Meth is good for writer’s block (Bad Prose Poetry!)

Meth is good for writer’s block,

or so claims whoever Terry Gross is interviewing,

with that annoying voice she has, always – always inflecting.

I would be a mess – if I tried meth –

leaping immediately to conclude I could feel my jaw dissolving, my teeth falling out.

I am susceptible.

Today I feel suspended –

caught between the end of summer, the beginning of fall –

my husband’s last year of school, and from the lips of everyone

we know falls what’s next, what’s next, what’s next.

I am thirty now, and married seven years,

and these two facts combined give license

to my boss, my dry cleaner, my manicurist and everyone else I know

to ask when I am going to have a baby.  I just say

not yet, not yet, not yet.

We have reached a point, you see, where

we should buy a house, paint one room some neutral pastel

and settle down to this business of living. But suddenly

S. thinks he might want a ph.d –

   – in moral philosophy –

and try as I might to work up indignation,

to portray what I see in eyes of others when I mention this,

(which is, shock, and deep concern for S.’s very character)

I find myself agreeing because, you know,

I haven’t yet learned to play the guitar, published my novel

or become the unshakable zen-like, unrattleable creature I intend to be.

My doctor gives me dire warnings, about turning thirty and aging eggs.

He said:
Ms. M – really, you should have started at 26.

He gives me extra-strength vitamins and sends me on my way.

When I call people, including all my girlfriends, and say

I have great news –

to ten little fingers, and ten little toes, they always leap so

news of my writing published, or my brother’s wedding,

lets them down.

I’ve never felt so watched before.

Eight years ago, my love and I –

we chased our dreams through mountains and

over the Piedmont, from university to university to university

and now, nearly complete, people want us just to rest , keep our feet on the ground, so to speak. To stop the dreams and start being productive members of society.

But perhaps most of who we were at twenty-two

remains the same. And if that’s true, and only

old ovaries and a few more wrinkles, mark our advancing age –

then perhaps to S., I should be able to say,

ph.d. or high school teacher

mechanic, bus boy, lawyer, stand-up comedien –

to me it doesn’t matter what comes next, or

what you want to do or be – I will go with you anywhere.

You are, after all, my one great love affair.

This entry was posted in Your Love Is Like Bad Poetry. Bookmark the permalink.

7 Responses to Meth is good for writer’s block (Bad Prose Poetry!)

  1. Your eggs are perfect. Ignore everyone. Enjoy your love affair. The babies will wait.

  2. yogamum says:

    Egads, I know a kazillion old ladies who managed to get pregnant after 30, myself included. Your doctor must be on meth 😉

    I don’t care if meth is good for writer’s block, it’s bad for everything else.

    As Charlotte says — enjoy your life as it is now. When all is in place, it will happen.

  3. Charlotee and Yoga mum – I know you both are right. I need to enjoy my life and not worry so much. Incidentally, S. thinks this post is really corny – in retrospect, it might have better belonged in my diary!

  4. yogamum says:

    Don’t listen to S. You gave us the opportunity to try to cheer you up!

    You’ll have plenty of time to worry *after* the kiddos come along! So take it easy!

  5. Smithereens says:

    Being 30 like you, I’m outraged that your doctor may start to pressure you… a lot of women have babies after 37, damn it! If it makes you feel better, people who hardly know me also feel free to ask me the question, and I’m incensed every single time.

  6. Kim says:

    At my family reunion this past weekend one of the women there told us about her sister who is 57 and is pregnant. Unplanned. Unexpected. No technological intervention. A little girl. My point? Hmmm.. not sure… it’s just a fascinating scenario to the writer in me. And I guess that life happens when it happens.

  7. Emily Barton says:

    You know, you truly MUST be related to us, because Ian recently posted long-ago journal entries as well. Then again, maybe you’re not related to me, because I couldn’t bare to subject myself nor anyone else to old journals of mine (most of which have either been lost, thrown away, or burnt, but I do still have a few).

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