A D Journal 2012

    Friday the thirteenth. Didn’t we just have one of these? Maybe we bring about our own back luck, like I did last week when I emailed her to ask if my coming to the main office to work regularly would upset her. This was not a completely honest gesture, but one designed to put a wedge between her and her chief supporter in the main office, a man who I still believe lied to me when it came to his relationship with her. This was also a total betrayal of trust between me and him since I was well aware he wanted to keep our conversations about her between us. But I also wanted the truth out there, to have us all aware of each other in this game of secrets, and perhaps shed some light on the trickling up she’s been doing, not just with our former temporary boss but with the owner on the third floor from whom she expects to get a raise. In some ways all of this is predictable, a pattern of behavior that started long before she set foot in our office and will likely continue on

   Her post today isn’t really a poem, but something of a light-hearted observation about how difficult it is to live “in the moment.” Despite her previous references to this state of perpetual “now,” in truth, she clearly has the same issue most do when confronting the concept. How exactly do you maintain that moment without falling off the edge into the past or future, and how exhausting an effort it is, “Thinking about thinking,” when a moment should be allowed to flow effortlessly from one moment to another. Too much focus ruins the whole concept of “letting go<’ and you wind up dissecting the moment rather than experiencing it. This idea that we must live in the moment and not worry about the past or speculate about the future is easier said than done. How do you live up this idea when the mind seems to have a will of its own and goes off where it wants? It becomes a big a struggle to corral random thoughts than to deal with the hamster wheel thinking in the first p

    It would be easy to read into this poem what may not really be there, partly because of the unusual point of view she uses as opposed to other poems she has posted previously. Unlike many of her other poems that seek to do away with overt characterization by eliminating pronouns or by converting them into a form that seems devoid of a persona, here, she doesn’t just the opposite, using a plural pronoun that on a superficial level might suggest two separate characters rather than two aspects to a single persona instead. Instead of the “inner” and “outer” voices which some of her earlier poems have suggested, we get side by side personas, one apparently on the edge of panic, while the other exerting its influence for calm. There is a temptation to assign this second, calming voice to another person, some kind and generous lover who offers her aid when she is most upset. But the poem itself does not support this idea, suggesting rather a second persona is a kind of internal

    Working at the annex office, I’ve become more and more isolated, excluded from a lot of the information otherwise available at the main office, but in some cases deliberately withheld from me by people hording these nuggets to better position themselves. Even before Tom’s alarming speculation about what is going on at the main office, I had to rely on my own network of spies to ferret out and supply me with information necessary for my own survival. While Tom had a lot more to say about goings on in the main office, I have to reserve judgement until I can reach out to some of the principles, including the senator, the congressman and some of the mayors of north county to see just how valid these are. But it is clear I know less and less about the goings on in the main office that I ought to. Even with my network of spies. This partly has to do with my need to be physically present more than just one day a week, so I can catch the daily chatter for myself. The situation

   There are two over arching schools of literary criticism that incorporate either internal or external material when evaluating a work of art. Those who follow the external school, almost anything goes, meaning that a work can be evaluated by factors beyond the boundaries of the work itself to include the artist’s biographical data, looking for aspects of that artist’s life that may have influenced the creative process. Purists, however, believe an evaluation must include only those elements contained within the framework of the art itself. If something isn’t in poem, for instance, it shouldn’t be used, unless there is some allusion inside the work from which an inference can be made to something beyond. Most criticism is hardly one or the other and generally even the so-called purists sometimes draw on biographical and other materials if they can build a strong enough case for them. In dealing with her poems to this point, I’ve bended to use a purist approach, keeping thin

    I knew exactly what I was going when I sent her the email last Friday morning, not so much declaring open war with her, but with the man she had taken on as mentor and whom I felt betrayed by after I had poured out my heart and soul about her to him. I still feel he lied to me about his involvement with her after I had completely confessed everything to him about everything that had gone on between me and her. I guess I expected camaraderie rather than deception, a kind of mutual understanding, when all he seemed to do was run for cover. I still don’t know for sure. But his circumstances and mine were so similar and his reaction so overwhelming secretive, the whole thing felt wrong, and it nagged at me ever since our meeting in the park. Maybe his interest is only about helping for shape a young talent as he claims. But he was not the same person he had been during his first tour as our temporary boss as he was the most recent tour, and this may or may not been a result

    I met Tom today during my stroll through Liberty State Park. He’s an operative for the county (some say) political machine, and when he saw me, he pulled me aside, telling me we had to talk. He said he’d heard rumors about the company I worked for and wanted to know if they were true. We get this a lot, partly because we are the only regular media in a lot of small towns, especially up county which largely falls in a waste land between the local daily and the big cheese daily in Bergen County. Tom said rumors claimed we’ve been taken over by a political cabala from one of the northern County towns. I told him the male owner of our newspaper was too inept to get taken over by a political organization. “My boss has the political instincts of a pet rock,” I told Tom. While our company frequently took sides in elections, it almost always depended on which side had the bigger bank roll. For the most part, the male owner almost always picked the losing side. He was the

  There is probably more going on in this nugget of a poem than I can see, perhaps the marking of some anniversary to which I am not privy or if connected me only marginally. The poem alludes something in its title that had become a kind of mantra during our early interactions – especially when I suggested things could not possibly work out between us. On its surface, the poem seems to explain as to why she needs to live her life, moment to moment. In some ways, this is a sister poem to the one she posted three days ago with the combined sense of inability to control something and with a certain fatalistic sense of not to try. The poem personifies time and the image she uses strongly resembles those old-fashioned cartoons where the shadow detaches itself from its host to take on a life of its own. In this case, the day rushes ahead of its master no matter what the master does to hold it back. Meditating or else, the day just won’t come back to whom it belongs, and suddenly,

    I had a good excuse not to show up at the main office; I chose not to use it. I refuse to surrender public spaces just because I’ve ceased being one of the select few picked to access more private ones. I have the feeling of war being waged one I hadn’t wanted to wage in the first place but could not afford to lose. This was only partly personal; rumblings outside the paper spoke of a cabala of wanna-be power brokers in one of the northern towns, rumors claiming they had an “in” they might be able to exploit. I kept thinking of the somewhat mysterious “RR” who had become an important source for a number of our stories about what went on there. What I found out about him did not bring me comfort. Inside our organization, I saw a similar power play, moving pieces in corner office politics I had no part of yet somehow had gotten dragged into, our boss out of maternity (in the guise of some concerned resident) sending cryptic email and other messages criticizing the performance of her

  In a poem posted five days after her previous one, she performs a bit of poetic gymnastics, shifting from a tone of almost moral indignation in the poem posted earlier to one of seemingly extreme personal introspection in the poem posted today. Along with her ability to master use of language, this shift in tone and an always changing approach to each poem makes her such a powerful and intimidating poet, a delight to read even when I am the subject of her admonishment. This poem is far less about me than about the pattern of relationships she’s had with those she had touched and who have touched her. This then raises what appears to be one of the central dilemmas of her life, although with one significant exception, this poem as in other poems avoids the use of pronouns that make it utterly personal. She questions the patterns of her life (if indeed the poem actor and the poet can be assumed as the same person which is always a risky thing). If something happens again and again, does

   I can’t make out what went on at the main office. I tried to ignore her. But it almost seems as if she can’t stand people ignoring her, even me, at least, in person. When I first came in, nobody was around. She apparently arrived while I was seated at my desk and was at the other end of the building hobnobbing with Jay and the other sales people. She seems to feel comfortable with them and may even be at the bar tonight where Jay will be playing bartender. I had planned to show up there with my wife after the movie, just to show I’m not afraid to be out and about in public. I left the office for coffee when I saw the owner come in and saw her on the curb talking to the owner. I said hello to him, but not to her. Later, I went up to the third floor to talk to our former temporary boss. I didn’t notice her reaction because I kept my back to her the whole time – although our former temporary boss kept looking past me and at her, perhaps in some visual means of communication

   She was not at the bar when we got there last night. Almost nobody was. Jay, however, gave me a rundown at what happened at the magazine party last week. Jay brought his new girlfriend and our owner got enamored with her, grilling Jay for more and more information about her. I had just come from seeing “Rock of Ages,” which made me feel uncomfortable, and suggested just how out of touch I am (perhaps always have been) with the known universe. I got the same feeling when I saw the off off Broadway play about ordinary housewives who start a garage band and make it big, the song “You can’t fuck them all,” sending chills through me. I was in a better mood after the movie than when I went in but felt nervous about going to see Jay at the bar knowing it was possible, she might be there. I guess I’m not as courageous as I let on to be. I was more than a little relieved to find she wasn’t there after all. I got a mild shock when I got home to find she had responded to an ema

    Her poem posted on June 6 continued a theme that made me extremely uncomfortable. Perhaps because it has a grain of truth. In this poem, she uses a very familiar metaphor of food. At first glance, a reader knowing her might mistake the subject as part of her eating disorder. But after close reading it clearly is not. It is about obsession, and while it could be directed at her New York stalker, it seems more likely targeting me. Paraphrased, the poem suggests something, or someone seems better when you desire it, and that desire is fulfilled. But there are people who are not satisfied with just that, and want much more, going behind reasonable and into the realm of perverse, hyping up the thing into something it never was and never could be, mangling what had been something pure into something ugly, a deluded lust that eventually destroys itself, as well as the object of his affections. I use the word “he” and “she”, but the poem does not, using “one” and “it” instead,

    Her poem posted today has a simple but significant message. The closer you get to something, the more there is to learn. While standing away from something, you might get overwhelmed by the larger picture and learn almost nothing about it. The poem is about two kinds of knowledge. The first kind of knowledge comes from being close to a subject and getting acquainted with all of the subtle aspects of its personality. So, the more you learn the more you realize there is so much more still to learn. The second kind of knowledge comes at a distance, where you might see a larger picture, but aren’t privy to the essential details. The big picture often overwhelms you, and you tend to make judgements based on this confusion that may not be valid, based on impressions rather than intimate knowledge, judgements that are often false. It is bad to assume things when you do not have access to important inner details. The poem is told in third person narrative but has no internal

  Sunlight gleams off the bright glass this cool Hudson County morning. It feels like fall, but it is not fall. It is the end of winter and the leaves have already turned and fallen and are preparing their triumphant return. Some old leaves have found their way down onto street where they are whisked up by the persistent brushes of the street sweeper. Each morning, it is the same ritual of waiting for the parking man and his ticket book to arrive and pass, the sound of the brushes brushing against this asphalt world, morning music we all come to live through, as the parking man’s van beeps out its warning for us to move or pay the price, while we switch sides as he passes, and thus wisely, learn to escape his wrath.       2012 menu email to Al Sullivan

    Big Pete had numerous bouts with death over his 80 long year life, starting back when he was very young, and he fell off a hay wagon he wasn’t supposed to be on and didn’t tell anybody about until the infection settled into his neck and ears. It took him two years to recover. Raised in The Bronx, he grew up going to the zoo and playing stick ball in the streets with his brothers and his cousins. When he married, he eventually settled into Fairfield, and the extended family from the Bronx came with him. “It was as if our family had taken over Fairfield,” Little Peter said. Once successful, Big Pete purchased a place in Long Branch where the family routinely spent their summers. His granddaughter said Big Pete loved to listen to Frank Sinatra, smoke cigars and sit out on the beach staring at the ocean. He also rode a bicycle and was constantly falling off of it. One time, he ran into a car door that was flung open in front of him. Little Peter got a call in which Big Pe

  I went to him, our former temporary boss, because I thought he was in the same boat I was since she apparently had trickled up to the owner. I didn’t realize how wrong I was until I actually got to talk with him and found he not only didn’t know about the owner, but was still so hooked on her, my talking about her scared the living shit out of him. I asked if we could go for a beer after work so I could confide in him. He suggested coffee in the park, leading me to suspect he might suspect the subject of the conversation. Yet, he made no attempt to hide our going off together even though she had a window on that side of the building – that came later, that came after he heard what I had to say, and he went into a panic suggesting we should not be seen together. We carried our coffee into a small pocket park where we settled onto a bench, as mothers with baby carriages paraded around us. I told him my tale from the beginning, occasionally getting confused about the timing,

    Big Pete's wealth as it turned out was not so much in money as it was in family, something I saw over and over again, but never so much as during his funeral. Not only did he have a clutch of loved ones to see him off in the end, but also to give comfort to each other so that no single person had to bear the brunt of his passing. Part of the idea of family is exactly that, to build a foundation for that moment when you have to leave this mortal coil. Ted saw a similar kind of support, but when I saw the cluster of family around Big Pete's grave, saw the arms around each other, saw the faces and the concern for each other, I understand for the first time how wealthy a man Pete really was. I keep thinking of the surmon at the funeral, about the blind man who came up to Christ and asked to have his sight restored, and how Christ asked "Do you believe in me?" and that after some thought, the blind man said, "Yes, but forgive me my disbelief." Pete