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BR BS BT BU BV BW BX BY BZ B[ B\ B] B^ B_ B` Ba Bb Bc Bd Be Bf Bg Bh Bi Bj Bk Bl B C< CJ C D D DF DG D D E E E E E E E E E E E! E" E# E$ E% E& E' E( E) E* E+ E, E- E. E/ E0 E1 E2 E3 E4 E5 E6 E7 E8 E9 E: E; E< E= E> E? E@ Eh E E E E F F/ F0 FQ F~ F F F G GX G G G H H8 H H H I% IJ Z   q     oBoBvBwB wBwBwBwBvB sB$sB(sB,sB0-B3B7lB: I<C@C<BD0E}Bo THE LIFE AND HABITS OF THE CHILD-OF-MISFORTUNE Marion Cohen Note: These poems are meant to describe post-traumatic-stress-syndrome, NOT depression. The child-of-misfortune is warm-blooded. Though she cant walk barefoot in the snow she can run bare handed and arrive sweating. Wiinter is her time; she can wear skirts, dresses non-builky coats eat ice-cream sundaes sleep long and deep. Its an acquired immunity a kind of scar that, in her fashion, she flaunts. Summer, however, is a different season. She gets called J.A.P. because five minutes without the air-conditioner leaves her desperate and this begtins in May and ends in November. Yes, summer is a stove, summer is a fire. Summer air is solid; summer is too much. She had learned to win against the cold. But she wins too much against the warm. Children-of-misfortune like to shop via catalogues. Something about flipping through lording over the entire store in their hands. And the magic of it! The enchantment! Pictures of things turning into actual things. Only a few days wait. But children-of-misfortune dont order machines. Looks can be very deceiving and some things arent seen at all. Mostly, what works now might play later. Tables. Bookshelves. Thats what children-of-misfortune like. Vases. Bookends. Chests. Chairs. But not COMFORTABLE chairs. Not cushions, not sofas. Nothing too soft, nothing too mushy. Nothing wahable, nothing dryable, nothing hide-able-in-able. Just sllick, sleek, fixed in space brush-able wipe-able things. Sometimes a child-of-misfortune takes physical pain well. At the dentist shes a trooper laughing at the jokes a real belly laugh, a cant-help-laughing laugh. If, in a week, the soreness persists Im not complaining, she calls to say. Im just reporting. In labor shes the same a fine specimin femiNINE femiNIST. In her straight vertical form we see history, we see future. Yes, sometimes a female child-of-misfortune is a woman extraordinaire. Other times this child-of-misfortune has been sore a long time. She is infected, she is raw. Mostly she has learned to be afraid. If God, in her case, has made an exception and doled out more than her spirit can take then why not her body? Why not her nerves? And in labor she sobs as though knowing the baby will die. Yes, other times this woman is a poor example. Other times this child-of-misfortune is just that, a child. When a child-of-misfortune is a mother there are moments when something appears on her face. And the children see and go Oh Mother! But the fear is for THEM that its hereditary that children of children-of-misfortune must become grandchildren-of-misfortune. She tries against try not to leave this legacy. Shes a casual mother not quick to panick. And she flaunts this spirit. She flaunts it well. But its in the blood. Its in the tears. And its in the house the dryers that smoke. And she fears for thier safety she fears for their health. She stands there and quietly fears. The child-of-misfortune knows: Misfortune does not make the heart grow fonder. Theres a gnawiing a wringing a shrieking a shrivelling. The heart doesnt grow a thing. Hope still springs eternal. Spirit carries on. But fondness is extracted liquified and lost. The child-of-mistortune is willing to concede that maybe, in the beginning there was no-such-word-as-cant. But then Adam couldnt be a wet nurse. Eve couldnt be a sperm donor. And Abel, sleeping, was UNable. Even God couldnt make that stone and if he could, he couldnt lift it. And amoebas cant, snails cant, germs cant, dustballs cant. You CAN fight City Hall. But you dont get paid for fighting. And City Hall does. There are plenty such words as cant. There is, shes sure, a cant in every language. Also plenty of cants disguised as maynts. The Prince understands Cinderellas dark moods. The brooding, the screeching the gasps from her sleep. And hes with her each evening as she clocks the clock as she dashes about when the hands grip the twelve. The Prince knows that nothing makes up for a bad childhood that he can only wait listen watch and touch at precisely the right times. When the child-of-misfortune was a child days seemed borrowed, suspended. Those tragedies of childhood really WERE depressing. And there was, not exactly a premonition not exactly a preparation just a sort of reservation a superposition taking place taking time. Some children-of-misfortune get TO things right away. No grass grows under THEIR feet. No sky falls on THEIR heads. These children know full well: Oppotunity knocks but once and rings but never. Sometimes, in fact, it tiptoes by. So it you want something down yesterday ask a child-of-misfortune. She might even do it the day before. Other children-of-misfortune postpone to the last. They dont rush into things. They dont want to waste dont want to ruin dont want to spend their last minute in the first-minute rush. If a child-of-misfortune is asked What do women want? she replies Its what we DONT want. Its also what we want to EXPECT. Namely, whats expected. A book after the contract. A baby after nine months. We want the right to expect. When a child-of-misfortune has just had a child it is beautiful to see her forget. It is moving to see her smile the smile or a regular ordinary child. A person being literally tortured is not, at the moment, angry. She also does not bargain nor feel depressed. She surely has not reached the acceptance stage. And she is beyond shock and denial is not an option. Screaming is what she does. Screaming so big her mouth swallows her head. Screaming so wide her throat gulps the sky. The screaming stage of grief. Like a sixth finger. The sixth, worst and tinal, final stage.  The child-of-misfortune is big-H-ing again. Doesnt miss a breath. Doesnt skip a beat. I hate you she hisses after anything else. Sort of like Amen. Sort of like Q.E.D. And she wont say who wont say why just stares straight on and smiles no smile. What a nuisance. What a racket. Unfit for children unfit for adults unfit for living unfit for dead unfit for all existent and non-existent things. Why the masses use the double negative and why the masses say he dont and yeah and okay and gonna and aint aint only cause they were taught that way and aint only cause theyre used to it. Cause look at the child-of-misfortune. See how low SHE can go. Born and bred on Ms. Conovers English. Just listen to her now. The child-of-misfortune has ALREADY helped herself. Or tried to. At first. Then, having not succeeded she has tried tried again. Its a laugh, really. And she actually laughs. The laugh of the second-class citizen. The laugh of the last-class citizen. Like the housekeeper laughs when the wife schrieks at a mouse. LIke the cancer patient laughs when the child cries at a needle. She has huffed, she has puffed she has blown the house down helping both herself and everyones elses selves. But God only smiles that evil smile. They didnt say when. Certain movies are bad for children-of-misfortune. Cujo, for example. Disastrous. That scene where the mad dog breaks into the window at the same time that her little boy has a seizure. Impossible, the child-of-misfortune sobs. Impossibly impossible. And when the mother pulls it off. THIS time, she sobs. THIS time. And Lost in America. Not so much the part when the guy enters the bleak office building and passes through further and further doorways. But the part when its the road before them when the too-big motor-home containing everything they own gets shown from various angles. The child-of-misfortune leans forward. Her forehead begins to ripple. Where, she muses, where do they KEEP the nest egg? And as the only evidence of the vehicles movement is a slight shimmer of that white line And anyway, she shrugs, space always WAS relative. She is fearful, she is lost. She does not smile with promise. Yes, movies shold be rated. P.G., double-X, and A.U.C.M. -- Absolutely Unsuitable for Children-of-Misfortune. Yes, for C.M. certain movies can be the last straw. Never tell a child-of-misfortune youll call her sometime. Especially if youre a publisher but also if youre a new friend. Never say Ill call you -- shell be listening. Every morning shell wake up hoping. Every evening shell fall asleep cursing. And shell big-H, sure as shootin simple as hangin.. The Great White Hope. The Great Flesh Hurt. Shell H so bg. Shell ache so wide. Ill turn into an Ah. Maybe even an Acch. Shell hate, shell hope, shell hurt, shell hiss. Heart, hearth, house, home. Help, hinder, hot, hell -- No, never, unless youre a sadist tell this child youll be calling her soon. What has been chasing the child-of-misfortune? Is it something wild and wooly? Or something creepy and crawly? Is it big like The Fog or low like The Blob or quick and alternating like a sheet of paper in the wind? When the child-of-misfortune was a child she dreamt that Fear was a woman with half a face, the left half. The right half was invisible. She dreamt that Conquering Fear meant seeing that other half and that her eyes learned to and then un-learned. How far will it chase her? How close will it chase her? When will it catch her? Has it caught her yet? And is what has been chasing the child-of-misfortune the same as what she flees? The child-of-misfortune wears sweaters the stretchy ribbed type. She buys them big, she buys them bold. With lots of room inside. Room for coats or other sweaters. Or room to hold a child. Arms raised, eyes closed, she holds them up above her positions them on her head and hands then lets them slide down and along. Its like climbing into bed or into a warm shower. Its also a little like foreplay. The way, as a teenager, shed thought it would be. Yes, the c-of-m wears sweaters. Not for the warmth but the weight. Not for the weight but the volume. The c-of-m wears sweaters and she wears them nice and big. Some children-of-misfortune have FEAR of fortune. Like fear of success. They know too well what follows the seven years feast. So, soon as they see it coming they start looking all around. Their eyes dart. Their heads turn. Like a mouse confronting cheese. With other children-of-misfortune its quite the opposite. These children are also children-of-FORTUNE. Fortune-tellers, fortune-askers, and fortune seekers. A new recipe. A new hat. A new poem. A new baby. THEIR eyes are ALSO darting. THEIR head are ALSO turning. But not like a mouse. More like a wolf. But theyre not pouncing. Theyre only bargaining. With God, with Nature, with whatever will bargain back. Forever on the prowl for seven good years. The child-of-misfortune has a question: In movies with babies in them, how do they get the babies to cry when they need them to? DO they GET the babies to cry or do they only CATCH them when theyre ALREADY crying? But then she guesses they dont do anything to stop the crying. And how do they get that shriek, how do they get that whimper? And that scene from that one movie -- the three-day-old falls to the front floor of the moving car -- they show her petrified, breathless, arms thrown rigidly out. How did they get THAT -- yeah, how did they get THAT? Well?, she insists. Well?, she demands. Well?, she breaks down. Well? The child-of-misfortune has a conjecture: Maybe somebody up there is doing a movie on cryers. An art movie. A collage. And thats why sad things keep happening. Thats why they wont let up. Thats why sneezes havent stopped at three. Thats why falling boots havent stopped at two. Thats why dreamers wake up to a pillowful of roaches. Thats why nightmares awaken to a quilt-ful of snakes Yes, that explains why misfortune is so popular. Somebody needs cryers big-H-ers as well. The child-of-misfortune hates sweeping. The floors just too big. And it takes too long to acquire that pile. Also, she knows what could happen before she gets to the dustpan. What winds, what child, what mere forgetting. She should hurry, really should get it all done or should use the vacuum since it conquers as it sees. She stares at the dustpan. She stares at the vacuum. Yet finds herself standing and hugging that broom. The child of misfortune never leaves dishes soaking. Because something could happen. Some spilling, some spoiling, some mere forgetting. And the child-of-misfortune knows that loosening is not separating separating is not disengaging disengaging is not escaping. And what soaks off gets layered with what its soaked off from. Better, feels the child-of-misfortune better just get it done now. Better to get her hands dirty. Even greasy. Even smelly. Besides, shes afraid someone will find the soak and wont believe that she didnt mean to leave it for someone else. And is surprised, rather than angry when someone else leaves something soaking for her. When the child-of-misfortune washes the tub she does not Ajax the entire bottom. Instead she does one square foot at a time. Again, shes afraid. The phone will ring, the door will knock. Or shell faint. Or die. And shed rather have just that small part soaped hopelessly up.  Thrift stores beckon the child-of-misfortune. The land of the lost and found. SHE is lost. SHE is found. And they arent like a party. There is always something for her. Also, everything is bite-sized. If fits in the washer, the dryer. Is paper thin in her closet. Can be sold, traded, hemmed or rolled to a little ball. But something else, something else today: If she changes her mind, if she made a mistake well... it only cost fifty cents. And if, a year later, it winds up torn or broken well, ... it came that way. Its a little like adoption; everything is shared, including guilt and blame. It is not hers alone. The child-of-misfortune says TGIF. In fact, TG its not SATURDAY. For on Saturday, the weekend begin s and therefore begins to end. The grief counseler at that conference seems okay. Shes knowledgeable, listens supportively, and at appropriate times, sports the appropriate pained expression. Most important, she has Been There. But... the child-of-misfortune cant quite put her finger on it. Can only put it in the form of questions. Why do all professional grief counselers seem to have teased dyed red hair? And brownish lipstick? And smoking...? adds another child-of-misfortune. Yes, children-of-misfortune notice things like that. They have not only Been There; they Are There. They keep Being There. They will Be There for a long long ttime. The child-of-misfortune has recurring dreams of showing up places she is not required to be. The labor room, the birthing room, her old high school. She just likes hanging around, theres no law against and its feeling very good. Except, after a while, some kind soul always walks over. Do you need any help? and this child knows the answer is yes. In the store one day the child-of-misfortune is accused of being rude. But how was she to know that woman was trying on clothes. It seemed she was only passing through. Besides, the child hadnt dropped her bundle on the womans feet only by the mirror and not piled very high. But Rude, says the woman, youre very rude and the child-of-misfortune is puzzled. The womans a character, is she not? Witness the turquoise pants, too tight and magenta blouse, too loose and the face that s all crunched up. True, the child-of-misfortune had been feeling tired. Perhaps more than usual. And angry. More than usual. Or perhaps, deep in her sub, shed thought, ALWAYS feels that people make allowances for children-of-misfortune she can be a little careless can be a little rude. She isnt sure; how can she be sure? A child-of-misfortune can never be sure. Is it possible, asks the child-of-misfortune, to conceive a week after a miscarriage? Probably not, answers the doctor. The child-of-misfortune turns livid. I didnt ask is it PROBABLE; I asked is it POSSIBLE. She pauses , then tirades anew. Probable. Dont give me probable. What a silly word, probable. Its been a long time since Ive gone by probable. Yes, probable means nothing to the child-of-misfortune. 99%. 100%. Theyve all done her wrong. Bitterly she repeats, Is it POSSIBLE to conceive a week after a miscarriage? Well, yes, ANYTHINGs possible, shrugs the doctor. He has dealt with children-of-misfortune before and he sort of understands. Its that page from Vivaldis Vesperae. The eighth-notes wont let up except for an occasional pair of sixteenths. The first sopranos shoot up dutifully a single slant, a single flame. This is perpetual motion. No time to shuffle or sway. Finally, finally, comes respite. Middle C, home, on the safe side of the bar. The first-sops smile and breathe, first shallow, then deep. They turn to one another; they begin to shuffle and sway All except for the child-of-misfortune. She alone has noticed that more eighth notes are at hand. She alone has taken the hop, two skips, and a jump from C up to G. And, a meaure later, she alone has turned the page. Yes, children-of-mstortune make good sight-readers. They never stop sight-ing; they never stop reading. Too well do they know that seven years famine is not always followed by seven years feast. Too well do they know the difference between high dramatics and the true coda. Too well do they know that resting is not the same as sleeping. Too well do they know that sometimes even music isnt kind. ZNDSET2HBS6*DSET!2H JB   00@@P P ` `   #p #p%%((++--00225(5(77:8:8<<?H?HAADXDXFFIhIhKKNxNxQQS 6*DSUMHDNISTYL JSTYLBC0CCCCC C(C,            L HASH $. . 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