The author of this poem, Rachel Wetzsteon, died on Christmas Day of this past year. She has a new volume of poems being released soon, and I will buy it. (And I will notice that my collection of poetry is starting to grow, and I will wonder again at a young man who knew - decades ago - that I had a poet's soul, and I will be amazed that I am just now discovering this about myself.)
This is what I am beginning to worry about. This is what I am starting to do. If I don't start to pay attention - be more full of intention with my writing - I may one day ask the very pines to opine, hoping to command the Muse. And I know it doesn't work that way. Life does not work that way. (I wonder why she called it "MacDowell"?)
MacDowell by Rachel Wetzsteon For once I fought back, answering Oh yes, someday when a restless muse asserted This golden age needs treatment on the page. It was the strangest lesson— all that ink to make me think shadows were real, this silence when one true heart so manifestly was. Time passed. Themes amassed; I scoffed at amber, basked in oxygen. Now in this little cabin where no sightings slake my cravings and my pen gets back its need to conjure, on the ingots I have stored, oh pine, opine.
Although the speaker says we must, else we are doomed, and I believe that we will because that is what we are and what we do, I still see what he sees. I want what he wants. I work for what he is working for. And I think human beings are stunningly amazing creations.
This is what my harp looks like. My husband made it for me from a kit - for my birthday. He signed the inside of it, and the date says 2004. By my next birthday this coming July, I should have been playing the harp for six years, then. But I learned a bit, slacked off a bit, put it down mostly, and now I can only remember a little bit of what I knew ... and I love this instrument, but I don't actually play it.
I mean, it's a hand made harp, right? It's gorgeous. It sounds lovely. The Great Husband has made me a bookcase, a platform for raising the washer and dryer off the floor for convenience, and a harp - other things too, of course, but those are the biggies. And the only things I use are the bookcase and the washer and dryer? What is wrong with me? Laziness. That's what. I just haven't been disciplined enough to keep up with it. But now it's caught up to me.
After dinner last night, the phone rang. A woman in our community has organized an after school program, and sometimes they get local musicians to bring in their instruments and talk about the instrument and how it works, and play a little. Somehow, this woman who once bought hay from us for her goats knew I have this harp. (How did she know?) And so she called. And we nailed down a date, despite the fact that I told her that any claim I might make that I can "play" the harp would be such an exaggeration that it would be a lie. "Can you play a scale?" she asked. "Well, yes. I can do that." "Well, that's good enough," she said. "We just want you to talk about the instrument and show us how it works."
Well, what can I say? The pull of a multi-age group of kids was too strong. I'd don another clown suit for the chance to work with those kids, and you know how I feel about clown suits. So I said yes. And we nailed down a date. (So now I have a few weeks to practice!) And I told her that I had to do that - nail down the date - because otherwise I'll get a call from the library, and since I'm a sub, I never know when that might happen. "Oh!" she said. "You're Stephanie at the library?"
I've been a lot of things in my life, but no one's ever called me Stephanie at the Library before. I think I can wear this one with pinache. Kinda like it, actually ... "Stephanie at the Library." It makes me want to write poetry - which I tried yesterday - for an assignment for Modern Lit - in the style of Gertrude Stein. Wanna see?
Torn Page From a Calendar Is resting side to diagonal while for interest. Of passing to pass and not of waiting is liturgical of purple. If the whiting minder lilac knees breath breathing lilac breathing smoke. For passing comes. Square of under past cement. To pass. Red of circles. Oh the square to pass red circles to cement. And breathing cut. Corner. Came and passing come. Windshield grit of passing comes to passing of the window. Of the curtains. Close the passing. And the torn. Settle passing.
Here's Stein reading Stein - with the bizarre visuals in this video, so you know where I was headed. This sort of thing is ... um ... an acquired taste, shall we say?
Somewhere (I really should start writing these things down) I read that it is an act of power and self-protection - an act of strength - for an introverted person to insist on a moment to think before answering. Think before speaking. Think before responding. Wait. Think. This made sense to me. I have seen children do this, and I have seen their adults get very impatient. "Well? Well? What do you have to say for yourself?"
I have realized lately that this moment to think is something I have been surreptitiously carving out for myself for about three decades. Childhood's "Well? Well?" rings in my ears. It's not that I haven't had these periods of thoughtfulness - I have had them. But I've stolen them like apples at the edge of an orchard, taken when the owner's back was turned. I did not think the juicy refreshment was rightfully mine. I repress the guilt - or I confess it, depending on the moment - and on how much the pleasure bothers me.
Enjoying it seemed worse somehow. I mean, it is, right? There you are. Caught. Chucking the apple away isn't much use if the juice is dripping off your chin and the joy of it is still in your eyes. Now, for me, there has been one bright and shining exception to the guilt. Yesterday I figured out that I have never had one moment's hesitation if I was choosing an apple - preserving the Moment of sovereign contemplation - of quiet and openness - for Someone Else. "What should I do?" the Someone asks. "Do you like it?" "What do you think?" Respond. Validate. Give me some feedback. Now. If I rush to an answer for Someone Else, if I pay no attention to the importance of the Moment, I always regret it. Much better to wait and study it. Wait and choose. Let go of clever. Breathe into calm. For Someone Else - especially if Someone Else is a child - I know how to do that.
But not for me. Stealing cannot be justified if it's only for me. That's what I've thought.
Writers everywhere and for all time, and most other artists too, have defiantly declared themselves to be a selfish lot. They admit to being thieves - they steal the apples simply because they must. It's apples or starvation for writers. Write or wither. I'm sorry. I'm sorry, they say. But it cannot be helped. I must have these Moments. I will die unless I pick them - juicy or dry, large enough for ebb and flow and small enough for silence, I must have these Moments.
In the summer of 2010, I will be fifty years old. In half a century of life on this earth, I may have finally figured out that defiance is and has been utterly unnecessary. Silly, even. I have discovered that the apples are mine - and they also belong to anyone else who wants them. The owner doesn't mind if I wait and study - if we wait and study. The owner doesn't mind if I breathe a minute and choose - if you breathe a minute and choose. The owner has given us blanket permission to glean from this orchard whenever we want to. And it doesn't even have to be for Someone Else. No justification is required. Permission has been given. So turn a deaf ear to anyone who yells at you from across the road. That - over there - where they are busy, busy, busy ... and noisy, noisy, noisy ... doing all the work of commerce, and trade, and bargaining, and buying, and selling (and often posturing and approving of postures) - you need to cross the road and join them when you want dinner. Or fresh paper and paint. You need those people, and they need you. You are supposed to love them - not beat them or join them. Your job is choosing and picking and tasting the apples. The noise they make has nothing to do with you. Don't be distracted by it. Breathe. And choose. And create your art in your Moment. You have permission. And so do I.
The soldier has requested the following for her first care package: mattress pad, cheap twin size sheets, dust masks because she prefers to run and not breathe unfiltered air, eye cover so she can sleep in the tent even if the lights are on, and a scalpel for her callouses. She also prefers the same salad day after day over the plates of curly fries and other "circus food" the soldiers are eating. (Perfect name, "circus food." Her husband came up with that.)
The young giant home for the summer is much improved in guitar skills. And I prefer the bass part to this over the bass parts to drone metal. I'm just sayin.
I also prefer this cooler weather to the hot weather that took my last scrap of inner energy and fried it to a crisp and then blew away the ashes. Tomorrow's my birthday. God gave me my present already. He knew I wanted clouds.
Um ... (a-hem) ... uh ... well, I went to a class today. Two hours of Introduction to Art Therapy. We made collages. The other collages were completely "full" - if you know what I mean. There was no backer paper showing through the other ones. But mine? Well, I didn't really look at what other people were doing - and my pictures were more like floating islands of things on the white backer paper, and then I cut word and phrases out too - and those were on top - and then I took the Sharpie and wrote all over it. Lots and lots and lots of evocative words. (Silly teacher didn't have colored sharpies ... who expects collages to happen with only black sharpies?)
Anyway, I got to thinking about the Art Therapy thing. We asked a lot of questions about her career and how it works for her ... and I thought and thought and thought (and wrote and wrote and wrote) ... and I still think it would be fun to be the Art Lady. But maybe the peak I was using as a way to orient my travels isn't where I want to go. Maybe I'm about to take a different route.
I mean ... well ... I wrote all over my collage!
A very few decades ago, this would have worried me. It would have felt like "quitting" or "being flaky" or something. But now I think that it happens all the time in this life. We use a peak or some other landmark as a way of keeping our sense of direction, and then sometimes, just when we think we can see a clear path straight in and up, we look around and notice where we are. Sometimes the map just works better upside down. (With black sharpie all over it.)
