It’s so hard to be without you (yes it is) Lying in the bed, you are so much to be without (dear gods more than any one, still) Rattles in my head that empty drum filled with doubt (not so much doubt, anymore. No.) Everything you lose, the wisdom will find its way out (this. this. this.) Every night is lonesome and is longer than before (Not every night. And no.) Nothing really matters anymore (There are things that really, really do.)
It’s so hard to be without you Used to feel so angry and now only I feel humble (yes but the timing. not angry anymore. free.) Stinging from the storm inside my ribs where it thunders (and inside my skull) Nothing left to say or really even wonder (so much left to say! so much left to wonder, to discover.) We are like a book and every page is so torn (some can be mended. Some discarded. Some set ablaze.) Nothing really matters anymore (not in that desperate, urgent way. no.)
It’s so hard not to call you (I listen to your voicemails to me. Mine to you. You saved them.) Thunder’s in my bones out in the streets where I first saw you (the wind’s been blowing like mad) When everything was new and colorful, it’s gotten darker (richer, bolder, deeper) Every day’s a lesson, things were brighter before (every day’s a lesson, things are clearer now) Nothing really matters anymore (the things that do are still here)
It’s so hard to be without you (it will never be easy) Everyday I find another little thread of silver (all the better to color purple) Waiting for me when I wake some place on the pillow And then I see the empty space beside me and remember I feel empty, I feel tired, I feel worn (I feel good. I feel alive. I feel ready.) Nothing really matters anymore (Everything matters.)
(I advise getting a little out of your head, listen to the music, and read along. that’s how I wrote it.)
Gary’s last Christmas, at my brother’s house in Connecticut.
We had finally become, after fourteen years together, aware, cognizant, and appreciative of most of each other’s most pressing and (otherwise seemingly) frivolous/unnecessary needs. It’s incredible to me now; just how much time we spent getting to the beginning of clarity. We had it, in the beginning, I think every cerebrally-minded couple does, but then life and mental illness and physical illness and unemployment and underemployment and medication side effects and more flavors of mental illness all dump themselves unceremoniously into the (already) deliciously complex stew that was our relationship.
Both of us stubborn, at times obstinate. Both of us eternal students, intellectuals, always needing to know more, and why. And to then debate both. Ad nauseam. Never satisfied with “author unknown” or “because I said so”. Dear gods no.
I miss watching TV with him. Needing to allow time for discussion and unpacking. Missing so much the back and forth. Not, however, missing the bad bits, and there were some really, really bad bits. Bits where I felt scared for my safety. Where I don’t doubt he was scared for his. I can be pretty fucking scary. Scared because I knew that the nastier it got, the less able I was to back away. Until he’d finally scream full-volume at me, in my face, stomp upstairs (watch that first step, it’s a doozy), and slam the door to his office. Further screaming and literal hysterical crying ensued. On both sides of the door.
I didn’t see how much danger we were in. I didn’t see (and neither did he) just how badly we were hurting each other. We couldn’t understand each other, couldn’t even speak civilly to each other. I know the truly horrific shit I thought about him (and never, ever said, no, not to him) and can never un-experience the truly horrific shit he said to me (no fucking filter on that boy no SIR). So many terrible things. So many red flags. And yet…
We never gave up. Came close a few times.
Lessons of the first 18,032 days of my life. Supernovaed the very next day. Big Bang. Everything coalescing into the shitstorm of the past 833 days and has led me to today, Christmas Day, 2019. More patient and less tolerant. More willing to give people enough rope to hang themselves with, and to then to pull the lever when I’ve had enough. No hard feelings on my end, just no thank you anymore. Unsubscribe and DELETE. No more time for negativity; my brain manufactures enough TYVM.
“So, ah, I was walking through my front hallway to go sit on the couch where I’m sitting now, and uh, caught my toe in the bottom of my, um, pajama bottoms and tripped and if I had fallen I would have definitely hit my head on the flagstone and um, yeah that could have been the end I could have tripped and died and then I sang myself a little song and said ‘I could have died and no one would have found me because I live alone.’ Whoa, wow. Okay.”
listening to talk of “bucket lists” places they want to visit
long ago we shared our bucket list adventures not actually going anywhere, no. but talking about them. seemed rational, if not feasible. I’d sent away for this catalogue this Antarctic adventures catalogue. came once a year and lived in the downstairs bathroom. I mean. we were living in our stay put forever house. why not think about forever plans?
I haven’t really thought about Antarctica in a long time. sometimes it creeps in I push it away.
So I never liked my last name growing up. Schwartz One syllable, one vowel, lots of consonants. My sister and I were the only ones with it in grade school. Come middle school and a whole bunch of new kids. Lots of Schwartzes, none of us related. I never liked introducing myself, either. Didn’t like the sound of my own name in my own mouth. The sound of it on the lips of others still odd to me, strange. Always feeling accusatory at first, second …
I’d changed it to take my first husband’s name, Block. Which wasn’t even his, really. Block. ugh. Got rid of him and his fool name. Back to Schwartz by default. The second one, Aubert. OH-bear. (don’t marry a rebound, people. It doesn’t end well.) “Best thing in my life right now,” I told him on the phone as I was leaving the DMV, “is getting my own name back on my license.” Accurate, but certainly not kind. Unnecessary to say. I’m sorry now that I did then.
The third one, though, the third one stayed up. Hoffman. What if I hyphenated it? Schwartz-Hoffman jfc no thank you that’s a mouthful. We discussed combining our surnames, this wonderfully wonky man of mine. Schwartzman. Or…
Hoffartz. I mean. Truly.
In the end I decided that I wanted to be Mrs. Hoffman. And since I decided (upon resolving my second mistake) that my signature would be a mononym forevermore signing it like Cher or Madonna somehow it got easier to say my own name. Lysa. Like lovely. Lysa with a Y. (watch the furrowed brow as they try to put that together where? where does the Y go?)
On facebook I dropped my middle name in favor of putting my maiden name there (maiden name! ooo how archaic!) yet it annoys me beyond reason when people use that entire name. Lysa Schwartz Hoffman because that is not who I am. I am Lysa Hoffman.
When I berate myself it’s usually to say “c’mon Schwartz, hustle up” liking that name now, perhaps only as an afterthought, but feeling comfortable in it.
so today, feeling a measure of all the things you’re supposed to feel at thanksgiving and more content and pleased with my comfort in my evolution I changed my name again, relegating (Schwartz) and elevating myself to who I decided to be when I married Gary.
I finally got there, here. Train’s not staying, though, she’s moving forward. taking my name with me into the night. Because what other comfort is there than knowing my true name?
I miss the way he’d lean down for me to appreciate its smoothness after a shave, his clean, warm scent, his deep, rich voice, low in my ear. A smile, a wink.
There is an incredibly talented artist that I love, and who loves me. I am proud to call Jar my friend. They post their work on Instagram here: @artbyjar. In every flash special they post, there’s always at least one piece that catches my eye, but never anything that has spoken to me. Until now. So this little beauty comes up on my screen and I zero in on the whale. Whale! A humpback whale! needneedneed send the DM get your spot. DONE. I look up from my text to see directly above the whale is a bee. a bumble bee. ughneedNEED. Here’s why:
Songs of the Humpback Whale, on vinyl released in 1970, was the first record I was given as a child, I was maybe six or seven. It opened like a double album, had a book inside that talked about the people who recorded it (Roger Payne, after research by Frank Watlington in 1966) and highlighted the problems with the whaling industry. There was a graphic photo of a dockside with the aftermath of a slaughtered whale. There were also five pieces of the most incredible abstract music I had ever heard in my (admittedly short) life. I have since listened to that album countless times, no bullshit new age music muddling the perfect pitch of whalesong, no dumb “inspirational” assholes spewing useless tripe. Pure, mournful, insistent. Funny, at times. Comforting. Reliable.
Over the years, I replaced the album with a CD, then digital download. I still have the album, probably warped from the heat in the attic but still.
1988. I was working at Waldenbooks in the Galleria. We sold movies on VHS and played them on continuous loop on the two overhead monitors above the cash wrap to entice customers. My friend Stef and I had the movies memorized and would run lines along with the videos. National Lampoon’s European Vacation. Dirty Dancing. And Star Trek IV: The Voyage Home. Featuring the whalesong discovered in 1967 and recorded by, you got it, Roger Payne.
(somewhere between 2007 and 2014) One day after Gary and I had been at couples’ therapy with a woefully underskilled and underwhelming therapist named Gil, we sat in the car, I’m imagining warming up the interior. I’d just gotten the aforementioned CD in the mail, and wanted to share it. I explained why it was so important to me; Gary, impatient, gestured “all right, already.” I hit play.
I closed my eyes, feeling the familiar cries wash over me, smiling as they filled the cabin. Shortly, I heard an intake of breath, and opened them. Gary was wide-eyed, tears spilling down his cheeks. “Stop it. Please. Make it stop.” his voice breaking. I stopped it immediately, grasping his hands, terrified. “Tell me,” I pleaded. “What’s going on?”
He took time to catch his breath, dry his tears, drink some water. Took another breath, let it out. “It’s absolutely excruciatingly obvious that these are incredibly intelligent creatures, communicating with each other. It is abundantly clear that we have no way of communicating with them. We can’t understand them; they can’t understand us.” The enormity of the parallel intelligence of these beings with no Rosetta Stone was too much to bear for him, that the only thing possible was to appreciate the song for what it was: abstract expression. As we would discover, that was something possibly impossible for him to do.
I never again played that album where he could hear it. I’ve played it a lot in the past twenty-two months. Mojo goes on high alert. I wonder how whalesong translates to him.
Bumble Bee. My nickname for Gary, one of. The Bumbliest Bee. The Mister. Mr. Grumblebee. I was glitterbug to him, his Glitter Girl. He used to mimic John Belushi in the Blue Brothers “King Bee” bit. He could be soft, and fuzzy, and sociable, and helpful, and he also had a very painful sting. It made perfect sense that the only medicine that helped for his allergies was honey, lots of local honey. He was my Bumble Bee for years. Forever.
So I see this juxtaposition, and I dive in. Book the appointment. Right around the 22-month mark. I woke this morning of the appointment after not managing my expectations the night before and am still feeling the sadness of it, even though I know what happened and why. Knowing how to not have that particular scenario play out again, while not scolding myself for allowing it to happen in the first place. The weight of summer is upon me in full: soggy, homicidal, blanketing, dysphoria and depression cycling out of control. My good friend John reached out, early this morning, asking how I was. I was honest. “I can’t get out of bed. I don’t want to.” He was gentle with me, as he always is, asking if I was off work today, what I had planned (not if I had plans. Important distinction), being empathetic as I wound through feeling frozen, not wanting to leave. Listing all the things I still haven’t done. John asked, “Do you feel like leaving means he’s really gone”, to which I replied, “I know he’s really gone. Yes. I won’t be able to look around and see him here, hear his voice here.”
Unprompted, he budgeted my time for me. Told me what to do; gave me guidance. I explained the meaning behind the whale and bee. That I need the physical pain that will come with this new tattoo, this catharsis. Even as I dawdled, started the shower and returned to my bed, John pressed, gently nudging me to get ready. That yes, you need this. I showered, dressed, drove. Started listening to The Ethical Slut on my way. Liking it a lot.
The pain is sharp, and necessary. For the first time ever it doesn’t take my breath away; no, it rides alongside the pain inside, keeping it company, letting it dissolve. Allowing it to be free, to let go. As we talk, as she works, as we work on ideas we’ve shared, plans for a future in which strong women help each other grow. In which good men are welcomed and embraced. This future that I am embracing whole-body, whole mind, whole heart.
I get to Jar’s, walking a few blocks in the 90° heat. It feels like a steam room, the entire Bronx is one big sauna. We can’t even embrace for a hello it’s so hot. Upstairs, their AC on full, greeting friends, settling in, discussing the artwork. Telling them the story I just told you. Feeling the weight and weightlessness at once, knowing that this is perfect. We settle in to our positions, discussing the next piece, and the next. They begin.
I take a few pictures of my new ink, send them to friends of all flavors. Obviously I do this for validation (miss me with your armchair therapist observational diagnosis of codependence, savvy?) and not because I want to share my happiness. OBVS.🙄🙄
I’ve been obsessed with this piece, as I see it as one piece, not two. Whale + Bee, that’s how I have it in my calendar. I’m running through names, permutations for a website, something easy, something memorable. It isn’t gelling. The Whale and The Bee. Nope. Nuh-uh. And then, a question from someone I’ve been spending time with recently. He asks, “Is that like a blessing: Be Well (bee + whale)?”
I didn’t think about the visual pun. That never happens. I don’t know how that happened. I relayed that to him. Then I said, “The whale and the bee are much more personal images with very specific meaning. Be well. It’s fucking brilliant.” The more I sit with this revelation, the happier I become. I promise everyone who asks for context (because I’m not the type to get inked for no reason) that I’m writing a blog post about the meaning. TL:dr “Be well.” It’s something I say to people instead of the ubiquitous “take care” (ugh), or “be good” (vom). Be well.
Be well. I keep saying it. Be well. It hits me again; my current favorite ceramic glaze (well, the past three years, my entire high-fire career anyhow) is a beautifully imperfect thing, a Bruce Dehnert recipe called BwhaleD. Be well.
Here ends the first part of this tale.
Stay tuned. And be well.
Whales Weep Not!
They say the sea is cold, but the sea contains the hottest blood of all, and the wildest, the most urgent.
All the whales in the wider deeps, hot are they, as they urge on and on, and dive beneath the icebergs. The right whales, the sperm-whales, the hammer-heads, the killers there they blow, there they blow, hot wild white breath out of the sea!
And they rock, and they rock, through the sensual ageless ages on the depths of the seven seas, and through the salt they reel with drunk delight and in the tropics tremble they with love and roll with massive, strong desire, like gods. Then the great bull lies up against his bride in the blue deep of the sea
as mountain pressing on mountain, in the zest of life: and out of the inward roaring of the inner red ocean of whale blood the long tip reaches strong, intense, like the maelstrom-tip, and comes to rest in the clasp and the soft, wild clutch of a she-whale’s fathomless body.
And over the bridge of the whale’s strong phallus, linking the wonder of whales the burning archangels under the sea keep passing, back and forth, keep passing archangels of bliss from him to her, from her to him, great Cherubim that wait on whales in mid-ocean, suspended in the waves of the sea great heaven of whales in the waters, old hierarchies. And enormous mother whales lie dreaming suckling their whale-tender young and dreaming with strange whale eyes wide open in the waters of the beginning and the end.
And bull-whales gather their women and whale-calves in a ring when danger threatens, on the surface of the ceaseless flood and range themselves like great fierce Seraphim facing the threat encircling their huddled monsters of love. and all this happiness in the sea, in the salt where God is also love, but without words: and Aphrodite is the wife of whales most happy, happy she!
and Venus among the fishes skips and is a she-dolphin she is the gay, delighted porpoise sporting with love and the sea she is the female tunny-fish, round and happy among the males and dense with happy blood, dark rainbow bliss in the sea.
The Salty Widow 