thick layers of leaves. From the branches of the tree small yellowish leaves reach out to become green. The sky is gray-blue. We are in an open state of mind. Conversation roles in and out easy as waves. It crashes softly most of the time and quietly recedes back into the unkown silence. We are now in that silence. Calm. So calm. Not anxious. Not anticipating the next wave, but aware of it.

The last wave was a doozy. We talked about how fast people take to those who smile and seem interested. How people can love so fast if you let them. The next wave will be even bigger; we will talk about how, nowadays, people live their lives on a race to the finish line. The problem is they forget the finish line is death. I tell him the other day when I was running, I realized I could run forever if my pacing is right. This will spring a conversation as we walk through the woods about what happens when that finishline is reached. One of my theories will be that, like our matter, our energy spreads as well- gets recycled, morphs and connects. Mike won't like or accept this very much because it denies we, as humans, have individual and personal identities that stay cohesive throughout time. He puts it out that maybe our energy is attracted to certain elements, a sort of magnetism, and so it will stay relatively similar in the next life.

Who knows.

Mike directs me how to climb a tree I wouldn't think I could climb. I sketch him down by the river as he writes. It turns out well because I follow through.

Later in my house Mike will accidenty use shampoo to wash his hands in the bathroom.

This world feels good when I'm in it. I nearly forget the world i live in most of the time. I forget, too, all the other worlds. A world in New York. A world in India. A world in Iraq. A world Alone. Until I think about one thing that leads to another thought, that leads to a memory from the world I just drove away from.

Then I get sad that I have to leave this one.

Then I am releaved, because I realize I love the other one too.

And then I am both content doing what I'm doing and looking forward to going back.

But about the future- Luxembourg- the thought gives me chills.

Why not?

An AIM haiku war against Alex Guppy in Taiwan. He's in bold. I'm not:

light swings back and forth
what happens in the middle?
decapitation

Well let me tell you.
A geometric prism.
Reveals ROYGBIV

geometric lives
disregard the middle space
what's between the lines?

Lines aren't what matters.
Consider the middle space.
It's what you don't say.

say it or don't say
something is always left out
when something is said
(or not said)

I am no linguist.
But unspoken semantics,
we ought leave that way.

at least once a day
i want to scream "shut your trap"
mostly to myself

You do not have to,
I constantly tell myself.
Here we go again.

right now i smell smoke
i half wonder whats burning
i half crave pancakes

a proper lady
I poor syrup on her breasts
ain't proper no more.

proper's just a word
is that garbage in your hand?
or something pure gold?

King Midas' touch
couldn't turn your heart into gold.
You're like Mr. Grinch.

I like Mr. grinch
he could pour syrup on me
if it gave him kicks

I have to confess
if he chose you over me
rampant jealousy

jealousy's a bitch
i would rather close my eyes
than wish to be her

I would be Tommy
For twenty minutes inside
of Pamela Lee

who's to say you aren't?
the matter tommy uses
comes from where you do

you speak blasphemy
pagan theoretician!
god made me unique

your are not unique
if you are in his image
three cheers for keystone

misunderstanding
infinity's properites
yields false conclusions

i have no knowledge
infinity and nothing
are Siamese twins

such idle chatter
i suppose you would argue
morals yield Hitler

art school reject
stiffled creativity
so what else is new

Get a job you bum.
Art is for hippies. MEMO:
We left Vietnam.

i bet a dollar
you can't go one day sans art
even in the grave

You'd make such a bet.
The odds are stacked against me.
I'm rolling over.

if you climb that tree
(don't say I didn't warn you)
there will be a snake

Is it poisonous?
I hear a rattle. A baby?
Oh, cute! Tiny fangs.

what a perfect match
rattle snakes and small babies
keep them occupied

Matchpoint by Woody.
So of I am reminded
in Yoda speak. Luke!

i need to study
sometimes rain checks are needed
this is on such time

the Taiwanese sun
is so quickly approaching
i'll wave it your way

Letter to Poet friends from a confused (possibly) former and possibly current poet.

I don't even know what's good anymore.

I mean. I know it when i read it. (Most recently read it in your poems in Verbal Seduction) And it blows me away. And it makes me wonder and think. But I don't know about my stuff. Like, I just wrote these two things, and they could be total shit. Or they could just be the beginnings of ideas that need to be followed through, or they could work as is.

I just have no idea.
Sorry to be random.
But. I'm either gaining it, or losing it and I have no idea which.

hm. thoughts?



Collective Unconscious Muse

The nails that had only
been dragging, scratching
are really going at it now

Up the stakes.
Look closer.
Soon.
Sooner, still


(another maybe poem maybe. I dont know even now typing it here I'm inserting brand new lines.You see the dilemma?)

Do you kiss your baby with dollar bills?
What would you pay the
future Sun Owners of America?
Who writes your mind?
Do you like the taste of sugar?
What influenced you to pick up
the last book you read?
Are you scared to shit in public stalls?
How has the tree outside your window
changed since then?
Screams, no?

Has your curiosity been silenced?
Are they/you on your side?
There's no need for questions.
Ever.
How alike to me you are.
You want to dip your hand
into the water. You want
to pick up the dirt.
You want to tell me to fuck off
and let you live your life. Your way.
Don’t you?
Do you?
Do you?



oh yeah and switch the last two lines of the last poem I posted before with these:
shows terror, destruction (same thing)
if we stare long enough.



i don't know. Is this the portrait of a YOUNG ARTIST or of just another fool?