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Dr. Bob is Robert Hsiung, MD,
bob@dr-bob.orgShown: posts 1 to 9 of 9. This is the beginning of the thread.
Posted by Atticus on July 24, 2004, at 15:04:30
Cafe du Monde, August 9, 1994
Brain full of napalm
Lights incandescent flames
That flash like gas jets
Behind my blue eyes.Loping along Bourbon Street,
Sipping a pina colada
In a Slurpee cup.
Bopping in syncopated time
To the zydeco
Blasting from open barroom doors
As the rapid-fire Cajun-flavored patois
Of ruddy-faced hustlers,
Preaching on the sidewalks,
Seeks to save the souls
Of any sober pilgrims
By luring them inside
To the bar-stool pews.
But the warm shrimp Po' Boy
Sitting in my stomach
Has me feeling too mellow
To listen.Neon in the windows,
Tubes of glowing gas,
Cast multi-hued reflections
On the tattoo,
Freshly polished to a sheen
With cocoa butter,
Of an Irish Celtic knot
That adorns my inner right wrist.Alyssa on my left,
My wife of 18 months,
A lyrical moving swirl
Of psychedelic tie-dye
And ankle-length orange peasant skirt.
Shoulder-length blond hair
Flows behind her
As she takes a hit
Of a strawberry daiquiri
In an innocuous
Wax-paper cup
Topped with a plastic lid and straw.
Wearing as many
Gaudy plastic beaded necklaces
As 10 bucks will buy,
Which is a lot.Tokin' Tiny Tim
Trotting to my right
Like an agitated terrier
Trying to keep pace
With my loping stride.
His buzz cut
Bobbing up,
Bobbing down,
Like a marker buoy
In a current of humid flesh that
Exhales booze-scented sweat
Through every pore.I'm draped
In basic warm-weather Goth,
Black t-shirt,
Black jeans,
Black cowboy boots
Ringed at the ankles
With silver chains
That jingle like
A gunslinger's spurs
With every step.
My hair, as usual, a halo of spikes,
A dark yang
To Alyssa's bright yin.
I've got just enough hippie
And she's got just enough punk
To make the thing work.Acid-Addled Walter is MIA,
Took off with a vampire chick
To get fitted for custom-made fangs
Made by a local dentist
As a sideline.
Anne Rice and Lestat
Are the two biggest names
In town.
Walter and batgirl
Hooked up
In a second-story
Punk/goth shop,
Where I bought a new
Black t-shirt
With the classic anarchy symbol
From the late '70s.
It nestles in my backpack
Next to the first-edition Faulkner,
"New Orleans Sketches,"
That I slapped down a Franklin for
In the tiny bookstore
Tucked away in Pirate's Alley
That had been the author's apartment
When he hammered out his first novel.Tokin' Tiny Tim
Thought I was nuts
To spend that much
On a book.
I'd try to explain,
But he'll never understand.
Never seen a pothead
Who was such a bundle
Of nerves,
Drifting through life
In a cloud of cannabis smoke,
Babbling neurotically
Like Woody Allen.
Says I make him edgy,
Never knows what I'll say,
Never knows what I might do,
Accuses me of having
No impulse control,
And hell, I can't
Really argue with that.Cops on horseback
Move serenely among the crowd.
Every night they seal off Bourbon
From traffic
With huge antique iron stanchions
Covered with peeling paint,
And the nightcrawlers emerge,
Whores and poets,
Tourists and addicts,
To traipse and strut and dance
Across the macadam ballroom.The decapitated noggins
Of a million baby alligators,
Lacquered and preserved
With jaws agape,
Stare forlornly
From every souvenir shop display
That I see,
And this is too debauched
Even for me,
To sell the heads of infants
As trinkets
While bellowing,
"Laissez les bon temps rouler."Sun's coming up.
I imagine Acid-Addled Walter
Curled up in the arms
Of his vampire lover
Someplace dark
And lined
With crimson silk.
"Let's hit the Cafe du Monde,"
I say,
So we head west
Toward the Mississippi,
And eventually I feel
The first rays of the dawn
Prickling the skin
On the back of my neck.I stop at a drop-box
To buy a copy
Of the Times-Picayune
And take a sucker-punch
To the gut
When I read the headline
At the bottom of the page:
"Singer Kurt Cobain Found Dead"He'd slipped away from a rehab clinic
To a room above his garage,
Scribbled
"I'm sorry
I'm sorry
I'm sorry"
On a piece of paper,
Shot up some smack,
Followed by a chaser
Of shotgun shells
To his brain.Why is this hitting me so hard?
I wonder.
Yes, Nirvana is
My favorite band.
Yes, "Nevermind" is
My favorite album.
But just as a moment
Of insight
Seems within reach,
It slips away
As Tokin' Tiny Tim
Blurts,
"It had to happen
Sooner or later."I turn to face him
With feral rage
That I don't really understand,
Snarling,
"Shut up, shut up,
Just shut the hell up."Sitting sullenly at a table
Under the green and white striped awning,
Facing away from the cafe's
Cheery sunburst yellow stucco fascade.
I snatch up my plate of beignets,
Sending a plume of the white powdered sugar
Atop them
Wafting across the small round table,
And stalk across the street,
Clutching a cup of French Roast coffee
In my other hand.
"Why is he always so moody?"
I hear Tokin' Tiny Tim
Ask Alyssa.I climb the steps
Along the concrete floodwall
To the ancient Spanish cannon
At the top
And slump against the muzzle pointing out
At the chocolate milk waters
Of the Mississippi delta.
I bite into a sweet, sweet beignet,
Wash it down with coffee,
And begin
Humming "Heart-Shaped Box"
To the gulls.
-- Atticus
Posted by Atticus on July 24, 2004, at 15:19:41
In reply to poem ... Cafe du Monde, August 9, 1994, posted by Atticus on July 24, 2004, at 15:04:30
OK, I screwed that up. It should be April 9, not August 9. Sorry. Atticus
Posted by Jai Narayan on July 24, 2004, at 16:57:04
In reply to Re: poem ... Cafe du Monde, April 9, 1994, posted by Atticus on July 24, 2004, at 15:19:41
Keep it coming....can you write a novel? I would love to follow this character in a full blown story....
I once heard that a novel is like a string of pearls....one story after another...making a lovely necklace.
I can't be the only one wanting you to string it together.....
you didn't come out of the ethers...
of course to me you just appeared but I know from your stories...you have lived quite a life.
I want to read more and more......
One of my favorite authors is Anne Rice.
I love her special blend of sexuality and angst.
You are inspiring to me.
thanks......
Posted by Atticus on July 24, 2004, at 19:10:42
In reply to My visit to New Orleans was so differient....., posted by Jai Narayan on July 24, 2004, at 16:57:04
Hi Jai,
Always good to hear from you. In many ways, this little slice of my misspent youth :) was meant as a gift to you. It's fun to write a poem as a little present for someone. Despite the vaguely surreal quality that my use of language probably brings to these stories, they're all true -- though seen through the lens of someone whose perception of reality would likely be considered a bit askew by most people. I change the names, but the images are all still there in my head, like a tray of slides that have been dumped from their tray and are out of order. I've always thought about writing a novel, but I'd probably have to write it like I write these poems. I scribble down a bunch of visual and aural memories associated with an event or place, in no particular chronological order, and then see if they can be arranged into some kind of coherent narrative structure. Your metaphor of putting pearls on a string is right on target. As for the diffences between your trip to New Orleans and mine, I don't know how old you were, but I was 23 and just out of college when the four of us roadtripped to New Orleans. I had, and still have, a tendency to seek out and find the bohemian, "underground" elements in any sizable city. That's just the kind of people I feel comfortable around. Once a punk, always a punk, I guess. Keep on writing! I've enjoyed your comments and learning more about you. Atticus
Posted by Jai Narayan on July 25, 2004, at 19:03:52
In reply to Re: My visit to New Orleans was so differient..... » Jai Narayan, posted by Atticus on July 24, 2004, at 19:10:42
Atticus
I loved it!!!
What a gift you gave me.
I am touched.
You could use a good editor for the stringing of the pearls.
(I must ask do you work and rework the work? Or does it pour forth? Or in contractions like a birthing? how does it come out?)
I am a published writer and my editor was a gift to my writing. I wrote about my life as it was unfolding.
Like you the moment holds itself taut, suspended....as if on an inhale.ps I like to hold my breath out when I am meditating. It brings a thrill from my kundalini energy. A tugging from me to the ethers. I ride my energy right up the spine and out the top of my head. Now that is joy riding.
Posted by Atticus on July 25, 2004, at 21:03:47
In reply to Re: My visit to New Orleans was so differient....., posted by Jai Narayan on July 25, 2004, at 19:03:52
My approach varies from poem to poem. The first draft of "Brittle" came out in one fell swoop. I went back later to tighten up the language and rhythm a little, but it changed very little from the first draft. The same is true of "Crocs, 1987" and "Twilight of the Singer." I think that when more time for reflection has passed since an event occurred, the writing is easier, and the three events described in these pieces took place in 1998, 1987, and 1988, respectively. Each of these pieces essentially only includes one scene, one "pearl," so to speak, so there wasn't such a high degree of organization required. But "Cafe du Monde, April 9, 1994" necessitated a lot of organization, which, despite the gains I've made with my meds and illness, is still pretty challenging for me. I had decided to write something for you, but I wasn't sure what. I'd been listening to old-skool '70s punk all day, and the first thing that came to me was the initial line of the first verse ("Brain full of napalm..."), which sounds, when you think about it, a lot like a lyric in a punk song. The rest of the verse quickly followed. I still wasn't sure where the thing was going, but the aggressive tone had definitely set up a sense of mood that I wanted to sustain. Later, unbidden (I guess my subconscious had kept right on composing; this happens a lot), various images from a road trip I'd taken with my wife (now ex) and two friends to New Orleans began to flood my head. I couldn't scribble them down fast enough. They were like pieces of raw film footage; visual memories in no particular order, but which I had a sense added up to something I couldn't quite see the shape of yet. Then I remembered how badly I'd reacted to the news of Cobain's suicide while on that trip, and realized that my full-blown depression had slammed me about two years later, in 1996. I suddenly had the insight that escaped me at the time (and escapes me in the poem): Cobain's death brought the thoughts of suicidal ideation I'd had since age 13 to the fore, and I realized that I probably was at least partially drawn to Nirvana's music because I identified so strongly with its dark and morose tone, and the almost relentless despair evident in Cobain's singing. At this point I had the pivotal scene, and a whole lot of atmospheric visuals as well. The rapid-fire, punk-paced first verse really shaped the rhythm of the descriptions of Bourbon Street that followed. If a remembered image could be matched with that kind of writing, I kept it; if it couldn't, out it went. I had far too many pearls to use, and although the poem could probably have been trimmed, I was enjoying recalling the kaleidoscopic nature of the night before I picked up that newspaper too much to trim it. A good example of an image that I just found a place to tuck in was the description of the baby alligator heads. I wrote that verse separately, and just waited for an opening where I could include it without disrupting the flow. "Spots," though, was a whole different animal from the rest. That suicide attempt took place only about two months ago; I wiped the spot of blood off the front of the fridge only about half an hour before I sat down to compose it. I bashed out the initial version as quickly as I could, because it was taking me to an incredibly painful place. When I sat down to look at it again later that day, I pretty much completely rewrote it. And I continued to revise it even as I posted it. I finally reached a point where I just wanted it to be done, over with. I couldn't handle it anymore. I've never written anything that has taken so much out me; I was deeply depressed, a real mess, for about two days after it went up on the site. I'm glad some people could relate to it, but still ... I'd think twice before I dove into something that intense again. But I did feel a need to get the event, and my feelings about it, into words as soon as possible. It'll be interesting to look at it in a year and see how I was feeling about the suicide attempt now. I kind of kept the number of images to a minimum: cleaning up the blood spatter, the trail on the carpet, and the frantic race to get help. Because of the blackouts, mercifully, there are huge holes in my memory of a lot of that day. The last thing I recall with any certainty is seeing those shoes from where I was slumped on the apartment floor, and realizing they belonged to a cop. There are some other images in my head, but honestly, I'm not sure if they are real or imagined, so I left them out. Whew! I didn't mean to write a treatise here. Sorry about that. But I hope this answers some of your questions. Take care. Atticus
Posted by Jai Narayan on July 26, 2004, at 19:13:11
In reply to Re: My visit to New Orleans was so differient..... » Jai Narayan, posted by Atticus on July 25, 2004, at 21:03:47
> My approach varies from poem to poem. The first draft of "Brittle" came out in one fell swoop.
**Have I heard "Brittle" yet?
How did you find babble?
I am so enamored with your work and you are so special.
for some reason I thought your suicide attempt was years ago.But "Cafe du Monde, April 9, 1994"
**I love this poem!
>They were like pieces of raw film footage
** your poems are very visual>Then I remembered how badly I'd reacted to the news of Cobain's suicide while on that trip, Cobain's death brought the thoughts of suicidal ideation I'd had since age 13
**this breaks my heart....I was young and tender and thought that death was the only way out of pain.
>the description of the baby alligator heads. I wrote that verse separately, and just waited for an opening where I could include it without disrupting the flow.
**I love that sentence... "the description of the baby alligator heads"... it works in the poem. You know if it were too strong it would take all the attention away from the rest of the poem but the whole thing is so strong that is can support such a gem of a sentence.
>"Spots," though, was a whole different animal from the rest. That suicide attempt took place only about two months ago; ....
***wait hold the phone....are you serious???? Did this really happen only two months ago?> I've never written anything that has taken so much out me; I was deeply depressed, a real mess, for about two days after it went up on the site.
**Okay what are the docs saying is your diagnosis? Can I ask?
> There are some other images in my head, but honestly, I'm not sure if they are real or imagined, so I left them out. Whew! I didn't mean to write a treatise here. Sorry about that. But I hope this answers some of your questions. Take care. Atticus
***I am here reading every sentence....You are something special.
I guess everybody who knows you can say that.
I love your work and would love to support you in doing more writing.
I am an artist as well and I love your writing.
If I have not read anything you've written yet please bring it on.
Thank you so much for this unique opportunity.
Jai Narayan
Posted by Atticus on July 26, 2004, at 19:53:24
In reply to thank you for your indepth response, posted by Jai Narayan on July 26, 2004, at 19:13:11
Hi Jai,
If you check my most recent post under "Crocs, 1987," you'll find a pretty detailed account of my psychiatric history, and a bunch of autobiographical details behind the events in the poems to boot (except for "Atomic Cafe," which is just a long, sustained metaphor brought on by an uncomfortable conversation with my mother on Sunday, and not a recollection of anything that happened to me; I sort of explain where that one came from in a brief response to your comment about "frisky atoms" under "Atomic Cafe.") And yes, I was released from the psychiatric ward of a hospital after the suicide attempt just over two months ago. I found this Web site purely by accident; I Googled "Effexor," and the third entry was a thread about Effexor at the Psycho-Babble site. I've been here ever since, though I've switched neighborhoods. Instead of talking about meds, now I mainly hang out with the more bohemian crowd at the Psycho-Babble Writing page. The people here are pretty cool (especially you), and their work is fun to read. :) Atticus
Posted by Atticus on July 26, 2004, at 19:57:27
In reply to thank you for your indepth response, posted by Jai Narayan on July 26, 2004, at 19:13:11
"Brittle" was the first piece I posted here. If you scroll up a little, you'll find it. Ta. Atticus
This is the end of the thread.
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