drug of voice

Long ago, when I was crazy and couldn't sleep, my shrink, knowing of my life before baby, told me I needed to start writing poetry again or join a band. He believed insomnia to be a symptom of art withdrawal.

He was right. I had chosen the poetry, and my sleep was restored. I'd have started a band, too, except that I have crippling stage fright.

Back when I fronted Question 47 in the early eighties, we played out once or twice a week. I eased my fears with a gin and tonic or two, and I was usually comfortable by the third song. But I know alcohol only makes you think you sing great. Still, I pine for that unrequited love. I would rather sing and play guitar than do much else, even though I probably have no business doing it at all.

So here's what happens to me when I get on stage—even to read poetry or give a lecture: My arms get heavy and numb, and they sting, as though the blood in my veins were plaster of Paris mixed with rubbing alcohol; my legs stiffen and cramp; my heart pounds out of my chest, and you can see it through my shirt like some kind of alien spawn; my voice shakes and quavers, and I can't stay in pitch.

Because of my fear and lack of confidence, with the exception of one brief embarrassing moment at my daughter's bat mitzvah last year, I've not sung in public since my old band days. Until Friday.

After a story on 60 Minutes awhile ago, I wondered about using Propranolol (Inderol), a beta blocker, to ease my stage fright. I mentioned it recently, and my best friend, a speech pathologist, admitted that she takes it when she has to give presentations. So I called my doctor. He gave me five tiny pills and the instruction to take half a pill one or two hours before my performance. Our school's coffee house was 6-9; I took half a pill at 5.

At 8:15, my friend's band announced that they were taking a break and asked if I wanted to play. I'd pretty much given up on that idea. But when Dave asked me again, I was up like a shot. If I was nervous for a moment, it's a moment I don't remember.

And it's the only thing I don't remember. The pill gave me some kind of super memory! I didn't forget the chords or the words, even though we were playing a new song. And when someone asked us to play another, I did an original.

I'm not saying I was great; I wasn't. But I didn't suck, either, and that was enough to delight me. Maybe after a few of these little shows, my confidence can return.

I have enough pills for nine more gigs. And I plan to use them all.

stains

When the body, which is still breathing but is destined to be a body soon, lies there like a pile of clothes until he is gently turned over, when the eyelids flutter, when blood trickles from the mouth, when the body waits for escort by wheeled siren, that actor’s part is done. The detectives examine the scene, pick up shell casings, talk into their radios. This location shoot is almost a wrap. Police tape comes down. Roads are reopened. Neighbors go inside.

That’s TV—the stuff I watch every night.

The male cops are serious and handsome; the female cops are beautiful, and all their blouses plunge deep. The victim dies. (Sometimes he deserves it.) And the perp, who takes off on foot up the street, is caught.

But when you are ten feet from the lump of human who stumbled across the street after six gunshots at close range rocked your house, while you are standing in the kitchen with your husband, who’s been away all week, and you're just about to pick up your daughter from the school a half a mile away, with a bad guy on the loose, it’s not television anymore. And when the crude circle of blood in the asphalt, next to the gutter, next to your neighbor’s house, remains when the cops go home, it is not the only stain.

We waited until an hour after the shooting to pick up our daughter from school. I didn’t want her to be afraid. But Marty explained the events on their drive home, and when Serena arrived, she stood out on the deck with red eyes. We asked if she wanted to talk about it, but she turned and went in. She had other plans.

I went inside moments later to find her and give her another hug. But when I got into the dining room, I could hear her quietly strumming a guitar and singing. I didn’t want her to stop, but I wanted to preserve the moment, so I grabbed the camera—the same camera I used to shoot that blotch of blood on the pavement next to the cell phone and the pile of clothes—to spy on her as she strummed, then wrote in her journal, then strummed again.* I could barely hold the camera steady for my crying.

Today was the first beautiful day in more than a week. I walked a few miles, mowed my lawn, picked up my husband from his camping trip. And then I heard the six gunshots and called 911. I thought the day was bloodied, ruined. But my daughter redeemed it.

A little while ago, she came into the kitchen and said, “I’m angry. Do you mind if I cuss to get my anger out?” I told her I didn’t. And as she went down the basement stairs (on her way to watch the TV she bemoans in her song), she said, “That guy’s a mother-fucking asshole.”






Lyrics by Serena Joy Utah Miller

Sirens flaring,
TV blaring,
Tell me what you make of this.
The world has finally turned around.
We all live, and we all die
We hear God's deafening cry.
We deserve to die
If we can't live with one another.

Chorus:

We all deserve to die
If we can't live with each other
(stop; whisper "die")

*I have her permission to use this video.


If you can't see the video above, use this screen below.

crOw

O, a long winter
watching the crows
ballet dancers
on the wind

O, out the window
only place she goes
carried safely
on their wings

but they won’t share their secrets
shred all the evidence
they won’t grant her wishes

O, e minor
the only one who knows
how a girl
can get so old

subtly and swiftly
swallowing the medicine
waiting for a second wind

to blow-ow ow
wOe-o-O

O, do you recognize her
the woman you once knew
holing up
beneath her skin

And will she recognize you
wearing different wings
will she
pull you in?

narcotic ritual
tuned to the barking crows
drowning without waving

Cro-o-ow
Wo-o-ow
Cro-o-ow