Plain As Vodka Day, Keep Sweating Blood, and A Bluebird As We Thrash.
Seven writers bring the metal and mettle to number 57, stretching their fingers across time and space, across verse and touch, into our cores, and the air around the rest. Hot coffee, cold reads, with eight pieces of undeniable beauty to command our attention, and send us away floating.
Here's the link to 57:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HP_J3j0uL5I
And here are the pieces featured.
https://www.theprose.com/post/824709/the-stone-cutter https://www.theprose.com/post/824539/the-blank https://www.theprose.com/post/823998/heroes
https://www.theprose.com/post/823917/the-plover https://www.theprose.com/post/823875/ode-to-a-prizefighter https://www.theprose.com/post/823721/swings-both-ways
https://www.theprose.com/post/823715/uncompromising https://www.theprose.com/post/823328/blue-bird
And.
As always.
Thank you for being here.
-The Prose. team
A muted tone, a fade to a hum. Prose. Radio’s Number 56 and Mavia.
Mavia sent in number 56, which features two writers and her signature sound.
Stay awhile, have a drink...
Here's the link to the show.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Rk0jDiU7WBw
And we'll link the authors below in the comments.
And.
As always.
Thank you for being here.
-The Prose. team
From an intro inspired by Tears for Fears, into a moonlit buzz of wonder, and then on to two new bloods that absolutely steal the show with their words to ride shotgun across the moon so graceful, into a summer to greet the juxtapostion of death against dread.
Here's the link to Prose. Radio's Episode 55.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eZo89vojB_E
And here are the requested pieces featured.
https://www.theprose.com/post/822872/time-too-short
https://www.theprose.com/post/823028/a-summer-passes
And.
As always.
Thank you for being here.
-The Prose team
The Box. Only way out, hidden, secret codes, moments and conversation, and Last.
In number 54, Mavia sends in another guest narration with her signature sound over more signature pieces you'll read on Prose., and nowhere else like it. From a Challenge from Last, titled, 'The Box,' five pieces are featured, and we're here to tell you, these five pieces are five fantastic features from our pages.
Here's the link to Prose. Radio to listen.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LeFLfe0NQ7g
And here are the pieces featured.
https://www.theprose.com/post/817327/the-box https://www.theprose.com/post/817596/my-hidden-box https://www.theprose.com/post/817543/on-the-top-shelf-of-my-closet
https://www.theprose.com/post/818141/the-box https://www.theprose.com/post/818635/children-like-them
And.
As always.
Thank you for being here.
-The Prose. team
Episode 53: The Flesh of Pigs
Mariah closes out what area_man opens, while anchored in the middle beetween is something from ModernAntigone that can only be described with words like addictive, gorgeous, seasoned... Just like the piece before and the piece after. From the finest dining to feed the arts, to the light blocked and two litanies of sorrowful flavor so deliciously dark and told with iron breath, to the sweet song of what has died on the vine, number 53 on Prose. Radio features three writers with something beautiful to say, no matter how we slice it
Here's the link to Prose. Radio.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jpGJ5qRys8Q
And here are the featured pieces.
https://www.theprose.com/post/822012/blocking-the-light https://www.theprose.com/post/819551/litany-i-ii https://www.theprose.com/post/811664/loves-death
And.
As always.
Thank you for being here.
-The Prose. team
Episode 53: The Flesh of Pigs
Mariah closes out what area_man opens, while anchored in the middle beetween is something from ModernAntigone that can only be described with words like addictive, gorgeous, seasoned... Just like the piece before and the piece after. From the finest dining to feed the arts, to the light blocked and two litanies of sorrowful flavor so deliciously dark and told with iron breath, to the sweet song of what has died on the vine, number 53 on Prose. Radio features three writers with something beautiful to say, no matter how we slice it
Here's the link to Prose. Radio.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jpGJ5qRys8Q
And here are the featured pieces.
https://www.theprose.com/post/822012/blocking-the-light https://www.theprose.com/post/819551/litany-i-ii https://www.theprose.com/post/811664/loves-death
And.
As always.
Thank you for being here.
-The Prose. team
ASTROLOGY 2.0 (ASSHŌLOGY)
PRESS RELEASE FROM THE INTERNATIONAL ASTROLOGICAL UNION
In response to the scientific community which has successfully propagated the idea that astrology is bullshit, we of the IAU have proposed implementation of a new astrological classification based--not on the Zodiac--but the Blowbac system. That is, what people are, based on how they act and the names given them by others.
This is felt to be more accurate than describing individual Zodiac signs, which label persons as bold, competitive, energetic,...loyal but stubborn...versatile but impatient...passionate but uncommunicative, and the like.
Such vagueness is the very reason for science calling Astrology bogus! Imagine people--not as how they act being predicted (vague and wrong), but how they act, in daily predictions. The accuracy's already there on the front end. Science can go fuck itself.
Thus, Astrology reimagined as Asshōlogy, will again re-establish accuracy to personalities and more aptly predict how people's days will go according to horoscopes (now called "fluoroscopes").
Dates of birth will no longer differentiate person types, but how they act. Herein are the NEW SIGNS, to be used immediately:
Dicks: rude and inconsiderate, but just don't care.
Assholes: usually men--rude, but derive entertainment out of it. Fuck you over just because they can. Two steps above "Dipshits" (see NEXT); one step above "Dicks" (see ABOVE).
Dipshits: always men--rude but clueless; stupidly inconsiderate. Fuck you over and don't even know it.
Losers: not rude, not crude, just clueless. Just fuck themselves over. Over and over.
Shitheads: rude and crude, bringing whole otherwise upstanding families down.
Scumbags: males who are rude, crude, and lewd. Two steps below "Losers."
Skanks: females who are rude, crude, and lewd. Two steps above "Bitches" (see BELOW).
Douchebags: females or males who insist you should act just like they do.
Fucktards: "Assholes" (see ABOVE) who try to fuck you over but can't because they are too fucking feckless to actually be "Assholes" (see ABOVE).
Numbnuts: (singular and plural) — "Fucktards" (see ABOVE) who wouldn't even think of fucking over those who deserve it.
Assclowns: "Scumbags" (see ABOVE) and "Skanks" (see ABOVE) who have ambitions; also, politicians.
Bitches: female "Assholes" (not anatomically, but Asshōlogically). Usually, successful women mislabeled by "Losers" (see ABOVE).
Alone, like a train wreck, one mockingbird, a touch of rage, and a potholder.
Mavia sent in episode 52 this morning, and it sounds and reads like a satin sheet and an open window, the breeze just right, the moon just right. Featuring some seasoned talent, delivered with the air and pause ony she has, for a great way to get lost in the writing of these minds.
Here's the link to the show:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4LjuIknQ8vE
And we'll tag the authors in the space below...
And.
As always.
Thank you for being here.
-The Prose. team
Some thoughts about my mom and her mental illness:
My mom was a single mother. I was born in the 60’s, and while it appeared my mom was pretty self-sufficient, where I lived in the working-class-neighborhood of Brooklyn, it was considered a faux pas to give birth to a child out of wedlock. My mom knew this and she found a guy who was willing to be listed as the father on my birth certificate. I didn’t know this at the time, but my mom had been married two times before I was born. During her life she was married a total of nine times. Nope, that’s not a misprint. Nine times.
My mom was a consummate artist. She was also profoundly mentally ill. I am convinced of a truism of my mother’s artwork: her mental illness informed her art, and her art informed her mental illness. Knowing her as well as I did it makes sense that she used art as a distraction. It also makes sense that she was married nine times. As her internal world was so chaotic, I sense she was looking for outside stimuli to quell the madness she felt on the inside as well as receive some kind of validation that she was okay.
During the time my mom was a professional artist her work appeared in over 200 shows. She worked in various mediums (plaster, ceramics, sculpture, pottery, pen and ink, etc) but her best work was done in either oil or acrylic. Today, artists mount their work between two pieces of clear Lexan or Lucite. My mother’s work was mounted between two large pieces of glass, held together by large machine bolts/screws. Felt washers were used on either side of the bolt ,and in-between the pieces of glass. The pieces of glass came shipped to our apartment pre-drilled. My mom tried various methods to mount her work, but she was fond of threading the holes in the glass with climbing rope and using a fisherman’s knot connected to some bolts mounted on the ceiling. Not only was she a consummate artist, she prided herself on making sure her art was mounted in a way that could keep her work safe. People would come from across the globe to attend her shows and buy her work. I was proud of my mom and I never tired of people telling me that my mom was amazing.
As a kid I remember hoping that the constant adulation my mom received about her art would be sufficient to quell the near- constant distress she felt with her various mental health issues. As a kid I remember feeling powerless to help my mom. When my mother took her medication, she was at ease in the world: her world made sense, and there was a sense of order in the Universe. When my mom took her medication, I felt connected to her. When she kept to her medication schedule my friends weren’t scared of her. My mother was also trained as a mental health therapist. When she took her medication, she had amazing clinical insight. When she didn’t take her meds, the police were always there. I’m not sure exactly how many times I visited her in the hospital. The diagnosis was always the same:
– Paranoid Schizophrenia with depressed features
– Narcissistic Personality Disorder
– Borderline Personality Disorder
– Sociopathic personality Disturbance, or what is known today as Antisocial Personality Disorder
My grandmother was a social worker and my mom was a therapist. It’s not surprising that I was drawn to working in the mental health field. After reviewing my mom’s hospital records, I’m not sure that the last three mental health diagnoses were accurate, however, I am absolutely convinced she suffered from Paranoid Schizophrenia. She had command hallucinations which convinced her I was the spawn of Satan and that the only way to save the world was to end my life. During her last hospital stay the entire team met with me and my grandparents and they disclosed my mother’s plans to end my life. There were enough clues along the way but nothing extreme enough happened which prompted the state or my grandparents to remove me from my mother’s care. I came to live with my grandparents but was extremely sad as I felt like I was abandoning my mom.
Have you seen A Beautiful Mind? It’s an amazing film that does a wonderful job of illustrating mental illness, specifically paranoid schizophrenia and delusional episodes. While I have never met John Nash nor do I know anyone who knows him, I can relate to how his wife felt living with someone who was profoundly mentally ill. Unlike John Nash, my mom was never compelled to create a room full of chaos. She kept most of her delusions in well over 600 scrapbooks. My mom was obsessed with numbers, colors, shapes and abstract information. If she saw the number 5 on TV, she would collect five objects that represented that number. If the numbers on TV were a certain color, she would collect pieces of paper in that color: the word ‘White’ would become part of her delusion, and she would collect a large number of objects that were white. As ‘White’ has five letters she would fixate on the number five. Much like someone with OCD engages in the compulsion to relieve the distress, my mom was compelled to focus on her delusions to feel safe. After I was sent to live with my grandparents, I inherited all of my mom’s scrapbooks.
I tried looking through them to see if I could gain any insight as to how my mom lived her life and navigated her world. After paging through many of the scrapbooks my grandmother sat beside me, placed her hand on mine and encouraged me to stop. “Todd, even your mom doesn’t understand why she does what she does”. My grandmother was right. I was simply trying to find a way to be closer to my mom. I wanted to help her. I felt powerless.
Growing up with my mom and living with grandparents that survived a genocide certainly shaped how I view mental illness and the work with my patients.
I’m not a huge fan of labels. My experience is that when you label something not only do you need to overcome the affliction, you also need to overcome the label. I certainly understand why a label or a DSM code is applied in a mental health setting: they create a sense of commonality with other clinicians, they act a gateway for billing practices, they offer a common language when writing reports or letters, and when clients do not behave in a clinical setting the clinician can blame the patient versus take responsibility for their inability to make any progress with their client.
Unfortunately, labels also tend to marginalize clients, especially people who are poor or low-income. People with greater financial resources tend to have fewer social problems. Clients without the aid of financial support tend to be at the behest of agencies which are overloaded and they often are only willing to apply a label to make quick work of a new admit. As I’ve worked as a clinician in a variety of agencies and with clients on either side of the financial spectrum, I’m convinced this point-of-view is accurate. I’m also embarrassed to admit that early in my clinical career I was entirely too generous with the application of labels on a host of clients. I’m reminded of many assessments and letters and documents that were rife with the misapplication of whatever diagnostic assessment impressed me at the time. I’m grateful that I have grown as a clinician and have grown past the need to both marginalize and stigmatize clients seeking help.
I have suffered with depression for most of my life. Meds only seem to work for a limited period of time. The only thing that seems to help with depression is therapy and volunteer efforts.
I think of mental illness as being on a spectrum, and I’m certain that if most people peeked at the DSM 5 they could probably identify with some of the characteristics of any of the diagnostic criteria. Chronic mental illness is a bit different. I think of chronic mental illness like a radio station: most people who are not mentally ill have the ability to tune into one station; my mother lacked this ability. Attendant to the illness of Schizophrenia belies disorganized thoughts. I’m not sure my mom ever felt normal or had the ability to have coherent and cogent thoughts. Most literature suggests that symptoms of Schizophrenia manifests before the age of 19. While I never had the opportunity to meet any of her family, I have heard enough of my mother’s background to determine that my mom suffered from early-onset Schizophrenia. She likely heard voices and suffered with hallucinations and delusions while she was in Kindergarten.
As hard as it was for me to accept my mom’s mental illness, I am absolutely certain it was just as hard for her to accept that her brain did not function as a normal human being, whatever normal is. I saw a great bumper sticker that said normal is a setting on a washing machine. I think that is pretty spot-on. My mom represented two extremes of a great mind: a tormented human being in her own thought prison and a fantastically talented artist with the capacity to produce great, original work in various mediums which were lauded by art critics throughout the US and the rest of the world. The people who knew my mom suggested she was a great artist and a consummate therapist. I think they were right.
When I was a kid I used to believe that my mom ruined my childhood. I blamed her for creating so much chaos in my life. I assumed she did this intentionally. I grew up in an environment of catastrophic violence. Whenever I had a hard time, I’d point to my mom: I never developed the coping skills needed for a decent life,
I developed PTSD because of my mom and her poor choices, I attracted women who weren’t good for me as I had a poor role model. While this could be great fodder for a therapy visit, it’s also a fantastic way to stay ‘stuck’.
Here’s what I know and believe to be true: my mom did the best she could with what she had. She was incapacitated and couldn’t have functioned any other way. She was living with a disease that affected the way she behaved and thought about people and the world at large. While my mom was sufficiently impacted with mental illness, she had some sense that she couldn’t care for me and let my grandparents raise me. In her mental fugue she had enough clarity to make a decision for my own well-being.
My mom also valued education (she possessed a few graduate degrees) and insisted I followed-through with my own education. She valued self-sufficiency and would remind me that I had the fortitude and capacity to survive. While I lived with her pain and confusion, this experience has remained a catalyst for friends, sponsees, and clients: when people talk to me I’m not shaken by their disclosures. Being able to listen to the pain of another person without flinching is a very concrete experience that allows me to witness humanity. I’m also keenly aware that my mom had wanted to take her own life on several occasions. Had she done that I wouldn’t be here. Because of my mom I had an amazing relationship with my grandparents that would have never been possible had my mom been born without any kind of mental illness.
I never had the opportunity to meet my mom before she died. We were estranged for the last 45 years she was alive; my mom became lost in her white power/Nazi beliefs which sufficiently ended our relationship. I dated an African American woman who converted to Judaism for me (we had planned to get married further down the road), and according to my mother, I had “polluted the bloodline”. I was born in the Projects (Flatbush Gardens) so I’m not exactly sure what white trash ideals she wanted me to preserve.
Was I affected by my mom’s mental illness? Certainly. Do I have more work to do? Absolutely. While I can focus on what I didn’t get and be upset that there are places in my life that feel incomplete, I am left with a striking revelation: there are gifts in the darkness.
However you choose to deal with your own distress, good luck on your path.
Potholder: A Love Story
Once upon Ye Olde English heath, as the door to her cottage swung open, Hildegard smelled burning. Her husband’s boot had crossed the threshold, he would expect dinner, and he would not want it to be burned.
Hildegard rushed to the hearth. She grabbed the dangling pot of stew and instantly, agonizingly, the metal seared her palms.
“Zounds!” she cried.
“Woman!” her husband remonstrated.
“Zounds, it hurts!”
“Hold thy foul tongue!” her husband roared. “Thou wilt not blaspheme in my house!” (For zounds, dear reader, derived from God’s wounds, a reference to the crucifixion of Christ, and to employ the torture of one’s Lord and Savior as an epithet was as shocking to a pious old Englishman as the lyrics of NWA would prove to his descendants' erstwhile colonists 400 years after.)
“But it hurts!” Hildegard cried. “Thy stew burneth, and the metal hath proved too hot for my tender hands!”
“Stow thy pitiful excuses!” her husband retorted. “Find thyself a godlier path, or never again look me in the face!”
Hildegard departed. She wept even after she treated her second degree burns at the home of a crone who practiced homeopathic medicine, for Hildegard loved her husband, for some reason, or at least loved having a roof over her head to escape the goddamned English rain. To keep her husband roof husband, she needed aid, so Hildegard set out to a person who could set her on a godly path.
“Woman, why dost thou weep?” the Archbishop of Canterbury asked.
“Forgive me bishop,” Hildegard answered. “I hath displeased my husband.”
“How?”
“With an ill word.”
“What ill word did thee speakest?”
Hildegard hesitated. “I said, Zounds, your bishopness.”
“Jesus,” said the Archbishop of Canterbury, “that’s fucking awful word. Why wouldst thou say such a thing?”
“I burned my hands, your bishopness. On a pot. Heaven help me, if I don’t find a safer way to hold a pot, I might blaspheme again, and my husband will disown me. Is there any hope for such a disgraced wench as me?”
“Let us pray.”
And Hildegard and the Archbishop knelt and prayed, and, i dunno, burned frankincense or something, and lo, the Holy Ghost sent them down a dove, which carried in its beak a thickly woven fabric, and they gave thanks to the Lord.
“Almighty God,” asked the Archbishop of Canterbury, “what wouldst You, in Your Infinite Wisdom, have us call this thickly woven fabric with which to hold pots?”
The candles flared, the stones of the cathedral shook, the Archbishop wet himself, and a voice from the heavens boomed, “A potholder.”
And so Hildegard carried the potholder home, and gave knowledge of it unto other women, and prepared many delicious stews without burning her hands, which meant she never again said the unforgiveable zounds, which meant her husband loved her, five times a week whether she were in the mood or not, and she bore many children and had a roof over her head to protect her from the goddamned English rain, and they all lived happilyish ever after until the plague destroyed their bodies and minds.
The End.