Beth Mann's Open Salon Blog

Dear Fill in the Blank

Sat, 20 Mar 2010 18:03:10 -0400

March 21, 2010

Dear _________:

We haven't communicated in quite a while, my dear. I continue to miss you though I try to keep it at bay and humbly move on.

I sometimes wonder why I bother to write you anymore. Not sure if you even read what I send or whether this account is active. I know why you had to close a door but its haunting to think I'm writing to thin air at this point.

I suppose sometimes it makes me feel good to reach out and send you a song or an idea or a thought. It's ultimately a gift to me to give to you. (Though I much prefer to believe you are out there, reading what I write and loving me from afar.)

I've deleted most of your songs from my iTunes library and put them away for safekeeping. It just hurts a bit when they come through my speakers suddenly and enter my room. You wouldn't believe how many songs we've exchanged over the years! Some tunes have slipped through the cracks and they play on anyway, as if to say, "You can't get rid of me entirely, Beth."

Today I'm sending you a potentially corny song. Luckily I've never felt self-conscious sending you the sappiest of tunes. You could always handle it, which I've always loved about you. I wouldn't feel brave enough to share them with hardly anyone else!

So there's a story behind this song:

Last week, I had the most magical evening with a few close friends on the mainland. We gathered for an impromptu dinner at a local Mexican restaurant. We had the most perfect synergy. We talked about so many strange and wondrous things, laughing and sharing intimate thoughts. I left feeling quite high from the whole experience.

As you know, my social life here is pretty dim so when I have a good night, it burns like a flame in my mind. I had a good evening! It felt so nice that it almost hurt. I want more of my limited time on this planet to feel like that evening. Special. Magical. Connected. The way I've felt with you many times before.

Driving back to the island that night, I popped one of my cassette tapes into the player. Remember, I have an old truck. No fancy audio system like you probably have! Plain, old cassettes. I enjoy stumbling across little cassette treasures at yard sales or second hand stores. For a quarter each, it's a heck of a deal, right? And you're forced to chose from a limited selection. I like that too. Too much choice and access today.

Anyway, I stuck in a tape of early Dan Fogelberg. I know, he's a bit easy listening. But this was one of his earliest recordings, pre-ballads. He was only 18! His voice was so high and sweet and his tunes simple yet rich. He died just a few years ago from prostate cancer at the age of 56. After doing some research (because I can be a geek like that), I found out that after he wrote this particular song, he knew he wanted to be a songwriter and never looked back.

As I listened to the tape and drove over the bridge, I looked out at the lights lining it. As a child, when my family would drive over to spend the summer at the Jersey shore, I'd stick my head out of the window and say, "Light, light, light, light, light..." trying as fast as I could to keep up with every one we flew by. If one was out, I'd stop for a millisecond, then continue again: "Light, light, light___light, light."

I did this for years and years. It was my little ritual to mark my arrival back on the island, to a house I loved. Tonight was no different. "Light, light, light, light..." I said as I drove back home, feeling content and full.

Then this song came on. I'm not sure why, but suddenly I found myself pulling over to a side street next to the bay and began sobbing so hard. A perfect emotional storm had formed inside of me. It wasn't really the content of the song - it's about a peaceful morning. And it wasn't the evening, which was lovely. It was more than that.

I'm leaving this island this year, looks like. I'll walk away from the only house I've ever considered home. The family politics surrounding it have just been too much since my mom died. I'll never be able to reclaim this place, the way it used to be, you know? So I will take a sum of money and say a hard goodbye.

Sometimes I feel for the house. She remembers times past. I pat her old, worn walls and say, "I know. I'm sorry. I'll miss you too." We sigh a lot lately, realizing what lies ahead.

As you know, our family hasn't seen many happy times. When I was six and my dad died, it seemed to create an permanent rift in our family. We were wounded and lost, with a depressed and overwhelmed mother at the helm.

But this shore house provided us all with temporary relief. My mother seemed content here and we could all relax for a bit. We were like all of the other "whole" families, at least for a season.

"And maybe there are seasons.
And maybe, they change.
And maybe, to love is not so strange."

Those were the lyrics that played. All of my childhood memories flooded me, like water in a fast-sinking boat.

The "light, light, light" times when we laughed more easily and the days drifted on as if forever. Lightning bugs and shooting stars and fireworks and wave leaping. Reading books quietly in the evening and sleeping so soundly. A brief glimpse of family and home.

In my truck, sitting in the dark, I realized the irrevocable passing of time, the hollow and frightening realization that certain stages and people are gone, never to return. I cried for the expanse of my past, growing bigger with each passing year. And maybe I cried a little for you, as you slowly become part of it too.

So this was the soundtrack to my bayside breakdown. The first few minutes are a little much but it evolves into a sweet tune, I think.

Maybe I won't send you any more letters or songs. While it can make feel happy to share things with you, I can equally feel foolish and even more alone, which I can ill afford. It's simply a waste of words if you're not even reading this.

Well, we shall see where I fall or stand emotionally. I still have about 200 songs to send to you. (Ha...it's true!) I guess it's more like 200 songs to send to myself.

You know, sometimes, I'm filled with disbelief, wondering how you could so easily close a door on me, making sure I had no power to open it. A bit of a dick move on your part. And sometimes, I realize we are best parted, in our current states. I understand. We had to be. And most of the time, I just simply miss you and have trouble letting you go, I admit embarrassingly.

Well, thank you for being my lover and friend from afar. And for being my muse. To think, you could be my muse, an artist of your fine caliber. How lucky am I? What a real, live fairy tale, one I sorely needed and deserved. For us, it has been hearts and flowers...I guess I just wanted it to last, that's all.

But maybe there are seasons. And maybe they change. And maybe, to love is not so strange.

To the Morning - Dan Fogelberg

15 Reasons Television Doesn't Suck Anymore

Sun, 14 Mar 2010 19:03:49 -0400

I turned my back on television many years ago. Sitcoms, reality TV, annoying commercials - the sheer stupidity of it all seemed too pervasive to overlook. But in the last few years, there's a crop of programs that have me thinking twice. These shows have an almost cinematic quality - beautifully shot, sharply edited, tightly cast with well-crafted story lines.

In addition to a higher caliber of programming, many of these shows have enlisted the talents of amazing actors, such as Tim Roth, Gabriel Byrne or Mandy Patankin, to name a few. Television gives the viewer an opportunity to watch these masters in action, with a close-up, intimate feel that film doesn't necessarily offer.

Dare I say, there's some art on television?

Here's a spotlight on some of the best television shows and actors who've set the bar higher in TV land:

1. Breaking Bad

If you haven't seen this AMC series, stop what you're doing and get your hands on it. Bryan Cranston is knocking it out of the park with his performance and the show is daring and smart. It's beautifully shot, expertly edited and the supporting cast is top-notch.

It's about a down-trodden high school chemistry teacher who is diagnosed with terminal lung cancer. With two years left to live, he joins forces with a former student, skillfully played by Aaron Paul and they cook methamphetamine together as a way to make extra money.

But that summary of the show doesn't do it justice: it's really about struggling, hitting breaking points and life not turning out as you planned. It's Death of a Salesman meets Falling Down meets speed. Oh...and it manages to be quite funny somehow.

And it's so exciting to see a lesser known actor such as Cranston, previously known as a comedic performer (father in Malcolm in the Middle), showcase just how skilled he really is.

One of the best shows to grace television, hands down.

2. Criminal Minds

Criminal Minds follows a highly adept team of FBI profilers who analyze the minds of serial killers, anticipating their next move before they kill again. Each show is a noirish gem in and of itself and has more of a filmic feel than a television show.

(I had to include a photo with Mandy Patinkin who is no longer a member of the cast. But to watch him alone is worth it. And Thomas Gibson is my boyfriend, kinda.)

3. Nurse Jackie

I was never much of an Edie Falco fan. She often struck me as a little flat in her approach to acting. But I'm wiser now. Nurse Jackie, in a similar vein to Breaking Bad, is a show about a good woman making some seriously flawed choices. She has a prescription drug addiction and lives a deeply opposed duel life. Amidst it all, she possesses a saintly air that is a perfect counterpoint to all of her very real flaws.

Supporting cast is solid as well. My new favorite on the show is Merritt Wever (pictured above with Falco) who plays Zoey Barkow. Her character is doe-eyed and idiosyncratic. She likes "pink, cats and panda earrings, and that she's not quiet and mean."

4. Glee

Not liking Glee is akin to not liking puppies. This fuzzy, adorable show follows a group of high school misfits lead by an earnest teacher, played sweetly by actor Matthew Morrison, trying to make his glee club successful against all odds. The cast is pitch perfect, with scene-stealing performances by Jane Lynch as Coach Sue Sylvester.

The best part about Glee is that it shamelessly has heart - lots of it. It doesn't mind being corny and touching.

5. Kyra Sedgwick, The Closer

While I'd like to give The Closer high praise, it would be a bit of a stretch. The show can be lightweight at times, with improbable and flawed plot lines. The supporting cast is spotty. Sedgwick's love interest does not spark enough flames. But to watch the enchanting powerhouse actress, Kyra Sedgwick, makes it well worth your time.

6. Tim Roth, Lie to Me

This is when I get really excited (I know - it doesn't take me much.) Tim Roth is an actor of the higher order and watching him is a thrill.

Lie to Me has its flaws though the subject matter is fascinating: Cal Lightman (Roth's character) and his team have the ability to read body language. They assist in various types of criminal investigations. And like Criminal Minds, the show's material is very well-researched. Its quite a lesson in psychology for the viewer. (Wow - learning from television? How novel.)

But the real reason to watch this show is to watch the finely-tuned expertise of Tim Roth's acting. In my book, if you get a chance to watch Tim Roth act, you watch it.

7. Gabriel Byrne, In Treatment

In the same vein of Roth, if you get a chance to watch the sublime, seasoned acting skills of Gabriel Byrne, you do so. The plot of the show is rather simple: it chronicles several patients in therapy with the world weary and depressed therapist, Dr. Paul Weston. While In Treatment can border on the pretentious, you still feel compelled to watch it, like some shrink session voyeur.

8. Law & Order

What's to say about Law and Order that hasn't already been said? It's the backbone of dramatic television, spanning decades at this point. Law and Order (and its various spin-offs) have been compared to eating potato chips, where one leads to another and another. Afternoons have been completely lost to Law & Order's well-honed formula.

I'll quickly highlight just a few of the actors who really capture that blue collar, downplayed Law and Order feel:

Jerry Orbach is Law & Order

Michael Moriarty - one of my favorite actors in the show's early days

Dann Florek

Christopher Meloni, The hottest hothead on the show

9. Hugh Laurie, House

Let's first address the fact that Hugh Laurie is hot. Smoking hot. Let's sit with that for a moment. Okay, I'm ready to move on:

House has gone downhill over the years. I can't really support it as a show anymore. The cast seems chilly and narcissistic and annoying. I don't feel for them, which is a real directorial problem.

Hugh Laurie is still the reason to watch House. Like Roth and Bryne, he is an actor of a higher order.

10. John Noble, Fringe

Not a big fan of Fringe. It's kind of like a bootleg X-files. But John Noble's touching performance of a troubled genius makes the ridiculous story lines worth wading through. He an actor of great subtlety and nuance...and kinda blows the rest of the cast away, frankly.

11. The Sopranos

One of the main reasons television doesn't suck anymore is that a few shows set the bar pretty damn high. Certainly The Sopranos blew us all away (hello, easy pun) at first. It was a dark but very human look at the life of a Jersey-based mob family. The Sopranos is a very good example of a near perfect cast.

12. Buffy the Vampire Slayer

Joss Wheedon's Buffy the Vampire Slayer is so well-crafted, I almost don't know where to begin, other than to say it's one of the best television shows of our time.

Interestingly, the actors on it aren't superb but they're good - they do their jobs. We relate to them. The mythic element brings us back to our childhood selves, where good conquers evil, at least sometimes.

Buffy has a strong feminist undertone, with a powerful and complicated lead character, which makes it even more refreshing. Dollhouse, one of Wheedon's more recent creations, is also a smart and creepy piece of science fiction.

(Oh and hats off to Xena, Princess Warrior, who matches Buffy in overall badassness and campy perfection.)

13. The Office - UK

Ricky Gervais gave one of the most awkward, self-conscious and deeply comedic performances in a television series. He's a beautiful trainwreck to watch. The Office, as a show, created its own existential comedy genre.

It mirrored, almost too closely, the realities of mind-numbing office jobs. Kudos the the American version of The Office. It's stellar in its own right. But nothing touches the complexity, bizarreness and heart of the original. The Brits just tend to be funnier, as a rule.

(One of my favorite scenes in video collection below.)

13. Intervention

I tread lightly in the arena of reality television. It can get so ugly! But some props are due. Intervention is deeply compelling and all-to-real. The power of addiction is something most of us relate to, for one reason or another. The transformations that take place on the show remind us all that change is possible, even under the most dire of conditions.

15. I Survived

I think this Showtime program is relatively new. But you will be glued to it, I promise. The premise is simple: 2 or 3 people retell a life-threatening situation in which they found themselves. No fiction can touch some of these stories, they are so real and terrifying.

But what really makes this show so powerful is that you see elements of heroism and strength in so many different kinds of people. At the risk of sounding a little over-the-top, this show makes you believe in the power of humanity.

16. The Cartoonists

Seth MacFarlane

Matt Groening

Trey Parker and Matt Stone

Nobody can take liberties like the cartoonists. They seem to have carte blanche when it comes to being politically incorrect and wildly id-driven. And that's why we love them. They get to say and do things we can't and probably shouldn't. Family Guy, The Simpons, South Park go there, unabashedly. These guys are real visionaries and true artists.

Seth MacFarlane inteview

Bryan Cranston winning first Emmy

Lea Michele, getting closer to Streisand

Jane Lynch "eating cocaine for breakfast." Must watch opening clip.

Ricky Gervais being brilliant.

OS Suggestions Below

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Damages with Glenn Close - Trilogy

Modern Family - Lainey

Iron Chef - MyPsyche

Southland, Mad Men, Ugly Betty, and Shameless. For sci-fi fans, Caprica & Battlestar Gallactica - Leslie Basden

The Wire & Friday Night Lights - Juliet Waters

White Collar & The Good Wife - Nikki Stern

Top Gear, Mythbusters, Leverage, Burn Notice, Psych - ocularnervosa

Venture Brothers cartoon on Adult Swim (aka nighttime Cartoon Network) - nolalibrarian

Big Love, Diary of a Call girl and True Blood - Amanda Gulledge

White Collar, Burn Notice, In Plain Sight, NCIS - Liberal Southern Democrat

The Chapelle Show - littlewillie

Deadwood - D Art

Heroes - Abby Aline (A Digg comment)

Extras - mamoore

Psych - Mister Comedy

Dr. Who - Grump Old Bitch

The Amazing Race - Gee Bee

The United States of Tara - 514gal

Brotherhood & The Underbelly & The Deadliest Catch- Reader not Writer

It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia - HordeVSOptimus

Firefly & Farscape & Babylon 5 - Douglas Moran

The Young & the Restless (brave woman!) & Community - asianshoebox

Prime Suspect, The Wire, Homicide, Huff, 48 Hours, I, Claudius and Rome but definitely NOT The Tudors - Emma Peel

Godless in IHOP

Wed, 10 Mar 2010 17:03:45 -0500

Me at IHOP a few mornings ago. I'm the one upside down, naked and falling.

I heard the calling while driving home from Philadelphia a few mornings ago. I had attended a show at Johnny Brenda’s the night before and stayed over night at a friend’s house. Mildly hung-over, I decided to treat myself to a nice breakfast on my way back to the Jersey shore.

And that’s when God told me where I needed to go:

IHOP = The International House of Pancakes

Normally, I wouldn’t go to IHOP. I don’t like big, faceless chain restaurants and prefer to support my local mom and pop joints. But the signs were painfully clear:

Divine Sign #1: A commercial for IHOP came on the radio at the exact moment I was driving by an IHOP billboard on the side of the road. I turned the station and another IHOP commercial was on! God or what?

Divine Sign #2: I was craving pancakes and IHOP is indeed a pancake house. Nay, more than just a pancake house, it is an international pancake house. A pancake house with worldly gravitas. Something grand was bound to happen there.

Divine Sign #3: The aforementioned radio commercial said that IHOP was dedicating this morning's pancake proceeds to local charities. God loves charitable works! I would eat pancakes and help the world at the same time. Win/win, bitch.

Whatever the reason, I knew I was meant to go to IHOP. Perhaps I would have a revelatory experience there that would rid me of my wicked, wicked ways. Or I would meet the love of my life over scrambled eggs. Or an amazing career opportunity would fall magically at my feet. Or I’d run in to an old, dear friend and laugh over coffee. Or I'd save someone choking on a breakfast sausage. The sky was the limit and destiny was calling.

IHOP = The International House of Pancakes

My divine journey didn't start out very well - IHOP was packed. This alone is usually enough to send my agoraphobic ass flying out the germ-covered door. And it wasn't just packed with people; it was packed with teens - gangly, pimply, rubbery and loud teens, spraying hormones all over the place like awkward adolescent skunks.

I quickly busted through the crowd and grabbed the only seat at the counter. On either side of me sat teen girls, chattering maniacally in high-pitched voices that only I, dogs, and other teen girls can hear. Their shrill voices seemed to cut right through me like glass.

Feeling the pressure of an oncoming anxiety attack, I resorted to one of my superpowers: my magic shield. It’s made of impenetrable Plexiglas and it instantly envelops me (don’t worry – there’s a breathing tube at the top.) All I have to do is say “Bloop!” and the shield is instantly activated. I’m officially safe and germ-free.

With my magic shield in place, I felt ready for my cosmic “happening.” At that moment, an anorexic waitress appears before me with a pot of coffee in her hand. But because she was so damn skinny, her poor arm could barely hold it up. I quickly asked for a cup to relieve her of at least a few ounces of skeletal strain. She'll be back for my order in a minute, she utters in a deathbed whisper and drifts away.

Hmm...my IHOP experience is becoming both disturbing and macabre. Not good. Where the hell is God? I quickly glanced around this “international house” looking for potential holy signs or people with halos or stigmatas. Nothing. Just gaggles of teens and gravely voiced women named Irma bitterly serving them food.

When my “waif”tress put down my plate of pancakes, she made an audible groan. This poor thing was getting a workout, simply serving me breakfast. I quickly fantasized about force-feeding her the pancakes but undoubtedly they'd just wind up in the IHOP employee toilet minutes later.

Okay, so maybe I’m just meant to have the best pancakes ever here. Maybe that’s it. I say a moment of prayer before my meal:

God, I see you’ve brought me to IHOP but I’m not sure why. Please show me a sign. And please make the girl next to me shut the fuck up for just one damn minute. Just one. And make my waitress eat a hamburger today, against her will, if necessary. Amen.

Just as I prepare to take my first bite of the best pancakes ever, I spot a busboy sloppily blowing his nose behind the counter, as if to say, “Eat this.” I put my fork down and went back to my prayer:

God, please let this place stop being a gross, macabre hellhole and let me at least live through this breakfast and get the fuck out of here. If you even exist. And sorry about all the cursing. Fuck.

My pancakes were uninspired to say the least. My coffee, uneventful. Orange juice, okay. So I wasn't sent here for the food. The whole thing cost me $15, which seemed ridiculous considering I could make a much an infinitely better breakfast at home for a fraction of the cost.

The waiftress dropped off my check at the table and stood there a second, wavering back and forth just a little, as if to faint.

Head down:

God please don’t let the anorexic waitress faint in front of me right now. I really need to get the hell out of here. Thanks for nothing.

I dropped a $20 on the table and practically ran out the door.

So why? Why was I called to IHOP? What message was I meant to receive? What opportunity was supposed to present itself to me? What wasn't I seeing?

My belief, after great consideration, is that IHOP had absolutely nothing to offer me spiritually. IHOP may, in fact, be godless. You're more likely to find God at a strip joint than in IHOP. There probably isn’t God in any chain store, I venture to say. Walmart, K-Mart, Target, McDonalds – godless as shit. Don’t go there to find yourself or receive any divine intervention - that's what I'm saying.

Back in the safety of car, I turn on the radio and guess what was playing? Another IHOP commercial. Well, I'll be damned - it wasn’t a message from God I received! It was a message from some stupid marketing team posing as God, targeting poor, spiritually hapless people like me. In short, I had just been played by the suits behind a pancake house. False prophets!

But hungry for some meaning in my life, I've also come up with this alternative:

Pancakes represent the bread of life, the manna, for which I needed to partake. Because of my inability to calm the chattering teens in my head, there is a part of me that is spiritually starved, like the anorexic waitress. As I look desperately for meaning externally, I realize my “internal pancakes” are infinitely better and more nutritious.

Or God is dead...again. Not sure which.

I'm the headless one with nails sticking out of me.
That's IHOP to the left.

Image Credit (above) Per Haagensen,
Norwegian Freelance Illustrator and Concept Artist

Environmental Soul Repair

Wed, 3 Mar 2010 16:03:28 -0500

I take her for a walk a few times a week. I have for years now. It's the only time she feels her "old self again" she says.

She's recovering from some injuries so she walks slowly. She's always going on about wanting to run again, like me...but I don't know if that will happen.

She's recovering from a broken heart as well. She sighs a lot during our walks. My mom used to sigh all the time, but hers came from a place of dramatic resignation. My friend sighs to release her cares, her sorrows, to breathe deeply once again. Her sighs don't bother me.

She fell for this man hard. He brought so much light into her sad, little existence that when he left, her life felt even bleaker than before. "Why me? He knew the shape I was in. Why does it always turn out the same way, where I get hurt?"

This man left her life incrementally, with little fanfare. He eventually stopped responding to her. She felt used, stupid.

I try to explain to her that he had his own problems.

That doesn't stop the pain, she tells me.

Yes, but it's better to understand that its nothing personal, I tell her. It's better to celebrate that love entered your life at all. He was a blessing overall. You know that.

She nods in halfhearted agreement and sighs.

After a moment, she turns to me and asks in a childlike voice, "I'm a blessing too, aren't I?"

Her question stops me in my tracks. I turn her to face me.

"You have no clue how much magic you bring. No clue."

"I just feel so...disappointed."

"I know. It's alright to be disappointed. Just don't take it out on yourself."

Sometimes I want to send her flowers on his behalf, so she believes in kind acts and romance again. Or write her a warm, heartfelt letter, signed by him. Just to take the sting out a little. I wouldn't of course. I wouldn't dupe her like that. It's just hard seeing her this way. I've known her so long. When she hurts, I hurt.

At some point of our walk, we usually sit down on the beach, close our eyes and "meditate" for a while. (We never call it that for fear it will make it more difficult.) I can feel her next to me, tense and struggling, trying to tame her stormy thoughts.

Sometimes, I peek over at her: brow furrowed, shoulders tight. I fantasize about kissing her on the lips during one of those moments. It seems that's all she really needs, that magical fairy tale kiss to wake her up, to make her feel safe and alive again.

One time, while we sat on the beach, she popped her eyes open and shouted, "I can't do this. I feel like I'm staring at a fucking train wreck."

She began to cry. I put my hands on her back and her body melted in response. Human touch. I found myself crying with her. No one should have to fight that hard for inner peace, you know?

"Just breathe. Be present. The answer is right here, I promise. You don't have to try for it."

We both closed our eyes again and grabbed what little nirvana we could find. And after a few moments, we were breathing together, in sync with one another, in sync with the world. For a few moments, we simply existed and let go of all the silly emotions.

Her days at the beach are numbered. She's leaving the island soon. She's unhappy where she lives and needs to leave. She won't tell me where. It's a "secret." I can see through her ruse; she's not sure where she's going next and feels self-conscious about it.

"What will I do without our walks?"

Again, I have no answers. And luckily, I don't have to. Our walks, I hope, will heal her from the outside in. The universe will fix her, with its generous sunlight and sparkling seas and wild winds. Environmental soul repair.

And I think my listening helps as well. It's amazing how transformative it is when someone simply validates your feelings, isn't it? When someone is genuinely open to you, no matter what fractured state you're in? No one shoulders her disappointment and anger and hurt like me. I accept all of her broken pieces. She needs me and I'm happy to spend some time with her.

"I worry too much damage has been done," she says. "That I can't find my way home."

But I think she may. Someday. Somewhere.

"I sure hope you're right, Beth."

How I Met Edgar Allan Poe

Sat, 20 Feb 2010 09:02:45 -0500

The "Ultima Thule" portrait by Sarah Helen Whitman,
taken 11 months before he died.

“Is that the guy who likes to have sex with dead women?” my boyfriend asks.

“No, I think that’s just a myth.”

“Do you want another line?”

“When I’m done. I’m almost done. Maybe. Okay, yes.”

My boyfriend walks away. The party continues around me. This is the ugly kind of party where people have turned into zombies, walking around aimlessly. The kind of party where conversations have turned into blubbering nonsense and cyclical ramblings. The “Mama told me not to come” parties. I’m 17 and this party is at my house. I have a paper due the next day. I’m supposed to analyze a poem. Five pages are due. I've only managed to eke out a page.

I don’t know much about literature. I do know about kegs in the wood, smoking weed, bumming cigarettes, Led Zeppelin and selling Quaaludes for $5 each in the girl's bathroom. I know how to play pinball and PacMan very well. I give a decent blowjob at this point but have big plans on fine-tuning my skill.

I chose Edgar Allan Poe. I don’t know anything about him. I'm 17 and a stoner. But when I first saw the image of him (above), I was wholly transfixed and permanently changed. I had never seen a face like that - cracked, pained and beautiful. It was the face of someone who clearly understood dark places.

At 3 in the morning, with my home trashed and my mom away for the week, I am very aware of dark places. I intend to make them darker as I lean down to the mirror on our littered coffee table and snort another line. The meth feels like burning hot pellets shooting down my throat. A surge of false energy hits me.

"I’m going to finish this fucking paper if it’s the last thing I do!” I shout.

“So it’s not the guy who fucks dead people?”

“No. He is not a necrophiliac.”

“Do you have any more cigarettes?”

“No. No, yes…but not for you…I have to…” and I stumble away. I grab another beer and walk to the dining room table, covered with bottles.

Clearing some space, I look through an anthology of his work for a poem to analyze. Dying women, pretty women, dead women, coughing, blood, birds, cliffs near seas. I try to make sense of the poems but the words melt into a blob of confusion. Analyze a poem? I can’t even touch my forehead. I don’t know my middle name. Wait, I don't have a middle name....do I?

I start to write.

I know what I’m doing. I’m smart. I can do this. Am I writing this or just thinking this? Shit. I'm writing this.

I rip the page out of notebook, throw the paper on the beer-soaked floor and start looking through the book again.

Then I stumble across this:

They who dream by day are cognizant of many things which escape those who dream only by night. In their gray visions they obtain glimpses of eternity, and thrill, in awakening, to find that they have been upon the verge of the great secret.

The party suddenly stops. A peaceful, expansive feeling sweeps over me...and it's not the drugs. Somehow, amidst my self-annihilation, I am touched deeply by a piece of literature. More than touched, I understand completely and wholly.

I've often had those gray visions but no one has ever described them so well. Inexplicable, lush moments where time stands still, where all the pain and worry disappear, where you understand the totality of your existence. It's pure and transcendent magic. And it only lasts a flickering moment. Then you do drugs, hoping to find it again.

Write it all down, quickly - except for the drug part - before it goes away!

A zombie walks by and sees me writing furiously.

“Why are you doing that?” she points her bony finger at my notebook, half-frightened, half-disgusted. "Why is she writing? Why?" she looks around, asking no one in particular. She teeters for a moment, staring at me, then wanders off.

Focus. Poe. Analyze.

Three pages done. More than halfway there.

Wait! Reward yourself with a cigarette! Yes! I smoke! I love smoking! What a great idea!

I run over to the cookie jar, where my secret stash of Marlboro Lights resides. Underneath it are cookies my mom made last week. Looking at them makes me ill...and sad. There's some goodness, hiding in this house. Some goodness in a jar. Those cookies should leave.

I sit back down and my mind goes blank. The book is a blur of words again and my paper looks like chicken scratch.

Damnit. I should've never gone for the fucking cigarette.

My boyfriend comes over to me and tries to make out with me, drug-horny and disgusting. I can’t stand him right now. Get away, get away! His tongue feels like a lifeless snake in my mouth.

Almost 5 am. Try again. Try. Shhh…calm down. Calm down and try.

As the sun begins to rise, I finish my 5 pages, sit back and smoke my last cigarette. Some people have passed out, someone broke the sink in the bathroom and is laughing about it. And someone just finished a paper for school, fried out of her brains, and is pleased with herself.

See? See! It's not just the good kids with their perfect homes and perfect families who can figure this stuff out. A "burnout" just understood a piece of literature. She gets it. She gets it, even high as a goddamn kite. Ha!

Or maybe I don't. Maybe those ivy-covered schools that I secretly and desperately long to attend will always be for those good kids. Maybe my paper sucks and I just think its good because I'm on drugs. Kind of like drunk people who think they can dance.

When I bring in my paper that morning, my hands are shaking, my stomach is churning and I wish I were dead. But I feel proud, having made a connection with a good writer. A very good writer. He touched me. We had a breakthrough, even though every goddamn thing about my life should prevent one. Today, I'm representing the lost people.

When my paper is returned a few days later, there is a C- in red. A fucking C-! On top, she writes, “You were supposed to analyze a poem. This is from a short story. Read the assignment!!” As I walk by my teacher's desk at the end of class, I hear: "You better wake up and smell the coffee, missy!"

"I hate coffee and don't call me missy."

I cut the rest of my classes and hang out with my dropout friends at the arcade.

"Does anyone have a cigarette?"

I walk outside and light up in the blustery, bland landscape of New Jersey suburbia and look around at nothing in particular.

...but it was poetry to me.