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back and forth all night

why didn’t anyone tell me there was more to edna st. vincent millay than that stupid ferry poem? my father handed me a slim volume, the kind with friendly, uneven pages that are tinted old, when i went to college, but he didn’t mention that what was inside would be even more attractive. conversations at midnight is a long narrative poem/play. a group of varied men sit in a room in 1937 and dialogue about politics, women, life, and each other. the most heated exchange comes between carl, a communist poet, and merton, a conservative stock-broker; but although you, as reader, might lose the subtle rhyme in concentrating on the ideas, she, as author, never does.

i’m accumulating lit for the summer. already on hand i have david “hot damn i’m funny … and hot!” sedaris’s naked, fran “now that you know my name, you’re seeing it everywhere” lebowitz’s metropolitan life and “that book that everyone but me has already read and loved” bee season. my hope is that the 1st two will help prepare me for / steer me through new york. and the third will just be comfort food.

it’s sobering to come across something like conversations at midnight, though; something that reminds how much of value there is that you’ve already dismissed, or not heard about, or forgotten. being a capitalist myself, at least for the time being, i want more.

think about seizing the day

exciting morning. woken by mother at 8:30: “will you please get dressed and drive your father and your uncle down to union station?” and but i’m scared of driving and it’s early, please don’t make me do something more taxing than watching Shrek for the fifteenth time … didn’t seem like an adequate response.

so up i got, fed the dog, and drank cold water, my substitute for coffee (nearly 21 coffee-free years and i’m doing fine. my plan is to avoid coffee and cigarettes my whole life & look like i’m going to outlive everyone. then, suddenly, i’ll be felled by a blow no one could see coming: the combined influence of + diet coke and – exercise). i found my way back from the center of the city through dc morning traffic, which, despite my nearly 21 years, is something i’ve actually never done by myself before.

i feel very grown up and responsible now. not either of two brothers but i got to save the family today. i! the princess. and the princess celebrated by reheating pizza and watching newsies. she even teared up a bit at the end, you know, when the crowd of kids join the strike and then teddy roosevelt comes out and you think cowboy’s moving on to sante fe but at the very end he comes back. that’s a movie.

another movie, a more real one, i caught on tv yesterday: the laramie project. i’d missed it til now, and it’s really good. it’s moving without being sentimental and it sure gets its message across, whatever that message is. on a related upbeat note, toronto legalized gay marriage today. canada’s become more like scandinavia every minute.

and last night liz and i watched the immortal frida. i’m surprised julie taymor didn’t get an oscar nomination for that. i’m surprising the critics uniformly weren’t impressed, at least with the way it looks. i do agree, it should have been in spanish with english subtitles. and it should have been more about frida as an artist and less about frida as a part of a tempestuous relationship with diego rivera. the movie’s politics did spark an interesting conversation about communism though, and this morning led me to ask my father, “in brief, please, why did stalin want trotsky dead?”

today i watched my little brother cross the stage at the DAR Washington Convention Center in a billowy kelly green gown with matching hat and tassel. he was noticeable even from a distance by the slight slump that makes his 6′ 2″s less intimidating and the sneakers. up close he’s more noticeable for his ski-length eyelashes and red mouth. he’s the last: last graduation i had scheduled for this spring, last of my siblings & first cousins to leave high skool.

somebody at swat said, a graduation’s not a graduation unless someone quotes robert frost. this ceremony didn’t disappoint. it stood out in other ways, though, from the others of my experience. families were so exuberant that the principal had to threaten them with expulsion from the room. kids kept inflating beach balls and volleying them around. ted kennedy spoke, and really well, before lumbering back to the senade. the wilson senior high skool choir kept ascending the stage to sing, gospel-style. one selection: “celebrate good times.” my mother whispered, do they do barmitzvahs?

afterwards my family celebrated by assembling on a table our combined bodyweight in food. ate it, too. since, at my little brother’s behest, we were at a steakhouse, i had less than most people, i managed to walk out of the restaurant on my own two feet. others had to be dragged on stretchers that smith & wollensky’s keeps stacked in the front for just that purpose. the plates were the size of computer monitors, the steaks the size of screens. all the drinks came automatically doubled. the slice of monster chocolate cake the graduate ordered was about three stories tall. he managed three bites and fainted (and this is a boy who can hold his chocolate).

ugh, i’m still full. in a way it’s a good thing. i’m still wearing the french red (p)leather skirt i debuted today, which, under normal circumstances, sits slightly too big on my hips. now it’s nice and snug.

from the latest fad in personality tests, an analysis of my brain (cheaper than a cat scan, and more fun!):

“ester, you show a slight right-hemisphere dominance with a moderate preference for auditory processing, an unusual and somewhat paradoxical combination of characteristics.”

heh heh.

“Your tendency to be creative and free-flowing is accompanied by sufficient ability to organize and be logical, allowing you a reasonable degree of success in a number of different endeavors.”

reasonable degree? well, who could ask for anything more?

“You find the symbolism in a great deal of what you encounter and are something of a “mystic.” With regards to your lifestyle, you have the mentality which would be good as a philosopher, writer, journalist, or instructor, or possibly as a systems designer or social worker. Perhaps most important is your ability to “listen to your inner voice” as a mode of skipping over unnecessary steps to achieve your goals.”

excellent. i love being affirmed by random testing. take it yourself.

also a first today, on the heels of my debut tryst with hamlet, i invited rejection #1 from the new yorker. gotta start sometime.

somebody give me a cigar. i just saw my first hamlet. immediately after, i had to come home and answer my father’s questions about the production. was hamlet hyper-intellectual? effeminate? was he played as angsty, or indecisive, brooding or frustrated? my father saw some earthshaking production of hamlet in england once and many others besides. i’ve, well, seen movies. and i’ve read the play. i don’t have much to compare it to but i thought the shakespeare company did, as they always do, a terrific job.

what’s better is it’s free. carton barren hosts one of these a year, an outdoor production of some excellently done shakespeare play. you have to reserve tickets in advance. in this case, my friend johnny obtained a ticket for me, lana, and several others. she heads off to arizona tomorrow. sad for me: she’s been one of my principal playmates this week. i helped her paint her room. we took woods walks, watched movies, ate, and generally spent not enough time together considering we’ll be the summer apart.

this is the first summer where all my regular friends scattered themselves. one in israel, in the south; another in israel, in jerusalem, where he’s just been made an uncle. two to seattle. three staying in their collegetowns: one noho, one boston, one providence. one to costa rica. it’s a good thing i’m back to swarthmore on friday and to new york at the end of the month, or i’d feel very left out.

well! thank god. blogger’s back. that means i lost the last post, for reasons too complicated to explain — it was just about grad skool anyway and we all know what grad skool can go and do. it is lovely to be able to post again even if i have nothing particular to say.

except — oh yeah — happy 2nd birthday babblebook!!

[wild celebration; parades; speeches; toasts; champagne corks popping; mardi gras topping; acid trips; skinny dips; foie gras]

that will be all, thanks. you may now return to your regularly scheduled pornography.

wrenched awake at 4 a.m. by the 2nd in a series of nights-of-nightmares, i write a poem:

body image in two parts

I. what the letter from the interviewer should have said

“… So I’m in africa now, a finger

of the peace corps (ha ha) and got

a copy of our paper. It’s sad to be an alum,

but terrific to see that an interviewee I picked not just

got into school but flourished there!

“I remember when you walked in in

your Arden B suit crisp as plastic packaging,

a zipper clamping the 2 halves of your chest

together like a pacemaker scar, the skirt short

and to the point. Your mother bought that suit

for you in celebration when you traded in a permit

for a license, and with it a body.

I don’t believe you

the lady behind the window said, whose job it was

to record the numbers. Nobody loses 15 pounds

in a year.
You tried to smile as though you’d gone

for a walk everyday with half a pound or so hidden

in the denin by your ankle, and shaken it out in the woods,

like people tunnelling from prison dispose of dirt.

“At 16, or maybe earlier, your mother

wouldn’t let you leave your room in shorts

argument: but J and N wear shorts this short!

retort: when you work out, and have legs as nice

as J and N, you can too.

“Flash-further-back: a child stands before a mirror

as colorful and round as she, delighted. Look mom!

she says, lifting her shirt to her armpits. I have a tummy!

Mom says, that�s cause you don�t exercise.

“You spared the skeptic at the window these stories,

and others: of rationing your cereal, flake

by flake; of sugarless gum by the mouthful; of your

oldertaller brother�s shirts that became

your mobile home; of black, the shade of self-pity,

your pirate flag. You didn’t mention to the woman

the actual number was 20, not 15.

Embarrassed, on the permit form, you’d lied.

“But I gotta say, the suit

suited. It did its work. I was impressed. Those legs!

Not long by any means, the shoes helped; a nice shape

though, trimmed from finally learning not to run

just one mile but two. The contacts, the gel � we like

these here at Swarthmore College, even if we say we don�t

(don�t worry about makeup though, that�s

where we draw the line)

“reading your review, I�m glad

you fit in so well. Obscure Chinese films

don�t make their way down here too often, but

it this one does, I’ll be sure to go and think

of you! and hold onto that suit, I gotta tell ya

I can’t tell where you�d be without it.”

II. Heather’s suggestion

a cruise ship! Spend the day in oslo; To and From,

with all your friends, at night,

only $130 including dinner!

I arrived early, curious; satisfied myself there was

nothing to do (the other passengers:

sullen families with small children and a convention

of the disabled) but drink, and stocked up

with my friends at the Duty Free

everyone mobbed the banquet room

at dinner time, figuring at least a buffet could amuse

for a while. as soon

as we sat down, we felt the waves

will they stop? we finally asked a steward once

we�d equalled the pallor of our beans. Oh, around dawn,

he said with the determined-cheerful air of one

who is paid not to apologize. There are pills

if you need them

steaming plates of shellfish, abandoned

waves of cheap alcohol crashed

inside, treble to the rocking bass of the ship

I landed on the bottom floor, told the movement

was less moving there, body pressed against it

like a forehead to a cold wet cloth

On the way Back from oslo, we were grimly

prepared. to begin with, we skipped dinner, 3 of my

girl friends and I, slipping instead through a back entrace

into the sauna. we stripped in the locker room, I

determined to be as unself-conscious as my lovely

friend heather, whose idea this was, though

I’d only been publically naked once before

in my post-puberty life, and that was at night

ready? we asked each other, and

went in, peeling off our towels and affixing ourselves,

stamps on envelopes, to the white benches.

on cue, the boat began to sway / we

began to sweat. we rocked

together, breathing deeply. no one spoke.

I noticed the others’ tidy breasts but didn�t dwell.

We lingered

longer than was wise, perhaps, nursed

by nakedness, inured by nakedness, somehow,

against nausea. we showered quickly

and decided to dash to our rooms to avoid

the sickening sight of the everywhere sick. As we

left the sauna, immediately, we passed a boy who paused

a thoughtful moment, then sprayed the carpet

hurry, hurry �

we made it to our rooms

and locked the doors. my usually feeble,

unshowcased stomach and I, that night,

made each other proud.

CONSUMERISM 101: A Lecture in Dialogue Form

Part One: Using the Internet

me: so, [little brother whose name is omitted to avoid the threat of prosecution], there’s this program that i kind of want a copy of —

him: what’s it called?

me: well, i don’t remember, but i can —

him: no problem.

[pause]

me: no, see, i think this one’s difficult cuz it requires you to use the cd —

him and my older brother, also present: [fall down laughing.]

[laughter continues for five minutes.]

him: oh no! not a CD!!

my older brother: man! that means i can’t use any of the 5,000 games i play that REQUIRE YOU TO USE THE CD!!

[laughter for another five minutes. finally both boys wipe their eyes.]

him: yeah, i think i can do that for you.

[later …]

him: i got the most recent version. is that all right?

sheesh. nowadays pirates may be more useful, but they’re far less sexy.

Part Two: Used Books

i went to 2nd Story to rid myself of novels that clutter my bookshelf and remind me of the loathing they first inspired in me.

the clerk took three in exchange for a $5 store credit.

me: why not the others? just out of curiousity.

him: we’re not buying much fiction right now. except mysteries: in the summer, people read mysteries. and this [holding up waiting] we have too many copies of already.

me: that’s cuz it sucked.

he: [looking at me with new respect] right. and this, [holding up i know this much is true] we can’t buy cuz it has this oprah’s book club sticker on it. sometimes we can buy books that were on the list, but none that actually have the sticker. no one wants them.

me: how ironic.

him: tell me about it.

swarthmore’s graduation could not have been more different than cornell’s except for the fact that all weekend it remained rainy and cold. last night i dreamt that the rain turned to snow and someone informed me gravely we were just skipping summer this year. in the dream, i cried.

in real life, i’ve been doing far less of that than i expected. at points i’ve hit Sad, like when i realized, after humming through the song in my head several times, that the song in my head was eerily appropriate and far too depressing:

… fun, isn’t it? but nothing stays
in a year or so
it’s gonna change, you know
but it’s heaven nowadays

but i made it through dinner with ben and the russian hoardes without too much trouble, not breaking down even when member after member of his family rose to toast him. i made it through baccalaureate. easy enough since it seemed to have been declared a charisma-free zone. i made it through the last day, and the last night, and through seeing him in the cap and gown; through commencement, through picture-taking, through waiting for him while he went to check out green bottle.

the night of green bottle, he’d been packing and i’d dozed off. around 1, he whispered that he was just going to see what was going on the party. that whisper hit me like an injection of mountain dew. suddenly i couldn’t go back to sleep. until 3, i paced, fretted, and watched the clock. he finally returned, chagrined to see that i’d been reduced to the state of a 50s hausfrau.

it was a wonderful few days. most seniors i didn’t get to say goodbye to, not in so many words. many i’ll quite likely never see again. but i wish everyone the best: patience when luck runs out, and luck when patience runs out.

right now i’m just glad to be home and not to have to move for a while. i want a soft room with muted, if any, stimuli. i want soothing ocean sounds. i want not to have to think about the future, which i hate. the thinking and the future itself. i want not to have to move stuff or shlep bags. i want sleep. luckily i think over the next ten days this can all be arranged — at least til my little brother’s high skool graduation, after which i have to leave for comotion and my summer starts for real.

the nice folks at the people’s poet have accepted two of my poems for publication: “our visit” will appear in the autumn journal, and “runway model” in another journal whose name escapes me. both in the UK. no payment for either except for a copy of the publication, but that makes for 3 acceptances recently. encouraging.

my brother and i finally made it home yesterday. that meant i could go to lunch today with the curlygirls (at the sandwich counter, the man nodded to nomi behind me and said, “does your twin sister want something?”) we ended up in bethesda afterwards and i picked up a george sand novel at 2nd story. in translation, of course. i’m excited to make her mine. as i found delillo’s white noise disappointing, i’m turning squarely to 19th century women for solace. a copy of sense and sensibility i found in the bed n breakfast made me supremely happy.

so much for smug white misogynist males, 1950 – 1990. give me a proto-feminist any day.