SKIPPING BREAKFAST I've turned into my Grammy, someone who glorifies the Depression, except Iglorify my one tangy year of unemployment, that one bright flash of staying inmy pajamas every day until four. Reading and writing all morning andafternoon. I've heard people say there's such a thing as a writing disease,that if certain people don't get their ideas down they'll go crazy, like thewoman in The Yellow Wallpaper. I can relate except I'm so busy with my newteaching job that I'm not even sure if there's wallpaper in my new apartment.I come home, slump on the couch, try to read something I want to read, thenfall asleep. When I was unemployed I watched Oprah every day at four. Now I don't knowwhat's going on in the world, yesterday's newspaper still fat and crisp on mydesk. I heard about that circus elephant who'd had enough and trampled hisowner and some kids in the crowd only about a week after it happened. I willsoon be that elephant if I don't get any time off. But it's hard to say thatto the boss when all he'd have to do is place one little ad and hundreds ofapplicants would be waiting in line for my position. It's like being jealousand protective of a husband you don't even love, this feeling of clinging Ihave to my job. I know what you're thinking (especially if you're my mother): What a brat,everyone has to work. You think I like my job? You think I wouldn't ratherbe home watching my soaps? I know that I've mislead you with that statementabout Oprah-- I swear she was all I watched with any regularity, Oprah andRoseanne. I'd go back and revise that other line if I had time, if this werethe old days and I was just writing about what I thought it would feel like tohave a hectic job. Then, I would have worked on this poem at my leisure.Reread it hundreds of times, tinkering until I had all the right nuances. NowI barely have twenty more minutes before I have to start getting ready forwork, and that's if I compromise and go with wet hair. This poem means I'm skipping breakfast, that I set my alarm an hour early.The other thing I hate, more than the teaching, more than the meetings, morethan the politics which are as complicated as Bosnia, are the shoes. My sweetyear of unemployment, I had soft feet, nestled in warm socks all day. My toeswent braless and never once did my breasts know the snug laces of winterboots. Now I'm confined for all those hours at the chalkboard, at the desk. The one time I took my blazer and headband off, the dean knocked on my officedoor to see how I was getting along. I answered as though he'd woken me outof bed, my hair all wild static, my silk shirt sliding out of my pants' waist.How can I write my poems wearing watches and belts? How can I even gradepapers that way? I think the anxiety I feel about my job may also be complicated by "timedisease." I read about it in a book on quantum physics. Well, it wasactually more like a self-help/quantum physics book. OK, it wasn't even mine,it belonged to my best friend, and I only read that one "time" chapter. See,I'm a fraud, and that's how I feel when I'm teaching. Someone might argue that this isn't even a poem and label it an essay which Iwould have to defend by saying something as flimsy as "Only in poems may toeswear brassieres." But what do I really know about distinguishing betweengenres? Prosepoems are the look-alike cousins of the shortest short stories.What do I really know about Keats except that he used, with great success, theoccasional terminal trochee. Except that he didn't live very long. He couldhave also had this time disease, in addition to TB, which manifests itselfwhen a person thinks they only have a certain amount of time to live, so theydie exactly right after what the doctor tells them they're allotted. Forexample, if I tell myself I'll never finish this poem in my remaining tenminutes, I won't. Not even a rough draft. But it's even more complicated than that. The book says people who fear theydon't have time to finish specific tasks, bring on all that stress with them,stress that eventually kills them. Their heart rate is irregular, their colonsluggish, as it rebels against the hyperactivity of all other organs. So, Idon't know, perhaps you are reading this very fast because you have anappointment and you don't want to be late. That self-help chapter would tellyou slow down, breathe, all spondee, and short lines, and excess punctuation.But I'm telling you I understand. I'm telling you we'd both better run. |