Thursday, June 26, 2014


When I got into my car this morning to move it from the driveway and make space for Sophie's aide's car, I noticed immediately that the interior was trashed. Everything from the dash had been dumped in the front passenger seat, papers were everywhere, the box in-between the two front seats where I store CDs was also open and the contents strewed in the back. My little copy of Frank O'Hara's Lunch Poems that I keep in the compartment on my door was draped over the driver headrest. I don't feel like making metaphor of that. I've felt such unease of late, a sort of restless dread and tamped down anxiety. I could probably list the reasons for these vague feelings, but I won't because I'm also feeling over-exposed and loathe to reveal anything more. Even yesterday I witnessed a terrible breakdown of a Facebook friend that played out online and made me feel old and disconnected from what moves many people these days. When I went for a walk the other day, I stood at the bottom of this old, enormous tree and looked upward to where the branches spread out and laced the sky. I wanted to embrace it, lay my head on it, be absolved.

       Have you forgotten what we were like then
       when we were still first rate
       and the day came fat with an apple in its mouth
       it's no use worrying about Time
       but we did have a few tricks up our sleeves
       and turned some sharp corners
       the whole pasture looked like our meal
       we didn't need speedometers
       we could manage cocktails out of ice and water
       I wouldn't want to be faster
       or greener than now if you were with me O you
       were the best of all my days
       Frank O'Hara (1950)


  1. My God, that poem. It is exactly the way I am feeling in this moment. Oh Elizabeth, I know that over exposed feeling--you've been on very public panels, your book just came out, the world knows you and your can't look into all the faces of those receiving your story. But I promise you this: You give them hope; you give them courage; you show them the face of true grace. Hang in there, friend. This overexposed feeling will pass in time. You, my friend, are doing very important work. And you are so loved. I know you can't always feel it, maybe not in this moment of feeling vulnerable, but you are loved. And you inspire us all.

    Did you see they're looking into reclassifying marijuana from a schedule 1 drug? I read that I just knew it was you, moving the powers that be with your own power.

    Now, was your car broken into? What happened??

  2. Word for word, what Angella said. And yes- was your car broken into?
    You are a force for good on this planet. Don't forget that, Elizabeth. Ever.

  3. Ugh. So sorry about your car. That or vandalism happened to my car so many times during my decades in L.A. that I lost count.

    I think we need to reconvene the writer's group to discuss exposure. You comin' up or am I comin' down? Let's talk.

  4. If that happened at my house it would mean the 14 year old had driven the car during the night ….

  5. Of course, what's ironic is that Frank O'Hara was 24 when he wrote that poem, sounding like a wizened old voice of experience...:)

    Hope nothing was taken from your car. Assuming a thief was involved, it's interesting that he/she left the poetry book open on the headrest. Maybe getting a little literary boost before attempting to make off with your valuables?



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