It's funny the way they advertise for (500) days of summer now. The commercials make the film seem so comical, so humorous.

I just remember feeling overwhelmed with sorrow at the end of the movie. I tried to cheer myself up, but I don't know.

Anyway...went to a job interview in Manhattan today, on 5th Avenue. The man I met with was very nice; he works for this consulting firm. Anyway, the job was for a plastic surgery office (as an RN). He took my photo with his camera! Haha we shall see if I get a call back. Secretly, I'd prefer working in the OR at NYP hands-down to working in a private practice.

And then there's peds at SUNY Downstate. So perfect. I like dream about that position.

I love you, Weens. I feel you every day, and I want to love like you did and be less fearful.

Went to the First Presbyterian of Brooklyn today. It's on Henry Street, right across the apartment. The singing was amazing, I was floored. The choir was ridic, the congregation was welcoming. It was truly wonderful.

Lucia's coming to visit today. Did some serious apartment cleaning.

And I'm crossing my fingers on the job front:) It's looking up!

I am grateful for this life. I asked God for strength, and He answered me.

I love you, Cass.

they look like chips of flint

From The Writer's Almanac:

Not Swans

by Susan Ludvigson

I drive toward distant clouds and my mother's dying.
The quickened sky is mercury, it slithers
across the horizon. Against that liquid silence,
a V of birds crosses-sudden and silver.

They tilt, becoming white light as they turn, glitter
like shooting stars arcing slow motion out of the abyss,
not falling.
Now they look like chips of flint,
the arrow broken.
I think, This isn't myth-

they are not signs, not souls.
Reaching blue
again, they're ordinary ducks or maybe
Canada geese. Veering away they shoot
into the west, too far for my eyes, aching

as they do.

Never mind what I said
before. Those birds took my breath. I knew what it meant.



This is so beautiful. It is also true. It makes me think of Cassie and Grandpa, and when I rationalize in the moment but then know in looking back. But I knew all along.

I can appreciate the humor in wanting to do something for others that one cannot do for herself. For example, I want to be a psychiatrist...and I think I have a knack for sitting with people and helping them figure themselves out when life seems overwhelming. Yet I don't take my own advice...those positive coping mechanisms I know so well, the meditations, the progressive muscle relaxation, the deep breathing...I mean, I do these things, but inconsistently. And when things are really unpleasant, I do my typical check-out bullshit. Avoidance is like the most maladaptive coping mechanism ever. It solves shit. I mean, I worked with dual-diagnosis patients (those with substance use disorders and comorbid psychiatric diagnoses, both Axis I and II)--I can recognize that addicted self, the way it's easier to pick the substance or event to bring you that predictability than it is to be present amidst chaos, darkness, instability.


It's the same thing, basically.

And I don't want to be one of those doctors who espouses one thing and practices another. It drives me nuts, like the obese docs scolding patients in the primary care offices on the dangers of hypertension and metabolic syndrome.

I've always been able to intellectualize shit. To sit and think, to dwell.

It's as if I'm going through the motions, I can watch as the car approaches the guardrail in slow-motion, as it readies itself for destruction. I'm the driver. And yet I never swerve, I will myself to make impact.

These days I know I'm only getting by. I don't cry, I don't mope. I check out of life, I disappear. I clean, I shower, I do my ADLs. I don't worry too much, at least not consciously. But I know this isn't living.

The First Presbyterian Church of Brooklyn (across the street from the apartment) has this message board; someone changes the board weekly and the quotations are always beautiful (perhaps trite, but just because it may be familiar it isn't any less true). It's by Nadia Boulanger: "It is one thing to be gifted and quite another thing to be worthy of one's own gift".

I feel like I've been so unworthy for so long. And yet it doesn't change.

Yesterday I saw (500) days of summer. And--not giving a shit about Augustine's bs about the dangers of doing this--I saw myself in each of the main characters (I'd like to think I resonated more with the guy than the girl...random aside). But every day things change. One moment I will be so in love with everything around me, and the next I'm disillusioned. One minute I can't even comprehend the absence of true, pure love, and the next, I wonder why the fuck anyone ever marries.

I feel so lost at times. But today I was running in the rain, running down the Promenade, and I felt like I was capable, like I could do this. It felt a bit flimsy, like I was this actress and that it's some temporary manner of being, but it still felt. I don't know if that makes sense. I mean, sometimes I wonder what I am doing in Brooklyn. Am I running away from everything? Am I facing life, and growing up? Am I loved, am I in love?

I am 24, I am in no rush to have the map to my future. But there's this scary, lurking dread that says, you never had to have it, but a sketch, an outline of sorts, it might help. Without it, maybe you'll never have anything, because you never had anything to be accountable to. You never had to make anything happen, you were just floating.

This is what the father always said of me, I was floating through life. I will give him my college years, they were a bit of a float. But I also want to know I am more than this, that I am not the things he needs me to be.

Some days, I wish the father would just die and get that bit of the story done with. I think it would save him and everyone involved a lot of grief and pain. I am not saying I wish him harm, I don't. I would never do anything to purposely hurt him as he has hurt me. But his parents died when he was 18, and part of me wonders if this would help us all, for him to be gone. I'm never going to be accepted by him, never loved unconditionally. I feel I do not need this, and I don't think I'm kidding myself. But he is such a miserable human being, he is a psychopath. And they do not get better, there exists no salvation, no rehabilitation. There is no empathy, only emptiness. And I want my mother to be happy, since she is capable of this. He is not happy--he is not able to feel what this means, and he is cruel without restraint.

Unfortunately, it has been my experience that these people just live on and on. In my life.

Part of me is this howling beast, that roaring sadness drowning out the quiet. Part of me somewhere is so beaten down, so hurt, so afraid of life. I miss Cassie, I miss my best friend. I miss my mom, I can't say I miss my sister because she's never really been one to me. There are times where I am all heat, burning with that question why--why do I get the worst kind of father, why has he abused everyone I care about for so long, why have we allowed it, why did the one being I loved and who loved me in the purest, deepest way die, why am I left with the broken home, the heartless heart?

Will I choose to be alone forever, since I'm so afraid to trust? Is it too terrifying to believe in those bits of words, the story of loving and losing besting never loving at all?

Am I building up walls as everything around me is collapsing?

God, please help me. Please give me strength and comfort me. I want to heal but I need to be healed.

a thing can't be saved from its parts

From Poetry Daily:

Prospect

It grew at that slant
alone, down there
beneath the cordons
of pitch pines
some lapse in definition
unsteadying
the trunk state—
the bristled shot branch
deposits its blossoms through branches.
The parts have no portion why not?
They cannot be counted why not?
They make the thing whole?
It grew at that slant.
Tints flashing up
from the buds
from the scaling off
barks, sap in the germ-slots of cones.
It had to stoop to come up.
A thing can't be saved from its parts?
It had to be blunt.
It grew at that slant.
And blooms back up in the branches.

Emily Wilson

Micrographia

Saw (500) days of summer today at Cobble Hill with Chris.

Thinking.

Love you, Cassie.

Really want the pedi job I interviewed for today. Fingers crossed.

Love you, Cassie.

Miss you, Cassie Marie.

I love you, Weens.

I love you, Cassie. I miss you so much.

Love you, Cassie.

Love you, Cassie.

I miss Cassie so much.

I love you, sweet baby.

remembering the prostitute in new york

From Poetry Daily:

Remembering the Prostitute in New York

Today I learned some lizards eat baby monkeys,
and am better for it, because I've been noticing
some things. Like, the older I get, the more
I resemble a baby monkey, wrinkled and hairless, small,

and lizards seem to be all around me.
The special on PBS showed one, a baby monkey,
get snatched by a lizard. It made me
feel like closing my eyes for a long time.

Next, the camera zoomed to a special, red-faced monkey
safe in a tree. I thought, my wife.
Next, one with a yellow mustache.
I thought, me again.

Tonight is part two and I'm excited to make my little connections.
For example, its preview showed a flat-faced monkey
with what looked like blue eye shadow. Immediately
I remembered the prostitute in New York.

Joe Betz

Michigan Quarterly Review
Summer 2009

frank mccourt's day

Sorry, Coco. It is Mr. McCourt's birthday today as well. I remember reading Angela's Ashes in eleventh grade, in my English elective (memoir).

If I need a reason to love Brooklyn, I have Miss Francie Nolan and Mr. Frank McCourt, one of whom was a living, breathing (tremendous) writer.

Here's a piece from Garrison Keillor's The Writer's Almanac:

And it's the birthday of a great writer who passed away just last month, Frank McCourt, (books by this author) born on this day in Brooklyn (1930). His parents were Irish immigrants, and when Frank was four years old, the family moved back to Ireland. McCourt had a difficult childhood, living in extreme poverty with an alcoholic father who was often absent. Three of his six brothers and sisters died from malnutrition and disease. He wrote: "People everywhere brag and whimper about the woes of their early years, but nothing can compare with the Irish version: the poverty; the shiftless loquacious father; the pious defeated mother moaning by the fire; pompous priests; bullying school masters; the English and the terrible things they did to us for eight hundred long years. Above all — we were wet."

When Frank McCourt was 19, he managed to make it back to America, where he worked at a hotel and at a hat factory. Then he was drafted into the Army and fought in Germany. Afterward, the Army let him go to college on the GI bill, even though he didn't have a high school education. And from there, he became a teacher. He taught English in the New York public schools for 30 years, and he frequently told his students stories about his childhood.

And then, after he retired, he started to write his story. But he struggled with the voice. He had written about 20 pages, and one night he made a note for himself about something he wanted to write about the next day, and he jotted it down in a simple present tense. And it felt right, so the next day he started writing in the voice of a child, and that became his memoir of his childhood in Ireland, Angela's Ashes (1996). It won the Pulitzer Prize and the National Book Critics Circle Award, and it stayed on the New York Times best seller list for two years. He followed it up with two more memoirs, 'Tis (1999) and Teacher Man (2005).

He said, "After a full belly all is poetry."

happy birthday, coco chanel

From The Writer's Almanac:

It's the birthday of the woman who created "the little black dress": Coco Chanel, born Gabrielle Chanel in Saumur, France (1883). Her parents were poor, she was an illegitimate child, and when her mother died, she was sent to an orphanage. When she turned 18, she went to work for a tailor, and she also sang in cafés and concert halls. She was a mistress to one wealthy man and then another, and with the money they gave her, she set up her own millinery shop, which she opened in 1910. Soon her clothes became popular among the elite of Paris. She took men's styles and made them feminine — loose clothes made from jersey, short skirts, suits — and women were relieved to have comfortable clothes suddenly be stylish, and to get rid of the corsets that had been popular for many years. She expanded into the perfume business and created Chanel No. 5. She was still at work when she died in 1971, having ruled over the Paris fashion industry for almost 60 years.

She said, "Fashion fades, only style remains the same."

full of a silence that lodged itself like a stone

Two Poems

The Good Son

If God had come to me and said,
if you are willing to forget your self

you will find the cure for heart attacks and compose
the greatest symphonies,

I wouldn't have been sure of my answer.
Because there wouldn't have been enough

attention to my suffering. And that's unforgivable.
But I keep on forgiving myself

with God's love. And it's strange I should say this
because my mother died of a heart attack

after months in a hospital room full of a silence
that lodged itself like a stone in her throat.

And she thought I was wonderful

and would do anything for her.

Ocean

Goodbye again. Say there is a little song in my head

and because of it I can't sleep or change my mind
about the future. Now the song runs all the way down

to the beach where I sit as if the sky

were my room now. No one, not even you,
can hear me singing. Not even me.

As if the music rose from the mouth of the ocean.

No mouth. Like rain before it reaches us.
Like wind twirling dresses on the clothesline.

Who has no one has the history of the ocean.

Lord, give me two more days. So that
the last moments may be with someone.

Jason Shinder

Stupid Hope
Graywolf Press

Chris and I made cookies today.

My interview went well and everyone was so nice. Update soon.

Interview tomorrow. Nervous/excited!!!

Wii fit day two. Vitamins, exercise, fresh air, water...mmm, feelin good.

Wii fit today. Apparently I'm doing just fine. It was nice to sweat a bit, to let things out.

Sweat is good.

It's Saturday in Brooklyn. I had a Betty Smith bit to post for today, but I'll save it for next Saturday. I forgot about Francie Nolan today.

Love you, Cassie girl.

friday, one week in brooklyn

It is Friday and I'm in Brooklyn.

At this point, I'm less adept at stepping back, viewing myself from an outsider's perspective. I don't have the self-knowledge to know if this is okay, if my heart is opened or closed.

Sometimes I think there is nothing there at all, that this is not my reality since I'm 3000 miles away from family and starting over. I've always been a nomad, a traveler with no place to call home. Sometimes it's as if there is nothing there at all, but then each morning I wake after fitful stories of murder and terror in sleep, and I realize it must be there, buried underneath the calm.

Chris awakened me again this morning, I was yelling out in my sleep. He said I yelled, "boring and uninspired", "get the hell out of my room", and "get out" amongst other things.

I wish the father would flee from my dreams. I suppose he is but a prisoner there, chained and gagged by the jailer, by me.

I tell myself in the bright hours that I've released him, that he's gone. That he cannot hurt me 3,000 miles away from here.

And then I dream of the father brandishing knives, wielding fear as his weapon of choice.

Why do I subconsciously choose to bring harm to myself? I want to be freed of all of this. I want to cease dreaming of murder and chaos. I want to be happy during the daylight, truly joyful. Right now it's like an earthbound purgatory, a between state. I am invisible.

Yesterday the father emailed photos of new black Cocker Spaniel puppies after I requested we cease all communications (he lasted a few days before he started up again). I had a facial cleansing mask on and wet grief turned to mud on my face. I miss Cassie so much. There exists no one and nothing that shall ever replace the place she keeps in my heart. To see that new life--it scooped out the pulp of my heart. I know Cassie isn't gone, but to be comforted by her presence, her smell, those warm brown eyes, to hold her in my arms once more.

The days pass and I am getting better but I need to get it together faster. I need to go out and explore, I need to finish my med school applications so they aren't hanging over my head anymore. I do want to be a doctor, but right now I'm only stopping myself if I choose not to work on them. The funny thing is, it's mostly busy work, not even hard work. And I have an interview of sorts on Tuesday. I was estactic as I've been in a bit yesterday when I found out. I think working and getting my mind to focus on something else will only help heal wounds time can only mend.

they quit, they stop like pumps

Depression

by Henry Carlile

He is pushing a black Ford

through an empty street -

a car like his father's

that beat the flat roads like wind

in summer and brought him here.

He never forgave his father.

That was the year he left home.

Then there was talk of weather

and everyone was packing.

Windmills were stopped

all over Kansas.

He is thinking of fathers,

the ways they never forgive you,

withholding love like lust.

But they quit, they stop like pumps.

There is no way to

set them working again.

He is thinking of mothers,

how she could not know how he

half followed girls down dark streets

of his heart, how that loneliness

is passed to sons,

to the fathers of sons.

He is pushing a black Ford.

Its problem is such a heart

you cannot give it enough care.

Like a father it will quit.

And there is no end to this.

"Depression" from Running Lights by Henry Carlile. Copyright © 1981 by Henry Carlile.

The father sent photos of black Cocker Spaniel puppies via email. We are not communicating, and we had a conversation where I explained the reasoning behind this.

I opened the attachment and all I could see was my little sweet Cassie.

God, I miss her so much. I know she is forever in my heart. But I cannot wait for the day when we are reunited in Heaven.

I lost part of my soul, my heart. I lost my little sister. She is lost but a piece of her is found.

She gave me so much joy and I will always hold onto this but without her I am lost, I am in darkness.

I've applied to so many jobs.

I'm hell-bent and determined to land one soon.

I am a great RN, and it will happen. I believe the universe will hear this and an opportunity will arise shortly.

:)

By the by, I am exhausted and still looking to apply to offerings online at 11:30 pm. It's hard work but it shall pay off!

at the heart of a bramble

The Heart Under Your Heart

Who gives his heart away too easily must have a heart
under his heart.
—James Richardson

The heart under your heart
is not the one you share
so readily so full of pleasantry
& tenderness

it is a single blackberry
at the heart of a bramble
or else some larger fruit
heavy the size of a fist

it is full of things
you have never shared with me
broken engagements bruises
& baking dishes

the scars on top of scars
of sixteen thousand pinpricks
the melody you want so much to carry
& always fear black fear

or so I imagine you have never shown me
& how could I expect you to
I also have a heart beneath my heart
perhaps you have seen or guessed

it is a beach at night
where the waves lap & the wind hisses
over a bank of thin
translucent orange & yellow jingle shells

on the far side of the harbor
the lighthouse beacon
shivers across the black water
& someone stands there waiting

Craig Arnold

The Paris Review
Summer 2009

Told the father I was in New York today.

Stressful day, update soon:)

Moved in officially today. Update soon:)

Brooklyn here I come!

Brooklyn tomorrow. I'm actually excited.

I'm free, God. I'm really free.

The father is sick, Jessica is too. I hope she gets strong and gets away. Mom is already on her way.

I feel a bit scared, even 3000 miles away. But I realize it's my own brain, it's my decision to live in fear. I have to cut myself off from the father and realize I am worthy, I am intelligent, I can become a doctor and get a job as a nurse.

I can do it.

Free. It feels funny flying on my own, but a good kind of funny.

So tired.

Today was a bit of trashing/collecting items for Goodwill. Brooklyn soon...nervous still.

This is scary.

I miss my Mom.

And the West Coast.

But less the West Coast because the father occupies that region.

The East Coast just isn't home to me.

I love you, Cassie.

Oakland airport tomorrow. Packing isn't even close to being settled. I abhor packing more than anything (not really, but it is up there). Tomorrow should be interesting.

I am nervous to move to Brooklyn and leave my mother, my sister, and Em.

I'll miss Kat and Nicole.

Everything will be foreign and new, and I know Chris and I are going to have a rough time getting used to living with one another.

I love you, Cassie.