Citizen of the Month

the writing and photography of Neil Kramer

Page 36 of 187

Finding Nirvana

March 15, 2011 / / 11 Comments

Editor’s Note: Dear Reader, I know there is no need for me to ask your permission or apologize for what I do on my own blog, but I am who I am, so sue me. I have NO IDEA what I am doing on my blog this month, ever since my birthday. Mid-life crisis maybe? I’m just writing, with little editing or thought. I’m in a bit of a state at the moment. So, instead of falling apart in real life, I am trying to manage my life while going a little bonkers on my blog. If you are a troll, fuck you, but if you are a friend who feels the urge to make fun of the pretentious nature of my posts, feel free to mock away in a friendly way. I always make fun of you on your blogs. Fair is fair. I am enjoying playing with “earnest” writing, something that is not my usual cup of tea. Unlike some of you wimps, I am not afraid of failing on my blog. I am quite proud of that, actually. And besides, there is something personal that I am trying to express here. I’m just not sure what it is as of yet. I really appreciate you reading this, knowing that it isn’t particularly entertaining, or even good, and might be as painful for you to read as my eighth grade poetry. But it is therapeutic.

Neil

++++

I re-write over and over again, trying to strip away the excess fat, in the misguided attempt to reach some point of pure honesty, to catch a glimpse of my soul, or the face of God, thinking it the ultimate goal of writing, not the mere use of words, pedestrian tools found in any magician’s bag, used for manipulation. So I was completely shocked that, while writing in a black and white notebook, I reached that point of complete emptiness that few every see. It was a 7:45PM EST. It was as if I walked through a golden light that went from paper to pen to soul, and transported me into a zen retreat on a silent moutaintop. But rather than feeling ecstasy or a sense of wholeness, I felt alone, even with the bright colors of the rainbow sky surrounding me. This is not who I am, where I belong, born to a Jewish family from New York who love the hearty stories told that fill the thick air, like letters emanating from the Torah. I turned back. I love the earth, the senses, and the illogic of everything real. I respect the solitude of nirvana. I am impressed that I came this close to knowing it. I feel older now, more experienced with life. But I would be crushed under the weight of NOTHING. I returned to immediately make a joke about the food in nirvana’s cafeteria, just to comfort me like a goose-down blanket. Back to writing.

++++

(for BHJ)

Tuesday Writing Challenge

March 15, 2011 / / 8 Comments

Today’s Challenge: Write a post that is honest and authentic, but at the same time appeals to every single sector of your completely incompatible readership —

1) socially minded, highly educated, overly neurotic mothers whom you can safely flirt with without having to do anything in real life

2) trailer park denizens who loved your numerous dick jokes from 2007-2008, when you were funnier

3) social-climbing “friends” from Ivy League colleges who now live in Manhattan, work in “media,” think personal blogging is a waste of time, read The New Yorker magazine, and love to name drop pretentious shit like a bunch of pampered assholes.

— in an effort to please everyone, like the pussy writer you are, making yourself sound likable and approachable, but ultimately destroying any sense of authority.

++++

“What kind of ridiculous writing challenge is this?” I asked.

“It is an ideal one for you.” answered my Penis.

“Penis, what are you doing here. I haven’t talked to you on this blog for ages!”

“Exactly. And why? Because Veronica said she didn’t like the posts.”

“So, I trust her opinion. Maybe she was right…”

“No… no… no… Fuck Veronica. The reader is never right. You are the writer. You need to listen to THE VOICE.”

“Who’s voice? Yours?”

“No. Yours.”

“I don’t want to do this prompt,” I cried. “Overly-neurotic mothers? Trailer park denizens? Social climbing “friends?” These are my dear readers. The ones who pay the bills”

“Fuck your readers.”

“But everyone is going to hate me.”

“Do it!” demanded my Penis. “Show them who has the cojones!”

++++

Tuesday Writing Challenge

Melissa
by Neil Kramer

I couldn’t believe my eyes as she stepped into the bedroom. It was my first time seeing her without a stitch of clothing. I admired her full breasts and her long, strong legs.

How lucky was I to have met Melissa at their reading Saturday night at the 92nd Street Y by Russian-American novelist Gary Shteyngart! Not only was Melissa gorgeous, with flowing golden brown hair the color of the finest wheat, but she had a PhD in Molecular Biology, was a noted feminist writer and speaker, a Fellow at the Nieman Lab, an animal rescuer, and the mother of three beautiful, brilliant, well-behaved, healthy young children, all who attended top private schools and could read and write in English, Mandarin, Hebrew, and Portuguese.

When I looked into her eyes, the sensation was so intense. This was the perfect woman.

Here is where I reveal something to you, dear reader. Despite my bravado in print, I am really quite shy and modest. While I was brazen in my gaze at her nakedness, I felt vulnerable and uncovered in my own, and grabbed a magazine from the night stand, spreading it open to cover manly arousal.

As she walked closer and closer to me, her eyes grew hungry as she stared at me. Or rather the issue of The New Yorker which I used as my shield of honor, opened to pages 42-43 of the latest issue. “Oh, a Roz Chast cartoon! I love her,” she cried, as she swiped the magazine off of me and went to read it on the easy chair.

++++

“How was it?” I asked my Penis.

“Eh.” he answered.

“Fuck you!” I finally screamed at my Penis.

“Finally! Eureka! You did it.” he said, laughing with glee. “You passed the test. You fought back against your own Penis! And when a man can finally fight back against the will of his own Penis, the world is his oyster!”

“You know that expression is from Shakespeare.”

“The Merry Wives Of Windsor Act 2, scene 2, 2–5”

“Fuck Shakespeare!”

“Keep it going! Now you got the mojo!”

++++

(for Kate’s amusement)

Operation

March 14, 2011 / / 10 Comments

A medical degree is not essential.  Just a steady hand and nerves stronger than a mighty oak tree.  Mentally fit as as a steel plank.  But gentle as a whispering dandelion.

Hello, my name is Neil, and these are my ailments —

A butterfly in my stomach, water on the knees, a broken heart, a Charlie horse, and a very funny bone.

Will you be my Specialist?   Pick a card and heal me.   If you can avoid the shock of the electricity, I will kiss you forever.

Sent from my iPhone

Angry Birds

March 10, 2011 / / 11 Comments

I was sitting at the kitchen table after dinner, which consisted of a tuna fish salad and hummus on wheat bread. It was a somewhat dark in the room because I turned off the overhead “chandelier,” as my mother call the light fixture; the apartment tends to get hot, and the eight teardrop-shaped bulbs add extra heat.

As I finished my diet Snapple, I let my mind wander, and a specific image came to my mind. There was a small bird sitting in the palm of my hand. It was more a newly hatched chick than an adult bird with the ability to fly. I think the bird was bright yellow, like an Easter Peep, but I’m not sure. The bird felt so light, almost weightless. I kept my hand perfectly still, to be gentle with her. And it was a “her.” I don’t know how I knew, but I knew.

The bird chirped. She was hungry. I didn’t want to walk all the way to the fridge to look for food. I worried about accidentally dropping her onto the floor. I was incredibly anxious about holding this bird in my palm of my hand, something I had never done before. I wanted to be very careful. I grabbed a container of Italian bread crumbs that was nearby, on the kitchen counter, and poured the grains into my hand. The bird munched and savored her meal, eating voraciously.

And then the bird died.

I don’t know why this happened. I started to cry. It was my fault. I fretted over what to do with this dead bird in my head. Should I wrap her in a paper towel? Should I bury her? And where?

I glanced at my iPhone sitting on the other end of the table, and I immediately understood the reason behind the mysterious appearance of this tiny female bird in the crevices of my brain. I had played Angry Birds earlier that day for at least an hour, and the repetitive nature of the birds smashing into glass must have made an impact on my soul. All that death and destruction!

I laughed at the ridiculousness of my own stupid irrational thoughts. From tears to laughter over imaginary birds. How powerful you are, dear Almighty Brain. You rule us all.

For that brief moment, I understood the feeling of a nervous breakdown.

Truth Quotient: 90% True!  Except for the nervous breakdown part.  That is there for melodrama.

Flying Nude Over the 59th Street Bridge

March 9, 2011 / / 16 Comments

My sixth year of blogging started with a bang. I’m not sure what caused the massive explosion in my bedroom at 3AM. but I was awoken suddenly, my flannel sheets from Target on fire. There was no time to save anything from my bedroom, not even my undeserved Little League Trophies for randomly being chosen to be on the winning teams. The hot orange flames were blocking me from the door, so my only choice was to crash through the pane of glass and fly out the window, like Peter Pan. And fly I did, over the Chinese restaurants and the kosher butchers of Kissena Boulevard in Flushing into the cold dark air above, naked as when I was first brought into this world.

Yeah, I sleep in the nude. Just a little something for you to think about on a lonely night, my dear Maria. But tonight I was too busy for thoughts of romance. As if you even cared.

But tonight I was flying high, and never felt such exhilaration in all my life. I had goosebumps and my hair was twirling in the wind. I flew over 59th Street Bridge and into Manhattan. And then, as I soared over the mighty skyscrapers, I did what any man would do. I pissed in the wind. Over New York City. I pissed on the Empire State Building. I pissed on Rockefeller Center. I pissed on Donald Trump’s head. I placed my mark on the urban jungle, as if I owned the city. It was mine. The piss was the contract. Any dog can tell you that.

And then I flew back home, to my local pizzeria, still open for the night. I was naked and shivering from flying outside in early March, still winter. The owner, Angelo, offered me an apron, and a cup of coffee to warm myself.

“What would you like to eat?” asked Angelo, in his New York accent stronger than my own. “Tonight everything is on the house. You own the city!”

Apparently, word gets around fast.

And so begins another year of blogging. I take my words very seriously here. I slice my leg for you, and let it bleed, and then tell you about it for your enjoyment. I blow up my apartment, piss in the wind, and then tell my tale. I fall in love. I hate. I kvetch. I hope. I wonder. I send secret messages to Maria. I’m curious about who the fuck you are and why you come here. Everything I say here is true. Every word.

The Sixth Year of Blogging Begins

March 7, 2011 / / 24 Comments

Today is my birthday.  It is also the sixth anniversary of Citizen of the Month, which I began writing on March 7, 2005.

Even thought I have republished this before, I will do it again.  My first post from 2005–

What’s on my mind this evening — the night of my first post?   It’s the future.   My future.

I see it so clearly.

I’m a very spry 100 year old man, thanks to medical advances and the ability of the medical establishment to take chances with modern patient care.  Who knew that the diet supplement Trimspa would end up eradicating most illnesses from the world?

I’m in my home of the future.  My grandson, Bar Code #466408736664, sits at my side, browsing the internet in eye-scan mode  (using the latest upgraded Intel mini-chip in his brain — the PC having disappeared decades earlier)..  Suddenly, he tells me that he’s at the Coca-Cola digi-Archives site (formerly the Library of Congress) and viewing this very first post that you are currently reading.

At that moment, I will be an old man remembering the early days of the Internet.  The 56K modem.  Netscape.  Those AOL disks falling out of every magazine.  That first illegal MP3.  That first post on the blog.

“Grandpa,” #466 says with a twinkle in his eye.  “Man, grandpa, this post really sucks.”

And just then, I realize that it isn’t a twinkle in his eye, but a reaction to one of those synthetic drugs he’s been taking at school.   I laugh, remembering how I was drunk while writing that first post.

“He’d grown up just like me.
My boy was just like me.”

What a weird hobby — this blogging thing.   In some ways, my writing hasn’t changed much over the years; it is still a combination of honesty and bullshit.

The truth:  I was not drunk writing my first post.  I should delete that now.  Why did I write that for?  I must have thought it was funny at the time.

That is one way my writing has changed; I’m not as funny as I used to be in 2005.   Three family deaths and the ups and downs of marital life can do that to you. Maybe I was never that funny.  But luckily, I have had good friends, both online and offline keeping me in good spirits, a loving mother, and the continued friendship of Sophia, so I’m pretty optimistic about the future. And all this angst, rather than getting me down, has only made me more sexy in the eyes of women, because they seem to love the dark, brooding type of guy! So, there is that.

What will happen on this blog during this sixth year of production?  Rather than tell you in words, I made a little video trailer of an upcoming blog post that I will be writing in July.  So, please stick around for another year of laughter, pathos, and drama!  Enjoy.

Dill Pickles

March 4, 2011 / / 10 Comments

4500 years ago
in Mesopotamia
the lowly cucumber
was pickled for flavor.

And life has never been the same.

Thousands of pickles
from cornichons to gherkins
are served today
in Germany and Jacksonville

I despise sweet pickles
because they taste like children’s candy.
and I’m a man.

Half-sour pickles are for fools
who lack commitment
and enjoy half-baked bread.

I don’t care about the pickle’s crispness.
or the snap of the crunch.
I just want my pickle so sour
that it turns my hair green.

I want my pickle soaked in the brine for years.
I want every moment of dill, mustard, garlic, and pepper
flooding my tongue until my eyes are tearing from the pleasure and pain.

Behind the Scenes in the Berkshires

March 1, 2011 / / 14 Comments

This past weekend I took a bus in the heavy snow to the Berkshires in Massachusetts.

I had two special theatrical events to attend.

One was to attend a performance/theater/artsy/German/avantgarde thingamagig at Mass MOCA, in which actors lived in a theatrical set all day, and the audience could walk around the perimeter, peering in through the curtains as the “play” was performed in real time.

The other performance piece involved me visiting the home of Jenn Mattern, one of my all-time favorite bloggers.  She writes at Breed ‘Em and Weep, as well as Parentdish and Work it, Mom!  During this visit, I would be allowed to walk around and observe this “Jenn Mattern” in her daily life, as well as interact with other “actors” in her natural habitat.  This would offer me a unique glimpse behind the “writing” curtain to understand the woman behind the fancy words.

++++

Two environments, two curtains to pull back, two sets of actors.  But two vastly different theatrical experiences.

++++

The art performance at the museum, while well-packaged as an event, was quite cold and “Germanic” in ambiance.  The set was mostly a clumsily-constructed wooden box, with few comforts of home.  The audience members walked aimlessly around the set waiting for some activity, and the pace of the drama was quite slow.

One of the lead characters, THE SLEEPY GUY, slept for most of the time I was on the set.

The other two characters, THE ANGRY WOMAN and the NEBBISH DUDE, walked back and forth from the other rooms, like bored roommates with no social life other than having Twitter on their phones.

There was some sort of conversation going on between Angry and Nebbish, but it was difficult to follow, and annoying to have to schlep with them from room to room.  I think the angry woman was a stripper.  At some point she yelled at the Nebbish Dude that “It is my vagina and I will do what I want with it!”  This was pretty much the highlight of the play, or at least the part I saw.  After this outburst, the Nebbish Dude sat around on the couch and played some Led Zeppelin on his boombox.

I can’t truly “review” this performance, because it takes place over four days, eight hours a day in a box in a museum, so it is quite possible that something exciting happened after I left the room.  My segment consisted mostly of the actors sleeping or kvetching about their vaginas.

After fifteen minutes, I went to have a turkey sandwich in the cafe.

++++

In contrast, the Jenn Mattern theater piece was nothing at all like the dark, sterile, dystopian vision of the German director.  Her house was warm and inviting, and Jenn herself was a delightful, attractive, fully three-dimensional lead character, a charismatic brunette with a warm heart and a sharp wit.

The pace of her theater piece, while completely improvised, was chaotic, funny, unexpected, and filled with the old-fashioned “realism” of a well-made play.  You could feel the “life” exploding in her environment, and there are more subplots going on in her story than in an episode of Mad Men.  Jenn has two cats.  And two dogs.  And two daughters.  And a mother, Elaine, who lives nearby, a terrific blogger herself, who sometimes just drops in unannounced, like Kramer in Seinfeld, just to play her accordion.

The Mattern house is an endearingly eccentric mix of books, Fruit Loops, children, music, writing, dogs and cats, and a bit of refreshingly open neuroticism. And Jenn is as beautiful a person as she is a talented writer. Anyone who is lucky enough to visit will have an unforgettable experience.

Oh, yeah. The experience was also interactive, like “Tony and Tina’s Wedding.”  Here I am, walking the family dog, Eli.  This was the very first time I ever walked a dog.  I picked up the poop — all by myself! Try doing THAT when you are seeing “Spiderman: Turn Off the Dark” on Broadway!

So, the reviews are in —

1)  The German avant garde performance piece at the museum — one star.  a snore-fest, or as one of Jenn’s elder daughter put it, “That sounds REALLY BORING.”

2)  The Mattern home — five stars!  Rave reviews.  The highlight of the 2011 season.

Thanks, Mattern family!

The Hole in the Ground

February 22, 2011 / / 24 Comments

When you are stuck underground for a long time, in the darkness, under the grass and dirt and flowers, not dead but fully alive, all vital signs working except for your sense of reality, your first sighting of a pinhole-sized ray of light coming from a point above will not be a celebratory event.  It will be a message of fear.  Some ONE or some THING is telling you that there is a way out.  But you don’t want a way out.  You wouldn’t be sitting flat on your back in the cold dark dirt if you wanted a way out, right?

But a hole has opened.  And every day, this uneven circle will grow larger, the light will burn stronger and more focused, and the heat of the sun will create thirst and emotion in your still-alive body, forcing you to climb out of the black hole onto firm land and fresh air.  You will have no choice.  Better to do it now.

Once outside, in the slight breeze, you may recognize your surroundings, and you may not.  You have been under the earth for a long time, and your head will be dizzy.  You will not know for how long you were lying in the dirt, watching the ants as they paraded in front of you, like little soldiers.

Don’t move.  Just stand there, next to your hole — and wait.   Someone will pass by, seeing you naked and dirty, your knees bloody and scraped, and offer you some help.  It will be a nice older man, or better yet, a young woman carrying a bucket of well water, and she will offer you a drink.

“Why were you in that hole in the ground?” she will ask you.

“I dunno.” you will answer.

Good.  Be honest.  There is no reason for you to lie or weave dramatic stories.  You are a man who just clawed his way out from inside a hole in the the ground.  Why bother with tall tales?

“It must have been very uncomfortable and painful to be stuck in there,” she will whisper sympathetically, pouring the water into your cupped hands.

At that moment, you will feel the pain.  Her mere mention of the anguish will unleash the burning knife in your spine, your head, and your heart. Language has that terrible effect.  The agony will be acute because this is the first time you have felt that long-forgotten pain, the shivering that caused you to bury yourself in that hole in the ground on that fateful day.

What happened on that day?  Why did you hide yourself away from the goodness of Life?  You will not remember, but now you have returned.  You are standing on your own feet, upright.   That is a start.  It is time to live with the pain.

Drink the healing well water and then, using the bucket, wash yourself clean.

The One Essential Writing Question

February 21, 2011 / / 18 Comments

There are so many blogging and writing conferences nowadays, that it is getting a little crazy.  And what good are they?  They take us away from our families and cost too much money.  Wouldn’t it be nice if one of us would just whittle down all our concerns about writing into one succinct question — a single query that explains it all.

I have done that for you.

Here is it  –the ONE essential question about personal writing that you must ask yourself, and once answered, will save you time, energy, stress, and gray hair, as well as bring you to incredibly success and fulfillment —

“How do I continue to be honest and open about my life, exposing my weaknesses, neuroses, fears, and failures, expressing my battered mind, broken heart, and timid soul with authentic words and emotions during the day, and still convince others that I am normal enough to have sex with at night?”

« Older posts Newer posts »

© 2025 Citizen of the Month

Theme by Anders Noren — Up ↑

Social media & sharing icons powered by UltimatelySocial