Where I wax poetic about an angelheaded hipster . . .

Today is the anniversary of Allen Ginsberg's first public reading of his famous poem "Howl." He was only 29 years old that night.

Peter Orlovsky/Archive of Allen Ginsberg

I was thrilled to find this piece, written about the event. It's full of all the usual suspects and plays up to the romance that follows the Beats.

I loved Allen in college because he was a fucked up kid from a fucked up home who kept his nose in books and, eventually, blew the world away. He put the word fuck in poetry. Fuck. He wrote about masturbating. His whole last collection is mostly about shitting. The week he died, a poem of his was published--perhaps in the New Yorker. It was a couple pages and pretty much listed all of the lovers he'd had--from the life loves (Orlovsky) to the pizza boy who didn't know what was coming . . . He wrote openly about how he saw and experienced the world the whole way through life:

what more could I name, the smoked ashes of some cock cigar, the cunts of wheelbarrows and the milky breasts of cars, wornout asses out of chairs & sphincters of dynamos--all these 

--Sunflower Sutra, 1955

1955. He wrote the word cunt in a poem in 1955. That invigorates me.

He also wrote about politics. He lived politics. As a radical. In his last years, he sent at least one poem to President Clinton. I read that he received a polite thank you in response--too bad. Billy shoulda taken the opportunity to visit Allen in his apartment in the Village and had a good sit down.

I met Allen the year before he died. I called his agent and booked a three-day event for him at UMass Amherst. The other members of the Distinguished Visitors Program were more than a little hesitant, figuring he couldn't fill an auditorium (bunch of engineering students who'd never heard of him). He was incredible. He led a couple poetry classes I was in (the profs were in heaven), went out to dinner with people ("No salt!" his manager kept scolding), and gave a phenomenal reading.

Sitting in the center of the front row of a packed, standing-room-only theater, I listened to him read and recite and sing. He sang Blake ("Tyger! Tyger! burning bright") and read "America" ("America I've given you all and now I'm nothing."). And eventually, he read "Howl," shouting "Moloch" at the end:

Moloch! Solitude! Filth! Ugliness! Ashcans and unobtainable dollars! Children screaming under the stairways! Boys sobbing in armies! Old men weeping in the parks!

After the reading, I spent time with him, and many anxious others, at a small reception. Sitting indian-style before him, I felt the awkwardness--a man who has lived many lives, now sitting above eager college students who are looking for answers--but without questions. I read that he felt a heavy weight to be a wise sage to those he met. I can only imagine how exhausting this must have been.

I put something about him on Facebook earlier, and a friend who was there with me that night just wrote that it was a privilege to see him in Amherst that evening. It was.

I believe he died about a year later. Though sad, I was touched and inspired by the number of people who came out of the woodwork--there were so many readings and gatherings and memorials. Western Mass is that kind of place: a lot of deep, smart folks living in the woods and mountains. I met a lot of people in those following weeks, though none held fast. And I also heard, several times over, my favorite lines of his:

--We're not our skin of grime, we're not our dread bleak dusty imageless locomotive, we're all beautiful golden sunflowers inside, we're all blessed by our own seed & golden naked hairy accomplishment--bodies growing into mad black formal sunflowers in the sunset . . . 

--Sunflower Sutra, 1955 

Picture yourself in a boat on a river . . .

Today was a bad day. One in a recent series. I drove home late, doing breathing exercises, giving myself a little pep talk, even just thinking strings of curse words in righteous anger. And then I did what I always do when I find myself too far on one end of the spectrum: I think in opposites.

Thinking in opposites is a trick I learned in college. When struggling in lit classes to explain any given piece, a professor might say, "Explain it by first explaining what it isn't." A little obscure, perhaps. But insightful.

So opposites. What if I didn't have this stressful job? What job would I enjoy that would not be stressful? Hmmm . . . maybe running a little craft shop, teaching classes in embroidery. That sounds dreamy. And what if I were not just always talking about being a writer, but actually had the iron will to sit my fanny down and write? What time of day would I write? Would I type or use a new pen? And what if instead of cobbling something together each day to eat, I actually took the time to plan out weekly meals? That would be healthy and probably more economical. And maybe, eating the right foods, the inflammation in my back would go down.

No, I'm not exactly curing cancer here. But I did realize something sadly obvious: I don't have a vision of what I want my life to be. I have certain flash glimpses, and I have concepts. But there's no clear end goal in mind.

"The Awakening," Washington DC. Photographer: Ryan Sandridge

It may be because I am a slacker. That certainly carries weight here. But part of it is also that we let life happen to us, many of us. And we are swept up in what happens to us and go where the tide takes us. Before you know it, you're married, paying a mortgage, coaching your kid's soccer team, mowing the lawn, making lunches, and watching reruns. At that point, is there time in the day to consider one's self? One's own needs? My guess is that's how people come to just exist.

So what the hell is my excuse? My only dependent is a nine-pound cat missing most of her teeth. I'm saddled with school loans. I have ongoing fears of being a bag lady because times were tough when I was a kid. And I like to have a good time and not worry about money. Okay. But that aside, why don't I have a vision of what I want my life to be? It means I have no goals. I am just existing, but without a spouse, house, and child's love to keep me feeling fulfilled.

Copyright Alexandra de Steiguer

My opposite lives differ widely. And maybe that is what has me rolling along in neutral. Sometimes I am the earth mother, living in a farm house with a wraparound porch, growing my own food. Sometimes I am a city girl who spends time with a writing group and arguing politics at a hookah bar. Sometimes I defect to Paris or Canada. Sometimes I own a small, old cape on a rocky shore and run a craft shop.

The thing about New Hampshire is that it's very . . . settled. Almost everyone I know is married, has kids, etc. They are living their lives. There's not as much time to think about options. And I've been alongside everyone, year after year, existing. But I think I like the sound of a cape. A quiet life of creation.

Rockport, MA, on the last weekend of the summer

September?! WTF?

Hurricane Earl, for all its hype, provided a sprinkle here in NH. We hearty New Englanders have such a beating-the-chest-yelling-Hit-Me! attitude about these things. So boo hiss on that lackluster performance.


However, sure that the ocean would speak more loudly than the clouds, I went with a couple friends to Halibut Point State Park in Rockport, MA, Saturday afternoon.

I'd forgotten how beautiful the park is. I haven't been since the summer before I moved to NH, about five years ago. Halibut is the place we went to cool down on hot days--not a beach, per se, but a fiercely rocky, rugged section, with views all the way up to Maine. Anyone wanting to avoid crowds should check this out.

The old quarry is the first thing one sees. A beautiful, still pool of water, with the ocean waiting beyond.

Then there's a winding path of green that opens up to the harsh shoreline. We were there in the waning afternoon sun, along with many others who were eager to see big waves. And the waves were . . . okay. Great by NE standards, but still piddly small.

We got pretty close to the action. I could feel the sea spray each time water came up over these rocks. Folks started to back up as the water came in. I did see one girl go out onto a rock that was surrounded by water. Dumb dumb dumb.

And then there's the company I keep. I love these crazy broads. So mellow and free spirited. When we reached the shore, all three went our separate ways. Each of us spent time alone, taking it all in and thinking about everything and nothing. We finished the day off with drinks and apps at the Choate Pub in Ipswich.

The best line, however, came from the ride home. Friend: This was the best night ever. Me: Hiccup.

Classy as always. Peace out.

Headin' to the 01060

Friend w/sock puppet @bar

What a great birthday it turned out to be. Had a chocolate frappe for breakfast--'cause I can. Spent an obscene amount of money treating myself to new clothes that are not my typical style. Made my way slowly down to Boston. Met up with friends in Somerville for pre-dinner champagne, Indian food, and after-dinner drinks at the Precinct. Home well after midnight. Good stuff.

Part of what was fantastic yesterday, and I can't really explain this, is that I felt very confident. I had a bright smile for everyone. I spoke to strangers (unheard of--I'm a cold yankee to the core), struck up conversations, and made a lot of eye contact. Even with the perfume ladies at Macy's. A big smile and "No thank you." And I felt the rewards. It was contagious, the world felt good, and everything went...smoothly. Don't feel alarmed--I'm still a cranky girl. I don't know that I could have that kind of verve every day. But I needed it yesterday, and my super-human powers kicked in.

Now, heading west. Does everyone hold such adoration of their college town? Northampton and the rest of the Happy Valley speak to me, and I don't care if it rains or snows--I know I'll have a good time. My primary focus is go to the Peace Pagoda, the first Buddhist temple built in the United States. It's in Leverett, MA, which is a bizarro little woodsy town that I think of as a highly educated Appalachia. Happy sigh.

Anyway, I always cherished my time there--it's surreal and beautiful and calm. And I feel that I need a little time sitting on a mountain top, looking out forever, and breathing. Must go pack.

xo

Reassessment

Today, rather than clean my apartment or shave my legs in mad preparation for a visit from a Midwestern boy, I find myself accepting the fact of being newly single two days before my 35th birthday.

My 30s have been a weird ride. When I turned 30, I decided to clean house. I left a long-term relationship with a man, a job, and a state and moved to New Hampshire to start fresh. It was the best decision I ever made.

Now, halfway through this decade o'mine, I'm feeling an odd surge of strength again. I'm picking myself up and dusting myself off and looking to myself for answers. I've decided to step outside myself and watch--to see who this person is and what she's going to do next. I'm tired of being unsure and hopeful and sad. I'm interested in being confident, determined, and feisty. I need to take the wheel and drive.

I am going to get to a place where I no longer have to hear the sentence I've heard more than once this week, the worst sentence I've heard so many times over many, many years: You can do better than this. What's heartbreaking about it is that it hits the gut and between the lines I hear, "We think more of you than you think of you." That will no longer do.

Recently, I was at a cookout with a couple girls I know and several new acquaintances. Many beers into the night, a girl in her mid-20s turned to my friends and me and told us she wants to be like us--strong, confident, bold. I laughed inside, thinking, Girl, you have no idea. But it was also an incredible compliment--one I needed more than I knew.

Birthdays are up there with New Year's Eve and September as times for reflection and renewal. And the things I'm thinking about for the future? Well, they all fall under the heading of Being Authentic. Though it may appear to those in my circle that I'm pretty authentic to begin with, I feel boxed in. Dear readership of three, I am not entirely sure what shape this will take on, but it's bubbling up and I can feel it. I sense more travel, more reading, more writing, more crafting, and a wider net and support group. And what I hope to glean is that self love that I've never possessed. I told myself 2010 would be a good year. Maybe what I really meant was that 35 is going to be a great year.

xo

Farting, like a lady, mid-pirouette

Almost 10 years ago, a former coworker gave her notice and said she was moving back to Idaho. As we talked, it became clear that she had missed out on many awesome experiences to be had in New England. So a friend of ours joined us on a three-day tour of delights (Northampton, MA; Burlington, VT; and the White Mountains of NH). I think it was well into day two, heading up along 91, that she said, seriously, from the back seat, "Can we stop talking about poo and sex? Please?" I checked the rear view. She was looking out the window and her huge sunglasses covered all hint of emotion, but she meant it. I looked at friend #3, and she looked at me. We winced and said, "No promises."

I haven't changed.

Yesterday, in Portland, I was day drinking with the gals. Some of these gals I don't know so well. Some of them I've known a very long time. Bonding topics? Poo and sex. Well, actually, I think we shared age of first period and someone talked about poison ivy on the vag. And, oddly, it seemed the majority of us were fairly puritanical in our high school years. Maybe that's why we're such dirty broads now?

Driving from the downtown to the rented apartment (after police-sponsored sobriety checks--kidding, I was fine), I looked in the rear view and saw one gal digging through the debris in the back of my car--a Christmas stocking, a dumbbell, and . . . a duster. M: What do you have this in here for? Me: It goes with the French maid outfit back there.

I was kidding, but thus ensued a conversation about role play, during which I openly admitted to playing patient in the past. And, to my shock, appeared to be alone yet highly regarded for such behavior. None of these bitches had done role playing?! I believe that made me mayor of kink in that car at that moment. Sweet.


Blame it on Bukowski. Blame it on Ginsberg. Blame it on any number of excruciatingly honest writers, poets, and madmen who entered my mind during college. But there's something about going to that dark place, the lowest common denominator, that bonds us and makes us choose for ourselves, truly, whether we are comfortable with the people around us. We're animals, after all. Full of instinctive, visceral responses. So, when one of my friends runs into the living room of said rented apartment, pirouettes ungracefully, and farts, it is the instant reaction from the audience that says it all. My friend in the backseat 10 years ago couldn't make eye contact while discussing her disgust of poo. But when my pirouetting friend cut wind last night, we all laughed to tears and applauded. I can't imagine life any other way.

Kickin it with Nanamommy

Planted flowers at my great grandmother's grave with Mom today. Look at me, getting all swept up in tradition this year. Seriously, though, my family doesn't have many traditions that are positive, so I hold tightly to what there is.

We called my great grandmother Nanamommy--because that's what she was to everyone. And it was so commonly used that it may as well have been "Joan." I never thought it odd until I was an adult. And once in a while now, midsentence, I say, "Blah blah blah Nana-...my great grandmother blah blah blah." But I love the nickname. I love it like a child's blanket or a worn teddy bear.

Nanamommy's grave sits beneath a tree on the far end of Elmwood Cemetery in Bradford, MA. From her grave, one can see the flat she lived in up to her death, the second floor of a big, uninteresting green building. She lies beside her second husband, a man who died one year before I was born and of whom several disturbing stories were told. It's hard to know what's true about him, however. Mom shared a couple stories about him today. Fairly benign, but still telling. Nanamommy's first husband, who died of TB, lies elsewhere in the cemetery. My grandmother used to talk about her father with more love than she showed for anyone else. He died while she was still young, and stood on a high pedestal thereafter.

I was happy not only to be present with Mom to plant the flowers, but to actually help plant. To clear out the weeds, turn the earth, and put my bare hands into the soil over Nanamommy's body felt true. Organic. Close. See, Nanamommy died when I was young, so she stands on a high pedestal before me. To show her love and respect by beautifying the small square footage that is hers eternally feels more true than any prayer I could consider offering.

While there are other family members buried at Elmwood, Nanamommy is the only true, close family there. Everyone in my family who has passed since her has been cremated, boxed up, and handed to my mother, who keeps them in the front hall. The running joke during the holidays is that we can all be in the same room without any of the bickering.

It's sad, though, that no one else has been buried. There is only one stone to visit, to sit beside, to get tearful over. On those occasions that I think about family members who have passed, there's nowhere to go to ponder it--nowhere solid. It makes me consider the worth of a gravestone. Someday my mother will pass--and where will I go to talk to her? Because I will want to talk to her. I will want to plant flowers and cry and feel the dirt between my fingers. Because once the connection to the soul is lost, one needs to connect to something.

And along with the sense, from a recent post, that being a mother brings about immortality, so does a gravestone. Because I don't see just my great grandmother's stone in that cemetary. Mom and I wander a bit each year, checking out stones, noting names and dates. Today we stepped close to a tall pillar overgrown with hostas and vines--turned out to be poison ivy. This huge gravestone was encircled with poison ivy. I argued that frankly it would be fitting for my stepfather's stone someday, he being so cuddly and all. We laughed and walked back to the car.