Just because someone abuses you, doesn’t give you the right to…

Popping up a recent interview by Siel Ju. She is gorgeous and super smart and from L.A. She was on the podcast reading her awesome piece Acceptance. Here, in her interview is a little about about the outback, about how 52 classifies as fiction, and about my belief that, yes Just Because Someone Abuses You Doesn’t Give You the Right to Destroy Them.

Five firsts: Louise Wareham Leonard on secrets and thinly-veiled memoirs

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Refusing to Give Way, leading a date to get awry


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The Perfect Little Poem: for Drew Huebner

The poet Donald RevAndrew_Huebnerell once read this poem of mine, and told me it was “a perfect little poem.” He didn’t elucidate, and I really don’t know what he meant by this. I wasn’t even sure it was a compliment. Perfect is not always so, as it can mean utterly conventionally perfect. Whatever — said poem was written when I was reluctantly leaving one man while being violently pursued by another. Said pursuant  was the writer Andrew Huebner, left, and, as I suspected from the beginning, I ended up not with him or the man I left, but alone — at least for some years. Proving, I guess, that I was right to feel as I felt in the following:

Jersey Shore

Maybe it is time for me to love a body

without hope of keeping it,

to take your heavy soft solid kiss

and give it back —

to let you wander off, like another brother —

indifferent yet tied.

It’s only moments that I’m after now,

you telling me to Look at you

as I am somewhere between pleasure and grief.

“I am in despair,”  I say,

getting in your car —

Before us the bright April ocean.


Interestingly -on another point entirely — the last time I remember seeing Drew he was waking across 14th Street, wearing a black t-shirt festooned with an American flag.

Drew was from New Jersey/Pennsylvania, which meant a lot to him, while I had little knowledge of my ancestry.

It turns out, I found out not long after Drew, and while living in New Zealand for eight years — my great-great-great Grandfather Joseph Wareham was also from New Jersey/Pennsylvania. He fought in the U.S. Civil War, was injured in battle of Pensacola, and followed on to New Zealand in the 1840s, looking for gold.

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I want to make you bleed for not saying goodbye: EPISODE 20! Women’s Day

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Life is a Chemical Madness, me and Ron Shapiro

Ron ShapiroHere is my old friend Ron Shapiro. I was driving through the deep south, age 22, in a Drive-Away car (you pay for the gas and get to drive the car to a destination) when I landed in Oxford Mississippi to check out Faulkner’s home. After that, I stumbled into Oxford’s Hoka Cafe, owned by Ron, and the dear fellow must have recognized, after numerous cups of coffee and a slice of his cheesecake, that I was sleeping in said Drive- Away car, as he gave me his couch to sleep on that night.

I ended up living in Oxford for a year, working at the ER,  then Square Books. Ron, who later became Oxford Mayor, hooked me up with all kinds: Faulkner’s niece, Faulkner’s chiropractor, all the writers in town — Willie Morris, who drove me all around the delta, Barry Hannah who proposed that I marry a then briefly single Willie. Some of this is in 52 Men. 

What is not, is that those were lucky days for me, an oasis in the madness of my chemical youth.  That’s what Fitzgerald calls it in the story I talked of yesterday, “A Diamond as Big as the Ritz.”

Everybody’s youth is a dream, a form of chemical madness.

Though if you want know the damn truth, in my case I would make that life. As in: my entire life has been a dream, a form of chemical madness.  Sounds right to me.

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The Gaudy Valley, a story from my brush with gangsters

The-Diamond-as-Big-as-the-Ritz-320x448Any day is a good day to re-read The Diamond As Big as the Ritz. And today, after four days fighting a vicious cough that I thought was going to choke the life out of me, seemed a perfect one. Mild skies, happy life, good work flow, happiness. And this book!.

First, I love how it portrays what might as well be today’s one percenters. Here is a description of the blithe children of the richest man in the world:

“A chaste and consistent selfishness ran like a pattern through their every idea.”

Doesn’t that just sound like some people you have read about on the news lately? Oh yes, it does. Face it. Read it again. A chaste and consistent selfishness ran like a pattern through their every idea.  Fantastic.

Then, there is the delicious pure language, like water falling in the sun. Fitzgerald was just so good when he was good, and he was usually good:

The Montana sunset lay between two mountains like a gigantic bruise from which dark arteries spread themselves over a poisoned sky.

It sounds overdone, but in context it is just beautiful.   AND I think I might have found in these short pages a title for short story: “The Gaudy Valley.” Oh, yes.

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Big Truck, a little study of power. With Aurelie Sheehan

On the podcast, a woman learns the joy of power by riding in her man’s Big Truck. Can she ever go back? And what is the cost? And how does she suddenly feel about the little car drivers?? Give Me the Truck or Give Me Nothing….  by Aurelie Sheehan


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I Love You, Please Keep Quiet

A woman confronts her childhood abuser, with the loving support of her attentive protective husband. Yet over time as that woman speaks about her abuse, and writes about it, that husband becomes increasingly uncomfortable. What to do when support isn’t quite support.  Stay silent out of love for the other? Or go and tell one’s story?  A fresh take on the outcome of trusting our loved ones with our truths.

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On Joseph Brodsky and suffering through, by Melissa Green

Some days it seems that we have seldom lived in darker times. But writers such as Melissa Green, now living in Boston, are here to remind us about history, dark history — and that if others can survive and resist it, maybe we can, too.

Here is Melissa, a revered poet and memoirist, on her friendship with Nobel Laureate Joseph Brodsky. Brodsky was expelled from the Soviet Union in 1972 after much persecution. He had been  condemned to a Soviet mental institution and spent five years in an Arctic labor camp before and gaining asylum in the United States. Here, at the Dia Foundation in New York City, Melissa Green connects both to him and to history and an entire line of Russian poets who persevered through unthinkable suffering due to the regimes they lived under.


Melissa  is the author of three books of poetry, The Squanicook Eclogues, Fifty-Two and Magpiety: New and Selected Poems; and two memoirs, Color Is the Suffering of Light and The Linen Way. Soundings, a book of twenty-two essays about her work by prominent American poets, edited by Sumita Chakraborty and published by Arrowsmith Press, was released in December 2016. She lives in Boston, Massachusetts.

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Trump Threatens to Sue My Ass, Part 2

Here again, because it’s, er, timely, is my post on Trump threatening to tear me to bits when I was 20.

I thought I should repost:
Trump 86

It was on the phone. I was twenty and an intern reporter at TIME.  Trump was being sued by a hotel chain.  I had to call Trump, and ask him about it, and straight away he started calling me  “Babe.” It was “Babe” this and  “Babe” that.  His voice was gold — a veritable sunbath– (or was it a golden shower? let’s add that January 2017).

At any rate, he spoke to me, a 20 year old reporter and he a far older ‘businessman’  as if he and I were oh so close, even intimate.  Such is the method of charming insolent un-serious men.

Then I read aloud to him, still on the phone, as a TIME reporter in New York, one of the allegations against him, which I had before me in print in the Affadavit.

You should have felt it. The change in atmosphere — even on the phone — when a man such as he drops his charm.

“You Print That,” Trump told me, “and I’ll Sue You.”

He’d sue me —  a 20 year old intern, a Columbia student, an almost girl reading from a legal affadavit that did not please him, did not match his idea of himself….

I wish I could say it was the last time I heard a man turn on a dime, see the flash of virulence beneath the charm. I wish I had learned my lesson, right then.

These men — these charming powerful men of a certain kind – how many times must they reveal themselves before we finally dump them?  Keep Trying, I say. Keep trying until it takes.


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