c u r r e n t  issue

Did You Know? | John O'Connell

The Garden | Rose Oliver

Upon My Sword | Liv Pertzoff

Scenes from the Death of a Devout Man | Norma Sims Roche

My Life with Words:  A Reflection  | Susan O’Neill

Woody’s World | Nancy Considine

Betweens | Stephanie Gibbs

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Did You Know? | John O'Connell

Did you know that the failure rate for second marriages is 70%? That the average medical school accepts only 5% of its applicants? That the typical MFA program in creative writing accepts only 5-10% of its applicants? That the world of poetry and literary fiction consists of too many writers chasing too few readers?

That drug and alcohol treatment programs are, by any statistical measure, almost a complete failure? That the chances of full remission from bipolar disorder are less than 3%? That breast cancer survival rates have barely budged since the advent of recent high tech treatments? That the average outdoor cat lives only eight years? That the divorce rate for white Southern men with only a high school education is 60%?

That forty four million Americans rely on food stamps, greater than the population of Canada or California and four times the population of Cuba? That the next President in 2013 is likely to be a right wing Mormon, thanks to the 9% unemployment rate? That the United States has less upward mobility than most other advanced industrial democracies? That its health care system is generally considered to be the worst in the developed world? That half the world’s population lives just above or near starvation?

This is the part in the narrative where you shift to the positive. That every day someone sees a beautiful sunset or survives being the best man at his brother’s brutal wedding. Or you could go sideways. That almost every guy you see in the science fiction section at Barnes and Noble fits the stereotype of the guy you would expect to see in the science fiction section at Barnes and Noble: Thirty something, overweight, in faded jeans and a Green Lantern tee-shirt, probably still living with his parents, mumbling to himself as he flips through a Robert Heinlein novel. That those who have heard Santayana’s remark about history are doomed to repeat it (I stole this line from Wilfrid Sheed). That I’ve lost twenty pounds on Weight Watchers and am so hungry I could eat this paper and drink the ink from this pen.

Or you could just keep going downhill, sadness reigning. Did you know that resentment of those who have hurt you and done better than you can annihilate your dignity? That obsessive compulsive disorder, untreated, can lead to psychosis? That the closer you come to a long held goal, the more your anxiety spikes to stratospheric levels? That elevated anxiety in bipolar disorder is often a symptom of mania, not depression? That the incidence of mental health has worsened since the injection of high tech antidepressants into the population? That three months, or even three weeks or even three hours of mania can permanently undo the benefits of decades of therapy and medication?

Enough of that.

I once had a friend at work, a high powered corporate lawyer, who confessed to me that she almost never read a book unless she absolutely had to and admired my promiscuous reading habits. So we would play a game we called Book Chat. She would interview me about recent books I’d read and ask me to summarize the one or two things I most remembered from them.  Kind of like a speed reading version of C-SPAN’S Book TV. So with that, here’s a list of some books I’ve read over the past few years and what most stands out about each of them.

Fateful Choices, by Ian Kershaw. That Hitler lost the war in part because he had poor allies—Mussolini going disastrously into Greece instead of assisting Hitler in Africa, the Japanese going into certain doom against the U.S. in the South Pacific instead of confronting Stalin in Russia.

Cataclysm: The First World War as Political Tragedy, by David Stevenson. That if you’re antiwar, it puts things into perspective to learn that there was very little meaningful public opposition to the mass slaughter, which was incomprehensively worse than Iraq.

Postwar by Tony Judt. That the Paris 1968 revolts, unlike most of those elsewhere in the world that year, were largely peaceful. (I also remember a New Yorker profile of the poet Jorie Graham that said she was expelled from France afterwards for her role in the uprising, along with her paramour, Daniel Cohn-Bendit, one of the leaders.)

101 Semesters, by William Chace, former President of Wesleyan. That schools like Wesleyan minimize the financial cost of need blind admissions (i.e., admission without regard to financial need) by carefully recruiting in mostly affluent areas, thus rendering the policy something of a joke.

The Big Test, by Nicholas Lemann. That there was an actual person with the unbelievable WASP name of Endicott Peabody, who founded the Groton School.

Ho Chi Minh by William J. Duiker. That the literacy rate in Vietnam was 90% in the late 1800s when the French entered and that the illiteracy rate was 90% in the 1950s when they left.

The Cultural Cold War, by Frances Saunders. That almost every courageous and independent thinking anti-Communist intellectual in the U.S. in the 1950s was on the CIA’s payroll.

McMafia, by Misha Glenny. That the biggest and most profitable organized crime syndicate in the world today is the British Columbia marijuana trade, run by the Hell’s Angels.

Medici Money, by Tim Parks, about the Medici banking family of fifteenth century Florence.  That the word for bank comes from the Italian word for bench; the original Italian bankers would sit across from their borrowers with a bench between them, conducting business in the town square.

Hopes and Prospects, by Noam Chomsky. That Chomsky no longer supports a binational secular state in Palestine because it’s not in his view even a remote possibility, a reflection of the cold realism at the heart of his allegedly utopian thinking.

Touched with Fire, by Kay Redfield Jamison, about the link between bipolar disorder and creative genius. That perhaps 50-60% of poets in the U.S. and the U.K. are bipolar, a higher percentage than for any other artistic group.

A Savage War of Peace, by Alistair Horne. That De Gaulle issued pardons to French Army officers for war crimes in Algeria in part because he thought the students were going to turn violent after all and overthrow him, and he needed the military’s help.

The Garden | Rose Oliver

Sara tied back her hair with a piece of frayed string. Her gray hair surrounded her head like a steel halo. She folded the laundry, and the towel corners met precisely. But when she got to the sheets she fumbled. It's not easy making things meet end to end when you're alone.

The word widow—how could she be what she envisioned a widow being—bitter, sad, envious of those whose spouses were still alive. She was, after all, only 50.

She sighed and looked out the window at the garden, Sam's favorite place. Sara was practical. If she had her way the garden would have been all vegetables. Sam created beauty—a foliar tapestry. There were roses that merged and mingled with day lilies of luminous hues, and plants that Sara knew only by their common names—Cat’s Ears and Mule’s Ears.

You could grow anything in Mendocino, and Sam did. There was French Broom, Bramble, and Coyote Bush. In the garden there was a small teak bench where Sam and Sara spent many evenings conversing quietly over a good local vineyard's chardonnay.

Sam was gone now six months. People had stopped months ago asking, "How are you, Sara?" Her friends were oddly avoidant, as though grief were contagious. The loneliness was not the worst part. It was the expanse of time, the endless mockery of the ticking clock, the lack of a voice to respond to hers—the silence.

Sara tried, after Sam died, to maintain the garden, but it was useless. She said the plants hummed a death march as soon as she bought them at the nursery. But the roses continued to bloom, the scarlet American Beauties attracting hummingbirds.

Sara didn't tell anyone what she saw a few weeks after Sam died. She could swear she saw Sam in the garden, his bald head gleaming with sweat, crouched, weeding. Her friends were full of platitudes:

“Life goes on, Sara.”

“He's in a better place.”

“He's with God. He'd want you to get on with your life.”

My life—it used to be our life. Sara's eyes smarted as she recalled Sam saying before he died, "Sara, you have to finish our lives."

Sara was not one to mope, but there were days when her arms and legs were leaden, when she wanted to close the shutters, close her eyes, and just drift back to the time of her life with Sam. Separation, Sara thought, is amputation.

She gazed out the kitchen window as she folded the last of the laundry, at the garden she could not properly tend. She saw the sunny orange wings of a Monarch butterfly folding and unfolding, and she stopped trying to make the corners meet.

Upon My Sword| Liv Pertzoff

My hands are an enlarged version of a lady’s hands that in Victorian literature might have been described as “long-fingered if nicely formed.” When I was younger I’d expected my fingers to become replicas of my mother’s when she was the age I am now--arthritic knuckles the size of small walnuts and nails professionally manicured like wizened apple dolls with bright red lips.

But this didn’t happen. My fingers are straight and strong, except for my index fingers which lean slightly and I believe affectionately into their adjoining fuck-you neighbors.

For nearly twenty years I wore bandaids on my fingers. I lost the tip of my left pointer when I was carving a turkey. My mother had been visiting. This must have been the sixth or seventh night. She only lived three hundred miles away but she visited infrequently and her sojourns were Chekhovian in duration and style. I was carving the turkey and she was still yakking—the woman never shut up. I took a swig of single malt and in a heroic sacrifice to save my mother’s life, I deflected the knife which was heading toward her heart onto my own finger.

I needed the ER. My car was manual which she couldn’t drive, so I sat behind the wheel with a towel around my hand, motor running, headlights aimed toward the hospital, waiting for my mother. She emerged at the front door to ask if she could wear my mink because it wouldn’t show blood if any sprayed onto the passenger side of the car. She’d arrived in something white, no doubt endangered. “Wear the mink.”

My hands are richly scarred—two brown spots from the morning I hurried bacon for my father-in-law’s breakfast. An inch-long silvery rope on the palm of my right hand from falling off my bike, my big sister’s hand-me-down Western Flyer with balloon tires which had perpetual slow leaks making the bike dangerous to maneuver.

There is a thin scar on the side of my right pointer. I’d been quarreling with my husband while fixing dinner, standing at the kitchen door halving an avocado while he lounged on the sofa. My voice was getting shrill because I was working myself up into a homicidal lather. Suddenly Mr. Wonderful stopped his side of the noise and said, “Look at what you’re doing. Aren’t you right-handed?” I stopped short, too. Blood was dripping into the avocado I held in my right hand, halved with a knife I held in my left hand.

That marked the end of the bandaid years, the end of my “murder turned inward” self-mutilating psychiatric disturbance, the end to ER visits and stitches.

What these large straight-fingered and finely-formed hands can do besides mayhem is make things. They can throw pots on a wheel, knit Aran sweaters, notate canons, stitch Ukainian tapestry, rescue weak gravies, invisibly mend, plait blonde hair, copy any color in paint, and compose a pretty thank you note. They’ve more than redeemed themselves. They are by no means terminally lethal.

He’d played the organ at 7:30 Mass for as long as most of the other retirees could remember.  When the small white man with thick white hair stopped showing up, there was no music for a while.  The man’s friends explained, “His heart’s going. He’s 94, after all.”  The priest found someone to play the piano, which nobody liked.  He promised to keep looking for another organist.

At home, the man grew weaker. Everything he did took more and more effort.  The day a neighbor found him still in bed at midday, she called his daughters. His good daughter flew south the next day and took him to the doctor.  “Your heart’s going,” the doctor said. “There’s nothing more we can do.”

His daughter set up Hospice care for him at home.  The Hospice doctor stopped all the expensive pills: the Lasix, the Plavix, the Vitamin E.  "There's no point to them now," the doctor said. The man put away his pill organizer with the slots for each day of the week. There was nothing more to remember.

His bad daughter, the one who'd left the Church, flew south to join her sister.  They brought their father his favorite foods, but he wouldn't eat.  "I just want to die and be with your mother," he told them.  They asked the priest to come and see him.  "God will call you when he's ready," the priest said. “He chooses the time, not us.” Then he squeezed the man's hand and said, "Don't be afraid."

The man could no longer stand without help.  He was going back to childhood, not only becoming more dependent, but losing his sense of time, waking and sleeping at any time of day or night.  When he called, or more often, when they heard him trying to get up by himself, the daughters both jumped out of bed, usually the good one first.  Eventually they put a mattress on the floor in his room, and took turns sleeping there, so that each would get at least a few solid hours of sleep.

A Hospice nurse came every other day to take his blood pressure and pulse.  "You're doing a fabulous job," she told the daughters as she left to see her next patient.

The man tossed and turned and called God’s name, and murmured something that sounded like “my sins, my sins.”  The daughters asked the priest to stop by again.  They put their father's hearing aids in, then stepped out of his room, just in case he had something to confess that they shouldn’t hear.  After a while, the bad daughter heard the priest’s and her sister’s voice in the living room.  The priest greeted her.  “I was just telling your sister about our renovation plan for the church,” he said.  “I know your father would want to be part of it.”  He named a sum of money.  Her jaw must have dropped; she wasn’t good at keeping her face blank.  But she didn’t want to offend the priest or her sister.  “We’ll have to talk about it,” her sister said.

The dying man seemed more and more restless. “Maybe we should leave him alone for a while,” said the good daughter.  “I remember when my kids were little, sometimes they wouldn’t go to sleep until we left the room.” They each had a glass of wine and they watched TV, a marathon of M*A*S*H reruns.  They didn’t look into his room for five episodes.

The Hospice nurse said it was time for some pain relief.  The morphine had to be delivered by the pharmacy.  The nurse couldn’t bring it with her.  “If word got out that we were carrying that kind of stuff,” she said, “we’d get robbed at every stoplight.”  The pharmacy courier called, and said he was on their street, but couldn’t find the house.  The bad daughter went outside with her cell phone and stood there, but she was invisible to him, and his red van was invisible to her.  A neighbor saw her and came out of his house.  He took the phone, and determined that the courier was on a street with the same name in another town.

A friend who was a lay minister came by after Mass to give the man communion. She said to the daughters, “You girls are saints.”  No we’re not, they thought.  We’re not girls either, thought the bad one.  Saints wouldn’t talk about their father in his presence as if he couldn’t hear them, even though he couldn’t.  Saints would know when to sit by the bed and hold his hand and when to give him some time alone.  And they wouldn’t get his legs tangled up and hurt him when they rolled him over in bed.  Saints wouldn’t resent being away from their grandchildren for so long, or wonder how much they could get for the house.

The priest came one more time. He gave the man confession, communion, and the last rites.  He absolved the man of his sins without his having to speak.  He began the consecration of the host. “Jesus took bread and said to his disciples ..."  His cell phone rang.
            He answered it.
            “No, I’m sorry, it hasn’t been scheduled yet.  Call the office tomorrow. You're welcome. Bye.”
            He continued the consecration where he'd left off.  Then he melted a piece of the host in a spoonful of water so the man could swallow it.

They all waited.  It was quiet in the house with just the three of them.  On Halloween, the good daughter bought candy and handed it out to the kids that came to the door until it was gone.  Between doorbells, they watched their father breathing.  Was his breathing pattern more erratic?  They weren't sure.  They wanted it to be over, but still hated the thought of his dying on Halloween.

The next morning, the good daughter woke her sister and went to get ready for 7:30 Mass.  The bad daughter took her place in her father’s room.  She gave him his morphine and recorded it on the chart.  Soon he breathed more comfortably, though not easily.  The radio was playing organ music, so she turned it up.  It was a program of sacred music for All Saints’ Day.  As the stately chords filled the room, she saw that her father’s breathing had paused, for longer than she’d seen before.  Then he breathed again.  Then a really long pause.
            The good daughter came in.  “I think he’s gone,” said her sister.
            She felt for a pulse. “There isn’t one,” she said.
            They hugged and wept for joy, as if they’d all been planning an escape and he’d just made it over the border.

Suddenly there were lots of people around.  They all talked about the devout man ascending to heaven on wings of organ music on All Saints Day, at just about the time he would have been sitting down to play at 7:30 Mass.  Even the bad daughter, the atheist, repeated that story.  She didn’t believe such stories literally, but she could see why people didn’t want to live without them.  She wanted to remember what she’d seen of death, as unpleasant as it was, because it was real, and because it was what she’d have to do some day, but rituals swirled around her, words designed from the beginning of civilization to make her forget, so she did.

My Life with Words:  A Reflection  | Susan O’Neill

In my first home, words were functional, used to set limits, underline rules, bark orders.  ‘Get the dinner going, clear the table, do the sweeping, finish your homework.’  Words were bound to duty, parsed out to deal with obligations.  There were moments of soft words, affection, moments when words made us laugh, moments of silence when we desperately needed words, like when Tommy died.  Overall, words became like their use—they were functional.  Not personal, not curious, not beautiful.  I never knew words could open doors, or take me down a rose-colored hallway to discover the jewels in the bureau.  I was not familiar with words’ capacity to mystify, to hover over a situation and find a way out; I did not know how words can echo, sound, or bounce. 

Church time gave me a lot of Latin words that I did not understand, words attached to smells of incense and flowers, words that were harsh, sometimes words that offered comfort.  Church words hinted at something powerful.  They came with music, bells and organ, choir voices melded into a word experience fuller than the sparse words at home.  That held promise for me.  That drew me in.

These word experiences began to feed my soul hunger. But over years I found that the Church words were essentially like soldiers who bore arms, ready to shoot if you missed their point.  Their battlefield was full of hidden minefields. My soul hunger swallowed soul murder not knowing that their words were held sharp like a knife.  They cut, bled and scarred inside.

Then, I found words to speak and hear the pain. Words that healed, caressed and loved the scars.  Now, I seek words that lunge into truth, words that open the hollow of recognition, words that seed dreams.

I want words to make me flesh, alive, alert.  I want words that pump with energy, that require engagement, words that do not allow a cut off, a shut down, a turning away.  I want words that cajole and seduce to birth a new word event.  My soul is always hungry for these tastes.

Woody’s World | Nancy Considine

I want to live in a Woody Allen movie where all the women are beautiful, even the old ones.  Most of the men are successful. The few failures tell good jokes.

Ah, to be in Woody’s world where no one works. Have you noticed that in his movies?  They are being writers, artists, doctors, dentists, but when we see them they are at play, in love or in trouble.  No one goes to a job. Instead, these men have contacts. They call people.

Men and women belong to families, some good, others not. Some clans are as large as the mafia. Others small enough to fit around the dining room table at Passover.

Being around the table is big. In Woody’s world everyone eats. Food is important. The actors are witty at meals. Wittier as they drink fine wines. And wine is always there as they arrive for dinner, wine at dinner, after dinner.  More wine before sex, during sex and after.

Sometimes the hero will have a headache, but a headache is never just a headache in a Woody Allen film. It’s a tumor or someone going blind. But we are not to worry. There is a person in the family who is a surgeon, an optometrist or a therapist, and by the last act the stricken one will either recover or will dance their way off stage with a friendly apparition of death itself.

Another happy thing about Woody’s world. There are no small annoyances.  There are only happy children or no children at all. Odd considering all of the hours his men and women spend in bed. No annoyances from pets,  plumbers,  computers,  lawn mowers, no one has bad teeth. The small annoyances in life are replaced by Woody’s big questions.

People in his movies embrace those universal questions most of us recognize as important, but don’t know the answers.

Is there a God?  If there is a heaven will there be mayonnaise and white bread when we get there? 
Will we be punished for our sins now or in the afterlife?  Is there justice in eternity or should we bring a lawyer? 
In life and love will we get what we want? Will we want what we get?

Woody creates a world in which his actors chase these big questions. Even if there are no answers, the movie ends well.  That’s why I want to be there, the happy endings.

Betweens | Stephanie Gibbs

It is often reported that, deep in the woods, lurks a being so foreign and so forlorn, so passed over by evolution and by civilization, that all it can do is shake its shaggy head and bellow, bellow at the unfairness of the universe to pass it by and leave it alone in the woods struggling to communicate with beings of too fragile a construction, too rapid a lifespan to ever be peers or companions.

Some say it resembles a giant elephant, some see a creature closer to a bear, some an aquatic variant, some a human thought to be closer to a Neanderthal, some a tiger, and some don't believe it to be anything more than a fairy tale, the figment of imagination of a people whose own lives are so isolated as to create fantastic stories to explain what they cannot understand. They are wrong, undeniably, unutterably wrong, all of them, although none of them will accept this.

There is a creature, of course; there is a whole host of creatures, who live in world parallel and simultaneous to our own, who occasionally become lost in the woods and slip down the wrong hallway and suddenly find themselves in a world that doesn't quite fit, the food isn't nourishing, the beings lack grace and subtlety of movement and communication, and these lost visitors become panicked at the difficulty of making their way back to their own reality, the reality of if onlys.

If only God had created the world in two weeks rather than one. If only the Ark had been a slightly larger ship. If only the flood had lasted 40 millennia rather than 40 days. If only the Crusades had been settled with a round of charades, best two out of three, and a chess match, winner takes all. If only Marco Polo had traveled to Brazil. If only Magellan had sought the North West Passage. If only Ponce de Leon had recognized the fountain of youth when he found it, instead of allowing his horses to drink deep but not even filling his canteen, for the water was cloudy and filled with spiders, and he was eager to find cities of gold. If only France had kept Louisiana, if only Napoleon had been content with Josephine and without Poland or Russia, if only Mussolini had taken a moment to reconsider his actions, if only Lord Elgin had left the marbles in place, if only my violin teacher had survived her heart attack, if only I had used my turn signal.

In this world, this parallel reality of choices not made, decisions and alternative outcomes from thousands of years worth of consulting the stars, the fall of tea leaves, the intestines of sacrifices, the i-ching, the dictionary, in this reality of the alternative ways of being ramble creatures of unimaginable beauty and dexterity, flying, running, swimming, skittering through five or six dimensions, where their unusual size is no hindrance and they sing in a tonal scale unintelligible to our ears.

Whales take opportunities to dry out their wings on land, spending years on top of mountains before returning to the ocean. Bears have marsupial pouches that provide incubation chambers for premature kittens of tigers, and in return the tigers charm fish from the streams, left in baskets woven of rope like silk at the entrances to caves deep in the desert, many days' journey from the forest.

Humans, too, inhabit this land, humans who decided to live in a world without reconsiderations or recriminations, a world where death, disease, discouragement are accepted without fear, sadness, or God, a world where neither the vacuum cleaner nor the pressure cooker are employed at house parties, a world where roses and Johnson grass are grown in pots on windowsills and aspidistras are tended with loving care and weekly fertilizing along borders of gardens of knotweed and clover. When the sun sets and the moon rises and the skies turn indigo and coral, small children play hopscotch with tree frogs and elephants beat out announcements of local news.

It is not that they are any more content or less full of existential anguish than we are in this world, it is not that they saw advances in Calculus and particle physics as treasonable offenses to be followed with a month in the stocks and a broadside of bad poetry; it is not that the speed of time moves a quarter turn for each of our rotations; but each of these developments reflects something deep in their psyche, reflects a love of the smell of the ocean before a storm, a voice which echoes the wail of the wind through bare trees, a foot that is designed to paddle a boat and climb a tree, a hand which holds tigers still and peels the bark of trees, a heart that grows heavy with longing at the full moon, and a soul that nurses an ambition to remember how to float as easily on air as it still can on water.

There is no sense of betrayal or of waste, for as the day slowly grows into a week, a year, nothing changes, and nothing is remembered. Everything is immediate, the past forgotten, the future inconceivable.

One day the nursing kittens awaken to discover they are tigers, not bears, shake hands with their wet nurses, and leave the desert for the forest, where the echoing emerald replaces the windswept brown they once could recall with perfect clarity.

The whale tumbles from the mountain after a drunken evening of spring water and racy limericks, forgetting to use its wings for propulsion, and falls back into the ocean, seduced by the cooing of mermaids and the promises held by the oysters, promises hinted at but never revealed, the sweet nothings of the mermaids never developed into stories, the whales not aware of any depth beyond where they lie, as the sun drifts down through the ocean.

Sometimes someone from our world falls into the world of parallel possibilities; rarely do they survive the transition from height, width, depth, and time to a world of other facets, other dimensions of which they previously could not even conceive. They are stretched, flattened, twisted, torn, taunted, spun about, and finally placed in a chrysalis of mango leaves to await their rebirth as a sentient being who can communicate tonally and float on the eddies of time, who trades memories and expectations for reverberations of instances of the now, without question or judgment.

Often, beings who survive the initial plummet scream, scream and yell and curse and shout in tongues, begging to be placed back in their home of Sunday roasts, Monday laundry, Tuesday casseroles, Wednesday meetings, Thursday spaghetti dinners, Friday cocktails, Saturday lawn mowings, a world of logical ordered sense rather than this chaotic, random, unprincipled kaleidoscope they've fallen into. Often, they are drowned, put out of their misery for their own good, although sometimes the mermaids play mischievous games with their memories before their dying breath.

It is the very young and the very old who best survive the transition, those who have not yet formed prejudices and those who have lived long enough to forget their prejudices. These are given a woven chrysalis of mango leaves, a month of silent feasting on twenty four carat goldfish and the effervescent waters of eternal youth, and when they hatch at the conclusion, they are transformed beings who shimmer and reflect the depths of the secrets of the universe in their eyes, being who have grown tails or gills or wings or all three, beings whose formed and forgotten memories are translated into the roar of the ocean and the explosion of volcanoes, whose heartbeats are earthquakes and whose stories are myths.

On dark, moonless nights, deep in winter and at midsummer, their songs can be heard, in the silences between the beat of butterfly wings and in the hesitation before a tadpole sprouts its tail, and there is nothing like it that you will ever hear again, anywhere else.

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