Author: Nada Gordon

Before all my friends start sending me emails to cheer me up: I am not sad. NOT sad.

If I think about crying I come to the conclusion that it’s an attention getting device. I mean it gets MY attention. Yesterday, for instance, I woke up and felt like crying before a thought even entered my head. No memory of what I’d dreamt, or of

what I’d been thinking before sleep, or of what I had to do that day. The skin on my face felt tight and the bones of my eyesocket throbbed with pain. And my vision was a little blurry. I think a few drops even rolled down my cheeks. Oh, I was VERY

pathetic.

My first thought was that my period was on the way. But then a slow pang of realization came over me, and I remembered.

I wonder why only some emotions are cathartic? According to Aristotle tears purge the soul of sadness and leave us refreshed. (This is from memory of long ago classes.) But why then can’t laughter purge the soul of frivolity and leave us attentive?

Do tears purge the soul? This makes me think of bulimia: pigging out on tragedy and then vomiting it all back out. Yuck. That’s a bad metaphor. Then what? We cry because our bodies want to help us out when we feel bad? Does this mean that the soul

feels better at the body’s expense?

I am having a lot of trouble with this concept of catharsis, of intensifying a feeling to be done with it.

Actually, that’s not true. I keep a very thick incense of history at all times, for atmosphere. Unfortunately, it covers up all the natural scents and makes it very hard to tell the men from the boys. I mean the boys from the dogs.

If I had to guess, I would say that Ben was a boy that day.

I think if I was a boy I would rather be a dog.

I think I missed my first impression. That happens a lot: too many people and no sense of history.

I just got off the phone with Ben Friedlander. I never realized before, but he sounds just like my cousin Sholom.

We met twenty years ago, and I’m trying to remember my first impression.

Interesting that Nick and Jean assumed that my “My Dilemma” poem with its constant refrain of “no one loves me” was necessarily a personal expression.

In fact it was a formal exercise, an experiment, in emotional manipulation! And it is wholly googled!

It’s not that I don’t sometimes feel that way, or that the occasion of composing (I can’t really say “writing”) the poem did not arise from an attempt to banish that feeling by subli-mocking it in what I thought was a rather amusing fashion. I simply did not mean it as an easy “expression.”

Hence the heading: is this poem emotional or formal. Point being, why, it’s both!!

I left the house at about 3:30 yesterday to go see a free bellydance performance at Lincoln Center. Talked to a nice guy on the train with an octopus tattoo who had just been to Barbados. i remember he asked me at one point what time it was. 4:00, I said, and then we both got off at 59th St.

Whoa! The lights were flickering on and off in the station. At moments, it went completely black. Odd, because when I’d gotten on the F train a half hour earlier the lights inside the train cars were out until we got into the tunnels; at every station the lights would go on again. i suppose I should have taken that as a warning sign.

Anyway I got myself above ground with much beating of heart during the litup spaces between the darkness, and found myself milling around the bottom of the park, trying unsuccessfully to get through to someone on my cell phone.

I stopped and sat on a park bench for a while to consider my options. Was this just some little local thing? Should I just go to the performance no matter what? Common sense got the better of me and I started to head south on foot, as I noticed many other people were starting to do. Of course, there were plenty of people heading north as well. People were emptying out of buildings, everyone clutching a cell phone, some people with panicky expressions. I walked and walked.

Past the Fox news building where someone said, “They should have a Fox news item about how the Fox ticker doesn’t have any news on it.” It’s true, it didn’t. Got a hot dog thinking I might need strength for the journey.

Walked and walked. Along with tourists and businesspeople, old people, lots of people obviously introducing themselves to each other for the first time.

The most common refrain: “I hope this means I don’t have to work tomorrow.”

So hot and humid — sometimes little blasts of cool air coming from building lobbies.

Walked and walked. Rang Annie and Dorian’s doorbell at 29th St. No answer — probably cuz no electricity! Duh. Kept walking. Thought should I head for Adeena’s place? No. Head for home.

Down past a haagen-dasz shop where a line of people penetrated its darkness. One guy at the end of the line saying: “I don’t care what you get me — anything — just get me something with fudge in it”

A little while later I buy a scoop of melting coffee gelato for a dollar. I’m glad of all the calories as I keep walking walking

Down through Chinatown and through City Hall, those wavy green and purple benches where I stop for a minute to refill my water bottle, oh shit I’ve switched my tenses here OK I’ll go back in the past.

Down to the Brooklyn Bridge — hordes of people — it feels like Partition! Except not as many people heading the other direction.

Groups of schoolkids. Lots of pregnant women. People with carts of merchandise. A group of guys carrying a shelf — why a shelf? One huge woman in a gold tunic — she must have been 400 pounds, walking with a cane. Women in sexy outfits, tiny minis, high heels. I’m grateful for the Timberland sandals I am so sensibly wearing.

My feet are holding out fine (OK I’m still in the present here, let’s keep it the present then) and so is my energy except that I’m starting to get that feeling of my head being a bit swirly. It’s hot and so crowded and I have no details. Is this terrorism? Most people seemed so calm. We all just kept on walking. Over that bridge. Stupidly, I stayed on the walkway instead of going down to the wider roadway where many people were more comfortably walking.

Did you know that the walkway sways, you can actually see the girders of the bridge swaying? The 400 pound woman. The wooden slats I hope no one smokes.

Coming off the bridge there’s Marty Markowitz borough president with his family, yelling through abullhorn, “Welcome Home Brooklyn!” It’s corny but I cry a little mostly relieved that I haven’t fainted yet. He is so utterly Brooklyn.

Thinking I should stop and take a rest but no no rest must get home before dark.

I get to downtown Brooklyn finally and get to a bus stop where I wait with hundreds of others as many many busses pass completely full. Getting quite woozy now. More than an hour passes, darkness falls, there are sirens and flashing lights everywhere am i going to pass out?, I’m waiting there, finally I see a car with mostly women in it, knock on the window, “where are you going” “park slope” they tell me and I squeeze in to the back part of the car, thank goddesses I have my japanese fan with me, there’s no air but somehow I manage to circulate it anyway. Sharing the car with some Russian women who have also hitched a ride trying to get back to Ocean parkway, where I also live.

Passing by so many stoop parties, barbecues, the little candles everywhere; there is a feeling of Halloween.

Get let off at 8th Ave and Flatbush, which is a nightmare, streams of people heading up into Prospect Heights. I almost get backed into by the very car that just dropped me off. Another car almost runs into us as we are crossing yourself : “watch yourself” the driver says and laughs sort of maniacially. Yikes. Find my way to 7th Ave. Waiting at the bus stop again seems futile — the people waiting there seem spooky and shellshocked. Still with the Russian ladies who flag down another car which happens to have in it two guys and yet another Russian lady — very glamorous in a top covered with white sequins! And I get a ride to a place about two blocks away from my apartment. Now almost ten o’clock.

The super put candles on the front steps and also in the lobby. I’m so grateful. Scariest thing is going up the steps with no light. The hallways are pitch black, I’m feeling my way along, counting the flights. One, two, three, four, then feeling down the hall counting doors. OK that’s the garbage chute, and this is home. Feeling for the keyhole. Figuring out the right key.

I knew right where to go for matches and candles and flashlights, yay, but I’m scared because where is Gary? I stick to routine, give the cats some wet food. Then I take a homeopathic calm pill. Ah. Drink some water. I bring a flashlight into the hallway for when Gary comes home. He’s walked ALL THE WAY from midtown.

Amazingly, he was walking up the steps just at that minute. Can you imagine?

We feasted on Carr’s crackers and soppresato and brie and gruyere and grapes and ice water. A restive night though of too many sirens, too much unrelieved darkness, and not enough air or information.

Then at 4:30 this morning the power came on.

Whew.

Haven’t we had enough already?

All’s well that ends well I guess.

So… what do you think — another government cospiracy? Bush II talking about how we need to re-do the infrastructure. Is he thinking CONTRACTS maybe? KICKBACKS? Am I too paranoid????

Talk to us! We’ve had a rough time!

Because it’s too warm these days for “oscillating bimbo poetics”, I hereby proclaim the birth of…

PEACH-BASED POETICS

Anyway, that’s how Herbeck would have said it…

Do you think this poem is EMOTIONAL or FORMAL???:

My Eternal Dilemma

My Eternal Dilemma… I think I have ADD And no one loves me. And I annoy my friends a lot. And no one loves me. And I think I’m starting to hate men.

No-one loves me! No-one loves me! guava says… As i’m sure you’ve not asked everyone, how can you know this is true?

Everyones in love these days!! Everyone except me, that’s cos no one loves me.

No-one loves me like Jesus loves me In his arms I’m happy No-one knows me like Jesus knows me No-one knows like he knows No-one loves like he loves He loves

I love my dog, because my dog is where I have hidden my love, no one loves me at all! They command me. But no one loves me!

I only do these things because

no-one loves me and my life is dull.

no one loves me’s Blurty

No one loves me like my tomato can

This is the level of philosophies, conclusions, and assumptions, such as, “No one loves me.”

Why they don’t notice me. Why I can’t tell them how I feel. Why no one loves me. And no matter how hard I try, they’ll never see.

I often feel that no one loves me. If I have problems, I have to tackle them on my own. At the moment, I feel like an outcast.

Who can understand me if I cant understand my self? No one cares for me. No one loves me. I don’t love my self. I am the dust swept under the rug.

Runaway. I want to runaway. But where would I go? No one would take me in, no one loves me. I could not stay on the streets.

SPORK, punkbunnypopsicle, punkbunnypopsicle, im lonely, no one loves me

Daddy! NO one LOVES ME!!!” The Wiseman says, “You must take revenge on them…using the power of the Dark Crystal!” Suddenly, the black rings enclose on her. …

I want a family, I want friends, I want everything that I don’t have, I am a blue Elephante, I am blue because I am sad, No one loves me.

You have Chocobo Ghost to love you! (looks all innocent and hurt) Unlike me…no-one loves me…

And I want your input on this one, too … PWEASE? SORRY! Whatever, NO one loves me …? but some nectarine out there loves this lonely tangerine … tee, hee! …

I am going talk about how no one loves me

until the words feel fake in my mouth.