Cher Bibler - I Am Never Sure When

I am never sure when

"My poetry has slept around," begins Cher Bibler's remarkable new novel, I am never sure when . Belinda -- Billie -- is living in a world of ghosts. There's her mother's ghost (hidden behind a wall of depression and too many meds), her father's ghost (gone after Billie's 10th birthday, but she can forgive him that because she knows he would never willingly leave her), the ghost of Billie's own, brief failed marriage (but a marriage that produces a reason to live: her son, Sam), and the ghost of her married man (the unattainable, though you know that if Billie really wanted him, she could make him hers). Billie works for an old-fashioned print shop in this small Ohio town, but when her best friend Julian returns from New York City under somewhat mysterious circumstances, they quickly set up a new home in a farmhouse on the edge of town. Julian has always exuded a kind of confidence that Billie admires, and they might have married if he wasn't gay, but as best friends, nothing can stop them. Billie's life is suddenly filled with a revolving door of Julian's friends and lovers, with parties and glamour. Billie begins to daydream a new job beyond the print shop to flip houses in this time immediately following the Great Recession. Julian wonders if she's giving up on the words, and Billie starts to wonder about Julian's commitment to his own art. A new man appears in Billie's life and relentlessly pursues her, and though she likes the attention at first, she still thinks of her married man -- the ghosts, Billie discovers, aren't so willing to disappear. Her internal self is waging a war to be heard, to be understood, to be nurtured. "Is there anyone out there who needs to ask me why poets tend to drink a lot? I didnt think so," Billie says. "I am drinking vodka, one part lime and three parts tears. Its the tears that make me drunk. I am drunk on my infinite sadness." Billie's words are shared in the beautiful and haunting poems between chapters (part of Cher's distinctive style -- you read the novel, and it's up to you -- you can accept the poems as part of the narrative or as their own separate thread, their own story). The sadness she feels may indeed be real, but it also won't stop Billie, because even when Julian was away, there were friends and parties and poetry readings. In I am never sure when , Cher Bibler takes the map of Billie's world and frees it from everything that that spells convention. Now, Billie and her words can see right through the ghosts. She holds the key to her freedom.
-- Novelist Geoff Schutt

I am never sure when

a novel by Cher Bibler

Tiffin, Ohio

2017

Copyright 2017 by Cher Bibler

Cover art, Un Femme, by Jane Gilday. Used with permission. (Thank you, Jane!)

Acknowledgements:

Little Girls for Breakfast and Man of my dreams (orig) first appeared in the Tinfoil Chronicles

The other Man of my dreams first appeared on the Tinfoil album, Donde Vas, and also in the Tinfoil Chronicles

I am never sure when first appeared in The Blue Hour

Its almost like a friend, The fires of our hearts, A Poem for Exhibition, We really know our worth, the sun and I, (I will not be beaten down) and How this world looks to you appeared first in I love you in my acid rain

Regret first appeared in Poetry Pacific and then I love you in my acid rain

(I am breathing in your love) first appeared in Poetry Pacific

This is how the story ends first appeared in In Other Words: Merida

The parts of chapter 26 which are written by the character, Geoff, are actually written by my friend, Geoff Schutt, in a bout of interactive novel writing. (Thank you, Geoff!) Geoff really did once have a coffee shop, but this is a fictionalized version.

used with permission

This book is for my friend, Bob Ferkel, who was my Julian. Fucking Aids took him away so long ago.

I.

My poetry has slept around, you may not want to soil your hands. You may want to keep your distance.

The first time I saw my poetry out in public, I felt weird like people were reading my diary and knew my innermost thoughts, but people dont seem to connect me with it. It takes on a life of its own. Thats hard to get used to, but pretty much of a relief.

I am not sociable. I dont seem to have any social skills at all. I keep aloof and nurse a passion for a married man. This passion keeps me safe from all the jerks out there. My man is so perfect they are just dust under my feet compared to him. I keep myself pure for him, but my poetry isnt like that.

I can sit in a bar with my food and a drink and watch a poem (my poem) across the room, clinging to unknown lips. Its very interesting to watch. I know how I intended my poems to be, but they are perceived in many different ways.

Sometimes I get jealous watching, but I console myself with the thought of my married man, who is home watching tv with his wife, where he should be, reading the newspaper with his shoes off and his feet up, maybe a dog laying beside him on the floor. Yes, a dog would work very well with him. If I were with him instead of her, Id want a dog with us.

The poetry can always come home and tell me what it did on its night out. That way I can keep up.

The waitress and I are good friends. We both read books and we talk about that. She reads sensational steamy best seller type things. I encourage her to tell me about her books. I dont tell her what I read. I let her think I probably read about the same stuff. She loves those books. She gets animated when she talks about them. Youre never quite sure what color her hair will be. When she wants a new look, she changes it.

The bartender doesnt seem to approve of me, so I never talk to him.

There is a man at the pinball machine who buys and sells souls for a living. Ive tried to keep my poetry away from him, but he pretends he doesnt want anything to do with it, which drives my poems crazy. I am sure they are heading for a fall. My poetry is so much more vulnerable than me. They are always out looking for someone to love them.

I dont need to do that, because I have someone.

The man at the pinball machine is talking to the waitress. She is white blonde tonight and shes laughing at whatever he says. The bartender calls to her that her order is ready and waiting and getting cold, and when she is gone, the man gets into the rhythm of the game, his hips swaying with the movements of the machine.

During the day, he hangs around the music store, hitting on young kids who come in with guitars. They always seem to think they can trust him, which is why hes so successful in his line of work. He is a broker for the devil and he does quite well.

The waitress has been married three times. Shes going to be a grandmother, but no one would ever suspect it. She must be only 35 or so. I told her I wouldnt tell people, but she laughed and said she would tell them herself. She doesnt care.

I think what a life she must have, always searching for something she never finds, some sort of dream, or a man maybe. I dont have this problem since I have found mine.

In my room, I have a poster on the wall, torn from a magazine, of a man who looks like the man I love. Really, they could be brothers. It is an ad for a movie. His hair is a little longer, shaggier. My man is so respectable. I like that in him. Whenever I think about falling out of love or moving on, I realize that even his failings are good qualities and I cant hate him for it. Its better to love a perfect man who is deserving of your love, even though you will never be together, than to waste it on someone whos not worth it. I am not that desperate for affection.