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.
Showing posts with label window. Show all posts
Showing posts with label window. Show all posts
Sunday, February 12, 2012
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.
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