Monthly Archives: February 2013

Off-Topic: A Blog About Gender Transition

Yesterday my brother sent me a post from a blog by his son, who is going through gender transition and whose name, now that the process has begun, is Quinn.  I’ve always thought that such a transition must be an incredibly stressful one, physically and emotionally and socially.  But if the one post I’ve had the chance to read so far is any indication, Quinn–who, it turns out, is an amazing writer–will be documenting her own experience with grace, intelligence, humor, and honesty.  I’m really looking forward to reading about the journey, and I highly recommend the blog to pretty much anyone!  Here’s the link:

http://gendertranstion.blogspot.com/

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More on the Subject of “Breath”–“Diamonds and Rust”

Joan Baez’s song “Diamonds and Rust” is on the playlist for Holding Breath for many reasons (one of them simply being that it’s a ridiculously beautiful song), but I was thinking about it again last night when I realized that I’d left out the “Holding Breath” chapter in the first edition of my memoir (see previous post).  Whenever I hear the lines about “snow in your hair,” and the mingling of breath in the cold air, I see a picture in my mind of walking through the Lower East Side with David on a snowy winter day, holding his hand, perhaps as we’re on our way back to his apartment from the little Dominican restaurant on Essex street, or from picking up our Christmas tree.

Here’s the song:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sIiO7fiNMgA

The Meaning of “Holding Breath”/New Edition of the Book

I was mortified yesterday when I realized that when I published Holding Breath I left out a short, yet rather pivotal piece of the book.  The omission doesn’t really change the story, but it explains why I chose to give the book that title, and offers a little more insight into David’s (and my own) state of mind in the few days before he passed away.  Today I republished the book as a second edition that includes the new chapter.  I apologize to those of you who bought the first edition, but I’m posting the chapter here so that you can, at least, read it now:

Holding Breath

In his last few weeks, David rarely lay down any more. At night, he would sit up for hours, staring at the wall, or at the floor, often with that strange little smile on his lips, as if he was being told some wonderful secret. Sometimes I’d try to pull him down, because it worried me that he wasn’t sleeping. Sometimes he’d resist. Other times he would lie down, but his legs wouldn’t straighten out.

He spoke very little, and when he did, the words would come out unexpectedly, quietly, slowly, as if they’d been inside of him for a long time and were just coming to the surface.

He had two homecare attendants, one during the day, and one at night. Sometimes I’d sleep with David with the attendant present; it may have seemed strange but I was well past caring about how anything seemed.

Other nights I’d send the attendant home, and take care of David myself. There’s one night in particular that was like a tunnel of dreams, a kind of final journey. I’d gone out to Delancey to buy some sheets for the hospital bed. When I got back to the apartment I sent the homecare attendant home, and I had a sip of David’s methadone (which the VA had sent home with him but which he hadn’t been drinking) so that I could sleep. That night, for some reason, we slept in the hospital bed, or, I should say, I slept. David sat up for most of the night, looking at the floor.

At some point during the night, David said, “I need.” He stopped there.

“What do you need?” I asked him.

It took him a few moments to form the words.  “I need someone to hold my breath for me.”

I think I understood what he meant, but I don’t remember how I answered. Maybe I told him that I would. Maybe that’s what I’m trying to do now, as I write.

This is a poem that I wrote about that night:

 

HOLDING BREATH

April dusk drained, while I was out,

Into your mouth, the black

Collapsing cave, your glottis ticking off

Last swallows of the day. You watched tides

Receding, patterns on the rug

Recounting dreams, frail fingers

Fingering cold fences

That held you in your bed.

 

Coming in with sheets

And pillows from Delancey, I smelled your skin

Beleaguered., tasting itself, falling

Away, the smell of fruit

Rotting in a bowl, unnaturally sweet.

The nurse dismissed, I prematurely lit the room

With candles against night.

 

Then night began, a shadow

Lapping in the shallow moments. Rats

And pigeons rustled, pestilent,

Trapped in walls; open windows lifted tongues,

Sending quiet cadenced prayers

To infiltrate God’s monotone. Your eyes,

Slow fish, slid in wide ellipses

While I prepared us for the caterpillar ride

To dawn. By nine I lay

Against your back between the rails, your muteness

Sharp against murmurs from the street,

Against the muffled rush of breeze

Through pale fingers of new leaves. Hooded figures

Flickered and bowed

In gestures of atonement on the walls.

 

 

There was nothing to do

But wait. I lay you down. Sometime that night

Your whisper broke

An interval of sleep. I need,

You said. I waited while

You shook it from inside your head.

I need someone

To hold my breath for me.

 

That night

I never slept again,

Imagining you driving on some prairie road,

Your arm dancing in the wind outside the window

With the rhythm of a country song.

I warmed your back curved hard

Against sleep, passing the hours preparing

For the time that we had left.

That’s it.  As far as what David meant when he said that he needed someone to hold his breath for him is concerned, I’ve interpreted it in many different ways since that night, but it was only a couple of years ago that I learned that, in Hebrew, Aramaic, and Greek (and, for all I know, in some other languages as well), the word for “breath” is the same as the word for “spirit.”

(Holding Breath: A Memoir of AIDS’ Wildfire Days–now the second edition–is available here:

http://www.amazon.com/Holding-Breath-Memoir-AIDS-Wildfire/dp/1480164518/ref=tmm_pap_title_0?ie=UTF8&qid=1350864778&sr=1-3 )

The Eighties… “Bitchen”!

A couple of posts ago I mentioned a memoir by Tom Harvey, who had read Holding Breath.  We ended up exchanging print copies of our books, and I got to read Tom’s book–The Eighties: A Bitchen Time To Be a Teenager!  Now, I was only a teenager for one year of the ’80’s (and spent most of the decade kind of “underground” at college and later in NYC when I was busy meeting and loving David), but I had a wonderful time reading The Eighties.  It will resonate even more for those who actually did come of age in the ’80’s.  This was my review of the book on Amazon.com and Goodreads:

The advent of and boom in “indie” publishing has made me realize something–that EVERYONE has a story to tell and, when the stories are written well, readers can learn something AND be entertained while reading those of even the most seemingly “ordinary” people. The fact is that there really are no “ordinary” people, or ordinary lives.

Unfortunately, not everyone who has a story to tell has the talent to tell it in writing (I’m not putting anyone down; it’s simply that different people have different talents). Tom Harvey DOES have the talent, and his memoir is entertaining and thought-provoking and funny and occasionally sad. He also has an absolutely amazing memory for details from what is now a fairly long time ago.

What impressed me the most about the book, however, is that it portrays the author’s life as a teen in the ’80’s with such joy and enthusiasm (there are a lot of really tragic memoirs out there, too–a happy one that’s fun to read is a rare thing!). If everyone had such a lust for life as Tom had then (and, I would guess, now), and were able to express it as wonderfully and infectiously as Tom does in his book, the world would no doubt be a more joyful place. I read The Eighties during kind of a rough week, and it did me the huge favor of cheering me up enormously. (And yet, small, melancholy details like the down-and-out man the author observed in a restaurant, dribbling his food, provide balance and moments of good reflection. The author seemed to swallow that part of his life–the good and not-so-good parts of it–whole, and he sends it back to his readers as a gift.)

I can’t agree with ALL of Tom’s tastes in music :), but I loved his book!

Here’s the link to the book’s Amazon page again:

http://www.amazon.com/The-Eighties-Bitchen-Teenager-ebook/dp/B0084KT0WM/ref=sr_1_1?s=digital-text&ie=UTF8&qid=1359853282&sr=1-1&keywords=tom+harvey

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