Meditation is slow business. I recognize how bad I am at it, which I am not supposed to judge, making me even worse. Images the word "meditation" brings to mind: sitting in the balcony at Gethsemane, the monastery where Thomas Merton once lived; the rough-cushioned pews at the Friends meeting house on east 16th street; Elizabeth Gilbert's sappy prose in Eat, Pray, Love; the small, blonde Vipassana teacher at my church in Louisville; Eduardo, the bald, mustachioed yogi who first taught me to meditate in a cold room in Benares, India. I smell dust in the small "chapel" room at the University of Essex, with old, utilitarian campus chairs--wide seats, with outdated upholstery and curved wooden arms and legs, where I sat with a Quaker woman who worked for the school under flourescent lights. I sit on a lumpy cushion in a carpeted room upstairs at James Lees Presbyterian Church in Louisville, the youngest Vipassana participant in the room by far. Our teacher of indeterminate age wears scarves and yoga pants, and tells us what it means to sit. I remember the supreme discomfort of sitting for so long, and the self-consciousness brought on by others listening for your motions, the disgrace in moving to scratch a nose or adjust a leg that has achingly fallen asleep. She taught us walking meditation downstairs in the aisles of the sanctuary, which were on an incline, so i traversed the musty red carpet in my socks, not yet dark outside, with the sun beams settling on the golden stained glass window that portrayed Jesus alone, on his knees, looking up to the sky. I always wanted to stay and keep going long after the class's exercises had reached an end. Did that make me more holy? Crave more? Somehow, a misplaced naivete. Young yearning. It's a wonder the older, retired participants did not look at me with overwhelming pity. So earnest, but arrogant in my expectations. A regular Simone Weil.
There was another class that met in the same room--still old people except me, but in assorted wooden chairs rather than lumpy cushions on the floor. We were there to learn about the life of Thomas Merton, and from the first session, I determined that our teacher was simultaneously elitist and ignorant. He had the air of a know-it-all professor, wore a tidily trimmed gray beard, and brought a grande Starbucks coffee to each class, which was at night. How can one learn about the life of a holy man while jacked up on caffeine? Weren't we supposed to have a few minutes of prayer and meditation at the end of every class? God does not want our thoughts racing, or at least, if they are, they should be fueled by fair-trade shade-grown beans, not a corporate plutocracy. As much as I remember disliking the man, I cannot recall the specifics as to why--a talking down to us, or an air of being privy to information that we the novitiates could not have known. Probably, it was my recent escape from college and need to prove myself as both smart and spiritually mature. Having Merton dissected as a man, with faults--large faults--following his youthful meanderings he himself exposed in Seven Storey Mountain was not the enlightened life I wanted to understand. He travelled to Asia, embraced Buddhism. Wrote from the hermitage he was eventually granted in the woods. Still had a drinking problem, and probably an illicit relationship with a woman in his later years. I cringed at the image of him dying by electrocution in a bathtub, perhaps the least glamorous or spiritually enlightened way to meet one's end. I often think of Merton now, those laughing eyes, the white and black cassock and leather sandals, hidden ink stains on his fingers, piles of chopped wood. Gethsemane has no doubt benefited greatly--financially--from Merton's fame. Why must everything and everyone, spiritual or striving to be, be so muddled and sullied? Why must I focus on the flaws within myself and others, and not have the grace to accept them?
Saturday, February 25, 2012
Monday, February 20, 2012
mise en scène: think coffee, union square
at think coffee south of union square. i like the décor: old, dark, worn wooden floor, tin ceiling painted white, dark wood and upholstery, marble-topped tables, spare lamps, gray walls. rihanna disconcertingly echoes from white speakers in the corners. i attempt dancing on my high wooden stool until i catch ryan's eye and he gives me a look, feigning embarrassment.
my latte is delightfully creamy and bitter with white feathers of foam across the top. the woman working the latte machine is dark like chocolate, with a red patterned head scarf and a large, fuzzy, caftan-like draping. i don't know how she can stand the heat. she says "an order of dumplings" in a clear, booming voice. a pale girl with a curly, tawny mohawk sits at a back table in a black hoody with a skull drawing on it. the skull has its own green mohawk. she wears all black clothes, not torn, but with lots of zippers. she has cultivated a determined androgyny. i do not doubt she is a girl, though--is it her mannerisms? her long-fingered hands? she has tiny spacers in her ears. i strain to see her textbook, but it is too far away. no pictures. i imagine it must be literature, anthropology, political theory. i want to be proved wrong, but know that we are of the same cloth, to an extent.
two french-looking dudes in stripes with tan, grizzled faces just left. a small man remains at their long table who reminds me of a jewish wes anderson--but wouldn't that be jason schwartzman? he wears a blue checked button down tucked into jeans, a brown belt, and has a black wool coat draped over his chair. brown lace-ups that look like an expensive bar in brooklyn, with visible white socks covering the space between his shoes and the hem of his jeans. he stands: skinny jeans. he has round, reddish-brown plastic glasses that are slightly horn-rimmed, and a navy totebag that says "melville house/the art of the novel" in skinny white capital letters, in a sans serif font.
almost everyone in the back row has large, dark, visible tattoos. the exception is one woman who looks like she just came from the gym. she is drinking orange juice and has hot pink ribbing on her zip up sweatshirt. she might be a law student. mohawk girl removes her hoody to reveal a loose black tank that says "no age" in red, over a black tube top. next to her is an older, mid-30s mixed race/asian guy, with a white pearl button shirt with slanted brown stripes, a black toque, and stubble. he has delicate features, and his early beard reminds me of the girl playing boy drummer in the hedwig movie--the one who leaves to join the cast of rent. he is drinking coconut water. i am conscious of myself observing, part of this scene.
a tall light-skinned black man walks by with a pleasant expression. his face looks like an herbivorous dinosaur, or a platypus. like a billed dinosaur. he has long, well-kept dreads that are tied back, and he wears a checked brown wool blazer with elbow patches. he is clean shaven and there is a scar across his chin. i shift my gaze to the bad collage art on the walls. there are painted sketches on mostly blank squares of canvas. the artist is maria marshall. her email address is on a chalkboard over the bar. i will not email her.
my latte is delightfully creamy and bitter with white feathers of foam across the top. the woman working the latte machine is dark like chocolate, with a red patterned head scarf and a large, fuzzy, caftan-like draping. i don't know how she can stand the heat. she says "an order of dumplings" in a clear, booming voice. a pale girl with a curly, tawny mohawk sits at a back table in a black hoody with a skull drawing on it. the skull has its own green mohawk. she wears all black clothes, not torn, but with lots of zippers. she has cultivated a determined androgyny. i do not doubt she is a girl, though--is it her mannerisms? her long-fingered hands? she has tiny spacers in her ears. i strain to see her textbook, but it is too far away. no pictures. i imagine it must be literature, anthropology, political theory. i want to be proved wrong, but know that we are of the same cloth, to an extent.
two french-looking dudes in stripes with tan, grizzled faces just left. a small man remains at their long table who reminds me of a jewish wes anderson--but wouldn't that be jason schwartzman? he wears a blue checked button down tucked into jeans, a brown belt, and has a black wool coat draped over his chair. brown lace-ups that look like an expensive bar in brooklyn, with visible white socks covering the space between his shoes and the hem of his jeans. he stands: skinny jeans. he has round, reddish-brown plastic glasses that are slightly horn-rimmed, and a navy totebag that says "melville house/the art of the novel" in skinny white capital letters, in a sans serif font.
almost everyone in the back row has large, dark, visible tattoos. the exception is one woman who looks like she just came from the gym. she is drinking orange juice and has hot pink ribbing on her zip up sweatshirt. she might be a law student. mohawk girl removes her hoody to reveal a loose black tank that says "no age" in red, over a black tube top. next to her is an older, mid-30s mixed race/asian guy, with a white pearl button shirt with slanted brown stripes, a black toque, and stubble. he has delicate features, and his early beard reminds me of the girl playing boy drummer in the hedwig movie--the one who leaves to join the cast of rent. he is drinking coconut water. i am conscious of myself observing, part of this scene.
a tall light-skinned black man walks by with a pleasant expression. his face looks like an herbivorous dinosaur, or a platypus. like a billed dinosaur. he has long, well-kept dreads that are tied back, and he wears a checked brown wool blazer with elbow patches. he is clean shaven and there is a scar across his chin. i shift my gaze to the bad collage art on the walls. there are painted sketches on mostly blank squares of canvas. the artist is maria marshall. her email address is on a chalkboard over the bar. i will not email her.
Sunday, February 12, 2012
i don't care that whitney houston died.
my husband sleeps, my cats lie in wait, and the squirrel in the roof has temporarily ceased scratching. i keep running across that quote from flannery, that writers must not save the world, but save the work. save the work. i think (thought? think?) that was the path i chose when i left the advocacy world, left working for the church for good. the action alerts in my inbox go largely unheeded. lunch hour forays into the sadder news of the times preys upon my already troubled mind. last week: an artist who lived in the subway tunnels died in a fire. he had co-authored a graphic novel about his life underground. what stuck out most was mention of the childen's home where he was raised, it said, "after his parents abandoned him." there is enough sadness in those five words to make me want to hide from the light of day, hide, hide. but i am not emily, i don't like wearing white, and i like people too much to stay solely in my garden, my kitchen, my room.
if i were emily dickinson i would wear deep gray and leave my house at least to observe the townsfolk from nearby woods, and visit a friend or two by cover of darkness.
if i were merrill garbus i would wear cerulean face paint, and let my hair even out, and give myself a big pat on the back.
if i were flannery o'connor i would spend time watching the peacocks through my window, and cover my room in silver saints, and not let the darkness scare me.
if i were susan sontag i would try not to be so elitist, and dye my white streak hot pink every once in awhile, and visit all of the french speaking countries, and try to master patois.
but i am me. with a dull headache, a confused sense of self, a need to write, a lack of time, and an aversion to routine. i wish i had a room upstairs with a large window overlooking an evergreen tree. i will have to write it into existence.
if i were emily dickinson i would wear deep gray and leave my house at least to observe the townsfolk from nearby woods, and visit a friend or two by cover of darkness.
if i were merrill garbus i would wear cerulean face paint, and let my hair even out, and give myself a big pat on the back.
if i were flannery o'connor i would spend time watching the peacocks through my window, and cover my room in silver saints, and not let the darkness scare me.
if i were susan sontag i would try not to be so elitist, and dye my white streak hot pink every once in awhile, and visit all of the french speaking countries, and try to master patois.
but i am me. with a dull headache, a confused sense of self, a need to write, a lack of time, and an aversion to routine. i wish i had a room upstairs with a large window overlooking an evergreen tree. i will have to write it into existence.
Sunday, February 5, 2012
black to green
oranges sit in the wooden bowl on the counter, obscured by piles of dirty purple dishes. the scent of fresh blueberry muffins lingers above the oven. i consider decorating the pale yellow wall with postcards, their edges frayed, backs ripped where tape has been before. silty french roast coffee burns my tongue. i think of an hour ago, before the muffins, my eyes still full of sleep and stomach rumbling, an aching void in my middle. my mind is full of dark cracks on the weekends, the unstructured hours prone to let putrid vines creep in, squeeze my synapses, criticize my appearance, doubt myself. compare myself to ephemera that this behemoth city pretends is real. the vines creep through my skin, shades of bruised purple, black, yellow-green, orange-red. their myriad voices convince me i am inferior, that everyone knows. that everyone sees the dark flaw vines under the translucence of my pale-flour face.
how narcissistic to think they would care.
i want to embrace the vines. celebrate so-called imperfection, radiate light, voice uniqueness and vision. how difficult, at times, to see so much, without a funnel through which to filter it. i want to be honest above all, with you, gentle reader, with myself. and my best self tells me to write, to use my fingers, stretch my brain, break the poison vines until they recede, allow green healthy shoots to expand and flourish and nurture my thoughts. hot pink flowers burst in my head, expand through my ears, tangle in my hair. petals fall in my wake, and their soft pink light radiates around me, colors my gray streak with rosy light. the green tendrils will expand beyond my fingers, connect to the earth, exit my toes to reach for water in soil.
i move slowly through the earth like tolkien's trees. it is difficult to move, painful even, my wooden trunk cracking, breaking the rigid patterns that have upheld me for ages. i smell the churning dirt, the clear, clean air after rain in the desert, bringing a blue hush to the haze of nearby mountains. i see green bursts in the rocky soil. i will not tolerate thorns. everything is welcome to approach me: the wombat, the rattler, the man with the intolerable smell on the metro, bugs in his hair, red eyes, sores on his legs, mumbling indiscernably. i am not sure if the green can reach him, for i am not a healer. but i tell what i see, his filth i smell, making travelers dry heave and click through the interior doors to another car. i stand, broken, growing, with arms outstretched.
how narcissistic to think they would care.
i want to embrace the vines. celebrate so-called imperfection, radiate light, voice uniqueness and vision. how difficult, at times, to see so much, without a funnel through which to filter it. i want to be honest above all, with you, gentle reader, with myself. and my best self tells me to write, to use my fingers, stretch my brain, break the poison vines until they recede, allow green healthy shoots to expand and flourish and nurture my thoughts. hot pink flowers burst in my head, expand through my ears, tangle in my hair. petals fall in my wake, and their soft pink light radiates around me, colors my gray streak with rosy light. the green tendrils will expand beyond my fingers, connect to the earth, exit my toes to reach for water in soil.
i move slowly through the earth like tolkien's trees. it is difficult to move, painful even, my wooden trunk cracking, breaking the rigid patterns that have upheld me for ages. i smell the churning dirt, the clear, clean air after rain in the desert, bringing a blue hush to the haze of nearby mountains. i see green bursts in the rocky soil. i will not tolerate thorns. everything is welcome to approach me: the wombat, the rattler, the man with the intolerable smell on the metro, bugs in his hair, red eyes, sores on his legs, mumbling indiscernably. i am not sure if the green can reach him, for i am not a healer. but i tell what i see, his filth i smell, making travelers dry heave and click through the interior doors to another car. i stand, broken, growing, with arms outstretched.
Saturday, February 4, 2012
strange weather
"he was a sailor/a sailor at sea and a sailor of love/and he thought he could save her/save her from innocence up and above" -sailor and widow
the lights sparkled up through the giant window, reflecting spectres of dark cars signified only by headlights caught in a rotary, circling and circling the statue of the genocidal maniac some still revere. within the tiny auditorium, hot pink lights illuminated the audience, turning my yellow dress to orange. the string quartet was chic in black; v-necked caftan on the cellist, sequined top behind the viola. the first violin was tiny and white-haired and french in a suit.
keren ann took the stage, stepping up carefully in black ankle boots. not expecting much, i anticipated shoulder pads and severe hair cut and dramatic make-up more befitting a pop star wielding a gun. instead she was small and soft and parisian, with hair in gentle waves approaching her waist, parted in the middle. she wore a simple black dress with a pleated skirt, which, along with black electric guitar, easily concealed her early pregnancy. only the wine glass full of water rather than whisky hinted at healthful discretion.
she quietly commanded the stage, presenting subdued arrangements of her dancier hits. there is something perennially sexy about a dress behind a guitar. the strings bowed in unison, out of unison, the cellist with deep and sultry highlights. the french lilt of the singer's english did not penetrate her lyrics, only the gracious chatter between songs. i thought about effecting the accent myself, if i could pull it off, but sometimes i feel too tall and conspicuous to be a curvy french ingenue.
later, escaping the dark pools of the strings and the french singer all in black, i reentered the l.e.d. light of the nighttime streets of new york. i rode the flourescent train with a yawn, the tired eyes of queens neighbors silent and staring. back in my room, her recording would sound tinny and false, with none of the simplicity of her live singsong voice, the gentle whispers introducing the quartet, lingering on the short 'i'. does she sound familiar because this music is inherent to me, or because she is merely a collage artist of others' notes and thoughts? a '70s song i can't place emerges behind 'not going anywhere.' my dress, a dim shade of yellow, hangs limply on the back of my rocking chair.
the lights sparkled up through the giant window, reflecting spectres of dark cars signified only by headlights caught in a rotary, circling and circling the statue of the genocidal maniac some still revere. within the tiny auditorium, hot pink lights illuminated the audience, turning my yellow dress to orange. the string quartet was chic in black; v-necked caftan on the cellist, sequined top behind the viola. the first violin was tiny and white-haired and french in a suit.
keren ann took the stage, stepping up carefully in black ankle boots. not expecting much, i anticipated shoulder pads and severe hair cut and dramatic make-up more befitting a pop star wielding a gun. instead she was small and soft and parisian, with hair in gentle waves approaching her waist, parted in the middle. she wore a simple black dress with a pleated skirt, which, along with black electric guitar, easily concealed her early pregnancy. only the wine glass full of water rather than whisky hinted at healthful discretion.
she quietly commanded the stage, presenting subdued arrangements of her dancier hits. there is something perennially sexy about a dress behind a guitar. the strings bowed in unison, out of unison, the cellist with deep and sultry highlights. the french lilt of the singer's english did not penetrate her lyrics, only the gracious chatter between songs. i thought about effecting the accent myself, if i could pull it off, but sometimes i feel too tall and conspicuous to be a curvy french ingenue.
later, escaping the dark pools of the strings and the french singer all in black, i reentered the l.e.d. light of the nighttime streets of new york. i rode the flourescent train with a yawn, the tired eyes of queens neighbors silent and staring. back in my room, her recording would sound tinny and false, with none of the simplicity of her live singsong voice, the gentle whispers introducing the quartet, lingering on the short 'i'. does she sound familiar because this music is inherent to me, or because she is merely a collage artist of others' notes and thoughts? a '70s song i can't place emerges behind 'not going anywhere.' my dress, a dim shade of yellow, hangs limply on the back of my rocking chair.
Sunday, January 29, 2012
I'll take candles over numerals any day
Well, it's been awhile.
I met a person at a party last night--a Chinese New Year party, to be exact--who is writing a book about living in Shanghai. I told him I am a writer as well, although neither of us are, yet, by profession. He reminded me about the value of blogging, if for no other reason than to get feedback from the five people who consistently read your words. So here I am, dear readers. Here I am.
Speaking of this lucky year of the dragon, 2012 is going to be our year. I say our to be inclusive, but I will outline what it means for me.
This is the year of using my voice. Writing, writing, writing. My previous goal of 300 words a day is not a bad start.
This is the year of faith. Figuring out faith in myself, in my environs (finding the perfectly just city is no easy task), in God and this world.
This is the year to seek the perfectly just city. Which is quoting Mark Helprin's Winter's Tale, a paean to New York City and winter. Neither of which come naturally to this Southern country girl. So, as I am going to seize each moment here, I present you with my top nine goals for the year of the dragon:
see a play
go to the botanical garden
be published in a non-work related publication
participate in worship, regularly
go to BAM
travel to scandinavia
cut my hair like rooney mara
noguchi museum
speak out for campaign finance reform
um, quite a list. mainly, i will live in colors, live in rooms.
I met a person at a party last night--a Chinese New Year party, to be exact--who is writing a book about living in Shanghai. I told him I am a writer as well, although neither of us are, yet, by profession. He reminded me about the value of blogging, if for no other reason than to get feedback from the five people who consistently read your words. So here I am, dear readers. Here I am.
Speaking of this lucky year of the dragon, 2012 is going to be our year. I say our to be inclusive, but I will outline what it means for me.
This is the year of using my voice. Writing, writing, writing. My previous goal of 300 words a day is not a bad start.
This is the year of faith. Figuring out faith in myself, in my environs (finding the perfectly just city is no easy task), in God and this world.
This is the year to seek the perfectly just city. Which is quoting Mark Helprin's Winter's Tale, a paean to New York City and winter. Neither of which come naturally to this Southern country girl. So, as I am going to seize each moment here, I present you with my top nine goals for the year of the dragon:
see a play
go to the botanical garden
be published in a non-work related publication
participate in worship, regularly
go to BAM
travel to scandinavia
cut my hair like rooney mara
noguchi museum
speak out for campaign finance reform
um, quite a list. mainly, i will live in colors, live in rooms.
Monday, January 26, 2009
xii. the divine miss T
when my cat, who is still an adolescent, jumps onto my bed, she emits a tiny squeak that is her form of announcement and greeting. twyla brings her striking face--half black, half orange--inches from mine and begins to crawl feverishly around my head, with her weighted paws pulling my hair. i don't mind. i want only for her affection to continue into ripe old age. then my little girl will nuzzle her head into my palm, tasting my fingers, purring beneath her mottled calico stripes. it won't take long for her to settle somewhere near my shoulders, nestled into my torso, and i sense the pulsating purring resonating inside of me, akin to my own heartbeat. margaret atwood wrote in oryx and crake that a cat's purring can heal. i am certain of this. twyla heals me each day, sensing my own wounds and internal scars as an extension of her own being. my worst nightmare included a scenario where i had lost her, and almost found her over and over again, only to discover a cat who was almost like her but with different marking--a white circle around one eye, or a face with too much orange. my little girl was lost to me. disappearance is almost like dying, but with more ambiguity.
throughout my life, i have known cats named madeline, cotton, mim, isadora, effie, and paul. before i had a cat, i spent years spouting bullshit about not believing in happiness, but i finally recognized that wholeness is not perfection. i try to lighten up and offer what little care i can, to myself and the tiniest of beings. my happiest moments are when surrounded by furry twyla and dearest R, all of us nestled on the couch, wanting for nothing. in the dead of winter, i lead a charmed life. with books, purring, the flicker of tea candles, and touch, i cannot want for more.
throughout my life, i have known cats named madeline, cotton, mim, isadora, effie, and paul. before i had a cat, i spent years spouting bullshit about not believing in happiness, but i finally recognized that wholeness is not perfection. i try to lighten up and offer what little care i can, to myself and the tiniest of beings. my happiest moments are when surrounded by furry twyla and dearest R, all of us nestled on the couch, wanting for nothing. in the dead of winter, i lead a charmed life. with books, purring, the flicker of tea candles, and touch, i cannot want for more.
Tuesday, January 13, 2009
xi. slumbai
i am a failure as a blogger. even though i will continue to think this, i will not write of it again.
this afternoon i saw a matinee of 'slumdog millionaire.' a far cry from danny boyle's 'trainspotting,' although equally superb. it reminded me of the worst aspects of india, the barefoot children with gold nose-rings and filthy smears across their faces, needy yet cunning eyes, and cupped palms with dirty fingernails that poke at your hips or tug on your tunic, keeping you surrounded as you attempt to push past them down the ghats or across the street. for as brief a time as i spent there, it is this india, the india of brothels full of children, of feces and excrement, crowding sweat, pickpocketing, drug-addled, dreadlocked europeans, and smoke, diesel, and garbage rotting in the sun, that will not leave me. a little girl called me her butterly auntie, and another painted my nails at her father's tea stall. all of the children were so eager to be touched.
earlier this year i read mehta's "maximum city," about mumbai, and the film contained one such burning man as is mentioned therein, lit on fire during the hindu/muslim riots of the early nineties. today i saw him erupt and stumble down the street, unaided, unsalvageable.
and somewhere among all of this, there is room for the corporeal reality--not our phantasms--of the gods, brilliant in their colors, vindictive in their righting of wrongs, cyclical in their quest for creation and destruction, creative in their amalgamations of inhuman bodies. they are, and are not, of us. ganesh has guarded my many passings to and fro, to and fro, yet what liminality, what interference of the divine, will allow me to truly cross over?
this afternoon i saw a matinee of 'slumdog millionaire.' a far cry from danny boyle's 'trainspotting,' although equally superb. it reminded me of the worst aspects of india, the barefoot children with gold nose-rings and filthy smears across their faces, needy yet cunning eyes, and cupped palms with dirty fingernails that poke at your hips or tug on your tunic, keeping you surrounded as you attempt to push past them down the ghats or across the street. for as brief a time as i spent there, it is this india, the india of brothels full of children, of feces and excrement, crowding sweat, pickpocketing, drug-addled, dreadlocked europeans, and smoke, diesel, and garbage rotting in the sun, that will not leave me. a little girl called me her butterly auntie, and another painted my nails at her father's tea stall. all of the children were so eager to be touched.
earlier this year i read mehta's "maximum city," about mumbai, and the film contained one such burning man as is mentioned therein, lit on fire during the hindu/muslim riots of the early nineties. today i saw him erupt and stumble down the street, unaided, unsalvageable.
and somewhere among all of this, there is room for the corporeal reality--not our phantasms--of the gods, brilliant in their colors, vindictive in their righting of wrongs, cyclical in their quest for creation and destruction, creative in their amalgamations of inhuman bodies. they are, and are not, of us. ganesh has guarded my many passings to and fro, to and fro, yet what liminality, what interference of the divine, will allow me to truly cross over?
Friday, January 9, 2009
x. inertia
my days are unsettled. i needed peace, solitude, slowness, after the whirlwind tour to visit family; but now i am nearly alone in my house and it is silent, cavernous, creaking with the cold. i feel the draft from my unprotected windows, carrying in swirls of frigid air that settle on my desk, on my floorboards. shards of ice crawl up the panes, onto the walls, into my feet and rigid fingers. i have a list of things to accomplish, two pages long, that flutters as i brush past it. i curl up and attempt to read. i know something is wrong when i am not interested in magazines, books, news items, words. i stare listlessly out the window, watching the sunshine's reflection on the snow. it beckons me with its falsehood, for not a shard of warmth exists in the golden light. i sip stale tea and wonder how long i can maintain this purposelessness; neither do i want responsibility to return. i cannot reach three-hundred words. my eyes are blank discs hiding dark matter with frozen synapses. i am inertia, becoming more entrenched in my seat and shuddering frame with each visible breath that crosses my chapped lips.
Monday, January 5, 2009
ix. two thousand nine
people are not quite this crazy where i come from. there was that new year's where T imbibed god knows what in the empty farmhouse, then almost burned down a field until the county fire department appeared. otherwise things are pretty tame, folks fill their fireplaces when it's fifty degrees outside, and liquor can only be bought south of the railroad tracks. not so in north dakota. we arrived at the cabin bundled up in the car, with cold toes and frozen pizzas hanging out in the back of the truck. everyone was standing by the hobo fire outside, their fronts illuminated with a goblin-like glow. it was two degrees fahrenheit. beers froze in the bottles if not gulped fast enough. we added layers and joined them, glassy eyes peeking out below caps and hoods and bulky carhart coveralls and ski attire. one of the older generation passed around redeye, also known as wedding whisky, which tastes of black licorice and leaves a burn on your lips. i sipped red wine during the brief interludes indoors. then it was close to midnight, so a few of us gathered in the garage, some smoking grape cigars, to unwrap bottle rockets and sparklers that were crammed into a sawed-off barrel. well over a hundred firecrackers bouqueted in anticipation of release. outside the sparklers were lit, we prepared to duck as needed, and the booms started. a shower of divine light accompanied by acrid smoke blocked the clear, cruel sky. i coughed and retired indoors. sleep came soon after, on blankets on the floor in a corner shared with mummified crickets and tired carpet. the morning brought tequila shots and classic rock radio before departure, my snow boots well coated and smoke-filled outerware reeking of the new year.
Monday, December 29, 2008
viii. steve almond
dear steve almond,
you don't know me, but i saw you recently at a reading. the somerville writers' festival was held about a month ago, and you read quickly and then had to leave because your wife was about to go into labor. if i were her, i would be mad you agreed to read at the festival too. but that's not why i'm writing. i was moved by your letter excerpts*, as most were funny, others heartrendingly poignant, and all echoed something i might write myself, which i found most intriguing. so i went to the library, which you will be pleased to know has ALL of your books. and to think i'd never even heard of you. i selected "not that you asked," your book of personal essays, because that's what i like to write, and i hoped it might contain some of the letters you read. it didn't, but i was moved by your homage to vonnegut. i wonder if there's a writer who has had that amount of influence in my life: perhaps lisa carver, whom i have met, or cornel west and wendell berry, whom i have heard speak, or otherwise only the deceased--flannery o'connor, hannah arendt, peter kropotkin, thomas merton, salinger (who, alright, is not dead, but equally inaccessible). i made a zine once and used quotes from vonnegut, who was a fighter until the end. so, unlike you, i do not have grandparents who were communists, but i do come from good country people, and find that i am equally concerned with freedom and truth. so thanks for your words (your essay on the multiple deaths of josephine made me laugh out loud) and keep writing, and reading, and i hope you find another teaching post. you've got two babies to care for now.
sincerely,
ann crews melton
*for the inquisitive reader: steve almond resigned from boston college when they invited condoleezza rice to speak at commencement, after which he received hundreds of emails from right-wing nut jobs, to which he responded publicly at the reading. they included lots of references to his balls, and condi's balls, and hellfire, and expletives unfit to reproduce here.
you don't know me, but i saw you recently at a reading. the somerville writers' festival was held about a month ago, and you read quickly and then had to leave because your wife was about to go into labor. if i were her, i would be mad you agreed to read at the festival too. but that's not why i'm writing. i was moved by your letter excerpts*, as most were funny, others heartrendingly poignant, and all echoed something i might write myself, which i found most intriguing. so i went to the library, which you will be pleased to know has ALL of your books. and to think i'd never even heard of you. i selected "not that you asked," your book of personal essays, because that's what i like to write, and i hoped it might contain some of the letters you read. it didn't, but i was moved by your homage to vonnegut. i wonder if there's a writer who has had that amount of influence in my life: perhaps lisa carver, whom i have met, or cornel west and wendell berry, whom i have heard speak, or otherwise only the deceased--flannery o'connor, hannah arendt, peter kropotkin, thomas merton, salinger (who, alright, is not dead, but equally inaccessible). i made a zine once and used quotes from vonnegut, who was a fighter until the end. so, unlike you, i do not have grandparents who were communists, but i do come from good country people, and find that i am equally concerned with freedom and truth. so thanks for your words (your essay on the multiple deaths of josephine made me laugh out loud) and keep writing, and reading, and i hope you find another teaching post. you've got two babies to care for now.
sincerely,
ann crews melton
*for the inquisitive reader: steve almond resigned from boston college when they invited condoleezza rice to speak at commencement, after which he received hundreds of emails from right-wing nut jobs, to which he responded publicly at the reading. they included lots of references to his balls, and condi's balls, and hellfire, and expletives unfit to reproduce here.
Sunday, December 28, 2008
vii. warmth
it begins as a searing point of light. as the coils tighten their tender fingers around the dark matter, i can no longer see. still, i sense the dark wings fluttering, carrying their echoes of anxiety, abandoned responsibility, thin air, and stunted growth. i cringe at the mournful chiming of the christmas bells. gifts, well-intended, lie leaden on my chest and strain my brittle fingers. the one i love lifts me from the gloom for but awhile, but then we argue, stutter and regret displaced cruel words.
it doesn't have to be like this. the cold does not comfort, the fireplace echoes emptily in the chill dark. the shadows of cattle and wildlife stare back from the night, their cold enormous eyes barely illuminated by the superficial exterior bulbs, lining roofs and warding off strangers. at this time, and always, it is only the familiar we hold dear.
and what of the light, that pinpoint gripping, searing, severing and stifling thoughts and stillborn kind words? the shards reach eyelids, cheekbone, neck, twisting in severity with the clanging of the bells. this pain is inherited. i carry it with the weight of our women, the coming heaviness and tears of childbirth, the pin pricks turned to burning prods that acknowledge no origin. they, as my body, have always been a part of me. i long for wholeness and reconciliation, not release. i can no more escape the pinpricks of light than i can cease to exist. the tendrils keep their grip firmly, unyielding. i try to breathe, eyes closed, seeing nothing, but feeling for the first time a gentle warmth near my hand. i hold hands with it and do not move, do not speak, as a single tear rolls toward my pillow.
it doesn't have to be like this. the cold does not comfort, the fireplace echoes emptily in the chill dark. the shadows of cattle and wildlife stare back from the night, their cold enormous eyes barely illuminated by the superficial exterior bulbs, lining roofs and warding off strangers. at this time, and always, it is only the familiar we hold dear.
and what of the light, that pinpoint gripping, searing, severing and stifling thoughts and stillborn kind words? the shards reach eyelids, cheekbone, neck, twisting in severity with the clanging of the bells. this pain is inherited. i carry it with the weight of our women, the coming heaviness and tears of childbirth, the pin pricks turned to burning prods that acknowledge no origin. they, as my body, have always been a part of me. i long for wholeness and reconciliation, not release. i can no more escape the pinpricks of light than i can cease to exist. the tendrils keep their grip firmly, unyielding. i try to breathe, eyes closed, seeing nothing, but feeling for the first time a gentle warmth near my hand. i hold hands with it and do not move, do not speak, as a single tear rolls toward my pillow.
Friday, December 12, 2008
vi. sidewalks
this morning i sloshed through the muddled streets of boston, where filth and oil and rainwater rolled down like an everflowing stream. my toes escaped unscathed, thanks to salt-ridden boots, and beneath my black umbrella i dodged the gazes of the curious and the disenfranchised. stepping precisely around cigarette butts, wayward candy wrappers and dunkin' donuts "happy holiddays" cups, i jetéd over the swirls of muck accumulating at each curb. my feet hurried forward without a clear path, touching no one.
i think of the trails i have traversed, from the path through the hedgerow that led to tesco's, me in vegan steel-toed boots with a backpack anticipating soy yogurt, dry pasta and a boldly labelled bottle marked "vodka." a lost wes anderson prop. we tromped together over the dying november grass, down a mile of sidewalk that passed the graffiti wrought by dave's eager hand. later the boots would carry me through the streets of newcastle and london, calling for bush and blair to consider the children who were not their own; who might in fact belong to no one.
there was no sidewalk in benares. the streets, full of cow manure, trampled marigolds and human excrement, quickly turned to dust from lack of rain. never barefoot, i envisioned wanton bacteria covertly invading my sandals. i could easily die here. at night, after sitar concerts or philosophy lectures, i left the meeting house to walk home, unwisely, alone, a tall pale ghost with a distinctly feminine shadow. there were no women in the preternaturally dark streets. beady eyes of street vendors hovered over flames, warming their pots of tea. as my sandals stumbled over the dusty path, i saw myself attacked, violated, robbed, or worse, fed into the ganges like men into the laughing jaws of kali. still, i prayed to her, mother of destruction and creation, dark wild goddess, protect me from my own ignorance.
i think of the trails i have traversed, from the path through the hedgerow that led to tesco's, me in vegan steel-toed boots with a backpack anticipating soy yogurt, dry pasta and a boldly labelled bottle marked "vodka." a lost wes anderson prop. we tromped together over the dying november grass, down a mile of sidewalk that passed the graffiti wrought by dave's eager hand. later the boots would carry me through the streets of newcastle and london, calling for bush and blair to consider the children who were not their own; who might in fact belong to no one.
there was no sidewalk in benares. the streets, full of cow manure, trampled marigolds and human excrement, quickly turned to dust from lack of rain. never barefoot, i envisioned wanton bacteria covertly invading my sandals. i could easily die here. at night, after sitar concerts or philosophy lectures, i left the meeting house to walk home, unwisely, alone, a tall pale ghost with a distinctly feminine shadow. there were no women in the preternaturally dark streets. beady eyes of street vendors hovered over flames, warming their pots of tea. as my sandals stumbled over the dusty path, i saw myself attacked, violated, robbed, or worse, fed into the ganges like men into the laughing jaws of kali. still, i prayed to her, mother of destruction and creation, dark wild goddess, protect me from my own ignorance.
Thursday, December 11, 2008
v. godmother of punk
the pixies are the cause for some debate in empire records, if you remember, between ethan embry and that other guy. i first heard the pixies on a mix tape from C, my high school artist boyfriend. he collected songs that scared me--so intense in their professions of love and lust that i turned my cheek away from his eager lips. he backed off and made me a punk mix tape, which was mostly sonic youth and patti smith and other people i'd never heard of and did not appreciate until much later, when the tape played only squeaks and rumpled metallic rotations that soon ceased altogether. such is the ephemeral nature of high school love.
my sister married her high school boyfriend, after years of long distance car trips back and forth between texas colleges, passing miles and miles of pasture and outlet malls. now they own a house and two cars but no pets, other than the feral bunnies that leave spherical droppings in the yard. i expect i'll be an aunt soon, but i'm not sure i'm old enough to babysit helpless creatures that might, just a little bit, look like me.
speaking of getting older, i appreciate being born at the darkest time of the year. i am full of mystery, while the rest of creation is full of light. my horoscope says sagittarians should not to go to beijing or london as we would constantly feel watched, only i remember belfast as being much worse regarding surveillance and helicopters. sarah palin told alaskans to shoot wolves from helicopters, as if helicopters are readily available. maybe they are. i've never been to alaska but i'd love to go, back to the darkness from which i am born. there is a rilke poem about that, once written in chalk on my ceiling.
my sister married her high school boyfriend, after years of long distance car trips back and forth between texas colleges, passing miles and miles of pasture and outlet malls. now they own a house and two cars but no pets, other than the feral bunnies that leave spherical droppings in the yard. i expect i'll be an aunt soon, but i'm not sure i'm old enough to babysit helpless creatures that might, just a little bit, look like me.
speaking of getting older, i appreciate being born at the darkest time of the year. i am full of mystery, while the rest of creation is full of light. my horoscope says sagittarians should not to go to beijing or london as we would constantly feel watched, only i remember belfast as being much worse regarding surveillance and helicopters. sarah palin told alaskans to shoot wolves from helicopters, as if helicopters are readily available. maybe they are. i've never been to alaska but i'd love to go, back to the darkness from which i am born. there is a rilke poem about that, once written in chalk on my ceiling.
Wednesday, November 26, 2008
iv. barack obama
dear mr. president,
a lot of people sure have pinned their hopes on you. are hopes light, like balloons and feathers, so that you might ascend straight up like elijah one day? or are they heavy, becoming burdensome once transferred, like insignificant pebbles which nonetheless sink to the bottom of the ocean floor? are your shoes filling up with salt water, born of so many tears, causing your soles to squeak and your socks to rub blisters into your protruding ankle bones? (for even you have ankle bones, just like the rest of us.) will the oceans ever dry out? will you ever have clean socks again? will those hopes, like so many stones and feathers, yield a giant band-aid on this great nation or only be used to tickle the lucky and forever bruise the downtrodden? are you really ready to learn what hope is? and finally, is there an end to hope, like our oil reserves and bailout fund and number of young who may be sacrificed in the name of selfish, selfish war?
don't let my questions alarm you. i am glad you are willing to take this on. please keep walking, though your soles may squeak, and audaciously confront our tears and oceans of regret and self-indulgent apathy. a few of us are trying to make things better. your election is one of the most significant events in my life, so in that way, hope has already won.
by the way, your kids seem rad, not to mention first lady michelle. would y'all like to come to dinner at my house and meet my cats?
yours truly, a gentle patriot,
ann crews melton
a lot of people sure have pinned their hopes on you. are hopes light, like balloons and feathers, so that you might ascend straight up like elijah one day? or are they heavy, becoming burdensome once transferred, like insignificant pebbles which nonetheless sink to the bottom of the ocean floor? are your shoes filling up with salt water, born of so many tears, causing your soles to squeak and your socks to rub blisters into your protruding ankle bones? (for even you have ankle bones, just like the rest of us.) will the oceans ever dry out? will you ever have clean socks again? will those hopes, like so many stones and feathers, yield a giant band-aid on this great nation or only be used to tickle the lucky and forever bruise the downtrodden? are you really ready to learn what hope is? and finally, is there an end to hope, like our oil reserves and bailout fund and number of young who may be sacrificed in the name of selfish, selfish war?
don't let my questions alarm you. i am glad you are willing to take this on. please keep walking, though your soles may squeak, and audaciously confront our tears and oceans of regret and self-indulgent apathy. a few of us are trying to make things better. your election is one of the most significant events in my life, so in that way, hope has already won.
by the way, your kids seem rad, not to mention first lady michelle. would y'all like to come to dinner at my house and meet my cats?
yours truly, a gentle patriot,
ann crews melton
iii. after L
dearest L,
i met a girl at school who reminds me of you. she is also blonde and beautiful in a remarkable way, and she clutches her lighter and cigarettes with shaky hands. she is too kind to tell the awkward ones, her own misfit entourage drawn to her like the pied piper, to let her be. her smile is reluctant and bashful like yours and she flushes quickly when drunk. her clothes are edgy and fashionable, while yours were edgy and fierce, in your miniskirts and boots and metal. refusing to wash became part of your charm. what do we make of the hopes of those days, the imperative to do something contrary to culture? have you stood strong, with your bikes and your rats and your music, or, like me, have you begun to give into the ebb and flow? now my only hope is that this too often cruel world is being kind to you. have you been able to stop smoking? are you doing okay without your pills? "it is not we who are crazy, it is the world," you said, and i love you for that. all the same i swallow my pills every day, because stopping was a sojourn into hell, clinging to pain and mistrusting those i love. how does such a little pill make me able to love and survive?
and so it is, and so it is, and so it always thus shall be?
much love,
A
p.s. i haven't taken out my piercing since we got it done in M---. remember that tattoo artist named shyla who ate her own flesh? she found her religion in needles. i can only hope that we all arrive at such strong faith.
p.p.s. please say hello to the other ocean for me.
i met a girl at school who reminds me of you. she is also blonde and beautiful in a remarkable way, and she clutches her lighter and cigarettes with shaky hands. she is too kind to tell the awkward ones, her own misfit entourage drawn to her like the pied piper, to let her be. her smile is reluctant and bashful like yours and she flushes quickly when drunk. her clothes are edgy and fashionable, while yours were edgy and fierce, in your miniskirts and boots and metal. refusing to wash became part of your charm. what do we make of the hopes of those days, the imperative to do something contrary to culture? have you stood strong, with your bikes and your rats and your music, or, like me, have you begun to give into the ebb and flow? now my only hope is that this too often cruel world is being kind to you. have you been able to stop smoking? are you doing okay without your pills? "it is not we who are crazy, it is the world," you said, and i love you for that. all the same i swallow my pills every day, because stopping was a sojourn into hell, clinging to pain and mistrusting those i love. how does such a little pill make me able to love and survive?
and so it is, and so it is, and so it always thus shall be?
much love,
A
p.s. i haven't taken out my piercing since we got it done in M---. remember that tattoo artist named shyla who ate her own flesh? she found her religion in needles. i can only hope that we all arrive at such strong faith.
p.p.s. please say hello to the other ocean for me.
ii. memento mori
tonight my apartment reminds me of france. my former life in france was, as one might expect, devastatingly beautiful. the negative allure of the french existed in deep black rivulets that covered my walls, but i found them only fascinating, unaware of their potential entrapment. a large oak tree sturdily approached my windows, through which light would flicker silently. a neighbor told me that the tree was the oldest in town, steadily uprooting our uneven brick courtyard. my ghostly cat lusa and i lived alone together. i believe that we were stunning in our loneliness. i spent the weekends listening to records, staring at the black rivulets growing toward the ceiling, and falling asleep to sometimes troubled dreams.
i often took walks just to look into windows at dusk, fascinated by the white-walled rooms which inevitably glowed yellow in the encroaching dark. there was one apartment a few streets away with a balcony i coveted, covered in distressed brick and ivy and twinkling lights. i was certain no one lived there, and that the light had erased any encroaching blackness that might creep into one's mind. the apartment remained empty for my imagination to explore.
at home i would sit on my own meagre balcony (which faced a wall) and smoke herbal cigarettes, the plumes illuminated by the sun like wisps of spiderweb. i found a love who lived far away, whose ideas captivated, whose bold voice haunted my sometimes troubled dreams. when i saw him in person he evaporated, or i did, after he bought (or stole) me fresh berries. clutching handfuls of his mist i flew home to my white dream cat and white plume smoke to sleep on my beige worn couch, dreaming bold black dreams.
i often took walks just to look into windows at dusk, fascinated by the white-walled rooms which inevitably glowed yellow in the encroaching dark. there was one apartment a few streets away with a balcony i coveted, covered in distressed brick and ivy and twinkling lights. i was certain no one lived there, and that the light had erased any encroaching blackness that might creep into one's mind. the apartment remained empty for my imagination to explore.
at home i would sit on my own meagre balcony (which faced a wall) and smoke herbal cigarettes, the plumes illuminated by the sun like wisps of spiderweb. i found a love who lived far away, whose ideas captivated, whose bold voice haunted my sometimes troubled dreams. when i saw him in person he evaporated, or i did, after he bought (or stole) me fresh berries. clutching handfuls of his mist i flew home to my white dream cat and white plume smoke to sleep on my beige worn couch, dreaming bold black dreams.
Tuesday, November 18, 2008
i. nkeng
My sophomore year of college, my intended roommate did not return to school, so I was paired with an international student. Nkeng was from Cameroon, in her third year as a pre-med, and had not seen her family since she began school in the States. We maintained a congenial but restrained acquaintanceship; I had my friends, and while I was intrigued by her difference (and silently congratulated myself on the diversity of my dorm-room environment), I did not exert the effort to truly befriend her. Besides, I reasoned, it’s better not to become too close to your roommate—then you end up spending too much time together and inevitably fighting or harboring resentment.
When we did hang out, we laughed a lot, and I can easily recall the perfectly round moon of her face breaking into a smile. One time I assisted her while she put in hair extensions, a laborious process that took all afternoon in front of the television. Other times, though, I found the constant laugh track of American sitcoms grating. She constantly crunched on chips that stained her long, brown fingers. When I returned from a trip, I found one of my dresses stretched out. She eventually made some friends in the science building; nevertheless, I could not completely ignore how lonely her life must have been.
Years later I ran into Nkeng in the middle of Harvard Square, weaving among pedestrians near the newsstand. We saw one another at the same time and paused for a bewildered embrace. She was studying chemistry and still had not returned home to visit her family. I was working in town after meandering across the country, settling here to be with friends. We exchanged phone numbers and said our goodbyes, but did not call one another. I suspected we would have nothing to talk about.
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