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Dear Elizabeth,

Thank you, thank you for the incredible kindness and sensitivity with which you’ve read my poetry! But you need no literary knowledge or genre-appropriate terminology to speak to me. If the truth be told, I am perhaps the worst-read poet on earth. And if I ever did publish, it would be a mighty thin book, indeed. You see I cannot write frequently. Only when the unknowable washes over me, only when Spirit takes hold of me. What comes doesn’t ever fully belong to me. Only the experiences and emotions are truly my own.

My name is Hillary and I am thirty-nine years old. I happen to struggle with depression, anxiety and post-traumatic stress. I have trounced upon every golden opportunity ever provided to me thanks to a family legacy of alcoholism, and today I live in Madison’s version of the ghetto. Because I can do no better than this. Because surviving myself takes all my energy. As do my two children. The first of whom, Oliver, at age 15, has profound autism and epilepsy, and loves me desperately and pushes me to the edge of my sanity. The other of whom, Ronan, at age 5, has been rescued from autism’s clutches, and now precociously insists upon listening to 'Nirvana' and 'The Pixies' and is anxiously awaiting the gift of his first real electric guitar and amp at Christmas this year, and who taught himself to read at the age of three and speaks to me in poetry ~ just the other day he said, “I wonder what the clouds think of my life…” and what else could I do but smile…

I had an early opportunity at Sarah Lawrence College, however NYC’s seedy underbellies completely distracted me and I left that college in shame and with nothing except a few small poems. And then, in 1986, I found the Chelsea, and with money I earned by allowing men to whip and defile me, I checked in and thought “Here I am in the Hell that was meant for me.” I’d listen to Leonard Cohen’s music in those haunted rooms while I nursed my wounds. I’d think, if only he were here. He would understand. And yet, in all these years, it never occurred to me to seek out he, or others who admire him dearly. I’ve been online for nearly ten years and not once did I suppose I’d find a site such as this. But now I have, and it feels like a God-hand from the sky. As I watch my face and flesh begin to fall, as I regard the likelihood that nothing extraordinary will ever happen to me again, and that “for all the caged sparrow could retreat, she never got free…” I come here to capture a fleeting sense that I matter. And that I have a place in the grand unknowable mystery which Leonard so bravely and intimately has kissed.

Thank you, Elizabeth for daring to care. I look greatly forward to talking with you.

Sincerely,
Hillary
P.S. The Chelsea Hotel poem was originally dedicated to Nancy Spungeon who was the girlfriend of Sex Pistols' bassist, Syd Vicious. One of the rooms in the Chelsea in which I lived for a while happened to be next to the room where Nancy died of an accidental stabbing. I always felt her close to me. I called her "my sister" but if she was it was only in spirit...

Hillary you have a beautiful face.

Do you know for certain Nancy's death was accidential there is a school of thought that Sid was spaced out when Nancy was killed and he was not the one who killed her she could have been murdered by dealers and Sid was unaware until he came to and found her dead.

Yes, I remember hearing, in particular, that the Sex Pistols' manager ~ oh God, what was his name? might have been thought the murderer. He certainly must have viewed her as a nuisance. Thank you for your reply

Sincerely,
Hillary

Malcolm McLaren was the manager I think Sid was quite a liability he was a tortured soul. I don't think Malcolm McLaren had the personality to kill. I read that Sid and Nancy were out of their head on heroin and either dealers or some other dark characters killed her and Sid was arrested for her murder he died soon afterwards from a heroin overdose. He was only 21. I can't remember where I read it I will have to look.

I found this web site http://www.craig00.freeserve.co.uk/sidp1.html

Hi Hilary,

I haven't got enough time to read your work yet, but I look forward to doing so soon. You may think about spacing out your posted work so we have a chance to catch up!

regards

C2

I'm done for now, C2, I promise Sorry to inundate. I was simply so excited to have found you all. And yes, regarding Nancy, I agree. Must have been some cruel dark characters who did her in.

It was eerie seeing photos on this site of the Chelsea. I haven't laid eyes on it since I left in February of 1987. Sometimes I forget it really does exist as it feels like such a Netherworld inside of me...

Does Leonard read this forum?

Sincerely,
Hillary

rumours say he does read it, Hillary. but.....

I saw LC's room at the Chelsea this summer and I also saw your initials carved into the wall in several places in the building. Did they add that to your bill?

Oh, they must not have been my initials because when I lived there my initials were H.F. for Hillary Frasier I'm still using my married name from a brief and unhappy marriage that began and ended in the late 80's. But I'm sure they added other things to my bill. I lived in several different rooms, expansive to tiny, depending on what cash I had. I left there unexpectedly after a shattered ankle (one night following a George Jones concert) put me in Bellevulle for over a week. When I got out, bill unpaid, all my diaries and photographs and other assorted belongings had been discarded by the Hotel...sigh...

I have recurring dreams where I go back to the Hotel to retrieve my lost things. But I never do find them. And the staircases are still always crumbling down around me. So it's good to know the real Hotel is still in tact. Although I remain a little bitter about the loss of my possessions...

Sincerely,
Hillary

exactly, the initials were HF and they still had your bag at reception with the folowing posessions "stick of chewing gum, half-eaten, hi-hat drum kit, half-played, book of Bing Crosby sheet music, half-read"

Oh, now you're teasing me, C2. I'm not very adept at telling in what spirit that teasing may be

I think the list of items would be more along the lines of the following: 2 angry daddy poems in the style of Sylvia Plath, assorted drunken photographs of girl with carrot-top style shaved head with remaining hairsprayed mess falling down around, several diaries containing illegible nonsensical scrawl, a mass of stinky wrinkled black lingerie, two pairs broken stilletos, a half-empty pint of gut-rot Irish Whiskey, a book of Jim Carroll's poetry, two Cohen records, and last but not least, several well-worn black leather cat o'nine tails and paddles...

Eh?

Sincerely,
Hillary

Dear Hillary ~

I have very limited time tonite, but couldn't leave without answering your post to me, for which I am very grateful.

Be as thrilled as you like about discovering this site, and jumping in with all four, pouring out your poetry and other writings. We've had to play catch-up before, for far less. That said, I feel like taking it half-back ONLY because I'm about to leave for a week, and will REALLY be behind when I get back ! However, I stick to my original and say contribute what you wish, when you wish .

Thank you for sharing the at-least-in-this-context, primary details of your life, which certainly put your writings in perspective. You're amazingly open and remarkably concise, given the paths your life has taken. I am so happy for you that your soul and psyche found the avenue of writing, for expression. Most importantly, you benefit. Fortunate for us that we do, as well. Spirit helps you write your heart and heal your pain. You have much to offer, Hillary.

Critic2 seized the opportunity to tease you. However, it was in good nature. Don't worry. You haven't stepped into a scene from Slaughterhouse Five. It can get rough around the edges at times; but don't worry. You're not only a survivor ~ you're a thriver, as well. You draw on your incredible, personal strength to be doing as well as you are. You're doing far better than you may imagine, or are giving yourself credit for.

That's quite a list you've compiled. What appears to be meaningless junk to some can be the 'stronghold' of another's life. I'm sorry you lost your belongings. I can relate to your repetitious dreams of returning for them. There is at least one, committed Sylvia Plath appreciator [I just don't like the word "fan"]. Her name is Laurie, and she writes poetry well. She'll be along at some point. You'll like her.

Eventually, humour may [or may not] find its way into your poetry. You don't take yourself too seriously, at all. You've had more than a full plate in your life. It's been overflowing for many years, in multiple, layered ways. Your writing serves the purpose it needs to and meets your deeper needs. I can understand why you wished for Leonard to be there with you at the Chelsea. You're right that he would have understood.

I haven't been online for anywhere near 10 years; however, like you, it never occurred to me that there might be a site on Leonard. That there actually is, is what got me online. Not only is it here, but Leonard directly contributes to it, by sending Jarkko items such as poetry and drawings. We were also able to wish him a Happy Birthday ['directly'] this year and last.

Ronan sounds like an amazing child. It sounds as though he is a very helpful spirit for you, as you go through your days and struggles. Caring for Oliver can be an all-but-insurmountable task in itself. One of my all-time favourite cats was named Oliver. Ronan is an unusual and great name for a boy. From where did you get it? I also wanted to comment on your moniker here ~ it's quite a visual for me. The snaked hair of Medusa dovetailed with the green and delicacy fern, one of the loveliest of groundcovers. How did you come about choosing it, and what does it mean to you?

"I come here to capture a fleeting sense that I matter. And that I have a place in the grand unknowable mystery which Leonard so bravely and intimately has kissed."

You do matter, Hillary; and you have a grand place in this unknowable mystery. Your writing is a treasure. Your thank you is a treasure. You are a treasure. I'm so glad you came. I look forward to talking to you more, too. Perhaps, one day you can join us at one of our Events or unofficial gatherings. I'm originally from Michigan. Perhaps, one day, that proximity will even result in our meeting.

There's so much more I could write and say, but I have no choice but to sign out of here. I leave at 6:00 AM [get up at 4 AM] and am not even packed ~ and I still have a favour to complete for someone here before I go, as well.

Presuming that the photo really is you, yes, you are as Paula has already said, indeed, beautiful. Outside, inside, the whole nine yards. Incredible eyes.

I can so well imagine what and how much your discovery of this site means to you, Hillary. The best part is that you've come upon the quintessential and the most personal one. You're in exactly the right place at precisely the right time . You know how that is .

Love,
Elizabeth

"Ronan is an unusual and great name for a boy. From where did you get it? I also wanted to comment on your moniker here ~ it's quite a visual for me. The snaked hair of Medusa dovetailed with the green and delicacy fern, one of the loveliest of groundcovers. How did you come about choosing it, and what does it mean to you?"

Dear Elizabeth,

So much of what you wrote deserves the dearest of replies. But I don't have time, as Ronan wants the computer. His name is Irish, it means "little seal". There is a gorgeous film called "The Secret of Roan Inish" or Seal Island that inspired me to name my son thus. It speaks of the legend of the selkes, seal women, whose hydes fishermen will steal, thereby capturing the seal and forcing her to live with him in human form until she is able to find and don her skins again, thus returning to the sea. According to the film, there was a dark-haired child born in every generation to the featured Irish family, and the dark hair was from the seal mother centuries earlier. Of course Ronan came out blond My luck, eh?

Strange you should ask about Medusafern. No one ever asks me about the name. I can say that I thought I'd made it up, liking the juxtaposition of the serpentine Medusa with the gentleness of the fern. I am Year of the Snake baby, too, and I have two snake tattoos on my body. It so happens that my homeopathic remedy is from the venom of the coral snake as well. And I always believed that "Medusa was framed." In any case, I went on thinking I'd concocted the name until someone told me that there is actually such a plant as the Medusa fern. I think it is petite as ferns go, but according to the botany site I viewed, it is considered to be one of the "hardiest" ferns in the world. Which I suppose suits me Just more wondrous synchronicity. I love that. So my name wasn't really of my making after all.

Thank you for saying I matter, Elizabeth. If I weren't being pestered by my radiant sage child at the moment I'm sure I'd shed a tear. To matter in this life that asks so much...it would make the pain far more bearable...

Blessings to You Along Your Travels,
Hillary

Dear Hillary ~

Thank you for your own kind words. I need to borrow Ronan for a moment, so I can stay on task myself . At least, I've started the process on completion of my favour....however, the packing is lacking.....and I'm to be awake in 5 hours, ready to go in an additional 2, on a 5-6 hour drive where we'll board ship . I'm with quite efficiency, mentally eliminating tasks that were to have been completed prior to all of that.

I love the story that accompanies Ronan's name. The film sounds wonderful. Perhaps, his being blonde is a sign that you are freed from captivity.

I like it that we both had the same images with your name . I must disagree, however, on whether or not you made it up. The fact of synchronicity with there being an actual fern [of which I've never heard, either] in no way invalidates your having made up the name. It's just that someone else did it first. You didn't co-opt it. It's a minor, but major difference. Yes, unbeknownst to you, you created the perfect name for yourself ~ in many ways. The name that came to you honestly.

I love homeopathic remedies.

The 'Sarah Lawrence' in you is still visible. There's an intelligence about you that shows everywhere. Of course, when I say that, I don't restrict my comment to university-mode intelligence. I understand your becoming completely distracted. I did the same and in an area holding nowhere near the intrigue of NYC [unless, by a stretch, Ann Arbor could be considered such ]. It took me 5, separate times going, to 4 different schools, across 17 years, to complete my bachelor's degree . I'm sorry to hear that your leaving was in shame. [At least you had "a few small poems." That's more than I could say at the time.] Hold your head high now, Hillary.

Yes, as we grow older, we realize and appreciate more and more just how important it is to matter. To really matter.

Thank you for your blessings,
Elizabeth

Thank you for saying I matter, Elizabeth. If I weren't being pestered by my radiant sage child at the moment I'm sure I'd shed a tear. To matter in this life that asks so much...it would make the pain far more bearable...

Of course you matter. Not only in the general clichè'd sense in which everyone matters (you know, the "any man's death diminishes me" sense), but in your own unalienable, infrangible way you matter.
Your words - the only token given to know you - matter. These rich and strong words, poignant yet clear. These powerful and evocative words, that make me feel the pain, and that make me feel the pain's far more bearable. They pick up a pain, long gone yet still remaining strong, and lift the hurt and the scars - the wounds never healed, they only stopped bleeding - and the ghastly suffering metamorphoses to poetry, transferring all the glorious misery, all the beautiful losses, all the homely stabs and blows and humiliation into a great lesson in strength.
Your words matter. And they'd deserve much more than the weak praise I, still recovering from their overwhelming force, can word right now.
Your story matters. Your stories matter. Sometimes the tortures of our lives become our best friends. After all they're all that's left us. They are such stuff as we are made of.
The matter you're made of must be tougher than steel and softer than a breeze. (Too trite an expression, but it seems to the point. And as maturity is doing the right thing even though your parents told you so, honesty needs using exact words even though every mouth spat them out before.)

Dear Hillary,
welcome to this forum of more or less beautiful more or less losers. We benefit from your entering this site. May you benefit from our rambling.

Tom

Dear Tom,

I am humbled by how stirringly you describe my work. I am very nearly without words to respond. And words rarely abandon me. You speak the language of our human soul and I am awed, truly undone. You have given texture and heart and hue to the Wound as intimately as anyone could hope to, and I thank you for gifting me so generously this evening.

Somehow we go on. Although tonight, as my old soul five year-old tells me he sees no reason he should sleep, and I reflect upon tomorrow’s fever of thrown toys and endless belches and dozens of pinches when autism comes to town, I think, how? How?

Thank you, Tom. At least I sleep this evening Mattering just a little more than I did the night before. And remembering how precious it feels to realize again we are never, ever alone.

Sincerely,
Hillary