Quote of the Week - Christie

"Don't delay deliciousness." 

~ Celeste Christie

It was dinner and there was okra and papadoms and all kinds of good things, and Celeste said that and I  knew it had to be this week's quote.

This is wise counsel, from a rad cool and extremely crafty person - like Etsy crafty, not like sly. A4DS, an organization co-founded by Celeste, has been featured on the Zestyverse for its pracitivist work.

As you start your week, remember not to delay deliciousness!

Speaking of deliciousness, Zesty has a new Music Editor! Sean Morris will be posting recommendations every month - check out the contributor's page to learn more about him. If you have a new album or EP you'd like us to check out, please drop an email to us.

We also have a new series -- Dear Able People and our first guest post by new contributor Jerry Garcia!

It's summer, but we are keeping it Zesty!

Dear Able People: Wearing the Inside Out by Jerry Garcia

Dear Able People:
Wearing the Inside Out
by Jerry Garcia


The alarm was all afire with notification. No time to stretch and lounge in bed. No time to observe morning’s light passage through blinds or to hear the call of frisky birds. There was just enough time to limp into the kitchen and start the coffee before turning on water for a prolonged hot shower. All the while, nerves flared like hot prongs in an alloy plant. Too many days of waking this way made me weary.

Avascular necrosis of the hip plagued me, destroying mood and motion. A degeneration of the joint, hardly understood, caused the friction of bone grinding on bone. At night, whisky and pot hardly masked the pain, though they did induce a nice oblivion, alone, stoned in front of the television set, I could take my rest. Nor were the NSAIDs effective at that progression of the condition; Advil, Naprosyn, Aspirin were lackluster performers. Cocaine worked best, but that eventually enslaved me into a hapless, moneyless man with bad teeth. So the long hot shower soothed me and prepared me for the day of physical and social encumbrances.

After the shower I managed to dress appropriately for the day and drive myself to work. How to dress became overbearing. I feared not to wear coat and tie, because that was what my family thought proper work attire to be. The pressure remained to be traditional, but that was a conformity which was on the other shoe. Formal dress was not the fashion of my industry, unless I aspired to be a deal-maker. I did not. I considered myself a craftsman though I didn’t use hammer and saw. As a film editor I brought images together, matching and contrasting, pacing and defining significance.

There was a “hip” factor to contend with; the irony should be clear that while my disease centered in my arthritic joints, my mind also strove for that elusive social distinction to rise above the pack. Limping and contorting were not the distinction that qualified me. I would listen to music and wear clothes from the latest fashion rack to join the current crowd of coolness, but felt that was all negated with my limp and awkward stance. It was just as well that I chose not to deal with the tie and the clasp, lapels and creased slacks, because it was difficult not to be self-conscious while walking around the editing room with a wide-gate limp. Fortunately, perhaps, I had earned a reputation for my work ethic, and acquired valuable skill-sets prior to my hips starting to degrade.

I had a respectable job working with elite advertisers and filmmakers. I worked in a fast world where people tripped over one another to score for their team. Being sidelined by the rush of a purposeful coworker or laughed at in the grimace of my reaction was one and the same. Every man would make his own observations, whether or not he followed the groupthink of the day. People stared, some asked, some confided. I did not wish to make anyone live my pain, but the manner in which someone reacted was as important to me as how he talked. And there lay the conundrum: was I belittled or just not as good?

My bone disease had started during my apprentice years, when I was eager to learn the trade. Coming on as a weakness and a dull throb, often after bicycle riding or hiking, it later developed into throbbing and sharpness in both hips. But I never lost a day of work due to the pain; I managed to power through. It could be quite debilitating for some, but for me it was important that I stayed on the path to success. Film projects were hurried with strict deadlines, it was not possible to take time off, as long as I could hobble through the day. Succumbing to the pain would completely destroy the future to which I aspired. The fear of being replaced or forgotten loomed.

I don’t think that makes me better than those who deal with their pain differently. But it makes me an example of a person who is dedicated to career over his own body. Perhaps that is not fair to myself. It also makes me a mess to live with. Depending on which pain treatment I use when I get home, moods swing and reactions flare. That makes it unfair to others.

So I learned to carry film cans three at a time because I was no longer capable of hoisting 60 pounds across a room. As I labored at the craft I love, I listened to others complain about the wheelchair-bound beggar on the street and lovingly joke about a colleague who hobbles on crutches because he broke his leg skiing. I understand that there is a difference as I watch and listen as the disabled are displaced and ignored. I frown at the pain and moreso the evidence of ableism and wonder what has been said behind my back.

Jerry Garcia is a poet, photographer and filmmaker from Los Angeles, California who earns his living as a producer of television commercials and motion picture previews. Jerry has been a co-director of the Valley Contemporary Poets and served as a member of Beyond Baroque’s Board of Trustees. His poetry and photography have been seen in poetic diversity, Chaparral, The Chiron Review, Askew, Palabra Magazine, The November 3rd Club Rick Lupert’s The Night Goes On All Night, KCET’s Departures: Poetry L.A. Style and his chapbook Hitchhiking with the Guilty.



Editor's Note: This is the first guest post in a series on disability, ableism, creativity and functionality. If you would like to share your thoughts, please comment below. If you would like to be a guest blogger, please feel free to get in touch. We welcome anonymous guest posts on this subject, as we are aware of the pressures of discussing these subjects in a public forum.

4/30 - The Airshaft

(Thanks to  Jerry Garcia whose poem Plastic Bottle Vodka inspired me to finish this piece. )

THE AIRSHAFT

They watched

like we were their Friday Night Fights

our tiny single bed facing the window

onto the airshaft

3 feet from their window

onto the airshaft

a New York summer dripping soot like lust

forcing windows gaping with the hope of breath

The heat so fascist

it had taken away our right to vote and bear arms

they watched us tangle

perched on their sill

unabashedly is too weak a description

they were avid

we atop drenched sheets

could not stand to be under the weight

could not stand to be less than naked

door to our squalid room closed to neighbors

window the only hope of resistance

unable to be less than wide-open

interlocking legos of love

we entertained them

our teen hunger perhaps reminiscent

as we spent ourselves on ourselves

because there was nothing else to spend

pent up and penned

Poverty is a kind aphrodisiac sometimes.

They probably didn’t have a t.v. either;

probably didn’t have dinner either

even a fan.  Air conditioning

is for the Upper East Side.

They had screaming kids likely no green cards

They did not know our language

but our pictures were the same

We were in this airshaft together

suffocating, pores open, sweat-stained

sex the only thing telling us

we weren't dead yet

Like we were Monday Night Football

They watched.  Sometimes as we turned

or as I got up with you streaming inside me

I’d catch her eye.  She would not look away.

We were their Times Square. 

We were enough. After us,

they could go quietly to sleep, I bet

without having to incur more heat

to heap on the wrath of August in Hell.

Maybe you weren’t my first love

just my first tango with squalor

Its scents and sounds intermingled

with the fester of self-sacrifice, devotion,

loyalty beyond self-health and happily ever after

Now so used to these kidney punches of love

I get nervous the morning after

when I don’t piss blood

our rage south of Harlem facing

days with out food to keep the lights on

nights no electricity to share this one box 

of Kraft Macaroni and Cheese for all 3 meals.

It’s what you do.  For love.  On 113th Street.  One August.

You eat mayonnaise sandwiches.

You fuck til you drop.

You let this couple watch across the airshaft

so close you could touch them

without charging them a damn penny

for a fine show.                                 

c. e. amato

4.11

4/30