Giving Care

GIVING CARE

Up in the attic yellow elephants, who love to go places, dance tail to trunk on my well-worn suitcases. They wear square hats on their heads and gold rugs on their backs. Exotic flowers and bits of squiggle are printed all ‘round the red cloth background. I’m afraid they feel dreary with the dust and the motes, the awful old smell of boxes and bags of who knows what, that’s been who knows where, and besides, there’s barely any air up there.

Neglected, yes, but it can’t be helped. My life’s in a time when I’m sore needed and I’ve happily heeded, but those cases are sad. I think they’d say the blame’s on me-these years that they’ve been up and I’ve been down in this quite nice house. At least they’re close to one another. One’s right inside the other.

They are meant to go. They can roll, you know. Inside them are pockets, zippers, and netting for keeping my shampoo and small things from slipping. They’d grown used to my clothes, their scents and their folds. They hate the wait. I know they do ‘cause I do too. Yet, I dread the day we can again go play. Before we can leave, I’ll have had to grieve.

We will go again, to Argentina or Spain. I’ll unpack in Venice, within sight of San Marco. We might take a boat to Tierra del Fuego. We’ll go to Scandanavia, Istanbul and Moravia. Take ferries and trains, drive on highways and lanes, and when we stop for breath, I’ll mourn Dad’s death. Near a sea’s cool blue calm, I’ll mourn again for Mom.

In Your Face, Man

What was I thinking? Of course this is what Adam Lambert wants to do. He was born in 1982! Pop music performances have been about flash, shock, bumping and grinding and techno-wizardry since he was a baby.

I watched the American Music Awards last night. Yup. The whole thing. Glambert’s act, and I do mean act, was the finale. It was interesting, and certainly busy, and Adam and the dancers were intense and energetic as hell. But most of them seemed really angry for some reason. Maybe I misunderstood, but since I couldn’t make out the lyrics, I went by the facial expressions, costumes, choreography, noise, stuff like that. Other acts were furious, too, though. Lady GaGa killed a piano. Dunno why.

JayZ and Alicia Keys did that neat New York song. I liked that and I understood that it was meant to connect to the audience and it did. Seemed like everyone had a good time during that one. But later on, when Alicia Keys did her single, her piano got lifted into the air with wires. I think it may have spun, too. Odd, that.

Jennifer Lopez had a prize-fighter thing going on for awhile, then she did a tricky on-stage costume change to a gold mini-dress with wide hips à la 18th century hoop petticoats. Or, maybe it was a Star Trek reference. Poor lady fell on her bottom. Given what the choreographer was going for with that move, I’m not surprised J Lo blew it.


Whitney Houston didn’t try to dance around, but she had this supposedly spontaneous moment of being too overcome with the adulation she was receiving, for finally getting her act together, to continue singing. The pause would have seemed less engineered if all the strings and what-not hadn’t stopped on a dime when she did. They knew just when to start up again, too.


You know who I liked? I liked Green Day. They played their instruments and sang their song. Oh, there were soaring flames going on behind them, but at least they had the front of the stage to themselves.

I haven’t been into country music since the inglorious end of my drinking days, but Keith Urban made me feel better for a few minutes and Kelly Clarkson sang her heart out and, hell, I’ll say it, maintained her dignity.

Anyways, back to Adam Lambert. See, I fell for him when he sang Mad World on American Idol. His voice made me catch my breath and come to a full stop as I was passing through the living room and I didn’t breathe again until he finished the song. He moved me to the extent that I watched AI every week after that and when he didn’t win, I felt almost as bad about America as I did the night Bush got re-elected. I’m not saying that makes much sense, but there you go.

Then, last night? Didn’t like the song, couldn’t hear it in fact, thought the S&M and sex stuff was stupid, wished to hell he’d stand still for a second and just sing, and his eye make-up was all wrong. He glared at the camera at the end of his song and his eyes looked crossed.

So the thing is, is I must be old. Am I old and easily shocked? Not so much. After all, men and women were naked on stage together in Hair in 1967. The Boys in the Band premiered in 1968. Do I sound crotchety? Ah, hell. I suppose I do.

I haven’t lost faith in Adam Lambert. Well I’ve lost some faith, but not all. I think he can do it. No, I know he can because of the performances he gave last spring. Glambert can stir hearts, connect, create moments that are really worth sharing with everyone. Yep, everyone. Does he want to do that? Can’t say, really. I’ve heard, though, that he only wants to be a Pop star. Damn.

Nonnie Augustine

The Dice are Not to Blame

The Dice are Not To Blame

Ted swam far from shore with a bar of lead.
He loved it, you see, until he drowned dead.
Mick had a trick of giving his money
to heartless bosoms that called him honey.
Sharon kept caring for drinkers and dopers
gamblers and cheaters and whiners and mopers.
Benny saw double and never could tell
which one had substance and which was a shell.
Mick, Benny, Sharon, and poor dead Ted
had luck that sucked they frequently said.
I didn’t agree and suggested instead
that they didn’t have to sink; they could listen to me,
and let go of their lead when they swam in the sea.

Nonnie Augustine

A New Notion about an Old Story

A New Notion about an Old Story

A dark girl, quite poor, who might have been four,
leaned on a statue of a horse and his man.
(The rider rode him in place, but as if in a race.)
Her dress needed patching, her heart needed smoothing.
She’d tried to sell matches all the cold night,
but none noted her plight ‘til up to her came
a blond boy who was lame.

"Can you sell those, you think, for some food and
warm drink?" asked the boy who was bigger, and
dressed slightly better, but dirty as well. He’d
apples to sell.

"No, not a one. I want to be done."
Tears plopped from her eyes,
left streaks on her cheeks.

"Have an apple, why don't you? I've still these two.”
The boy gave the waif his well-polished
fruit and a back-pat to boot.

"Do you two like that horse? He's my favorite of
course," said a girl, almost grown, also out on her
own. Her eye was blacked but she'd a warm coat and
hat. "I come here at night, when my Dad's fists
fight. Whiskey's his curse and he's home getting
worse." She pulled the tot to her lap with a plop,
and claimed the lad's hand. One's smile warmed
another's, till all three loved each other.

The horse, soot-streaked marble, was truly a marvel.
His coat livened to touch. His head tossed
with his snort. The rider, a soldier, stretched,
laughed, and fetched the big girl and little.
He soothed them to settle in front of his saddle.
Then he scooped up the boy
(who whooped high with joy) and put him
behind him and they all fit just fine.
The horse stamped his feet, whinnied,
and leaped as far as the stars.

By and by they arrived at the dawn of a day
in a place deep in memory, where, so happily,
they stayed on with others who’d
been far lost, woozy from poverty,
and froze from frost. Graced, none found hurt,
meanness, nor dirt, were with grown-ups
who cared and children who shared.





Nonnie Augustine
5/10/09

Glambert Obsessed

One night when American Idol ran over into
Fringe's time slot, (which I watch, wishing it
were X Files) I caught Adam Lambert
singing “Mad World”. That night I became…

Glambert Obsessed


So anyways, if anyone out there wonders how a
woman of a certain age could possibly have such a
thing for Adam Lambert: Darlings, my obsession
with Adam is not about banging him. It's a highbrow,
lofty, genteel appreciation, on a purely aesthetic
level, for his talent.

Oh, I may have noticed his tall, supple body, his
blazing eyes, his boyish smile, his curvy ass. But
honestly, dear, it's not a sex thing. Nope.

Besides, even if he weren't gay, it's too complicated
to get tickets to the show at this point, raise enough
cash to bribe my way to a meet with him, and figure
out how to convince him to be alone with me for say,
two hours. So, he likes boys? What the hey? No skin
off my bones.

And another thing: I discovered, and no I won't go
into how I came to this knowledge, you'll just have to
trust me on this, but men who have sex with men
don't necessarily eschew sex with women. Sometimes
they just extra-ordinarily enjoy sex.

However, once they get into the same-sex thing, that
tends to make them members of a group that is
definitely not part of the group of men who do not do
it with other men. There was this time I visited a
Christoper Street bar in New York City and I met this
guy, and the rest of the story was, for me, an exciting,
memorable, and, well, hugely fun, evening. But that
was far away, long ago, and private.

So, go, Glambert! Sing your rock and roll heart out.
Straight or gay makes no difference to me…you're
too young for me anyway.

The Linnet's Wings

My favorite online magazine (I'm the poetry editor) is live with its spring issue. We are going to have it available in print as well, and details about that are posted in the zine. This issue has a story I wrote about my Juilliard days. We haven't used our editors' work since the early issues of The Linnet's Wings, but this spring we decided, "what the hey?" I hope some of you read it. No, I hope all of you read it. 8-}


I listened to an NPR broadcast earlier this afternoon. Tiffany Christianson discussed her book, "Sick Girl Speaks," and I found her to be inspiring, indeed. She has lived with cystic fibrosis since she was a baby, and she has worked hard at living life with a disease. She said that she is not her disease, and discussed how she has learned to separate her symptoms from her spirit.

I want to read her book-because I don't do this. When I have angina, and I do, often, I succumb in spirit to the way I feel. It's as if I'm under the influence of something shameful. The constriction of my arteries becomes a constriction of my spirit and depresses me, but this woman who has had two lung transplants and lives with a daunting list of things that have gone wrong, recognizes them as problems with her body, only.

This is good stuff for anyone with chronic physical dysfunction. We may be people who allow our diseases to diminish us deeply, in our souls, if you will. Why do I, and some of you, do this? My coronary arteries are damaged; my "heart" need not be. Worth thinking about, eh?

My best day at Ramsey High School

It was April of my senior year, second period, French IV. The intercom interrupted Mrs. Plevin reading Moliere. There was nothing unusual about the annoying blare from the Principal's office, but they called my name, which had never happened before. I was told to call home immediately. I got my pass and raced down to the phone booth on the ground floor. By the time Mom answered my call, I had scared myself silly, but she said right away that she had good news and couldn't wait until I got home to tell me. I'd gotten my acceptance letter from the dance department at Juilliard! I was going to New York City! Oh,God, New Jersey,good-by! Finally!!!

Ahem...sorry for all the exclamation points. Later, after I got suburbia out of my system, and could think rationally about my high school years, I realized they could have been a lot worse. I just needed to get some perspective, you know?

From a Zoetrope discussion about probable scientific revelations regarding soul, spirit, God

Yes, well.

The explanation might be forthcoming, and when the people who are investigating explain these things (soul, spirit, God) to me, I'll listen, and I might even understand. Until then I'm happy enough referring to my mystery as my soul.

After the cop and I walked into my brother's trailer, (caravan in the UK?) and found Ric a day dead, my soul sickened, and it hasn't fully recovered.

I know when I danced on stage or alone in the studio, or when the answer to a choreographic phrase "came" to me, (sometimes it seemed directly from the music) my soul felt good, and somehow, big.

All my life there have been moments when my spirit has been shaken by the creativity of others, thank God.

Most of the time I go on with living without feeling moved much at all. But when something does touch me, it's my soul that's stirred. Science may well explain this someday.

When that happens, I might refer to my soul by it's new name, but I imagine I'll be old by then and I'll do what my 88 year-old father does. When there's a bit of new brilliance, he smiles, his eyebrows lift, he gives it a passing nod, and he lets it slide on by.

Akshually I'm glad this came up, and I'm gladder that I thought about it. I've been bored by my own brain lately. xxoononnie

TEXTURES, revised 2/20/09

Wear your grief like soft silk;

a shimmering air-light cloak against your skin.

Then, when the evening star glows

alone through blue-black light,

when perceptions loosen and solitude releases,

cover yourself in the purple velvet of queens and kings.

Let the weight drag against your limbs,

the heavy cloth round your shoulders

until you reach full stop.

Wait-then make the journey back through brocade, damask, satin-

sense again the silky, pliable

mourning-suit that allows you to move.

Inauguration, 09

A friend of mine, Donia Carey, wrote a few minutes ago about how fragile Elizabeth Alexander's fine poem seemed in the maelstrom of the inauguration and the drama of Obama's poetic speech. I thought fragile, too, was the John Williams piece, with it's Aaron Copeland theme, performed by that amazing quartet of musicians. Yo Yo Ma looked like he was having a fabulous time. That's what I love seeing: all these famous people, Obama supporters, looking so happy. Genuinely happy.

The stunning "plane landing safely in the Hudson river" incident seemed like a good omen for this new year, new administration. It so easily could have been tragic news; instead everyone came out of the crash landing and the frigid waters alive and pretty much well.

I'm fairly determined to have a positive attitude toward 2009. Open-minded, prepared for let-down, but hoping for good news. I keep comparing how I feel about things with how I most certainly would have felt if McCain/Palin were sworn in today.

Blizzard

Naked lengths knee to knee,
our bodies warm
while winds gust.

You scootch lower.
Lips, tongue to navel,
seeking heat.

How well we fit-
each limb fierce,
held, holding-
we ignite.


Our forms defy, protect, reel
in sublime time.
Then knee from knee
we separate. Lives wait.

Grief is a Sneaky Bastard

Grief is a sneaky bastard, isn't he? You think, fine. I'm off to get my oil changed when whoa the universe takes a 60 degree downward slope and you're hanging on to a street light to keep from sliding into some crater you know is there waiting because you've already made one or two visits and it's damn hard to climb out, once you're down there. Then too, if you are at all inclined to note the thoughts streaming along with the emotions, you'll be aware that they are all selfish. All about why did he leave us, leave me, just now, now when I wasn't the least bit ready? No one was. And why that horrible way? Alone? In a trailer, for God sakes! Not even a double-wide! Bottles everywhere. Although it did look like he was trying to taper off with beer. Not his roommate. His empties were all squared off heavy glass. Bourbon, I think. And the wanker, the roommate, was gone--never a trace of him again. Did he know my brother was dead before he left? Dunno. Ah, well. It doesn't matter, I guess. Maybe he could have dialed 911. Maybe the bleeding in my brother's brain could have been stopped. Can they stop that sort of internal bleeding once it's begun? More to the point, maybe, is whether Ric would have wanted them to save him one more time. Yes, of course, he would have. He would have wanted to return to us eventually. After one more excruciating detox, fighting hallucinations and sweats, chills and shakes, hauntings and cravings, remorse and self-loathing. He would only have had to make it past that, start with nothing again one more time, try to keep some food down for a while, work day labor before he could stand on his rubber legs properly, and he'd have been all right. Back in the world, coming to Sunday dinner, grilling steaks, using a linen napkin to wipe a blob of ketchup off his face. As it happened--he didn't have to do any of that this time. He fell, made it to his bed, and his brain, which had hit the back of his skull according to the autopsy, (there had to be one because it was an unattended death), started to bleed. They told me he had probably been dead over 12 hours when I found him. That's why he was gray. It's okay that I found him. Somehow I always knew I would be the one to do that. Funny how that, at least, worked out.

Poem about these days

Time Change in Florida

Used to be I’d keep busy.
Dreadful the time I spend sitting, standing,
staring. I lose track, now.

I believe it’s because he died.
It gets hold of me.

I’ll see him half on half off his bed,
a plaid blanket angled over his back and legs,
held tight in his gray fist. I might stop to think
about his being cold on an August Sunday
or I guess Saturday because he’d been dead a day
before I found him.

Time slides by while I rock or sway a bit.
Think about things.

Wonder if I’ll stay slow like this?
Feels like it.

SURAL NERVE BIOPSY

If you don't happen to know where a sural nerve is, or what it does, don't feel alone. None of the swarm of friendly, kind, people in our good hospital's outpatient surgery staff knew about it either. I could hear them discussing it. Didn't bother them-they just kept asking each other until someone knew. I had to laugh at how determined the staff was to get the correct ankle biopsied. Even though the surgeon came in to write a big yes (in permanent marker) on my left leg, they kept checking with me anyway. The whole business went fine and I was home be 1 o'clock, ate a big piece of apple pie with vanilla ice cream, and slept the sleep of the heavily drugged all afternoon. I'm fine. I have needed my cane to remain upright, but I was so afraid my heart would act up and they'd keep me overnight, but I was a good patient and got to go home.

Now my little piece of nerve is in Atlanta to be muttered over and tested. I see a new family physician tomorrow and hopefully she'll be the kind of doctor who will read her reports from other doctor's and have some means of knowing which patient is which (or at least good at pretending she knows.)

My brother Peter took me and picked me up. He was talking to the nurse about my "unsteadiness" and he said, "Oh, she's always like that now. But she used to be a ballerina and went to Juilliard." I swear the nurse had tears in her eyes.
You know, it was a moment. xxoononnie

Big Plans

BIG PLANS

Jane was propped up on her elbows, eating a slice of pizza and trying not to get sauce on her friend’s bed. Caroline, sitting at her computer with a slice in hand, complained yet again about submission guidelines.

“They all say the same thing. So boring. Twelve point type, no fancy fonts, word counts need not include the title, blah, blah, blah. Editors are all the same. I’ve discovered a brilliant font. I swear it’s art in itself, but it’s not one of their blessed regulars.

“Really? Did it come with that font software you bought? What’s it called?”

“Yes, really. Yes, it did. And it’s called ‘Mondrian Whirl.’ Totally cool. Here’s my new poem printed in it.”

“I Felt so Alone.” Hey, wasn’t that the name of the last poem you wrote?”

“No-o. That was called, “Loneliness is Misery.”

“Ah. My bad. But you do write about feeling lonely on Sundays in both, don’t you?”

“Yeah. So? Poetry should be about revealing deep shit, shouldn’t it?

“I guess, Caroline," said Jane. “I don’t read much of it. Fushia paper? I hope you’re going to submit it on white?”

“Nope. That’s one of the submissions. The guidelines don’t mention the color of the paper, or of the ink, for that matter. I used shades of green. Show’s up okay, I guess.”

“You’re out of your mind, sweetie. I can’t even read this font, and I want to. Why would an editor struggle with it?”

“They’ll think it’s daring, creative, attention-grabbing. They’ll think a poet who goes this far out on a limb must have something totally cool to say. They’ll think I’m eccentric and interesting without having to read a word. I’m sure that all the editors I send this to will be eager to publish whatever I’ve written.”

“It’s hard to tell, but I think you’ve got a typo here. Maybe.”

“Oh, that. Don’t worry about it--they’ll never notice.”

“You keep saying “they.” How many are you sending? Are you keeping track?”

“I e-mailed it to twenty something places. I pretty much have them all in my head. I hate record keeping. Maybe I’ll start keeping track when I get an acceptance. Like I said, it’s bound to happen soon. My mother always told me I wrote very expressively, and with complexity.”

“Are you writing a new poem, now, while we’re talking?”

“Sure. I can write poetry anytime. It’s my gift.”

“Jeez Louise, Caroline. Sometimes you sound more like a pre-teen than a college sophomore. But what do I know? I’m into math. Thank God.

Crossing the Little Styx

Not long after crossing the Little Styx from "young" to "middle-aged," I started having health problems.  Over the years little has been explained to me about them, I have not been given succinct causes, and I have gotten tired of hearing, "You know, as you age..." I've been stuck with a a growing list of parts that don't work well due to widely unknown reasons, and I've learned to adjust with ill grace and a gnawing sense of guilt. Why guilt? Why, because, we all know that if we had eaten properly, exercised, avoided destructive behavior, undue amounts of stress,  dealt with our emotions constructively, and of course, watched our BMI from birth, our Boomer bodies would not be acting out of spite.

I am, as of today,free of this guilt.  One kind, empathetic, doctor of humanitarian bent, assured me that many of my symptoms originated in my spine, and that arthritis, a pinched nerve, and a herniated disc all presented themselves clearly on an MRI. The news settled in the pit of my stomach last night, probably an unhealthy place for it bed down, but today I woke up feeling better about my poor old self than I have in ages.

When I was four, I saw a ballerina on television. My career choice was made. I started on the path to professional dance that very day. For the next twenty-seven years I did all of the horrible, gorgeous, thrilling things that a dedicated dancer does to her body with a true Scarlett O'Hara attitude. I had to do horrible, painful, fairly demented things to my body and feet in order to accomplish as much as I was able to in my art, and I'm happy today with the memories and glad as hell I "went for it." No regrets. And, by all that's holy (I guess), having a bad back is completely understandable and acceptable to me. So are the tingly feelings in my feet and legs, the fatigue, and the general difficulty I have persuing daily pursuits. If I owe these things in some way to dance, then fine! I wouldn't have skipped a single arabesque.

During a performance, when I was thirty-one, I tore an Achilles tendon. It refused to get better, and after floundering in depression for a few years, I became a teacher of emotionally disturbed children. I did this for fifteen years and during that time I ate-on-the-run, exercised but improperly, did not avoid self-destructive habits, had an undue amount of physical and psychological stress, swallowed tons of emotion, and had a dangerously low, then suddenly a risky-high, BMI. And guess what? No blame there, either. I'm glad I did that job for the years I did it. I hope I did the children some long-lasting good, but I know I did myself good that far outreaches the aches and pains, yes, even the "bad heart," that I'm saddled with now.

In short, (not my strength) the slings and arrows that brought me to this creaky place were invited by me to do so, and I will not be a hypocrite about them. I didn't exactly live the life of Jack Sparrow, but, as I believe would be true of him if he were real, I can say with honest fervor, that I'm glad my "young" and the young part of my "middle" years went just the way they went. Thank you Dr. Crayton.

Monday, Blessed Monday

O Frabjous Day! Callooh! Callay! I have found my treasure and I am grateful. Grateful, I say. It doesn't matter really to whom; maybe it's to the spirit of Lewis Carroll-or, more likely, my Mom. But the treasure reappeared, and I believe I had help. Can't convince me otherwise-because I won't listen.

Did You Do This?

Did you ever lose a treasure? Not in a disaster, a flood or a fire, but just on a regular Saturday evening? Something like a diamond chip and gold cross that your father gave your mother for her high school graduation in 1938? And now she's been dead for a year and a half and you've worn that cross every day since she died-not because it was a cross but because it was hers and it became your talisman? Something she had given you for your Juilliard graduation, but took back years later because she was afraid, when your drinking was bad, that you'd lose it? And now you have? Have you ever lost something like that? Felt so bereft, that at the moment you're not sure you'll be the same woman from now on that you were only a few hours ago? Wouldn't you keep looking, even though you feel that it's gone from your neck, wrist, finger, wherever your treasure had its home? Wouldn't you be unable to stop and examine each sparkle or flash of gold that you see out of the corner of your eye? Sometimes in ridiculously unlikely places? Impossible places? Or maybe your treasure was a paper, or a picture, and you are doomed to scan all the paper, picture fragments you spot? In spite of yourself? Did you feel guilty? Even though, of course, it isn't really proof of your carelessness, lack of discipline, lack of feeling? Then, at some point, did you think, maybe the priceless object will continue to have a life, will have meaning you can't imagine, to its finder? Did you find some small comfort in this thought? I wonder, did you?

December Wishlist

I don't know many of you. Maybe, if you were all live pine needles  or carpeting the forests of the world , I'd know a smidgeon of one of you. Even with the assumption we've never met, I can still have a wish or thousand for you. 

I can wish that, if you have an addiction, you seek help and recovery from it before it destroys you or your co-dependents. 

If you have children who are in danger from guns, gangs, or poverty, that they survive long for a shot at a good life. 

There are a lot of gadgets that you don't need but might want, and there are handbags that will steal thousands of dollars from you. I wish that you don't get these things because they will diminish you one way or another in the long run.  

If you can't get to sleep at night, because of pain, guilt, worry, or self-pity, I wish you would be able to sleep as soon as your head hits your pillow. I wish you a "just right' pillow. 

If you are holding back, I wish you become a person who gives forth.  

If there is a committee meeting in your mind that is messing with your will, I hope you can kick the creeps out so that you can listen to the single, sure voice that is yours. If your true voice is distorted or mad, I wish that it would become clear, comforting, and aware of the truth. 

 Truth exists. It's easy to ignore because it can either be quite soft spoken or so intense that you may not care to acknowledge it, but truth  exists and loves to be discovered by you. 

I wish that you are able to understand the people, places and things around you and that you learn which of these is of most value to you; I wish too, that on more than just a few marvelous occasions, the people in your life understand you. 

If you are alone, I wish it to be your preference, and if you are trying to feel less alone, I hope you succeed. 

I wish that you enjoy having the nose you were born with, and that you and your body are on reasonably friendly terms. 

Maybe if I stop writing now, I'll be able to sleep; I'm rather tired. I wish you a good night's sleep.

Oh, of course, I wish that someday soon, (tomorrow!) that you are able to live in a  peaceful world. Good-night, stranger mine.