![\"\"](\"http:\/\/lukeford.net\/Images\/photos\/lukehovel.jpg\")
<\/p>\nMy first class was tonight. It exceeded my expectations.<\/p>\n
My classmates are all women younger than me (except for one older lady). I recognized two of them from yoga.<\/p>\n
Some of us may be friends for a long time.<\/p>\n
The workshop runs for ten weeks and it will climax with a public performance.<\/p>\n
The teacher started us out with an assignment to draw a picture from our life. She gave us crayons and brown paper bags.<\/p>\n
I used one blue crayon and sketched the hovel. In the middle, I pictured me lying down.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
The teacher asked us to give our work a title. I called mine "Sick."<\/p>\n
Then she asked us to locate what grabbed our attention about our drawing and then to write about it.<\/p>\n
I wrote: "Sick. Sick. Sick. I’ve spent half of my life sick. I’m sick of being sick. I’ve been mildly sick for the past two-and-a-half weeks. If I’m going to be sick, why can’t I be spectacularly sick? I want to be strong and manly. I want to be a rock that women dash themselves against. I want to be a rock of moral strength. I want to carry the realizations I’ve gained through illness into my healthy life and make a difference. I want to save up money to tide myself over through bad times. I want to be warm and safe."<\/p>\n
The teacher said this was a prose poem. She encouraged me to explicate on my primal male archetype. She wanted to hear more about my being a rock that women dash themselves against.<\/p>\n
Then she had us each of spontaneously tell a story.<\/p>\n
I said: It was July 9th. Let’s say the year was 2005. My girlfriend Dana* called from New York where she was visiting family.<\/p>\n
"Luke," she said, "there’s something I want to tell you. On Friday night, Vicki* came over and we fooled around. How do you feel about that? I was her late night booty call. How does that make you feel?"<\/p>\n
I felt a dagger ripping into my chest. "Wow," I said.<\/p>\n
I wanted to be real to the moment. I did not want to be vulnerable. I did not want to appear angry. I did not want to inquire further. I did not want to ask, "Did she *** your ***** better than I did? Did she make you ****** better than I did? Did you talk about me after you ******?"<\/p>\n
I felt so hurt. My woman having sex with someone else is the most painful thing she can do to me.<\/p>\n
"Wow," I said.<\/p>\n
"Yes," she said.<\/p>\n
"Wow," I said.<\/p>\n
I paused and then said: "So how are things with your family?"<\/p>\n
Then her call waiting beeped.<\/p>\n
"I have to take this," she said. "It’s my father. Hang on."<\/p>\n
I hung on for about 40 seconds. Then I hung up. When Dana called back, I did not take her call. Instead I returned to the book I was reading by Katie Roiphe, "Uncommon Arrangements: Seven Portraits of Married Life in London Literary Circles 1910-1939<\/a>".<\/p>\n The teacher says I remind her of Harold Pinter with his Pinteresque pauses.<\/p>\n Cathy Seipp had said that about my writing.<\/p>\n The teacher asked me what I did after I got off the phone.<\/p>\n "I walked around in a circle," I said. "And then I walked down the road."<\/p>\n She asked what I felt.<\/p>\n "At first stabbing pain," I said. "And then relief."<\/p>\n Why relief?<\/p>\n "That there wasn’t anything I needed to do. I didn’t need to try anymore. I didn’t need to attempt to square the circle. She hated Orthodox Judaism. I was dedicated to it. We were finished."<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":" My first class was tonight. It exceeded my expectations. My classmates are all women younger than me (except for one older lady). I recognized two of them from yoga. Some of us may be friends for a long time. The … Continue reading