novelist, essayist, teacher
Every morning I spend a little time reading before I begin the real work of the day, which is writing. I choose the books I read in this time slot for inspirational value, either spiritual or psychological or artistic. This morning I finished The Summer of the Great-Grandmother, by Madeleine L’Engle, which is the second of the “Crosswicks Journal” series, was chosen for a mixture of the three, and it does not disappoint.
Madeleine L’Engle
Last week I received a request from one of the chaplains at the nearby hospital to visit a woman suffering from what may well be the last stages of alcoholism. This was her fourth time in hospital in twelve months.
I admit my heart sank.
Although I am part of a fellowship that understands helping other alcoholics get sober is the best way to stay sober oneself, such calls are often grim and sad. Still, of course, I agreed to go. I called a dear friend I’ll call Ms. H., since experience tells us it is best not to go alone on such visits.
I’m in the midst of editing my new novel, OUR DAILY BREAD, which will be released in the US in September. It’s the story of what happens in a small town when, for generations, certain folks have been ostracized, pushed away and left to fend for themselves. Considered Those People—beyond the pale, beyond redemption—they become resentful, insular, self-hating, inbred, almost feral. Think a rural LORD OF THE FLIES with grown-ups.
“Death is a test of one’s maturity. Everyone has got to get through it on their own. I want very much to die. I want to become part of that vast extraordinary light. But dying is hard work. Death is in control of the process, I cannot influence its course. All I can do is wait. I was given my life, I had to live it, and now I am giving it back” – Elegard Clavey
All right, I’ll just come right out and say it — I’ve become one of those annoying people who, if encouraged in even the smallest way, spend a good part of any conversation talking about my dog. If you read my recent post, “The Liberating Poetics of Low Expectations,” this probably comes as no surprise. Dogs have been on my mind a good deal lately, and My Best Beloved, The Kindest Man I Know, finally agreed that, even though he is stricken with allergies, we can have a dog.
Enter Bailey, the Rescuepoo.
Bailey, The Rescuepoo
As many of you know, both my brothers died by suicide, and so, whenever I turn on the news and hear a report of another life being lost to despair and hopelessness, the little shard of ice in my chest which never quite melts, twists a little.
Tyler Clementi, a talented musician
This week, Tyler Clementi, a student at Rutgers University, jumped off the George Washington bridge after his roommate and a another student secretly videoed a sexual encounter between Tyler and another man and then posted it on the internet. Tyler’s cell phone and wallet were found on the bridge, and there is something piercingly heartbreaking about that — he left behind his way of communicating, and that which identified him. I cannot imagine the loneliness of his final moments. How we all failed him, and youth like him.
I wonder if you, like me, have ever found yourself sitting in the dark, tear-stained and brittle with anguish, listening to Tom Waits, perhaps, emptying a bottle of scotch, or a pot of coffee, maybe smoking cigarette after cigarette, staring out a fractured glass into the night, your soul blank, your stomach churning, your thoughts a tsunami of confusion, your skin burning with grief, your fingers tingling with longing for something you know you’ll never hold again.
At the bottom of the well
Angel, Passy Cemetery (photo by Ron Davis)
April is the cruellest month, breeding
Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing
Memory and desire, stirring
Dull roots with spring rain.
T.S. Eliott – The Wasteland
Eliott was right, at least as far as my family is concerned.
On Easter Sunday, April 6, 1996, my brother Bernie went to dinner at the home of family friends. By all accounts he ate well and laughed and left saying he’d see everyone later. Then he went home and hanged himself.
Last week I was down in Trenton with an organization called People & Stories, a reading and discussion program that (according to their mission statement) “creates unique access to literature. Adults and young adults who have had limited opportunities to experience the power of literature work in small groups led by a trained coordinator. Participants draw upon their own experiences to discuss complex short stories. As they examine the poetics, issues, and values the stories explore, people can discover ways to see things differently.”
Now and then they ask me to join their classes and read one of my stories. The participants this time round were enrolled in a program called “Operation Fatherhood.” Fathers of welfare children, they are trying to leave street life behind and learn how to become responsible parents, wage earners, maybe even husbands. Most had been incarcerated at one time or another, some recently.
I am most grateful to Joy Stocke at the terrific Wild River Review, for asking me to write an essay on the suicide deaths of both my brothers, Bernie and Ronnie. This is the anniversary week of their deaths. The essay is called “April is the Cruelest Month” and if you would like to read it, please visit Wild River Review. And a blessed Easter/Passover to everyone.
Angel in the Passy Cemetery, Paris (Photo by Ron Davis)
