Absolutely Scrabulous

Just as Kevin A. is about to make his very first Scrabulous win against me, Facebook crashes the game.

It’s true that floods and famines and diseases and captured war criminals are saturating today’s newspapers, and that’s rough, man, rough. But I WANT MY SCRABULOUS!

In the beginning was the word, and the word was God, and we all know the Lord works in mysterious ways. Enter the new millennium, and if you’re like most of us, you’ve got friends all across the globe. Once I could boohoo about it while reluctantly letting my grip slip. Or I could drift away. Now I play Scrabble with Tim P. over in England or Ireland, depending what day, just like we used to play on the front porch when he lived down the street. Now I play with Laura S. and Kat in Vancouver, my friends in Japan, and my BFF who isn’t that far away but has two kids and can’t make it out that often. But for a few minutes here and there, a cheerful exchange transpires, a chirpy message from afar, and a turn played, a new word learned- what’s a mile or two between friends?

Dave F. and I were close during high school, some 20 years ago (gulp). Separated into oblivion, we walked the same fruity stretches on Toronto without ever laying eyes on one another. Year after year, we lived parallel lives, writing and wining and dining and flipping the pages of celebrity rags. So close and yet so far. And then one day,  we found each other on Facebook. If the worst thing about Facebook is finding people you don’t like- awkward exes, condescending rivals, or Mom- the best, of course, is finding the people you loved and lost. I’m thrilled that Dave F. skipped the gutter years of my life and never saw me laying in that proverbial ditch. He’s glad I skipped the shiny velour pantsuit years that may forever have cemented him and George Costanza as wonder twins in my psyche. Now we can keep up our scathing running commentaries like we used to on the school bus, and sharpen our wordy wit at the same time.

Well, we could. Now Scrabulous is gone….forever? It’s unthinkable. Whom will I slaughter with a well-placed H, one of my secret weapons in the overtly obvious world of Z-strategies…? How will I play the poet Zach, whom I have never met, but who constantly gets 500 or more points and mine in half of that? Sucks to burn all the time, but it keeps me on top of my game to slaughter the minions below me. How will I have coffee with my east coast sisters? Where’s my sunny blonde Irish moment this morning?

There are those bitter detractors who think we  should all be out jogging or paying more attention to our work.  I say the five minute mental breaks for a few turns of the puzzle keep my wits sharp. I’ve gotten a lot smarter. I’d rather play an hour of Scrabulous than watch another reality show on a Saturday night, and then head out to Kevin A’s for an in-person game so I can watch him writhe while he tries to ply me with gin.

I’m not alone in saying that Scrabulous made my life just a wee bit better. What will become of us?  Who will I impress with my words?

Lorette C. Luzajic

www.thegirlcanwrite.net

Camille Paglia Quote of the Day

“Gay men were my liberators.”

– Camille Paglia

Thomas Moore on Friendship

“Each friend is indeed a world, a special sphere of certain emotions, experiences, memoires, and qualities of personality. Each friend takes us into a world that is ourselves as well. We are all made up of many worlds and each friendship brings one or more of those worlds to life. Friendship “constellates” (the word means “an arranging of stars”) one’s unique universe of meaning and value. One shares with a friend a unique way of looking at life and experiencing it, and so our friendships perform a kind of astrology of the soul, opening planetary worlds for us, to give our lives culture and articulation. To lose a friend is to suffer the loss of worlds, and to be lacking in friendship altogether is to be cut off, in a deeply felt way, from a richly self-defining way of being in the world…

Friendship creates the cosmologies in which we live…”

Thomas Moore, Soul Mates: Honoring the Mysteries of Love and Relationships

In Geez’s Name, Amen

this story about Geez Magazine originally appeared in the Idea Factory: an Exquisite Wheneverly

For Christmas last year I got Dad a saucy brass belt buckle “Jesus,” a Johnny Cash CD, and a copy of Geez Magazine. My dad’s got a pretty wacky sense of humour but I could tell he was uncomfortable with the belt buckle. I’d looked far and wide for the Christian fish symbol but when I found the garishly tacky alternate I knew I was probably going too far. Dad frowned and said that Jesus was more than a belt buckle. I knew he felt it was something worn too close to netherland for comfort, but I told him it was a unique opportunity to witness for the Lord. I believe God has a sense of humour, too, and mine is one gift he gave me.

Dad and I have different beliefs about God, but not that different, all things considered. He and mom raised us to believe in a loving God, but also to be accountable for our sins. Though I railed against religion for some time in my early twenties, as I struggled to make sense of the wrongdoings of church history and the blanket condemnation of human sexuality and alternate belief systems, you can’t really argue with the ten commandments. When various tragedies nearly broke me, I found myself on my knees, a place I felt God’s comfort when there was little to be had in the platitudes of the world. Where once I had questioned the validity of glorifying the suffering of a misjudged super-man named Jesus, now I felt closer to him in my own pain. Though most churches hold little allure for me intellectually and even spiritually, the deep portraits of the human heart as laid out in the Good Book are a goldmine in historical philosophy and poetry. I often wished Christianity were more inclusive, more contemporary, and more socially conscious. After all, Christ ministered to outcasts and was one himself- wasn’t there room for me to feel welcome?

Then Geez came along. Geez is an absolutely radical Canadian magazine that covers current social, environmental and spiritual issues. It’s tagline reads “holy mischief in an age of fast faith”. This gem doesn’t shy away from all the major issues that are real in today’s world- abortion, environmental destruction, war and what is it good for, spiritual emptiness.

Without purporting to know what God thinks about everything, it urges the faithful and the backslidden or even the unbeliever to find a deeper meaning in today’s consumer climate. I was pretty sure its departure from fundamentalist interpretations would make Dad uncomfortable, but we often exchange books with the promise to read them and discuss them so that we can agree, disagree, or agree to disagree. While I believe it’s our spiritual obligation to progress forward in art, literature and science, Dad feels all those steps are empty without God. Geez is like a friend that bridges those gaps and doesn’t hide from difficult questions- kind of like Geezus himself. Best of all, so far Geez does it all ad-free, and will do so for as long as it is able to.

“The idea originated with my colleague Aiden Enns. He was working at Adbusters and feeling like the addition of a spiritual dimension to a counter-corporate magazine would be worth pursuing. When Aiden moved back to Winnipeg after wrapping up his time with Adbusters, he asked me and some others to be involved. We recognized a depth of largely untapped creativity on the fringes of faith and wanted to tap into that energy and nurture it,” says editor Will Braun.

Fans of the Canadian-born Adbusters Magazine laud the forward thinking design, the absence of advertising influence on editorial comment, and the deep reflection on the ills of society. But many criticize the magazine for being unable to offer real solutions for the tragedies of war, greed, and despair. The influence of this great magazine is evident in the design, voice and flare of Geez, but there is a more positive, solution-oriented depth in Geez, an inherent spirituality that may combat the hopelessness of the world’s conditions.

“We are certainly indebted to Adbusters as a source of inspiration. Their use of images and use of a narrative flow for each issue are important contributions to the art of magazine making. We hope to offer some of the same sort of counter-corporate messaging as Adbusters but with emphasis on the spiritual and religious dimensions of how society works. Religion and spirituality are integral aspects of society, and we have given ourselves the permission to talk about the best and the worst of religion. I think we’re also trying to have a little more smirk and a little less sneer than Adbusters – a somewhat more upbeat tone,” Braun states.

It’s more than Adbusters goes to church. “We’ve set up camp in the outback of the spiritual commons. A bustling spot for the over-churched, out-churched, un-churched and maybe even the un-churchable. A location just beyond boring bitterness. A place for wannabe contemplatives, front-line world-changers and restless cranks. A place where the moon shines quiet, instinct runs mythic and belief rides a bike,” reads the Geez website.

With campaigns like Make Affluence History and Buy Nothing Christmas, Geez seeks to dethrone the almighty dollar and re-throne the Almighty, providing clues in its extensive coverage to how we might find space for God in this troubled and amazing world we live in.

Future plans include topics like sustainable farming and facing our fears, and past issues have tackled problems with evangelism and seeing wonder in a world full of trials and tribulations. While fundamentalist spirituality may view Geez’s inclusive, humourous text as wishy-washy, Braun doesn’t see it that way.

“ I am a Mennonite farm boy from the Bible Belt of Manitoba. Sometimes Mennonites drive me nuts, but I claim my heritage and identity. I don’t really see it as a choice – it’s who I am. I believe it is okay to have a love-hate relationship with the church. I don’t have to decide if it is all good or all bad. It is both – like me – and I can be part of it anyway. I believe in being connected to other people. It is popular these days to say ‘I am spiritual but not religious.’ I say bunk to that. I am worried that that leads to the individualization of belief – we all just pick and choose our own little beliefs and do our own thing. It can be a rather arrogant, me-first approach. I think the individualization of belief is the end of belief. Faith is about connecting to that which is larger than ourselves, and doing so in humility, recognizing the value of relating with others who have varying beliefs and lives. I believe in organized spirituality. I want to be part of a collection of people that includes different generations, people of widely varying backgrounds, and people with whom I disagree.”

For Braun, the central message of the Bible is loud and clear. Love is much more difficult than hatred but it’s the only answer. “I believe there is great wisdom in the Biblical narrative … I am particularly drawn to stories of discovering the mystery of love on the margins of society. There is something vital that cannot be discovered in the halls of power, the very best schools, or among the brightest artists. It is something that can only be discovered among people who are left out, people who have no status. This is integral to the message and lives of Jesus, Gandhi, Henri Nouwen, Dorothy Day, Jean Vanier, Oscar Romero and others. I seek to be drawn toward this mystery of love.”

Geez has ventured forth with new ideas and amazing accomplishments, and one of them is running ad-free. “ I think it is an important experiment. We can’t just start with the assumption that advertising is a necessary evil. We’re not dead set against any advertising, but at this point we find it very gratifying to produce a magazine in which money and message do not mix, and in which ads do not interrupt the visual flow of the magazine,” Braun says. Other highlights include “Burning $100 to say that maybe money isn’t the answer (Geez 02)…Sending the editor (me) on a 1,200-mile bicycle trip to speak on behalf of Geez at a conference. Receiving positive feedback from atheists… Printing the sort of articles that wouldn’t really fit in any other magazine we know of. Presenting a taste of the monastic tradition to readers.” In addition to encouraging environmental responsibility in the tone and topics within the mag, the pages are printed on 100% post-consumer-waste recycled paper.

The Winnipeg publication can pat itself on the back for recently winning a whole heap of awards. At the Western Magazine Awards, Geez won for both Best New Publication and Western Canada Magazine of the Year. Last year, Utne Independent Press Awards nominated Geez for Best New Publication and Best Spiritual Coverage. Geez won seven awards from the Canadian Church Press, including Original Artwork, Narrative, General Excellence, and Personal Experience. For a quarterly that has been around less than two years, this is astounding. Evidently this self-professed “experiment with truth” has the Big Guy on its side.

Geez encourages your involvement, through submissions and subscriptions. Head to www.geezmagazine.org for information on subscribing, telling your story, or getting involved in projects like De-Motorize Your Soul. You can be a part of this revolutionary/revelationary action plan: “Because it’s time we untangle the narrative of faith from the fundamentalists, pious self-helpers and religio-profiteers. And let’s do it with holy mischief rather than ideological firepower. We’ll explore the point at which word, action and image intersect, and then ignite. So let’s blaspheme the gods of super-powerdom, instigate spiritual action campaigns and revamp that old Picture Bible.”

All things considered, I doubt Dad will ever wear the belt buckle- perhaps it was in poor taste. But the great Johnny Cash will make for an appropriate soundtrack for dusky evenings after prayer meeting on Dad’s back porch. Johnny’s gravelly soul and the serenade of crickets and twittering birds in the twilight by the farm’s pond is just a perfect backdrop for reading Geez. Our responses may differ, but time together to reflect on them is the most amazing of God’s gifts, and isn’t that how communion/community begins after all?

www.geezmagazine.org

Writer Lorette C. Luzajic has written a memoir and some poetry for Geez Magazine. Visit her at www.thegirlcanwrite.net.

The No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency Series is Number One!

http://calitreview.com/64#comment-23369

A stellar article. I can’t say it better than the writer and the writer!

“What a thoughtfully written piece with such interesting questions! Wonderful! One of my most treasured belongings is the autographed first installation. Smith was visiting the bookstore I worked in. My boss knew I was crazy for the series, and he gave me a copy to be signed by the author.

Each and every book in the series is a treasure. Absolutely original. If there’s anyone out there who hasn’t treated themselves to these, I urge you to take a quiet few hours to begin the series. You’ll read every one, and feel more peace of mind and contentment in life.”

visit his site!

http://www.alexandermccallsmith.co.uk/

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In Which the Author Reads Some Poetry: Daughters of Men by Brenda Leifso

The gods infuse everything, from history to popular culture, but the last thing anybody wants is yet another book of quasi-intellectual mythology-based poems. Or, like the blurb warns, another book of ‘unflinching honesty’ where the ‘mundane becomes mythic…the ordinary, extraordinary.’ And while the editor slash professor circles may wonder what a plebian like myself could know of scholarly poetry, I stand firmly half ‘of the people’ and half well-read, adequately educated poet, knowing my voice actually counts for a great deal more than the dusty, dismal, dismissed volumes of poetry no one ever read. Or ever will.

For all these reasons, I cringe when picking up Daughters of Men, by Brenda Leifso, a Calgary poet who worked as executive editor of PRISM international. The titles promise me the kind of convoluted mythology I’m hoping to avoid: Dionysus’ Seduces Pentheus and Sends Him in the Guise of a Woman to Hunt Agave. But flipping through, as the words begin to reach through my defenses, I begin softening. What other language but the stories of the gods can we use to talk about incest? How else but through the imagery of other women silenced can a soul unveil the broken wings that it is made of?

I found some of the language stunning: “a dark panic of wings,” “summer ochre in his hair.” I found some of the revelations astute: “I’m getting tired of blaming my mother./It seems I can’t write a poem without lying.” Then there’s the symbolic invention of Silenae, a character in Leifso’s interpretative The Theban Women, a long poem central to Daughters of Men. I’m connecting the name of this character, who did not officially occur in Euripides’ The Bacchae, to the word “silence,” interpreting it as a character for the silenced ones. Leifso writes that in early Greek society, baby daughters were carried into the hills to die. She envisions Silenae this way: “What might happen to one, a wild creature, who managed to live?”

This brings vivid life to girls and women who have suffered incredible atrocities, those who have not been able to speak. Wives, sisters, and daughters of men. I recall a heartbreaking conversation, years ago, with a woman who had been sexually abused by her stepfather. She said that while her childhood was traumatic, she couldn’t really dwell on it, that sexual abuse was so commonplace that it was practically a ‘rite of passage for girls.’ Indeed, it seems far more taboo to speak about it than to do it, as if we should protect the perpetrators and shroud them in secrecy. Then we act as if the victim, too, has something to hide.

Here, Leifso, who has a few poetry awards under her belt, including the Bliss Carman Banff Centre Award For Poetry, refuses this silence. Leifso writes eloquently on behalf of daughters of men, yesterday and today, who have suffered in silence. I found that at times the poetry sounded forced and self-conscious, like it was trying too hard. But the poems also ignite the imagination and recover for daughters everywhere a small sliver of lost light.

Daughters of Men
Brenda Leifso
Brick Books, 2008

Visit writer Lorette C. Luzajic at www.thegirlcanwrite.net. Lorette is the author of The Astronaut’s Wife: Poems of Eros and Thanatos. Her work has appeared in White Wall Review, Quarry, The Fiddlehead, Grain, Rattle, Modern Poetry, Book Slut, and more.

In Which the Author is Blown Away by Crad Kilodney’s Putrid Scum

I was a kid when I read Putrid Scum by Crad Kilodney, and it might even be one of those books I just thought I’d read. Too bad half of my voracious reading years went in one ear and out the other- the plague of stoner’s short-term memory loss. I remember little of this one, and yet, in a vague, ethereal way, it is so totally familiar. And either way, I’m just stunned. This is just brilliant. It’s insightful, astonishing, blunt, and utterly psychotic.

I’m not a longtime Kilodney fan- I enjoyed him in a roundabout way through a close friend who was. I didn’t read all of his books, but some passed through my hands. Some I remember- The Charnel House of Bad Poetry is classic noir. The guy’s titles are their own art- I was vaguely jealous of the random insanities he would blatantly allow on his covers. Overall, my friend was a big Henry Miller fan, and I admit I could never get through a Miller, and didn’t care much for his watercolours, either.

For those who don’t know what I’m talking about, Crad Kilodney is a Canadian cult figure. Not everyone has heard of him, not by a long shot, but he has his peeps out there, those who were somehow transformed by his strangeness. Crad sold his own books on the streets of Toronto for years, living on pennies but determined to do nothing else with his life. He was a fixture of Yonge and Isabella, something of a prankster, and a fellow who gave meaning to the old writer-ly descriptives like ‘curmudgeonly, cranky, grouchy, and cantankerous.

Of course, Crad blames his depression and misery on the stupidity of the human race, taking pride in his bird’s eye view of the populace from the front lines. It’s a fascinating close-up of an artist standing right in the thick of it all, yet somehow completely invisible. Crad has spent his life, however, refusing to see beyond himself- and this would have been his ticket into a small sense of contentment instead of contempt. I wish it for him in his older age. Millions, after all, endure the same shit, different pile, and not nearly as interesting. I can think of worse things, like retail and prostitution and ice fishing. And I cannot think of a single thing cooler or more interesting.

In this spirit of positivity, I could criticize the outbursts of murderous rage that pepper Putrid Scum. However, they are uproarious and gutbustingly funny. If I were an honest writer, which I try to be – so did Henry Miller, but he concluded that it’s impossible to tell the truth, for truth is always changing- I would have to admit that I, too, had the solace of fantasies of strangulating certain members of the public. I confess to frightening daydreams, explicit in their gore, born of frustration and psychotic duress. Humanity’s sick greed and foul grubby soul has made me weep and dream of muder. But man’s heart of darkness is nothing new, and writers have been experiencing it and recording it for thousands of years. Indeed, it is our job.

(It seems Crad knows this, given an exchange he relates late in his book: a man with a pipe says to the writer, ““Let me say something to you, young Mr. Kilodney who wishes to be a writer…Bitterness and cynicism are so common that they have no value for personal redemption, and suffering in and of itself is not ennobling. One must comprehend misery, yes, but one must rise above it, by which I mean that you must have a sense of gratitude as well…Be grateful that you have any books at all. Be grateful that you’re not crippled…Don’t expect me to feel too terribly sorry for you, because you have no idea what things there are in this world. You claim to admire Henry Miller. But Henry Miller rose above all his miseries. He was perpetually grateful….you’ll never really be great until you’ve evolved spiritually…and that means having all the shit knocked out of your head so the light can shine in.”)

Putrid Scum lets you look right into that head, devoid of light, for anyone who has wanted to know something of Crad Kilodney. And for all his outrageous grumpiness, this truth-drenched diatribe is all about ‘happiness writes in white’ and ‘the heart wants what it wants.’ This one is brilliant. It’s simple, quotidian, and psychotic. This is Crad, 17 years before he met me, yet he’s looking into those writer’s terrors that are striking me blind.

The great thing is, now that Crad and I have clandestine ham and pink wine encounters in his garret, listening to Debussy and playing Scrabble, I’ve got him for backbone. Our friendship was accidental, yet absolutely fated. There was just no way a do-it-yourselfer like me could have as a mentor the poetry-circle professor type, not that there’s anything wrong with that.

You’ll never forget the not-so-merry prankster who tape-recorded the conversations of Yonge Street idiots while wearing a placard with changing adverts for the books he was hand-selling. Lesbian Zoo Stories. Esoteric Phlegm Stories. The man was not exactly approachable, but if you did risk it, he was affable enough and maybe you picked up a few unforgettable titles like Gainfully Employed in Limbo, Foul Pus From Dead Dogs, Simple Stories for Idiots, or my own personal favourite, Lightning Struck My Dick. Of course, Crad’s press was called Charnel House. Look up the word ‘charnel’ if you have to. Lovely.

Geist Magazine said there were ‘few rewards’ in Putrid Scum, and though they conceded that he’d written some interesting short stories over the years, he ‘bottomed out on this one.’ I couldn’t believe my eyes because it’s clear that the Geist staff didn’t get this book at all. Because it’s Absolut Crad. It’s the treasure trove where we see his softer side- seriously! – the one I think I glimpse occasionally across the table at Swiss Chalet. A remarkable man. He is not a painter or a southerner (though he did dabble in collage and comes from Queens) but in a way, Crad’s our northern Outsider Artist. He did it his way. He got to be a lot more famous than the hosts of journalism grads, the nameless minions like myself with stories of the week: Cats and Secondhand Smoke. How to Market Your New Marketing Pamphlet. Phil Butrimskly Plays Guitar at the Rivoli. Remember us? Of course not.

Putrid Scum is the autobiography of every authentic artist, misfit, miscreant, and hopeless hopeful. If you are not a real writer, you’ll know by the end of the book, and you’ll be saved from a merciless existence by smartly heading back into community college and learning about plumbing or bus driving or any other perfectly respectable if not memorable trade. For as Salmond Rushdie said, there is no good reason to be a writer unless you absolutely must. There are enough books.

If nothing else, you’ll be frightened away by Crad’s hideous sex stories, which awkwardly arise throughout the chapters, as naturally- or unnaturally- as they might in life, I suppose. You will cringe by the blunt frankness of terminology and by the woeful understanding- in youth, of course-of women, by the fumbling mechanics of what he observes is ‘the most natural act in the world.’

But then, if you’re trying to tell the truth, you can’t make up stories about the perpetually sex-starved Playmate who really understands you. (What ladies do you know who want to climb into bed with hardcore porn rags on the first date? I’m sure they’re out there….)  Crad probably grew up visualizing something along the lines of the brilliant and poetic sexpot Anais Nin dishing out to Henry Miller- and funding the printing of Tropic of Cancer. But reality was far more banal and awkward affair.

Finally, I conclude with a few of my very favourite passages. These ones echo thoughts I’ve had a million times:

“Another middle-aged man told me to get a job. In fact, a lot of people told me to get a job…A job…If a rich eccentric paid you $500 a week to stand in a vacant lot and pick your nose for eight hours a day, you’d have …a job. You’d be a productive member of society. You’d pay taxes.”

“Every writer must face his private demons, and one of mine was The Futility of Words.”

“Later, I put on a record that I knew would depress me and lay down in bed. I looked at the ceiling and imagined swords running through me, like the Ten of Swords in the Tarot deck, while angels in heaven looked down in pity. I reached over to the bookshelf beside my bed and felt the accumulated dust on the shelves and on top of the books. Books gathering dust. Me turning to dust. A whole life destined to become dust…I put out the light and got under the blanket. What is the correct way to be? How do you change what you are? What will become of me?”

And finally, my favourite, the one where Crad Kilodney’s fate, his life’s work, his truth, his persona, his past, his destiny, and all of his writings come together in a single summation. “When I got home, I took out a diary, and a revelation came to me, which I set down at once: “Now I understand! My life is a satire on the life of a writer!””
Crad cracks a smile! Pictured here with feline friend Justice!
Putrid Scum
by Crad Kilodney.
Charnel House, 1991.

Visit reader and writer Lorette C. Luzajic at www.thegirlcanwrite.net.

in which the author decides to participate in this year’s three day novel contest

Maybe because I’m a glutton for punishment, and I want to antagonize my carpal tunnel. Or maybe, more likely, because my auntiehero Ariel Gore wrote the kick-ass Traveling Death and Resurrection Show in ten days.

Even more likely, I’m not coping well without chaos and I need something impossible, exciting, and crazy to happen. And so, what the hell, when I picked up a flyer for the Three Day Novel Writing Contest along, I said, I’m in.

So yep, I’ve committed to the contest, which will be at the end of the summer, over the Labour Day weekend. I’m writing this to publicly pledge my participation. Otherwise, I might talk myself out of such a thing. What if it turns out like crap? Well, girl, not everything out of your fingertips is gold and silver. So what? And so, I decided this type of commitment- it’s only three days, a tall order yes, but cannot require anything outside of those three days.

More so, the significance of the three days in terms of fear, creation, resurrection, is not lost on a cheesy mystic like myself. By now you all know that I insist on reading magical fate into everything: it’s how I celebrate a devastating life instead of shriveling up in a cynical, used up shell. So I see the writing on the wall, if you will, that this three day writing retreat with myself is a project I should try out. It will make life more interesting, and who knows what I will be portal to over those days?

More signs: by chance, the contest just happens to be on two significant dates- the anniversary of Princess Diana’s unfortunate demise, and the anniversary of my husband’s death.

Now you’ll all expect some goddess novel with characters named Cleopatra or Hera. But I’m going to throw you all right off, and hopefully throw myself off, too. I can’t promise there will be no appearances of Aphrodite et al, but then, it may be about a Milanese salami maker and the family’s heirloom paintings. Who knows? Well, here goes.

www.3daynovel.com
August 30- September 1, 2008

Lorette C. Luzajic
www.thegirlcanwrite.net

The Disappearing

The Disappearing
by Lorette C. Luzajic

You collect things
because you are dying of loneliness
imagine my view from here:
watching you fall.

I’ve watched you with endless fascination.
You are crazy and beautiful and elegant and clever,
complicated, heartbreaking and mad.
I don’t think you will ever trust me:
nothing ever belonged to you, so how could I?

Just when I think I can’t survive another loss,
I lose you:
you disappear into your shattered emotions,
highways without names, provinces of madness.
The room you left behind is filled with holes, like my heart,
drywall torn open as you hunted for hidden camera,
the way my husband did before he died.
You unearthed nothing, pawing through the ceiling fixtures,
desperate to figure it out, uncover the plot, sort out the experiment you have
become.
Convinced that forks were microphones, you wrapped them in towels and buried them,
surreal shrouds I found after you disappeared.

People have to leave their sons and lovers and mothers if those
people won’t leave meth. My life was a nightmare of spies and hospitals
for too long, I watched my husband sink and die:
and you loved meth more than you loved him, your best friend,
more than anything, more than life, more than me.
Not because I wanted to, you told me as I dropped you off at detox. You
were sobbing. This kind of death is hell. No one wants that. It’s an accident, a
poisoning, a nightmare no one can fix. You fled from there- convinced they
would kill you. I cried and cried
whole rivers have run dry
I cry for my husband, the sanest person in the universe,
whose mind was tricked by crystal,
who taped the keyholes shut to kept the watchers out,
eventually didn’t know who I was,
but knew they were coming for him.
I wasn’t going to find you, too, dead on the floor:
you promised me
companionship, comfort, memories. I believed you could be free:
the man who went before you said, brother, listen to me.

Now you are missing, and I tell the police tearfully, please,
please check the ditches and the dumpsters and the empty barns.
I fear your fear finally found you, the plot thickened until you blew your brains
out to stop the voices from their laughter, their plans, the demons
finally gave you the gun.
I pray they’ll find you, alive, so we can have another chance to survive this hell.
I think of your wild-eyed fear the last time I saw you, so sure
you would find something in the wall you clawed apart, a sign that
would tell you what it was all for.

I’ll you what it was for:
nothing, my friend, this was all for nothing,
the termites and bugs you saw on your skin and the marks they made
red angry welts, “speed bumps.’

Take another little piece of my heart, now, baby.
Nothing but garbage,
which is probably where you are,
sometimes a scar is just a scar.

The Disappearing is from Lorette C. Luzajic’s collection, The Astronaut’s Wife: Poems of Eros and Thanatos. Visit the writer at www.thegirlcanwrite.net.

For Elaine, a Mermaid

For Elaine, a Mermaid

There are claws across her face like bands

and miles and miles in her eyes

the stars bite into her frozen hands

she’s shining in the moonlit skies.

I called her name, it sounded silver

on my slivered tongue, a gorgeous sound

she shivered in that fiery river

so terrified of being found.

In dreams, she is an orphan

in day dreams, she is by the sea

I begged for her like she were morphine

and dreamed that she came home to me.

This poem was written for Elaine Bown who was murdered in the late 80s. She was 17. This is a selection from my book The Astronaut’s Wife: Poems of Eros and Thanatos, Handymaiden Editions, 2006. Available through indigo.ca or through thegirlcanwrite.net.