Different Slants

© March 16, 2014

Forward to Precision

In July 2016, I wrote

“David’s Star” www.differentslants.com/?p=3102 

to express the never-ending insecurity of being ethnically indistinguishable and, at times the brutal consequences of strangers sometimes guessing wrong, and sometimes guessing right. A small room in Hell, and just my size. I stay there part time.

A brilliant Rabbi, who knew I was a writer, at a now closed synagogue in Northern Illinois asked me to help him out when he was trying to advise depressed Russian Jewish immigrants who couldn’t comprehend the meaning of the word “depression” in English.

This was in 2002, before I had published any books or anything online, either. After a few weeks, the end result was:

“Depression, Despair and The Human Voice” www.differentslants.com/?p=72. 

That Rabbi later told me what I wrote was perfect for his needs.

Later, I published it on my DifferentSlants.com website and it became my most read story for years. In it, I explicitly explained what it was like to live with depression from the inside out, before I was diagnosed with it and prescribed the correct medication.

In 2004, after learning that I had three, then four brain tumors, I had brain surgery in Chicago, once in January and again in April. In April while recovering, I unexpectedly was able to read my chart when my surgeon accidentally left my file on my bed. It said: Fantastic recovery!  With an exclamation point. It made me wonder what he was expecting.

After my recovery, that same hospital hired me to read some of my stories to a room filled with brain surgery survivors. It was then that I saw what my life could have been like, instead of how it actually turned out. No one in that room looked at me for the hour I was there reading.  They didn’t seem to notice me at all. They just kept looking around the room or doing nothing. I understood then how incredibly fortunate I was.

I wanted to write something about the experience or another situation involving an out of control brain . This time I did a lot of research to find a way to express the grim reality some people live with every day, all day, when their physical bodies are prisoners of their damaged brains. And no, this is not autobiographical. There’s enough wrong with me as it is.

The resulting title of the poem I wrote about a person having OCD, or obsessive compulsive disorder is “Precision”. It is intended to transmit the honest reality of rigidly living a life strictly within the lines.

All his lines are parallel
Boots side by side
Left on the left
Right on the right
There is a second pair
Waiting
For more serious weather
Drifts of snow
That may never come
But he is ready
Which is important

Large paper clips
Preferred to small paper clips
A grip more secure
Neatly separated from
# 19 rubber bands
Generations of pens
Black preferred
Retrieved from dead relatives
Dry ones disposed
Whenever discovered
Useless things
Taking up space
Is unacceptable

White socks
Above
Black socks
Below
No integration in the sock drawer
Other colors inconceivable
The socks themselves
Unaware of this arrangement
(With a hint of madness ever present)
Only the separator knows
Allowing
Peace and civility
In his quiet wooden dresser

There are many good tools
Waiting
Patiently waiting
Ready
Situations arise
He must be ready
Comfortably knowledgeable
About the
Several pliers
Steel hammer
The range of sizes of screwdrivers
Phillips and flathead
Tiny ones for tiny work
Scattered

Yet their nook is known
Nestled near
Two ancient wrenches
Scarred, worn, dependable
Bottles of glue
Small coils of wire
Numerous boxes of
Screws and nails
Everything necessary present
Even the chaos is organized
In his sturdy tool drawer
Anchoring his desk
Securing his workplace

Once his dead Grandmother’s
Fragile European clock
Fell and fractured
The winged Cherub atop it
Shattered
He gathered the shards
Examined, reassembled and glued
The Cherub’s
Curved and twisted pink surfaces
Skillfully, patiently restoring order
Save the missing bulging
Trapezoidian tummy

The randomly flung
Irreplaceable ceramic
A gaping black hole
A rip in perfection
Impudent disorder
In his carefully constructed
Protected and preserved
Inanimate universe

Two years later
His probing bare toe
Unexpectantly detected
A small sharp something
Behind a desk leg
Interrupting the security
Of his room’s safe floor
His rigidity of security
Cracked
Therefore unignorable
It’s retrievement an
Undisputed priority

Mysteries were forbidden

The initially unknown item
Sat beneath a strong white light
Center stage and silent
Meekly awaiting a verdict:
Essential or invader
Treasured or expelled
His dead Grandmother’s
Nearly resurrected
Artfully varicosed
Yet endlessly disturbing
Ceramic clock
Distinctly clicking off the seconds

A deep sigh
Audible but unheard
Escaped
Blending with the cool air
In his room
The missing piece
The tardy tummy
Lay before him

All other needs discarded
Perfection rapidly pursued
His right hand reaching up
For the eternally offending clock
His left hand reaching down
To open the tool drawer
Intelligent fingers instantly probing
For the white glue bottle
Pliable and ready
Both hands gently revolving the
Prodigal shard
Prior to insertion
More than one closure
Now possible

Squinting in the light
White glue circumventing the slender
Ceramic edge
A rare smile
Expanding across his face
He gently inserted and thereby completed
The final restoration of the
Pink ceramic Cherub’s
Missing
Trapezoidian tummy

No–
The Cherub’s tiny white wings
Didn’t flutter
As his Grandmother’s clock
Resumed presiding over its honored niche
On the shelf
Fantasy was unnecessary

But
Perfection was necessary
Order was necessary
And the seeking of reassembling
Broken parts of his life
Was necessary
While forever unattainable
His day crept
Infinitesimally closer to his goal
Allowing him to achieve
Elusive happiness
If only for a moment

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