Althaea Officinalis: Mallowdrama

Originally posted 12/28/2003

The hardest part about writing things that are worth reading, for me, is having the courage. That's because so often, the things that hold attention are those little confessions - the honest gut-blurts that most of us walk away from without examining too closely, even in the privacy of our own secret thoughts. I used to think that I would be free to write once my family finished dying off. Once, I said this aloud to someone who was also a writer, thinking that she, of all people, would understand what I meant. She gasped and staggered back from me as if I had shot her in the stomach. She didn't reply.

Well, most of my family had died off, and it's true that this gives me greater leverage in my subject matter. Of course, anything that is happening in my daily life of the past ten years or so since I've been with my husband still has to be carefully monitored, which removes everything even remotely interesting about it. To be interesting, I would have to reveal things that make other people go "Hey, I understand that! It's so nice to have someone else say what I've felt! It's so validating!" or, "Whoah, other people feel that way? Freaks! But it's good to see a radical new perspective on things. It makes me feel so normal in comparison, and thus so much better about myself."

Still, the best time to write about things in a way that will really pack the emotional punch necessary to keep people reading is to write it while you're actively feeling it. That's patently obvious. And yet, there are so many forces fighting against that. Unless you live under a rock, a lot of the things that happen in your life that get you emotionally riled also have to do with other people. Writing about it is writing about your life and yourself, which of course is your right. However, it inevitably eats away at other people's rights to privacy. No wonder so many of the best writers were complete social outcasts, their pasts littered with divorces and disownings. To keep your loved ones happy, you need to write something like this:

"I awoke to the happy sound of children playing at the kitchen table,my husband laughing, breakfast cereal clattering into bowls. The day was bright and unusually warm for early spring. I smiled as my sweetheart greeted me with a cup of coffee and a soft, aftershave-scented kiss. Today was the PTA banquet, and I smiled as I assessed the dozens of beautifully filled and decorated cookie baskets lining the countertops, ready to raise funds for the new school playground."

To keep readers happy, you need to write something like this:

"I awoke this morning to find that my husband was already on his third brandy. His mistress fought with him on the phone, and he slammed the receiver down so hard that it shattered. I reached for the nerve pills on my bedside table, arming myself to face life outside of this room. The children shrieked and fought with one another until I thought blood would spurt from my ears, and I shoved them into the car and drove them to school, my hands shaking with the need for another pill. As I pulled into the driveway, I could see him standing in the foyer, straightening his tie before the mirror. "Good morning, darling," I ventured, trying hard to pull his eyes around to my own. But it was no use; he long ago stopped looking into my face: I was nothing but a note come due to him, and he trekked to the office day after day to avoid the pile of ever-increasing missives waiting at home, wracked with trembles and nausea, gorging on potions and pharmaceuticals from the barren master bedroom."

I wish that I could Teflon-coat my family, so that whatever I wrote would just roll off of them. I want them to read and respect my ability to convey thoughts, but I don't want them to analyze things too deeply. I try to write honestly about thoughts and feelings, because bullshit is boring when it comes from me. I can create a situation, but the emotion has to come from some place real enough. Thing is, truth is fickle. Sometimes a feeling only applies to a very specific situation, sometimes it is more general. Sometimes, an emotion loses hold of you and fades away from the simple act of nailing it to paper. Sometimes it's just a momentary truth, a passing fancy. It's all true, but sometimes it's finished being true the moment it is proclaimed. All of these things are important to say, though, because it's a very human thing to have such inconstant waverings in our emotional landscape. We may not take the time to look at them for ourselves, or we may lack the words to express them to others. But when someone else can do that - when someone else can take a minute to ink out those fleeting sentiments that we hide from ourselves, our hearts feel a warmth and fascination, a recognition that makes us feel more a part of the world.

These are the writers I want to read: the ones who dredge up these things that we hide from ourselves, and they hold them up to the light and make them okay. I understand when I read them that the situations may or may not be exaggerations or outright contrivances. That part isn't important. What is important is the admission of something that is very human, and not entirely p.c. I understand that it is impossible for me to form an accurate picture of the writer's real personality merely from the work. [even Katy, I am sure, must occasionally consume food rather than living solely on spearmint gum and gin] I understand that spearmint gum and gin may not even be a part of Katy's real life - but they are tools for elaborating on an emotional landscape that she is exploring and revealing to us. We may find pieces of that landscape that corroborate with pieces of ourselves, even if we are nothing like the character that she conveys. We may find nothing similar, but the shameless honesty of the personality the creates will still hold fascination for us, because she is showing us something that is real - even if the stories are utterly fabricated.

I want to be able to convey things like this, but I am afraid that it will be misunderstood. I'm afraid that my loved ones will look at this and, instead of simply understanding that I am creating a mood or a sentiment, they will take it all for gospel and expect that they need to rewrite their entire opinion of who I am as a person. When you think someone is going to take an emotional tirade and redefine you based upon it, suddenly the cookies for the PTA seem like the only safe thing to discuss.

This probably makes no sense. I've had too much coffee and no food, my teeth need brushed and it's distracting me, I am also distracted by the fact that a rubber band is ripping out a chunk of my hair and there is a house full of dearly beloved family members talking nonstop two feet from me. So, uh, I hope you all are wearing your Teflon.

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Storm Teegarden, 2003

Melanie, 2003description>

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And then there was Barbie, the stewardess. I met her while I was also a stewardess. She of the friendly skies, myself of the slightly embittered, suddenly wealthy, Jewish Nuyorker ocean cruise. We both wore an excess of gleaming white and navy, although my uniform included seashell anklets and a gold-tipped pedicure while hers boasted patent leather kitten heels. She was just a catch of the week, but sometimes a girl allows that when there is a mountain of money in front of her. The boss spent hours on the phone in a cocaine-fueled rage, browbeating the airline reps until they finally trundled Barbie off to a private jet and shipped her out to St. Martin to meet us. She arrived just before dinner, and our captain managed to borrow a helicopter to have her brought out to where we sat at anchor. I seated her at the boss's right and served her an eight course dinner, after which she stumbled, drunken but shy, into the galley kitchen to share an after-dinner shot of hundred-year-old port with the crew. She lingered with us in the servants' quarters until the boss eventually tracked her down, glowering his disapproval at her as she sheepishly returned to his side. Three hours later a buzzer awoke me from sleep so that I could carry a plate of fresh strawberries and shortbread cookies to the master bedroom. She was spread across the silky white bed like a painting, all smooth pink skin and golden hair, a pink satin negligee wrapped around her waist like a belt. She was stone cold passed out, and the boss looked annoyed. He wasn't finished with her yet.

The next afternoon we took our inflatable out to a small island barely large enough to support a ramshakle tikki hut. We had cheeseburgers. In paradise. Barbie stood behind the boss as he sat munching his burger. I marveled at the shape of her in her tiny pink bikini - as if she had been poured into her skin, each bit molded into perfect position and yet unbelievably soft and yielding. The only way I could maintain the "right" shape for myself was with vigorous exertion, thus I never had that precarious blend of quivering softness and sleekness without an extra millimeter of flesh: to be the right shape, I had to be firm as a rock all over. I stood, to avoid "rush seating marks" on my bikini-clad bottom, and picked at my burger, throwing chunks to the nurse sharks, slyly checking her out via sideward glances and the magnificent camouflage abilities of dark sunglasses. She was a perfect physical specimen; even as a basically heterosexual woman, I had to appreciate that. The wind blew her beautiful blonde hair back and forth across her face, but she kept her hands firmly planted on his shoulders. I wondered what she would gain from this experience. Of course there would be no stewardess job to return to - after the hell the boss had put her airline through, she probably wouldn't even be able to buy a ticket on that line again. I wondered how he would compensate her for plucking her up out of her life like he had. Perhaps he would fix a job for her elsewhere, or "gift" her generously until she figured out a new game plan. Perhaps he considered the gift of his company to be enough.

The wind blew her hair away from her face for a moment. Her eyes were partially closed against the glare of the midday sun. Her face was fixed in a neutral but pleasant arrangement. Her mouth was weak. It pulled downward and quivered, even as she tried to be okay. How could anyone peel the clothes from such a beautiful body, attached to such a pained face?

But she let him. She let him. Just another no-fault situation. And hey, she got to party.

Next time we saw the boss, there was a brunette on his arm. We fought to keep her name straight, only to have him ruin it for us all by accidentally calling her by his wife's name at dinner. He had to tip us each an extra grand. I spent mine on a pair of thigh-high suede boots, which I wore once before diving into the ocean with them and destroying them forever. That's what buckets of money does for you: it lets you waste things you would otherwise cherish.

Contestant 3 � Garlic Mustard

As I Said � Lamb�s Quarters

And Now � Morel Mushrooms

Pokeweed