Anita Liberty's Weekend Report

My weekend activities and what you missed because you aren't me...

Friday, April 4, 1997:
I didn't have a temp job today. So I went to the ophthalmologist. I wasn't prepared for the questions. More questions. She must know my gynecologist (see Episode 5 of Anita Liberty's Weekend Report).

She asks me: "Can you see things clearly?"
"Yes."
"From every perspective?"
"Yes."
"Do you want to see things more clearly?"
"God, no."
On that, my doctor dims the lights. And the projection appears before me.
She asks me: "Can you read that?"
I can: "G X T E F S"
"And that?"
"L P Q I B A Y"
"Keep going," she says as she clicks the slides.
"U H X M C Z"
"K U J H R O"
"A L O N E"
I blink.
"H O P E L E S S"
I squint.
"B I T T E R"
I rub my eyes.
"E N O U G H"
"Enough. I've seen enough," I cry.

So my doctor puts drops in my eyes and now I can't put anything into focus. And that mollifies me for the moment. She looks deeply, lovingly into my eyes and my mind tells my body: "No, Mitchell's not back. This is Dr. Aronian and she's not going to kiss you. She looks at all of her patients this way." But Dr. Aronian does tell me that I have beautiful retinas and I will treasure that compliment for days, just as a dog buries a bone which she can dig up later when she's D E S P E R A T E.

Saturday, April 5, 1997:
Went to the Poetry Club tonight. When I got there, the owner handed me a postcard addressed to me in care of the club. Here's what it said:

Dear Anita:

God is a stupid boy. An incredibly well-armed and powerful stupid boy, but just another stupid boy all the same. Is he not vindictive? Does he not constantly bug the shit out of us, trying to get our attention? Is he not a bit of dink? In God's High School Yearbook, his blurry, unflattering photo can be found between

My first fan letter. I have no idea who sent that to me, but I'd do him.

Sunday April 6, 1997:
I think I'm getting ready to move on. Truly. To meet someone else. My self-esteem is rising. And I think, who's it going to be? I can't even imagine. I can't even fantasize. Is he someone I know? If not, will I recognize him when I meet him? These dates. These men. The ones who hurt me, bore me, make me write poetry. Can they all be as ridiculous as what they are to me? Or do I just refuse to forgive them for things they haven't even done yet? No man stands a chance. And I still think, foolishly, that there is a man. A chance. One more time for one more date to be right. So I go willing to know that, even if it's not right, and I can't even recognize right, at least I'll get a poem out of it.

A poem that snakes around 
		the innocent boy who sits in front of me, 
thinking his own thoughts, 
		and trying to connect and get laid and, 
maybe even, I'd like to think, barring clichés, 
	fall in love? 
			And if it's him across from me, 
if he's the one, I think I'll make fun of the one, too. 
So, it's true, I have a lot of bad dates. 
	And I write a lot of good poems. 

			Maybe that's not enough anymore.