when you see me again, you may wonder why
the distant eye, why the sideways shrug,
the skeptical glance and nonchalant sigh.
but then again, you probably won't notice,
because if you had really seen me to begin with,
then the shrug, the distant eye and sigh
would not need to be.
wondering where the years turned to limits,
when our lives became maps and markers,
a series of achievements you measure in money,
marriage and your latest career rank.
my latest ideas and projects suddenly juvenile
in the glare of your adult sensibilities,
my enthusiasm an unneccessary garnish
on the cake of your well-planned life.
each ingredient carefully measured and recorded,
no surprise twists or recipe spins.
when did your dreams become his dreams,
your thoughts echoes of commercials,
measured in shiny things and diamond rings,
the right coffee table conversations
and dinner companions, sprinkled
with accumulating accounts,
built upon predictability and math.
but how do you calculate the moment of despair
when your child comes home tattered and blue,
or your spouse disappears, ruining your whole recipe?
what do you use to ease the pain,
when everyone around you is set on gain,
numbers and plans, building the same lives,
that cover up when passions die.
something about insanity
sets my spirit free
shovels away expectations,
sparks my curiosity.
the humdrum knife of routine,
silently stabs at the soul,
with Nazi-like consistency,
to-do lists, grocery trips, dirty laundry.
middle class wares,
TV stares and commercial flares,
a plague upon America,
creeping into homes,
dulling the senses,
putting price tags on love,
limits on affections,
medicating pain into apathy,
and eroding true pleasure.
hacking at desires,
twisting them into afflictions
to be cured, stuffed in a drawer
or indulged in an orgy.
but when the mind sheds the skin
of social norms,
suddenly the truth,
love and creativity,
saunter out to play.
carnal desires tumble forth,
scattered with spirits,
garnished with pure joy,
mixed with anger,
sprinkled with sadness,
dotted with ecstacy,
leaking out loneliness.
a potent concoction,
crumbled by prozac,
disapproving stares,
and manufactured desires,
sucking souls into "normalacy."
I come from a long line of nuts. How that ties in the with Luck of the Irish has to do with some ink, a drink and plenty of awkwardness. But let me start from the beginning.
The Luck of the Irish is a joke. To those who are not familiar with Irish history, having the British as a neighbor, and that whole "The Sun Never Sets on the British Empire" saying, is apparently kind of a big deal. Let's just say hundreds of years of conquering, taking land, exporting main food supplies, starvation, thwarted uprisings, religious persecution and ruling by the British Army have left a bitter taste in many Irish people's mouths. Then when Ireland finally won its independence, part of the island remained controlled by the British, resulting in the continuous violence and terrorism in Northern Ireland. Under British rule, depression and alcoholism became widespread. All of which contributes to the Irish joke that Irish people have the worst luck. One of my professors in Ireland told us that the saying is indeed laughable. Which may be why many Irish people love joking so much-sometimes when things get so bad, all you can do is laugh. Or, as my mom says, "laugh to keep from crying."
I met a girl last weekend named Kelly with a shamrock tattoo and asked her if she was also Irish (great deduction, I know). She was indeed. She also had two beautifully scripted tattoos written on top of her feet, and I asked her about them.
"Oh, one's for my brother who died." I flinched. "He hung himself." Repeat flinch. "And the other's for my other brother, who was little and froze to death." Jaw drop. "He was crawling home and didn't make it to the front door...he actually died on the day of my dead brother's birthday."
Just as awkward silence set in after I said I was sorry to hear that, Kelly laughed and said, "I know, I'm a walking tombstone eh?" then took a drink. I sighed with relief. Ah, I felt at home.
I come from an Irish family also plagued by bad luck, with the bloody scars of alcoholism, depression and suicide coursing through our veins, threatening to ooze at any time. But, like Kelly, we medicate with laughter, turning to jokes at the bleakest, most awkward times. From joking about being raised in nuthouses to reminiscing about my grandpa's ridiculous yet inebriated antics, there's always a laugh to be found at family gatherings. One of my cousins, after her mom tried to commit suicide for like the third Christmas, quipped "they may as well just make a holiday reservation for her at the suicide ward." Which may sound bleak but was pretty funny at the time, and a great tension breaker.
My mom comes from a large (and rather unlucky) Irish family, and since she is such a dominant character (as are her 5 surviving sisters), I feel like this Irishness has influenced me a lot in my life, and even now, I sometimes struggle with the feeling of being cursed. The endless talk of suicide attempts, depression meds, hospitalizations and insane fights between family members can be overwhelming, to say the least, not to mention the crippling effects of poverty and my grandpa's alcoholism on my mom and her sisters. Given the circumstances, let's just say some family members feel lucky (hopefully) to just be alive. With these forces tearing at my soul, as well as troubling events like my sister's suicide attempts or my mom's unstable mood eruptions, I sometimes feel helpless when I try to help, as if the curse is too much to take on, especially for one person.
When I think about it, I don't know if I really believe in luck, but the curse of the Irish does seem to haunt our whole family to some degree. But just when I start to feel in utter despair, I'll call my best friend (whose constant mania and great wit qualify her as an honorary family member) or I'll think about the boringness of "normal" families and feel strangely lucky. So when the curse returns, I can't help but chuckle and welcome it with open arms, as a loving, if completely crazy friend.
May the Luck of the Irish not be with you.
hedonistic tendencies,
wrapped up in these memories,
fighting with iron discipline,
grappling with guilt-laced liquor.
i may like you today, tomorrow, last week,
but who the fuck knows what i'll think yesterday.
what went through my mind last year or next.
can't stop my mental dance for you, baby.
twists and tumbles, sideways glances,
spun on a whim and a will,
stronger than my ties to you,
feet forced forward whether yours follow,
the tunes tumbling out with no refrain.
baby don't call me "mine" cause it can't be so,
i wouldn't dare call myself "mine,"
so i'm not fuckin yours.
so excuse me baby,
i've got a dance to do.
i call myself a writer...
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