April 29th, 2014
After the meeting, when we broke out of the building feeling like high school kids because we were free, we decided to get food and a drink instead of going straight to the gym. This turned into hours of laughter and talk and meeting people who own spas and salt caves in West Hartford. When we walked into the gym the air that hit our lungs was stale and filled with the burning of grinding gears. The sky was so near that when we went for a run around the plaza it fell in little pieces and hit us in the eye. I rowed a boat eternally into nothing and you smiled largely like a Chesire cat, at the man who looked like your old professor, at the machines, at everything. My muscles hurt eventually and the machine that waits like an open mouth to be further separated by my legs yawned sleepily as I climbed out of it. It was 9:40 when we left and the sky was further off then, a vague distance, facing away from us and looking dreamily out into space. Earlier that day a student had jokingly kicked a chair and another student had feigned shock and said "that's a government chair" and I thought of Jamiaca Kinkaid and her government ink. Everything is government chairs and government ink
and the large invisible hand that provides it knows neither the words we write nor the lives we live within and without these government cinder block walls.
Wednesday, April 30, 2014
Monday, April 28, 2014
April 28th, 2014
I poured through the day like a wave, filling every second with some essential part of me.
And by the end of it, I felt lighter, as if I had stored and hidden many little pieces under
tea cups in other people's china cabinets. Whatever is lost I don't much need now. Earlier
today I thought, one thing he left me with is a deep strain of judgement and snobbery,
like mica glistening between layers in a rock. I shiver inside when someone uses the wrong
word or the incorrect conjugation or adds an s where there should not be an s... but this
was his weight, not my own, and mica is soft and can be peeled away in layers, and so,
after teaching for 12 hours, after traffic that was so backed up I nearly fell asleep on the
stagnant highway, after being hurt and disillusioned and then also delighted by the world,
I dug my fingers into my core and peeled, layer by layer, the slick pieces of judgement
out. I danced like a person I am not. I smiled into everyone's eyes. I drank a strange
drink and touched people freely, as if there was not a thing separating all of us. And
there isn't. These divisions are not mine and I will no longer abide by them. So, come
to me, even if I have spurned you. I am not who I was this morning, and I never will be
again.
April 23rd, 2014
All the girls on the stage are vibrating with hope. I want to tell them so many
things. First, their awards matter much less than what got them the awards.
That is the only thing that will last, but they must, they MUST, make it last.
They will have many battles to fight to support and affirm and continue that
thing inside them that propelled them here. Second, there is no such thing as
beauty, or rather, it is not so predictable or contained as I used to believe.
Every single girl is lovely in her own way. Some of them only because of their
youth, but even that is a crown, though one made of flowers that will fade.
Some are sharp and their very shape is beauty, and some have both things,
though age will bring it more into focus, but since it is not a static word, beauty,
since it means too many things to mean anything, there's no use worrying over it.
Third, I want to tell them to trust all things always, but especially their own
gut. If it hurts when you lie down next to him, girl, it will always hurt. Some
pain is meant to exist as a warning. These are your nerve endings. Do not try to outgrow them.
I poured through the day like a wave, filling every second with some essential part of me.
And by the end of it, I felt lighter, as if I had stored and hidden many little pieces under
tea cups in other people's china cabinets. Whatever is lost I don't much need now. Earlier
today I thought, one thing he left me with is a deep strain of judgement and snobbery,
like mica glistening between layers in a rock. I shiver inside when someone uses the wrong
word or the incorrect conjugation or adds an s where there should not be an s... but this
was his weight, not my own, and mica is soft and can be peeled away in layers, and so,
after teaching for 12 hours, after traffic that was so backed up I nearly fell asleep on the
stagnant highway, after being hurt and disillusioned and then also delighted by the world,
I dug my fingers into my core and peeled, layer by layer, the slick pieces of judgement
out. I danced like a person I am not. I smiled into everyone's eyes. I drank a strange
drink and touched people freely, as if there was not a thing separating all of us. And
there isn't. These divisions are not mine and I will no longer abide by them. So, come
to me, even if I have spurned you. I am not who I was this morning, and I never will be
again.
April 23rd, 2014
All the girls on the stage are vibrating with hope. I want to tell them so many
things. First, their awards matter much less than what got them the awards.
That is the only thing that will last, but they must, they MUST, make it last.
They will have many battles to fight to support and affirm and continue that
thing inside them that propelled them here. Second, there is no such thing as
beauty, or rather, it is not so predictable or contained as I used to believe.
Every single girl is lovely in her own way. Some of them only because of their
youth, but even that is a crown, though one made of flowers that will fade.
Some are sharp and their very shape is beauty, and some have both things,
though age will bring it more into focus, but since it is not a static word, beauty,
since it means too many things to mean anything, there's no use worrying over it.
Third, I want to tell them to trust all things always, but especially their own
gut. If it hurts when you lie down next to him, girl, it will always hurt. Some
pain is meant to exist as a warning. These are your nerve endings. Do not try to outgrow them.
Wednesday, April 23, 2014
April 22nd, 2014
A thin place. A place where we feel the breath of the other. A place in which the
sounds that exist have not come from our own lips. It comes as a whisper, a swell
of wave from far off, holy holy holy.
Meet me, you say, by the lake in the dark. The light on the water will remind you
how my love rests, without burden and luminous. Meet me, you say, where the light
breaks off in pieces at the end of the day and rests red on the horizon. Meet me, you
say, when the first seconds of sun stain the darkness white. Meet me in the moments
your will splinters and in the moments your triumph flares. I am who you seek, and
I have been waiting. Meet me, you say, in a simple place of longing, in places long
forgotten. I was there even then. Break bread and feast, but, when you break bread, let
it always be with me. For my words, my every word, recorded in letter and whispered
in your ear, are what you seek. This will be your safety, your sustenance, your strength
and your armor. My love, this table was set before you were born, before city states
shook their arms in power, before even the earth took form. I have been waiting. Be with me.
A thin place. A place where we feel the breath of the other. A place in which the
sounds that exist have not come from our own lips. It comes as a whisper, a swell
of wave from far off, holy holy holy.
Meet me, you say, by the lake in the dark. The light on the water will remind you
how my love rests, without burden and luminous. Meet me, you say, where the light
breaks off in pieces at the end of the day and rests red on the horizon. Meet me, you
say, when the first seconds of sun stain the darkness white. Meet me in the moments
your will splinters and in the moments your triumph flares. I am who you seek, and
I have been waiting. Meet me, you say, in a simple place of longing, in places long
forgotten. I was there even then. Break bread and feast, but, when you break bread, let
it always be with me. For my words, my every word, recorded in letter and whispered
in your ear, are what you seek. This will be your safety, your sustenance, your strength
and your armor. My love, this table was set before you were born, before city states
shook their arms in power, before even the earth took form. I have been waiting. Be with me.
Tuesday, April 22, 2014
April 21st, 2014
When I spend time with Ezra sometimes it is as if I am slowly and gently touching many small porcelain animals I had on dressers as a child. There are worlds within worlds within him, and the way he picks up and puts on and smooths over his chest thoughts and perceptions interests me. He is quiet tonight, but his eyes are full of more stories than I have time to hear. My white wine has pear and orange and lychee, all of which "quietly linger" according to the menu, and it is true. Ezra's red is viscous caramel and berries. When I tell him again how deeply I have hurt, he makes a noise like the distant rush of wind through pines, a low, empathic anger at injustice and loss which is somehow without judgement. His instinct is equity and in this we are brothers. After, I sleepily move in my bed and rearrange the keepsakes and memories, all the tiny animals, on that internal shelf of the mind. It is good to remember and touch these tiny creatures of what has been, and the movement stirs up dust which shines like gold in the spears of sun through the window of the mind. And this time, this time, my hand is not even cut by the remaining shards of broken things. When I smiled at Ezra tonight, it was with more than my lips, and this somehow takes us back to a sunny river bank in a different April long ago when I was free for a moment, lying against poison oak roots on the shores of the possible.
When I spend time with Ezra sometimes it is as if I am slowly and gently touching many small porcelain animals I had on dressers as a child. There are worlds within worlds within him, and the way he picks up and puts on and smooths over his chest thoughts and perceptions interests me. He is quiet tonight, but his eyes are full of more stories than I have time to hear. My white wine has pear and orange and lychee, all of which "quietly linger" according to the menu, and it is true. Ezra's red is viscous caramel and berries. When I tell him again how deeply I have hurt, he makes a noise like the distant rush of wind through pines, a low, empathic anger at injustice and loss which is somehow without judgement. His instinct is equity and in this we are brothers. After, I sleepily move in my bed and rearrange the keepsakes and memories, all the tiny animals, on that internal shelf of the mind. It is good to remember and touch these tiny creatures of what has been, and the movement stirs up dust which shines like gold in the spears of sun through the window of the mind. And this time, this time, my hand is not even cut by the remaining shards of broken things. When I smiled at Ezra tonight, it was with more than my lips, and this somehow takes us back to a sunny river bank in a different April long ago when I was free for a moment, lying against poison oak roots on the shores of the possible.
Monday, April 21, 2014
April 19th, 2014
At first I was shy and maybe they were too, but after many thimblefulls of wine, half Pinot Noir
and half Manishevitz - and what a feat to pour both bottles, portion by portion, into the tiny glass sitting on the white table cloth without destroying anything - there was a settling in and we began to smile behind our smiles. I lived in the west end of Hartford she said There was a health food store, a wonderful theatre, and such a friendliness, an openness, that was not where I grew up in New York. I let sink in the image of this woman, young and beautiful, walking streets that I now walk. The other woman says my mother died when I was seven and a half. No one talked about it. In class when we were asked to stand and tell the names of our parents, I lied. There was such a shame in in being motherless. What I would like to know though, she says, is where your remarkable compassion comes from. My students, I stammer through a blush, and she shakes her head no before I finish my sentence no, no. It is much older and deeper in you than that. We are interrupted by everyone saying goodbye but her words, all of their words, stay with me through the night like the plumb brandy that moves through my veins like a pulsing light. Time and tribe collapses around us and we are part of a single tapestry. As we separate into the night, the fabric holds.
At first I was shy and maybe they were too, but after many thimblefulls of wine, half Pinot Noir
and half Manishevitz - and what a feat to pour both bottles, portion by portion, into the tiny glass sitting on the white table cloth without destroying anything - there was a settling in and we began to smile behind our smiles. I lived in the west end of Hartford she said There was a health food store, a wonderful theatre, and such a friendliness, an openness, that was not where I grew up in New York. I let sink in the image of this woman, young and beautiful, walking streets that I now walk. The other woman says my mother died when I was seven and a half. No one talked about it. In class when we were asked to stand and tell the names of our parents, I lied. There was such a shame in in being motherless. What I would like to know though, she says, is where your remarkable compassion comes from. My students, I stammer through a blush, and she shakes her head no before I finish my sentence no, no. It is much older and deeper in you than that. We are interrupted by everyone saying goodbye but her words, all of their words, stay with me through the night like the plumb brandy that moves through my veins like a pulsing light. Time and tribe collapses around us and we are part of a single tapestry. As we separate into the night, the fabric holds.
Saturday, April 19, 2014
April 18th, 2014
Today, when I walked out of the coffee shop I looked up to see a man I had known two years ago when I was sad and drunk all the time. He was a barfly and the men I was comforting myself with were also, and so they knew each other and I by extension knew this man. I knew him in the peripheral way we recognize our own suffering in others. He was kind and cheerful and always always drunk. Very soon, the men I crowded my life with evaporated, moving away or entangling themselves with others, and I stopped fusing myself to the seats of that shadowy bar and started to notice things like the sun and myself again. I saw this man once more and he told me he was moving to the West Coast. So when I walked into the gray April afternoon from the coffee shop today and looked up to see him walking with a lovely blonde woman, I thought for a moment I had invented this. Wrapped tightly and bound to his chest was a small baby. The three squinted into the bright white of the day, moving almost as one unit, and he proudly the helm and the rudder, and I thought he might have seen me from the corner of his eye, and might have smiled in my direction, and whether or not this happened, I beamed as if the sun were out, as if the warmth of it was touching everyone. For a moment we shared the same pavement as he walked by, two ruined strangers restored and cutting paths though this sea, still.
Today, when I walked out of the coffee shop I looked up to see a man I had known two years ago when I was sad and drunk all the time. He was a barfly and the men I was comforting myself with were also, and so they knew each other and I by extension knew this man. I knew him in the peripheral way we recognize our own suffering in others. He was kind and cheerful and always always drunk. Very soon, the men I crowded my life with evaporated, moving away or entangling themselves with others, and I stopped fusing myself to the seats of that shadowy bar and started to notice things like the sun and myself again. I saw this man once more and he told me he was moving to the West Coast. So when I walked into the gray April afternoon from the coffee shop today and looked up to see him walking with a lovely blonde woman, I thought for a moment I had invented this. Wrapped tightly and bound to his chest was a small baby. The three squinted into the bright white of the day, moving almost as one unit, and he proudly the helm and the rudder, and I thought he might have seen me from the corner of his eye, and might have smiled in my direction, and whether or not this happened, I beamed as if the sun were out, as if the warmth of it was touching everyone. For a moment we shared the same pavement as he walked by, two ruined strangers restored and cutting paths though this sea, still.
Thursday, April 17, 2014
April 17th, 2014 (Fifth period free write. Written after Maureen Seaton's Etta's Elegy)
And let us start by saying words we barely know and then taking them apart, syllable by syllable, letter by letter, and reducing the flesh to the dehydrated skins of animals and then stitching these together to make a new meaning from what is undone. We are the brave ones. We are the ones writing on a Thursday morning in the sun while a lawn mower roars its song to a sky full of blue. So walk into a world you know only some words for; walk into it bravely wearing what you have made of the deconstructed words of your life. Everything you have been is just below the surface, moving slowly like a huge sea creature below the still water. But also, everything you will become is here too, blossoming and blooming and erupting as underwater volcanoes. When all the words are in pieces like the shattered porcelain on the floor of the kitchen when you threw the plate but didn't know why, don't bother to collect the shards. It is right to break things. Even hearts. But, don't ignore the mess either. This happened. This is always happening. Everything you are is happening and never un. We are the brave ones. We gather, languageless and strong, sunned to darkness and teeth bleached with smiles, around the first fires of civilization and we look with eyes full of what will be into a sky we need no words to hold. These are the days that matter most of all. Be brave. Be strong.
And let us start by saying words we barely know and then taking them apart, syllable by syllable, letter by letter, and reducing the flesh to the dehydrated skins of animals and then stitching these together to make a new meaning from what is undone. We are the brave ones. We are the ones writing on a Thursday morning in the sun while a lawn mower roars its song to a sky full of blue. So walk into a world you know only some words for; walk into it bravely wearing what you have made of the deconstructed words of your life. Everything you have been is just below the surface, moving slowly like a huge sea creature below the still water. But also, everything you will become is here too, blossoming and blooming and erupting as underwater volcanoes. When all the words are in pieces like the shattered porcelain on the floor of the kitchen when you threw the plate but didn't know why, don't bother to collect the shards. It is right to break things. Even hearts. But, don't ignore the mess either. This happened. This is always happening. Everything you are is happening and never un. We are the brave ones. We gather, languageless and strong, sunned to darkness and teeth bleached with smiles, around the first fires of civilization and we look with eyes full of what will be into a sky we need no words to hold. These are the days that matter most of all. Be brave. Be strong.
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