Those Crazy Quirkyalone Writers by Lorette C. Luzajic

I’ve always thought my intense need for solitude was a little in the opposite direction from social norms. I blamed it on the obvious- as an artist, I’m a little weird. We have unconventional relationships, intense friendships, and need alone time to create. Just like couples need time to procreate.

Though some of my romance has been tumultuous, that’s just making up for the long stretches in which it is absent.

Since I was a wee thing, I enjoyed my own company very much, and lived in my own little world much of the time. But not all of it, and so I didn’t worry. I am definitely not a loner. I am frequently surrounded with a steady buzz, with bells and whistles, with family drama, the odd date. I’m not exactly a loner, given that I have an amazing cast of friends all over the world. Not everybody likes me, of course, and I surely do not like everybody else. But I like a lot of people, and I like a lot of people very much.

Now you all know the store I put in coincidences- there aren’t any. Just after my birthday, I had a Tarot-inspired epiphany. It was all about The Hermit, and how much work I was going to get done this year because fate has it that I’m not hooking up this year and that’s just fine with me. I sure don’t want to rule out any spicy companionship that may arise, but I’m not exactly waiting for the phone to ring or picking up ye old Rules, either. And that’s when someone told me I was the frigging poster child for quirkyalone.

Hmm, I liked everything I knew about quirkyalone except the moniker, which I found intolerably cheesy. It was just way too cutesy and cheerful for me to wear on a t-shirt or anything, and my brief forays into the quirkyalone movement were, well, brief. Still, what I’d found there impressed me duly. It wasn’t about bitterness and antisocial eccentricity. It was an openhearted embrace of solitude or singleness. It was deeply creative, humourous, tolerant, and inquisitive. When my flippant friend made that smart remark, my mind recalled picking up the book at the bookstore and putting it back down. Guess that hadn’t been the time, and this is.
Quirkyalone: a manifesto for uncompromising romantics by Sasha Cagen is a book about people who don’t settle. They may be serially single, or single indefinitely. And though they have their moments that they miss being missus, (or mister), they usually aren’t crying home alone on Friday night. They’re making sushi or going dancing. They’re turning off the phone ‘cause they’re in the middle of a giant abstract and a nice bottle of chardonnay. They have no interest in being set up. Time in between, before, or after, or instead of a partner is time to grow spiritually and creatively, to study, to emerge.

The book Quirkyalone is awesome. I will say that the book has even more of that cutesy thing going on then the title does. It feels a little overzealous most of the time. But I am utterly refreshed by the lack of cynicism, by the innate intelligence and creative ingenuity of the writer and of the featured quirkyalones. And I was joyfully surprised to find a rather long list of my icons listed as famous quirkyalones, including Nina Simone and Jesus.

The best part of the book was how much it resonated with my value system. Cagen places incredible importance on friendship, celebrates it as sacred and special. I have often thought that friendship, the chosen bond, is at least as meaningful as romance and family, and often more enduring. But it gets the short end of the stick, more often than not, or isn’t recognized as a unique form of relationship. Pairing up always trumps friendship as a family value, and friends get ditched or neglected by the formation of couples. Yet isn’t friendship far more enduring? Don’t many more friendships last a lifetime than marriages? And wouldn’t it be best to marry a friend with chemistry or even without, than whatever seems suitable at a suitable age?

Quirkyalone readers may respond enthusiastically to this jazzy declaration of independence. But let’s talk about sex. The obvious thing about relationships that friendship might not provide is sex. Even pathological loners may need sexual intimacy or pleasure from time to time. What do you do with all this aloneness when it comes to sex?

Well, quirkyalones could make like the rest of the population and pair up happily or miserably and call it love when it’s just the necessary biological boink they’re after. But the quirkyalone is committed to live with integrity. Cagen explains that he or she isn’t out to bash traditional pairings, to avoid love, or to ignore sex. “Uncompromising romantics” simply can’t commit their life to someone unsuitable. They can’t live a lie. And for some, living sexless is a lie, and for others, hooking up is a lie. How to live morally and still fulfill the built in needs humans have for sexual gratification?

Let’s face it- we are all sexual beings to some level, but we can all admit the least satisfying experiences are those where we lied or were lied to over some fleeting physicality. Our society is prudish and sex-obsessed at the same time. The quirkyalone ignores the hype. They know they don’t have to be skinny or fergalicious to be attractive, and aren’t chasing that Friday night date slot with cellulite creams and bronzers. We all recall the stunning and dark film Dead Man Walking, where Sean Penn is a hardened asshole on death row. The difficult friendship between the nun played by Susan Sarandon and the murderer was compelling content. As their special relationship unfolded, the thug asked her how she could be celibate. “Don’t you miss having a man?” Mattie asks seductively. “Don’t you want to get married, fall in love, have sex?” Sister Jean responds, “l haven’t experienced sexual intimacy, but there’s other ways of being close.” She says she has many close friends, both men and women.

It’s true that the never-ending hunt for booty with which we live our lives, even unconsciously, leads us more often away from real intimacy than toward it. How many of us are still with the first, second, or third love that we sobbed over for weeks or years? How many can even remember who that was? Yet no doubt we ditched our real friends in hopes that Jane, Sue, or Bob had time for us. We primped and preened and shaved and plucked.

Many quirkyalones are celibate, or are not afraid of periods of celibacy. They can be a welcome stretch where quirkyalones avoid distraction and insanity and energize their friendships, their commitments to church life or volunteer work, or their creative projects. But Cagen is quick to point out that quirkyalone is quite the opposite of hard up. Often, a quirkyalone has many suitors, but chooses his or her own company, or the tried and true companionship of his friends or furry critters. Celibacy is just one option, though. There are as many types of liaisons, arrangements, and sexy partnerships as the imagination can conjure. And now that we have left the assumption that a person should have a specific, traditional, agenda, the tried and un-true blueprint for social merging, we have a whole banquet of possibilities. It may be challenging to navigate the social alternatives, but not nearly as challenging as a lifetime of picking up crusty socks and enduring the assault on your identity that may happen if one succumbs to the wrong partner just because she’s there.

So. The quirkyalone loves to be alone, loves his friendships, enjoys her hobbies, and is not a nun (or may be a nun. Some nuns are surely quirkyalone. Marrying God is definitely quirky.) They are realistic about finding a life mate because they know a good match may be unlikely or unreasonable and they aren’t planning to settle. What happens when a quirkyalone finds someone?

Yep, it’s the quirkytogether… recall Cagen’s subtitle “a manifesto for uncompromising romantics.” Cagen addresses head on how the quirkyalone can go from single solitude and celibacy to impulsively married in a heartbeat. She explains that because the feelings come along so seldom, that when they do, they are so strong they border on obsession. She talks the quirkyalone back to earth, cautioning the avoidance of stalking and other erratic behaviours like eloping that may result. Because falling for someone is no guarantee for regular people and it’s no guarantee for the quirkyalone either. Even if one or both parties has fallen ‘madly in love.’

“It’s a little known fact, but quirkyalones, for all their independence, also have a tendency to be swept away when they get close to love. We are passionate, romantic characters, and that click happens so rarely that the hunt for a partner can sometimes take on the character of a hunt for the holy grail. If you meet someone who stirs your interest only once every two years, it’s bound to be an epic event,” Cagen writes. There are a few pages that expound on ‘romantic obsession’ and talk the quirkyalone back into reality. And to help guide the quirkyalone into a quirkytogether bliss, Cagen reminds her readers to remember that both parties are distinct individuals, that they are not a ‘we,’ that each should maintain healthy friendships outside the relationship, that each should maintain their own interests, and that they should never, ever send out holiday cards with a Sears and Santa portrait or themselves on the cover.

And that about covers it. This truly unique manual is ‘self-help’ of the best kind. It’s about the self, but it’s not selfish. It’s not about blaming the parents or a bad ex. It’s about celebration, about coming to terms with an unconventional life. It’s about how normal that really is, despite the media and the status quo. While it may seem obvious that this book is not for everyone, I say it is. You may not be remotely quirkyalone, but some of your friends may be. This can open your mind to how he or she works, and you can stop trying to set him up with the girls in your office. You may date one, and you’ll know when the time comes that she needs time alone, not ‘time without you.’

And so, what about me? Do I feel like the poster child for quirkyalone now that I’ve read the manifesto? I would have said no and stuck with ‘artist’ because I’m a bitter old queen who loathes chirpy labels. But I can’t lie. I did the quiz I found online, and I did the quiz in the book. And on both I got perfect. 100 per cent quirkyalone.

“At long last. You have found your tribe, a brave breed to resist the tyranny of coupledom in favor of independent self-expression. Relatives may give you quizzical looks, and so may coworkers, but in your heart of hearts, you know that you are following your inner voice. You may or may not be participating in a conventional romance, but always you are romancing the world.”

So there it is.

Quirkyalone: a manifesto for uncompromising romantics
Harper Collins, New York, 2004.

www.quirkyalone.net

Visit writer Lorette C. Luzajic at www.thegirlcanwrite.net for more blogs, more stories, and more art. Please order my book The Astronaut’s Wife: Poems of Eros and Thanatos.

Canada’s Own Maisonneuve Magazine is an Idea Factory

I’ve long wanted to write a love blog to Maisonneuve, the bestest magazine ever. But I was afraid I’d let slip that truth, that they’re my favourite magazine, and yep, I already have. I shouldn’t have a  “favourite” magazine- ideally; I’d like to write for lots of them.  My addiction to magazines has been lifelong- it began with Ranger Rick and my very first zine, The Sunshine Peanut, a group project with my chess partners in second grade. On it went, through the Fiddlehead and Rattle years, the years of anarchist zines and homemade art rags. There were the street newspapers, the glossy fashion mags, and a lifelong but casual friendship with Rolling Stone.

I read every powder review and ankle boot write-up in Seventeen. I lurked in the Toronto Reference Library periodical section to read the poetry du jour. I love Raw Vision, and later when downsizing to move, I cut up all the insane people’s artwork and used it another’s-mine. I hoarded old Vanity Fairs, lovingly saved for archived Madonna cover features. I’ve always bought Adbusters and am thrilled by spirit-centric spin-off, Geez. I’ve read Bowie in Modern Painters, and once or twice I’ve read The Economist. Hmm. I’m totally committed to the awesome Discovery, which I buy every single month but admit don’t read it cover to cover. I can’t- with all those, it’s hard to be focused or faithful. Add that to the volcanic and relatively sudden surge in history toward complete rule by celebculture. Wow. But I love to read in a whirlwind, picking or choosing at random, or feeling led or ‘fated’ to certain information or spirit of writing.

And I’ve justified the whole thing, through sickness or health, through poverty and well, no riches yet, but pending! -simply because it is my professional obligation to explore and to delight in the entire magazine world, to be mentored by and repelled against, to sharpen my knowledge and the ways I see the world. To be piqued.

At a yard sale last summer, I picked up a stack of random mags for a quarter and got out the ol’ deck chair and a frosted glass of gin and lime, my fabulously ridiculous JLo glasses, and reached for …hmm, Maisonneuve. We’d met before, but not this intimately. Eclectic Curiousity, it said on the cover. That was about as stellar and succinct a tagline as you could deliver.

Once upon a time I had a wonderful little Internet magazine called The Idea Museum. Later, it was resurrected for another two-year stint as The Idea Factory. I loved putting together a great arts mag about anything and everything. My tagline was much longer than Maisonneuve’s: “modern anthropology for artists and other anomalies.”

Read it and weep, I thought, as I closed a perfect magazine. I felt that I might have done better if I’d known Maisonneuve as a teacher, expanded even more than I did. But I was also reassured, that my spirit of wide-openness to eclectic knowledge was shared by such amazing journalists. Since that yard sale, I’ve stalked out Book City for every issue.

Here’s just a small list of the unbelievably interesting stuff these people cover, and do thoroughly! Beautifully thought out artistry is blended with unique and sometimes daring journalism. Readable to most, but still razor sharp and totally smart.

yard sale score:

June/July 2005
-    a rejection slip from Stanchion Press expressing sincere regrets to Virginia Woolf on not accepting To The Lighthouse
-    a story about the revival of west coast native culture the Nuu-chah-nulth people
-    a story about desperate Russian women who become suicide bombers
-    a very interesting goodbye Hunter S. by Matt Kavanagh

the five-year anniversary was the food issue- I’m all over that.

-the cover is so good I can’t even bother to describe it. it’s always Magazine of the Year or Cover of the Year anyway, so no need to expound.
-My Vegetarian Affair by Diana Wilson was a brilliant reflection on the ‘omnivore’s dilemma. lapsed vegetarian of 17 years,   Dana’s fascinating thoughts gave me a whole new way of examining this philosophical crisis that has plagued humans from the beginning. animals automatically eat what they should. humans analyze it to death and still have so few answers. this was just about the best short I’ve ever read on food.

Every issue of this great Montreal based curiousity piquer is jam-packed with wildly unexpected themes, just about anything, with a lot of attention to Canada. There’s terrific, contemporary illustration from diverse artists.  There’s provocative photography. Each issue is unapologetically filled with poetry, and most of it’s good for a change. Really good. While there’s a lot of serious stuff going on, there’s also humour, and lots of it. While totally smart and even ‘intellectual,’ it always feels open-spirited, not stifling and stuffy, ever, ever, ever. It’s really impossible to express how cool they are. I’m still blown away by every page, and I’m learning so many amazing things. Publisher and chief editor Derek Webster and team are contributing great cultural analysis and exploration to Canadian and world culture. Associate editor is Carmine Starnino, former fellow-Coles/Smithbooks family, and poet extraordinaire.

So I did pass on Maisonneuve but I didn’t want to do a blubbering soap box on how much I wuv them. But the spring 2008 issue was just so damn mind-blowing that I have to shout it from the cyberspace mountaintops. First off, it’s cover of the year again, with a painted figure kneeling in prayer, gazing heavenward into the light of a …UFO spaceship.

Now, who doesn’t love a good conspiracy theory story? For me, I love reading them, from the great soy deception to the witch burnings to sweeping alien cover-ups.

Now, years ago when I was near-homeless, nearly a baby, and totally naïve, I applied for a job as a ‘floor sweeper’ at the Scientology place near my seedy hotel room rental. There was a help wanted sign in the window, and being unskilled and willing to do any labour at all, I filled out a ….30 plus page application….for a job that paid…five dollars a week or something that jumped out at me real loud. Did I hear right? Oh, apparently it was mainly a ‘volunteer’ thing but yada yada, I could be helped with my obvious thoughts of suicide and have my uncertain, chaotic brain ‘cleared.’ But how would I pay the rent? Hmm, I had to learn to trust.

Eerily I’m looking over my shoulder now and wondering if they still have that damn application. I wish I had it, but they wouldn’t let me take it with me. And I was just a kid from the sticks. I didn’t really know what the eff was going on there, and I moved on and got a gig at a funky Robson St. pizza place called The Flying Wedge. I hardly thought about it again, but when I did, it was sure weird: they asked really personal stuff on that application for ‘sweeping and cleaning’, but didn’t seem to mind that I stared swearing at the interview and might not make the best employee. “You’ll see it our way within weeks,’ they promised. Now I wonder if they’ll come and kill me, but I know it’s trendy to be sympathetic to Scientology because Madonna said so.

Now, I worship Madonna as an incarnation of truth and creativity and power, blazing forth before our eyes, stumbling, picking herself up,  getting it right. But Madonna should read the Maisonneuve expose before comparing the marginalization of Tom Cruise’s Sci-Fi faith to poor orphans overseas.

Now Maisonneuve didn’t just get  a guy to write his thoughts on Scientology after a weird job interview. They went right to the man who knows Scientology founder L. Ron Hubbard best, a man named Gerry Armstrong, who has been hiding in Canada for fear of being murdered. He has had years of being spied on, persecuted, followed, harassed, and in and out of court with, Scientology. Okay, so in the beginning there was a volcano, some aliens, some theology of attack and destroy, and a sociopathic gold-digger named L.Ron. This was unnerving stuff, reported so eloquently and curiously by Bruce Livesey.

I encourage all of my faithful to visit Maisonneuve and expand their noggin’ at least once. It’s just such a treat, really. The rest of that issue, by the way, didn’t ‘pale in comparison’ an awesome cover story. There was an intriguing discussion on boxing in Montreal- not a topic I ever thought I’d find that interesting but I read everything in every issue. It’s automatic. There was something really interesting about tribal politics in Kenya, and some neat graphics in an article about some of the great art emerging from activism posters. But as usual I have gone on far too long: you will never find that in Maisonneuve, who only ever use the exact right number of words needed.  Absolut Brilliance.

www.maisonneuve.org

Visit writer Lorette C. Luzajic at www.thegirlcanwrite.net. Support Canadian small press and poetry by ordering her book, The Astronaut’s Wife: Poems of Eros and Thanatos:
http://www.chapters.indigo.ca/books/Astronauts-Wife-Poems-Eros-Thanatos-Lorette-C-Luzajic/9781847287335-item.html?ref=Search+Books%3a+%2527luzajic%2527&sterm=luzajic+-+Books

Madonna and other Wacky Chicks, with Simon Doonan

Everybody wants to rule the world, but only Madonna gets to do it.

The day after a gin and oyster extravaganza, I’ve decided to lay low and have an evening of reading. It’s not the first time I’ve chosen to stay home and read on a Saturday night, and it won’t be the last. There’s much to be said for lounging around without a bra, draped on each side by a content feline friend, listening to Madonna’s brilliant retropop, Sky Fits Heaven.

I’m super-stoked tonight because I’ve stocked up on the Madonna cover stories popping up everywhere as the world anticipates Hard Candy, her zillionth studio album. Also, I’m researching for a future project in my ‘fun feminism’ files and Simon Doonan’s Wacky Chicks has finally arrived from the library. Picking up the May 2008 Elle, ready to learn more about My Madgesty’s pending 50th, I notice that the interview is by the same author as Wacky Chicks. You all know the big ol’ fuss I make over every little coincidence. Groovy.

Now, everything in me appreciates the candy-coated pop propagation, but my interest in Madonna’s longstanding supremacy acknowledges the considerable depth of her mission. I’m curious to see how this all plays out- I’ve got my theories in that wacky goddess’s heart of mine that match rather nicely with some of the weird Kabala stuff going on. Methinks Our Lady of Mission Malawi just might be the Messenger/Messiah/Angel, call it what you will. Her public transformation from pop tart to saint to superpower is stunning.

Madonna’s messages can’t be underestimated- forget the presidency- Madonna’s influence is unparalleled. I can’t imagine being an outspoken woman artist without her paving the way. I can’t imagine what state gay rights would be in, or women’s rights for that matter, without her enormous influence changing our culture’s- and the world’s- paradigms. Every controversy has culled more money, more thoughts, more work toward or forward on more issues. Though many may find her mannerisms and her path to be outrageous, that’s also what was said about another teacher in his day. And I for one don’t think it’s that farfetched that a lady named after his mother might just be his messenger. Uptight Puritans who still equate a hot, sexy woman with the fall of man and can’t conceive of human sexuality as holy might think I’m off my rocker, but honey, that is just so five millenniums ago.

I digress, as usual…now Doonan’s awesome book Wacky Chicks celebrates other pink pluckies who won’t necessarily end up in Gautier with disco-ball pasties as the costume to their truth telling. But they might…Doonan gushes over a bunch of oddball chicks we’ve never heard of, and he does it with that particular type of observant candor and incisive wit that makes me damn jealous. Subtitled “Life Lessons From Fearlessly Inappropriate and Fabulously Eccentric Women,” this stupendously entertaining collection is vivid, to say the least.

“Life’s a banquet, and most poor suckers are starving to death,” is how the book begins, quoting Auntie Mame. It’s great thinking on Doonan’s part to highlight some of less-known bright and brilliant broads. The 2003 collection is true, pure camp, yet treads new territory so stylishly that one day he’s going to get to interview Madonna. And in that interview he willingly refers to himself as a screaming queen, praying for nerves of steel as he’s about to come face to face with wonder woman. Or God herself.

Everyone should read his piece in Elle because maybe they didn’t know what Madonna has been doing in the world. She’s not in the papers every day naked anymore. Sometimes there’s a half-hearted divorce rumour, then the chitchat reverts to Lindsay’s vodka relapse- or was that just water in that water bottle? Madonna has managed to live a surprisingly private life for the most famous woman in the world. (So much can be done, folks, see, when you aren’t on drugs.) Madonna’s spiritual evolution is the stuff of history books, and to the naysayers who say ‘say it ain’t so’ sure, love, I’ll say it, but it IS so. Madonna is already a curriculum in university and has been for over a decade. I have umpteen academic discourse collections. The future classroom won’t mention you or me, darling.

All this means, of course, that Madonna’s fate has been mythically meant into existence. It’s possible that no one believes in fate more than I do, despite the backlash on ‘voodoo science.’ Voodoo is the ONLY science, for crying out loud. Alchemy, magic, madness, creativity, chemistry, dendrites and axons, hello. It is indeed magic to have 3000 songs- unique acts of art, of creation by a variety of artists- in a small box on my desk. That I can talk to Japan tonight. That milk thistle herbs heal your liver. Get it? It’s no war between irrational beliefs and science. The phenomenal world is science uncovering.

And yay, we have a ways to go. So yes, I am proudly a fate-alist and I’m out loud and proud and do have half a brain. Not the same half as yours. My childish, insecure, ridiculous ideas that I should be/have been Madonna instead of Madonna were simply insane. But just as I felt lame for even thinking it, I can only be myself. My fate is there, and I’m in it, and part of it was dreaming crazy shit like that. Not that uncommon, huh, ladies?

The fabulous thing is though, that we are each unique, with our own fate alchemizing before our eyes. And my particular role as a bit over the top, a bit messy, a worrywart, a writer, is oh, so perfect. Oh, it really fits!

So if you’re a wacky chick, so lucky to live in this free to be you and me era that Madonna helped usher in, do yourself a favour and read about these other superdames. Bask in the afterglow of Doonan’s meeting with Madonna by laughing through these tales of mad money makers, strippers, fashionistas and other wackettes.

Donna Karan says Simon is a male Lucille Ball. I’m too young to really recall or appreciate this spitfire heroine- but I can nearly agree with Liz Smith, who called him “the most brash and brilliant thing in type.” Imaginative and fearlessly working it, Doonan captivates. You laugh, you cry. You fix your powder.

Wacky Chicks: Life Lessons from Fearlessly Inappropriate and Fabulously Eccentric Women
Simon Doonan
Simon and Schuster, 2003

If you like my columns, you’ll love my poetry collection, The Astronaut’s Wife. You can order it through amazon or indigo online. Or visit me at www.thegirlcanwrite.net and add me to your facebook!

xoxox Lorette C. Luzajic

more grief poetry

I was sifting through some poetry files of unfinished or unpolished jottings, and found a cute little rhyming poem that I wrote for Bobby last summer. Now that he is in heaven, you can imagine how this innocuous little number made me sob.

and the whisky goes down like butter
and the tequila goes down like rain
and the vodka goes down like honey
and the gin goes down like pain
and I know I only have you for today
my brother, my love, my friend, my bobby mcgee
i know that you will always go away
but in your heart, don’t stray too far from me.

Lorette C. Luzajic
www.thegirlcanwrite.net
buy my book at indigo or amazon online

An Ode to Supreme Friendship with J and with G, with love

The second time I met Billie Holliday,
the night winds of Lake Michigan were rushing across my face:
icy waves slapped my face, drenched your
“bill cosby” sweater, and Billie,
racing headlong into them, gleefully frozen. Her barks of joy
echoed way into the Illinois sky.

Later, once the ecstasy kicked in, we went about our more urban adventures: somehow you and your crazy skinny cheetah of a dog rescued me in this one week whirlwind tour of Chicago. Our energy was boundless. We feasted on chile-packed flautas, sat on patios, smoking for hours, listening to blues. Or Pet Shop Boys, at cheesy old-school fey establishments. Abba never dies! Our scarves were colourful and outrageous. Your husband and I were too festive even for you, and we acted free and immodest and silly all week long. These types of things with your bestest friends go into the best moments category of your whole life.

The first time I met Billie was something different altogether. I’m so young it’s hazy, half my age. So naïve that now I shudder, how once I was essentially a girl who had no skin, nerves exposed to the open air. But oh, how you couldn’t tell! I was just so fun! I was funnn with three nnns. Roger and me. We made pizza together:
once, after work, after we washed the dough from our hands and snuck our favourite toppings into a Tupperware, he invited me over. I thought he was gay. He was taking me to Denman Station, after all, where I’d hear enough Erasure to be even more fun than I already was. He was so gay that he lit candles all over his place when I got there and put on a stack of vinyl Billie records. We drank cheap pink wine in plastic Dixie cups and then suddenly he said, “Do you want to see how good I am?” And the story gets even sadder because I stammered uh, umm, and then ended up staying, out of politeness really. It was like the second time or something and nothing to write about in the ole diary.

Dear girls, our adventures have mellowed us, with the years, oh yes. I know I won’t be hallucinating tonight. What splendid things, friends, they are angels, resplendent sprites. These two wrote my name in rocks at Maccu Piccu the last time they were gone from me, while my husband was dying and soon they were coming home. Tonight Billie’s dad and I are on our own. After rice noodles and sugarcane shrimp, we will be meeting for a gin and tonic and a discussion on Dinah Washington. I’m reading about all these fierce crazy blues divas and you’re the one who’s memorized every Holliday ever smoked through. Sometimes we just sit in a dingy place and drink rye and seven and talk endlessly about things that never run out.

Lorette C. Luzajic
www.thegirlcanwrite.net
Lorette’s poetry has been widely published for years. Grain, Fiddlehead, Quarry, Modern Poetry, White Wall Review, Rattle, Caffeine… and online. She should concentrate more on poetry, but lately has been concentrating on gigs that pay better. So help inspire my muse by ordering my acclaimed first collection, The Astronaut’s Wife: Poems of Eros and Thanatos. You will be surprised and amazed, and will look at life and death differently after.

xoxo Lorette

Why Marshall Matters

Why Marshall Matters: on word-wizardry, family values,
and why Eminem and Johnny Cash could have done a duet

What’s a nice Baptist grrrl (with dozens of twinkie friends) doing cranking up the volume on obscenity-spewing gangsta hip-hop?

I’m rapping my ass off, that’s what!

I can’t say I’ve ever identified with Martha Stewart, though I fancy myself a bit of a whiz in the kitchen. I never saw use for painting the walls in varying shades of taupe at every season’s change. But since Our Lady of Napkin Rings busted out of the joint, seems she’s been shaking it with other middle-aged ladies to Eminem. And I’ve joined right in, wondering how I failed to notice up until now that Eminem is the bomb. Not only is he kind of hot, but I’m going to go out on a limb and say he’s a man of family values, a master wordsmith, and a storyteller in the tradition of Johnny Cash.

This linguistic contortionist is rather Seussian, but definitely not for kids.

I’m embarrassingly late to get on the Em train. Perhaps I was sleeping through his rise to fame, or perhaps I unconsciously absorbed the negative press about fag-hating and womanizing without my usual protocol of reserving judgement for work I’ve observed firsthand. Certainly the aura of negativity surrounding much hip-hop left little for me to hope for creatively and culturally, though my husband, who was brilliant, was a huge fan of Eminem. I had little understanding of Eminem’s roots, and it sure wasn’t the first on my list of things to look into while I was occupied with major events in my personal life.

I had no real opposition to the noise I heard blasting from car windows or other people’s parties, but I was never drawn in. Perhaps I’ve just never been much of a gangster, and didn’t know enough then to identify with Mr. Mathers as a poet.

My crash course was exciting: a lot of reading, a lot of dancing around the kitchen to Square Dance chopping celery, seeing his videos and concert footage for the first time, and watching 8 Mile. This guy is a creative power-horse, a supersonic rhyme machine.

The beat got planted when I found myself with an unusual and enigmatic roommate who had dreams of turning his humble roots into hip-hop superstardom. Robert kept late hours jumping around in his room with Curtain Call blasting from his 17 speakers, and I figured I couldn’t complain. After all, as an early writer, I subjected him to enough Madonna and Nina Simone during six a.m. inspirations. Fair is fair, and I barely noticed that I was starting to tap my feet in my dreams to rather nimble, perspicuous, melodic beats. I wondered how the guy could rap so fast, and though I heard plenty of expletives that reminded me of the good old days, working my first job at the small town gas station, I became curious about Eminem and his lyrical gymnastics.

Yes, Slim Shady swears a lot and goes into involved details about stuff I prefer to do privately and keep to myself. But there’s a lot more going on in the extensive library of lyrics than booty calls. As I noticed references to his daughter Hailie and his desire to care properly for the one he calls the only lady in his life, I began to surmise that Marshall is rather a bulwark of family values. I began to catch on to some of the theatre of his history, and saw that the man who claims “God sent me to piss the world off” was giving audiences a brutal but realistic glimpse into the blues of the ‘hood. 8 Mile certainly documented with beauty and precision some of the courage it took for a wimpy white boy to stand up in Detroit and start battling it out in freestyle rap, earning the respect of his peers. Actually, Eminem is unrivalled in rhyme, and some say he is the best rapper in the world, black or white.

Eminem’s personal life and the identities of his rabblerousing, hostile characters like Slim Shady overlap. While one must be careful never to believe that every aspect of a celebrity persona is true to his own life, it’s safe to assume that in an everyman kind of way, Eminem is talking about the kind of life he lived. Self-professed trailer trash, Em grew up among the poor, abused, addicted, fatherless, and lawless. He has said, “My father? Never knew him. Never even seen a picture of him.”

Besides the quicksilver, shrewd, intricate rhyming talent, the man also has feelings. “Now you’d prob’ly get this picture from my public persona, that I’m a pistol-packing drug addict that bags on his mama, but I wanna take this time to be perfectly honest, cause there’s a lot of shit, that I keep bottled that hurts deep inside of my soul.” (Hailie’s Song).

Arguments that this style of music is responsible for promoting violence have always fallen flat with me, despite my previous disinterest. I believe that violence creates violence – singing about what you know might be the best way out of the ghetto. Here I would argue that Eminem continues an American tradition of storytelling in song, and not unlike country, gospel and blues greats, he tells the stories of locale. Johnny Cash sang of bars and trains and brawls and drugs and prison and injured faith and love, and Eminem is no different. He is also similarly stoic, accepting the past for what it is without compromising his belief in a different future.

(Given my late entrance to the Rhyme King poetics train, I must acknowledge that many critics of Eminem also criticize thinkers who tout the “Mathers as Storytelling” plot line. The Village Voice’s Robert Christgau wrote, “Eminem has never been the storyteller lazy defenders pretend he is. (June 11, 2002))

Though like all families, ours had its problems, I was lucky enough to grow up in a nice Christian family in rural Ontario, loved by both my parents. Still, I can relate to the soul of hope and anger in Eminem’s raps about poverty, mental illness, drug addiction, ambition, and spiritual conflict. These realities may be extreme in the place where he grew up, but there’re millions of people who share them nonetheless, and a few in those millions I have known and loved. Certainly I can relate to his horror at everyone he loves dying – perhaps the strange and only link we have besides our word-craft.

Some of life’s darker themes like loss transcend family income and personal geography and are simply human. Johnny Cash said he wore black to mourn for those in prison and those hooked on drugs, for those who never heard the words of Christ. And growing up as I did, I heard the words of Christ on a regular basis and he spoke in parables that his peers could understand. Johnny Cash told stories that spiritually bereft peers could find sympathy in, wearing his struggles on his sleeve. Eminem has the same staggering talent for stories, and it would be wrong to assume he should speak the language of people other than those he grew up with, the language of the person that he is.

And while Johnny Cash’s integrity and sainthood is now deeply entrenched in North American iconography, it must be kept in mind that in his time he was “a prototype of the hard-living, finger-flipping rock and roll hell-raiser.” Kurt Loder’s amazing article, Johnny Cash, Original Gangsta, points out that Cash was “present at the creation of white rock and roll”, similar to Eminem’s historical role in the creation of white rap. Marshall Mathers raps about addiction and alcoholism: JC was crazy from amphetamines. Loder writes eloquently, “Cash may have set up shop as “the man in black” in order to distinguish himself from the gaudier denizens of the pop-music world, but the image resonates on a deeper level in his music.

“All of which is kind of … gangsta, in a way. Johnny Cash has drawn on a deep well of murder and mortality in American music, and everybody pretty much agrees the man’s a master, a modern icon. Today’s rappers, however — who deal with the same subjects in a, shall we say, more immediate way — get nothing but flack”

The Man in Black had some words of advice for rap artists, told to Loder before his death. “ “Ignore it,” Cash says. “Do what you do. You can’t let people delegate to you what you should do when it’s coming from way in here [taps heart]. I wouldn’t let anybody influence me into thinking I was doing the wrong thing by singing about death, hell and drugs. ‘Cause I’ve always done that. And I always will.””
(http://www.mtv.com/bands/c/cash_johnny/news_vma_feature/index.jhtml)

At least one other thinker makes the connection between these American icons. Bryan Leed, reviewing Cash’s music on Amazon.com notes, “On American Recording, “Delia’s Gone” is a misogynist song about killing your woman in various ways. I don’t like this song, but it was the biggest hit on the album when it came out in 1994, and it put Johnny back in the public eye in a big way with its MTV hit video to promote it. It is a lot like the sort of black gallows humor which rapper Eminem writes in (though Eminem gets more extreme, Johnny has been doing these types of songs since before Eminem was even born).”

Contrary to my own preconceived notion, Em is not simply blasting obscenities and spewing hatred. His twisting, twisted rhymes pulse with rhythm and texture, and they are richly populated stories. The cast of characters is wide, from hip-hop celebrities (many of whom he grew up with) to his wife and daughter, to his Mom and other family members, to journalists, musicians, and celebrities. The “plot” of said stories grows within each song, but more so, the pieces fit together as re-appearing characters start to flesh out the past events through various works. Of course, like any poet, Eminem takes poetic license and we can’t assume each player’s role is the same every time, or that he is always talking about himself. But like the personal nature of most other poetical works, and from what we know of his private life, we can conclude everything except the pillaging and killing is at least semi-autobiographical.

After spending a lot of time with the enigmatic hip-hopper, Em’s biographer, Anthony Bozza, says it better than I’m able. “His desires are simple: he lives for hiphop and his daughter, nothing more,” Bozza writes. (Whatever You Say I Am: The Life and Times of Eminem). Describing his lyric talents, he continues, “He relies on what works for him: bending words to his will, honing double-rhymed structures to convey what life has dealt him, ultimately to undo it, at least for the length of a song. His lyrics bite, cut, jab and burn with an urgency that few artists harness. He uses rap music but he speaks a universal language, the same language of experience, hardship and humour heard in the blue, jazz, country, and folk, in literature…anywhere a story, through passion, becomes real in the retelling.”

He and I are not the only ones who see Eminem’s extremely important cultural significance as a storyteller or poet. Poet and Nobel Laureate Seamus Heaney said that no one since Bob Dylan provoked so much interest in poetry and lyrics and praised Mr. M’s “verbal energy.” Wikipedia notes that “Eminem is noted for his ability to change his vocal pace and style multiple times within one song without losing the beat, and has been praised for his skill in alliteration and assonance”. Eminem has been nominated for and won countless Grammy awards and his song, Lose Yourself from the 8 Mile soundtrack, won an Oscar. The boy was garnering these awards while some of us slept right through his talent.

With lightning speed, Eminem weaves intricate, complicated rhymes, incorporating clever wit and satire. He lives and raps by his wits, moving from the mean streets to become the biggest-selling male artist in the world by 2001. President George Bush said called Eminem the “most dangerous threat to American children since Polio.” Like too many others who haven’t walked 8 miles in another’s shoes, Georgie forgot that the real threat to children is violence, abuse and poverty. Andy Thomas, a stand-up comedian in Toronto says, “I’d like to see how many poor kids Eminem has put into a wheelchair, George.”

It’s also interesting to note that if Eminem is the hatemongering lunatic that Mr. Bush perceives him to be, then perhaps the President of the World has more in common with the rap mogul than he cares to admit. Not only does the rapper’s music appear to hate women and faggots, but Eminem clearly sings in Hailie’s Song against abortion. Aren’t these the family values that Bush espouses?

When celebrities were asked to speak out against Eminem, Madonna spoke loud and clear. “Since when is offensive language a reason for being unpopular? I find the language of George W much more offensive,” Madonna wrote. “I like the fact that Eminem is brash and angry and politically incorrect. At least he has an opinion. He’s stirring things up, he’s making people’s blood boil, he’s reflecting on what’s going on in society right now. This is what art’s supposed to do.”

And Elton John, who is as flaming as they come, was happy to perform with him at the Grammy awards. He called Eminem’s album (The Marshall Mathers LP) the “album of the year,” stating, “It appeals to my English black sense of humour.”

Fellow genius Stevie Wonder is a man everyone can agree is sweet and loving and a poster child for politeness. But he also spoke out on the rapper’s behalf. “For someone to say, this is a disgrace to the Grammys, come on. There was a time when blues was called a disgrace.” (Wonder did criticize Eminem’s Just Lose It, however, which poked fun at Michael Jackson, saying he was kicking a man while he was down.)

To ask a child from these roots not to speak or sing out about what he knows is to leave them voiceless. In spite of our personal ethics on any given topic, is it actually moral to assume that an impoverished, abused American child who sings about that life is any less deserving of fame and success than those who can sing about driving Daddy’s Porsche to honour roll meetings? Are ghetto children incapable of genius, simply because we find the topics they use distasteful? If Eminem can’t talk about the horrors of the ‘hood, of being fatherless and addicted and suicidal and abused, then we must also censor others from speaking out about things we don’t like. We can’t hear any more personal experience stories from those whose lives were shattered in any way. We can’t watch sponsorship ads for starving kids on TV. No more Holocaust survival stories, and no more newspapers.

Mr. Mathers himself said, “Saving Private Ryan was probably the illest, sickest movie I’ve ever watched, and I didn’t see anybody criticizing that one for violence.”

While women’s groups and gay activists have decried Mr. Mathers’ perceived bigotry, we would all do well to remember that poetry is about reflecting a reality, not promoting one. A thoughtful writer identified only as Dan posted an insightful piece on the Internet, reminding us of our fear of Walt Whitman’s homosexuality. The irony is that now we fear a man who raps the word “faggot”. Dan writes, “You don’t read Walt Whitman and get scared by his homosexuality or even his homosexual subtext. It is classic American poetry. Bob Dylan was born out of Guthrie, born out of Whitman. I dare propose that Eminem has been born out of Bob Dylan. He is the modern urban poet and you are burning his books.”

Peculiar, yet utterly common, this young man might be as confused by fame and the marketplace and the world as anyone, yet he accepts his place in it and keeps no pretenses. All of his anger becomes tolerable when you see the sly bent of dark humour, wrenching every drop of blood from the old hip-hop adage, “keeping it real.” I admit that it’s too dark for me, that I do not relish the violence in Shady’s stories, though guns are a way of life in Detroit, Notably absent from all of Mathers’ constructions is the affluenza of the gangster. This has never interested Em – only providing reasonably well for his family interests him financially, and creating is all he has ever wanted to do. His ideas come forth as quickly as his lyrics, driving him into a quiet madness that he has learned to harness it by freeing its aggressive, politically incorrect spirit. Ironically, for the only guy who can speak at 100 miles a second, he is a man of few words.

By unleashing the demons of a whole nation’s cultural texts, he takes the blame that belongs to all of us. It’s also empowering to not fear those texts. I don’t fear Eminem in a dark alley. We’ll likely share a joint if we met at a party, and he would cordially shake hands with my gay friends. He would not wave around a gun or get too high and plastered. He’s unrefined and uneducated, but has devastating talent and disarmingly, an unexpected modest integrity. He is a superstar, a mogul, and a god – yet his megalomania is just a theatrical construct. He’s really rather unassuming in real life. He is right to move into producing, where he can mastermind and mold instinctively other talents that follow in his wake, giving proper tribute to the talents that molded him, respect he has given from the beginning.

So I’ll defend the “lyrical arsonist” (Croal, Newsweek) for the trademark, 8 mile-a-minute, speedy voltage of quick-thinking, alliterating, logorrhea. It’s good to ask ourselves if inspiration belongs only to those who are well-adjusted, healthy, sane, and well-bred. By carefully examining history, we know that most artists, musicians, and other geniuses led upstanding lives free of abuse, bigotry and insanity. HA! Genius seldom comes from the wholesome places we would like it to, and “keeping it real” means the lower ranks of society must have equal voice. Where would music be without Mozart and his penchant for women, wine and song? And if we remove all traces of sexism and bigotry from literature and art history, well, we won’t have damn thing to read.

As Eminem raps in Bad Influence, “People say that I’m a bad influence, I say the world’s already fucked, I’m just addin’ to it.” After all, reality bites.

Because I Couldn’t Say Everything Myself:

Just How Good Is He? Giles Foden for the Guardian Online
http://www.guardian.co.uk/g2/story/0,3604,434096,00.html
Focusing on the history of poetics, this is a brilliant examination of Eminem’s place in poetry by literary genius Giles Foden. If I haven’t convinced you lit-lovers to open the mind to the rapping at the door, it’s hard to argue with Foden. He has an impeccable knowledge of poetics and writes beautifully to boot.

Genius-Not! Eminem Melts in Your Hands by Armond White
http://www.firstofthemonth.org/culture/culture_white_eminem.html
In addition to Eminem’s personal responsibility for all the fag-bashing, rape and devil worship in the world, we can’t forget his contribution to oppressing racial minorities and subverting the true genius of all the black rappers he professes deep respect for. Guilty of sharing the limelight and not presenting “feel-good” rap like the oh-so-memorable Vanilla Ice, Eminem whines about his petty white shit and pisses off one Armond White, who knows that Eminem’s “industry triumph depends on asserting the privilege of being white in America.”

The Scotsman- Eminem Streets Ahead in his Art
http://thescotsman.scotsman.com/s2.cfm?id=726052003
Jem Rolls writes convincingly that art can come from anywhere, if it’s good enough. “Is Eminem also poetry? Of course. It’s slickly inventive, it keeps you surprised, you can’t see all the rhymes coming. And a singular energy compels you.”

Tune Out Eminem’s Pitiful “Poetry”- Michelle Malkin for Jewish World Review
http://www.jewishworldreview.com/michelle/malkin061300.asp
Michelle Malkin disses Eminem and I can’t agree with much that she says, but have to hand it to her for being nearly as clever a wordsmith as Mr. M himself. (And no, Ms. M, I didn’t have to look up logorrhea in the dictionary like you did). “Eminem is just the latest dysfunctional spawn of our Jerry Springer society. Sooner or later, he’ll self-destruct. The real threat to our cultural health are those entrenched media intellectuals, lounging backstage with lattes and laptops in hand, who sanction garbage as art, expletives as entertainment, and violent perversion as lyrical poetry.” Too bad Malkin can’t see that the only thing separating her word-works from his just might be Em’s “Dickensian childhood,” one she evidently didn’t share.

Whatever You Say I Am: the Life and Times of Eminem by Anthony Bozza
Crown Publishers, New York, 2003.

Bozza presents an interesting scope here, and shows great wit and perception as a writer.

White Noise: The Eminem Collection edited by Hilton Als and Darryl A. Turner
Thunder’s Mouth Press, New York, 2003

A thoughtful and varied collection of writings from different media sources. These thinking reflections preceded my muses, and many show similar discoveries, but there’s plenty of intelligent fodder to refute our claims of genius as well.

Where to Start

I didn’t quote extensively from the poetics of Eminem’s vast lyric library, simply because the art form needs to be heard out loud. The way art is created is how it should be received, and Em’s rhymes twist and wiggle impossibly on the tongue, insidiously insinuating themselves into the framework of the song. But I’ll recommend a few of Shady’s most important works. Start with When I’m Gone, Like Toy Soldiers, Lose Yourself, Run, Rabbit, Run, Without Me, Mockingbird, My Name Is, Hailie’s Song, Square Dance, and Cleaning Out My Closet.

visit writer Lorette C. Luzajic at www.thegirlcanwrite.net
buy her book at indigo or amazon online
“The Astronaut’s Wife: Poems of Eros and Thanatos”

Break, Blow, Burn: Camille Paglia Reads 43 of the World’s Best Poems

Fans of Camille Paglia’s Salon column and her collected sex and pop culture books may have skipped this treasure. They should know better- poetry with Paglia is the class I wish I’d had. Forget about suffering through old English- this dynamo cracks the whip and gets your noggin’ into shape fast, leaving you hungry for more. Even better, you may find yourself coming up with other suggestions for the ‘world’s best poems’ and so you should. Just because we live in the age of e-greetings and celebrity gossip doesn’t mean we shouldn’t visit the panaramic backdrop of our culture’s products time to time. It all began way back when. Consider this: “My attentiveness to the American vernacular- through commercials, screwball comedies, hit songs…has made me restive with the current state of poetry. I find too much work by the most acclaimed poets labored, affected, and verbose, intended not to communicate with the general audience but to impress their fellow poets. Poetic language has become stale and derivative…(but) those who turn their backs on media…have no gauge for monitoring the metamorphosis of English.”

And if, like me, you fear you are just not smart enough to sit through John Donne or another Shakespeare lesson, let Paglia’s cadence and remarkable insight take over. Follow her through the puzzles as she unearths the most fascinating interpretations. She begins at Shakespeare and ends with a pop song by fellow Canadian poet Joni Mitchell, so the range is astonishing and lively. Yes, you will occasionally head to the dictionary, as per the usual Paglia read. But she says herself that she has tried to “write concise commentaries on poetry that illuminate the text but also give pleasure in themselves as pieces of writing.”

And that they do. Paglia never misses anything, so don’t worry if you don’t ‘get’ a poem. Just sit back and absorb her marvellous interpretations. Seeing as the woman has read and memorized every piece of literature, and knows the chronology of history impeccably, she fits everything for us into the epoch we need for context. Her enthusiasm vibrates through. Revisit Williams’ little red wheelbarrow, alabaster graveyards with dear Dickinson, and have fun saying “Bysshe Shelley” over and over.

And if you are a poet, or even if you’re not, you may find yourself compelled to get out the old inkwell. “Authors strive and create against every impediment,” Paglia proclaims proudly. “Including their doubters and detractors. Despite breaks, losses, and revivals, artistic tradition has a transhistorical flow that I have elsewhere compared to a mighty river. Poems give birth to other poems.”

And how is that relevant in the material world? “Artists are makers, not just mouthers of slippery discourse… Poets are fabricators and engineers, pursuing a craft analogous to cabinetry or bridge building. I maintain that the text emphatically exists as an object,” Paglia writes. “It is not just a mist of ephemeral subjectivities. Every reading is partial, but that does not absolve us from the quest for meaning, which defines us as a species.”

visit writer Lorette C. Luzajic at www.thegirlcanwrite.net.
Collage by Lorette C. Luzajic. view more art at creativityvault.net

The Aftermeth

the aftermeth

“on that morning, when this life is over, I will see your face”
in loving memory of Bobby Martin, 1978-2008

now that you have come to sort things out,
I am more confused than ever.
all hell breaks loose in
midnight
(it has been years now since I heard midnight
at my door)
I’ve made my life so

tidy

squishedit
filledit
crammedit
stuffedit

with law and order

to keep the crashing winds and waves outside my window at bay
(as if orderly cutlery and weekend yoga could possibly protect me
from the gods of the sea)

I never know if the roads will bring you home
and today the miles are written in your eyes,
the things you’ve seen, the ways you’ve tried to hide.
and you are wearing the sun and the rain
and the road and the endless prairie skies.

you are a storm that blows through here
like a pack of wild horses galloping past
you are possibly not quite human, or more than human, something else,
wilder and more compelling,
you are my family and my flesh, brother and lover simultaneously. yet nothing
can shield me from the injury of you, not even your shelter.

every time you break my heart,
I will grow another one for you to break
and treasure the hours in which it falls apart,
just to have something from you.

I cannot keep you from climbing across my roof
or crawling in my window
if you needed to get to me.

In between those times,
I do not ever know if you are dead or alive. now, I do not know again.
you disappear as you arrive, without explanation, because there aren’t any.
you leave, as usual, penniless, with nothing but the clothes on your back, a small sack, an internal map of every fucking road there is. this time you take my poetry with you,
there are poems for you in every book I write.

once you told me you would walk 1000 miles for me
and I said all I will ever ask of you is that you put down your pipe for me
and I beg you leave it down. I will never ask another thing.

You are pleased that things are all right for me,
for my new apparent equilibrium,
you show some smiles among
the new scars
of your recent hanging
and the nearly faded wounds on your wrists.

now, as if there were never years between us, and no grief,
we laugh and cry
and pretend everything is all right.
and we listen through Johnny Cash five times, and it’s an
apt soundtrack for all the we have seen, for
the people we have been

and yours is a lonely road, my friend,
but that is not why I keep your heart with me as best I can,
it is not why I pray for those dark corridors in your mind to fill with light,
which you deserve. the air here, now empty of you,
tastes like cilantro- soapy and edged with grief.
I can’t fix the things that are broken-
it is you who fixed my sink and bicycle when you hitchhiked into town.
it’s only 2000 miles, you said while repacking your backpack.
I’m clean now, woman, I’ll make it west, don’t worry.

Lorette C. Luzajic
www.thegirlcanwrite.net
There were two poems for Bobby Martin in my first book, The Astronaut’s Wife: Poems of Eros and Thanatos. You can see it on my site, or check out Indigo or Amazon online.

I Hung My Head: requiem for bobby martin 1978-2008

I Hung My Head
requiem for bobby martin
1978-2008

The last memory I have of bobby is the most precious. During his brief visit passing through Toronto last summer, we shared a perfect, beautiful day. I sure wasn’t expecting his call at five am, but made breakfast when I learned he was on his way. We went to the beer store as soon as it opened, and spent the whole day on the floor looking at old photographs of loved ones we missed who were now on the other side. We listened to Elvis and to Johnny Cash’s American Recordings over and over.

Bobby Martin was my husband Marko’s ‘brother’. Bobby and I did our best to look after one another in that darkest hour after Marko passed away the summer of 2005. During the time that Bobby lived with me, he had to get used to my constant scatterbrained neuroses. I tend to flip out when I’m looking for something important that I’ve misplaced, flying through the house yelling and whimpering. Bobby Martin always told me calmly, “It’s in the place you didn’t look.” This was always true!

One of the most precious gifts I ever received was a tiny jade hand from Bobby. He noticed how often I use a hand symbol in my paintings, including the painting I made for him. I wore it whenever I missed him, which was often, after he left town to search for work in other provinces. One day, I went to put my necklace on and saw that the chain was empty. I looked everywhere to see where the pendant had fallen, to no avail. I looked for days on end, remembering that Bobby would tell me it was in the place I hadn’t looked! After several days of searching, I admitted defeat. Devastated, I began looking online to see if I could find something similar. That was how I found out that the hand symbol was called a ‘manu figa’ or fig hand. Given my love of mythological symbolism and how often I read into signs and symbols, I was thrilled. The manu figa, or fig hand, was an ancient sailor’s symbol to divert the storm god’s attention and bring blessings on the boat. Because Marko was a sailor, I found this tiny symbolic gift even more powerful. Finally, I found an exact replica of the charm I’d had, and ordered it from Brazil.

The very same day that the hand arrived, I found the original charm in my jewelry box! It had fallen behind the little drawer.

When Bobby Martin came to visit that summer, I told him the story and he was astonished at the length I had gone to replace the hand. I proudly pinned the duplicate to him, and he was beaming. He said he would always feel me close by, even when he was away.

I honestly don’t know how I can live without knowing Bobby Martin is out there on this vast, amazing planet. Now he can see his father again and Marko and other loved ones that we miss, but here on earth, many of us are hurting and sad. Goodbye, baby, goodbye for now, but not forever. Save a spot for me up there!

Poem for Bobby

Oh, I’ve been sad for years, my friend-
it’s a painter’s fate to feel,
anda writer’s lot to live a little lost.
Oh, I’ve been shedding tears my friend
’cause this world’s way too real
but the ticket price is truly worth its cost.

I don’t have any answers
but I know the answer’s light
truth and joy have meaning
and life’s a worthy fight.

I watch you struggle darling
I feel the bruise and fight
and I looked right into darkness
to see a starry night.

And I don’t know what to do
I don’t know where to go
but a warrior went before us
and he says, don’t let go.

I could not help falling
and I cannot be wise
It was likely angels calling
and the rain inside your eyes.

Lorette C. Luzajic
Poem for Bobby was from my collection, The Astronaut’s Wife: Poems of Eros and Thanatos, available online from Indigo or Amazon, or through my site, www.thegirlcanwrite.net.

Art Explained by Robert Cumming

Now here’s a gorgeous, juicy book that will make us all better conversationalists at dinner. If you always wanted to know a little bit about art, but not come across looking like a pompous fool, this is the perfect place to start. If you ever wondered why certain paintings were masterpieces, soon you will know.

Each page features a full colour reproduction of a painting with explanatory blurbs that shed light on the history, era, artist’s life, story, details, techniques and so on.The language is accessible and absorbing, and the sidebar format is wonderful. It lets the painting speak for itself while illuminating details that make the work come alive. Even those already familiar with terms like ‘chiaroscuro’ or ‘pre-Raphaelite’ will appreciate this solid review. By the end of the book, you’ll definitely get more out of future gallery experiences, finding symbols and story lines you missed before. This treasure is a great general art history class, and will encourage you to participate more in art and culture with confidence and joy.

Art Explained
Robert Cumming
rev. ed. 2007

www.thegirlcanwrite.net