November 4th, 2014
The beautiful older woman at the coffee shop compliments me on my purse, which is really more
of a saddlebag. She had one like it in 1969. I wonder how many memories she is fitting into it now
as she stares fondly at the worn leather in the slants of morning light. Later, Genna and I walk to vote,
only I haven't registered so I sit impotently against the cold white-painted cinderblock wall of the church cellar. I think about the steadiness of this church on South Whitney, the faithfulness of it,
how like an open hand it is. How consistently it gives itself to the first of the month food stamps
and voting days, the colored linoleum tiles always bearing all that weight. Once, on a day when
I was sad, I walked home from Tisane in the late afternoon through the back ally that comes out
across from the church. The sun was setting through the window and the bare tree in front of the church was perfectly framed in the textured stained-glass glow. It was either early spring or late fall - some inbetween time I love and feel undone by. Tonight Davia and I walked 7 miles through West Hartford, first the gardens, then the neighborhoods, then the town center; it is like walking through the evolution of culture and society. I say "I'm sorry" in many different ways. I think she hears them all. How quickly silence builds fences! How thoroughly laughter knocks them down!
Wednesday, November 5, 2014
Monday, November 3, 2014
November 2nd, 2014
The house is so cold I want to burn it down and sit in the
center watching the flame lick through each layer of construction.
Instead I build a fire, close the blinds, boil water, and open the
cellar door because the basement is 10 degrees warmer. I am
wearing three sweatshirts and two pairs of pants. I am wearing
fingerless gloves. I want to smoke cigarettes with you, wearing
fingerless gloves I said once to somebody and I can't imagine,
though I remember, saying it. I used to be frightened of the cold.
Now it is my enemy and I am not afraid to fight. I was made for
this: this survival, this resilience. You win I said to him But you
never will again although we both knew there would not be another
time. The wood is not seasoned well and it hisses as the heat
enters it; white smoke fills the fireplace. Does it have to be a
competition? He says. It isn't I say. It's war. Everything is.
The house is so cold I want to burn it down and sit in the
center watching the flame lick through each layer of construction.
Instead I build a fire, close the blinds, boil water, and open the
cellar door because the basement is 10 degrees warmer. I am
wearing three sweatshirts and two pairs of pants. I am wearing
fingerless gloves. I want to smoke cigarettes with you, wearing
fingerless gloves I said once to somebody and I can't imagine,
though I remember, saying it. I used to be frightened of the cold.
Now it is my enemy and I am not afraid to fight. I was made for
this: this survival, this resilience. You win I said to him But you
never will again although we both knew there would not be another
time. The wood is not seasoned well and it hisses as the heat
enters it; white smoke fills the fireplace. Does it have to be a
competition? He says. It isn't I say. It's war. Everything is.
November 1st, 2014
You wanted to know how long I would be here
you asked as if the tree wasn’t shedding bark already
as if the dandelions had yet to throw their seed
you asked as if there was time, the golden rod and
sun collecting in the bowl of my belly. Where have you
gone? It’s not that I was waiting exactly, but I wasn’t
moving, still like a deer in the bushes who suspects
someone waits to catch her with his eye. Someone,
on whom I should not be eavesdropping, says Science
says you could fit all of the planets between the earth
and the moon. I visualize it but even the image is
nothing more than a pretty line for a poem. My huge
book of postmodern poetry sits waterlogged on the
table. It is open but unread. The tea grows cold.
You wanted to know how long I would be here
you asked as if the tree wasn’t shedding bark already
as if the dandelions had yet to throw their seed
you asked as if there was time, the golden rod and
sun collecting in the bowl of my belly. Where have you
gone? It’s not that I was waiting exactly, but I wasn’t
moving, still like a deer in the bushes who suspects
someone waits to catch her with his eye. Someone,
on whom I should not be eavesdropping, says Science
says you could fit all of the planets between the earth
and the moon. I visualize it but even the image is
nothing more than a pretty line for a poem. My huge
book of postmodern poetry sits waterlogged on the
table. It is open but unread. The tea grows cold.
Sunday, November 2, 2014
October 31st, 2014
The thing that's really rather remarkable is that I didn't feel the regret
I thought I would when I woke. A steady hum of disappointment
buzzed below my breathing and I felt only sadness for both of us,
all of us, who are less than we are. I scraped the first frost from my
windshield with the edge of a box of chalk - the classroom at the
college has only chalkboards - and watched a car pull up in front
of Josh's house. The driver got out and walked away. My throat burned
in the deep cold and as soon as I could I huddled in the warming air
of my car. I drove to starbucks and got two coffees, one hot and one cold,
because I still don't know what I want in life, and this is a decadence
I can afford. I drive the long way to school, through Elizabeth garden
and the manicured but wild neighborhoods of the west end. The grates
in the road release steam which looks like ghosts of men I've lost. They
appear at first to incline towards my car, but lean away when I draw near.
The thing that's really rather remarkable is that I didn't feel the regret
I thought I would when I woke. A steady hum of disappointment
buzzed below my breathing and I felt only sadness for both of us,
all of us, who are less than we are. I scraped the first frost from my
windshield with the edge of a box of chalk - the classroom at the
college has only chalkboards - and watched a car pull up in front
of Josh's house. The driver got out and walked away. My throat burned
in the deep cold and as soon as I could I huddled in the warming air
of my car. I drove to starbucks and got two coffees, one hot and one cold,
because I still don't know what I want in life, and this is a decadence
I can afford. I drive the long way to school, through Elizabeth garden
and the manicured but wild neighborhoods of the west end. The grates
in the road release steam which looks like ghosts of men I've lost. They
appear at first to incline towards my car, but lean away when I draw near.
October 30th, 2014
I have been sick since Saturday, but it's only yesterday and today that I
would admit to it. By Tuesday afternoon my fever spiked and I couldn't
drive and when I looked at faces I swear I saw through skin to bone as
if it were all made of glass and I felt fear and giddiness, a pool of self
and also an unconquorable stone. So, Thursday I sat by the fire burning
paper bags and grading exams because I couldn't do anything else and
occasionally the door would bang and I would twirl around, still slightly
feverish and paranoid. In the afternoon, when the sun dips and hovers but
somehow, this time of year, feels no nearer than noon, Brett came home
to smoke cloves on the porch. My room is clean. My exams are graded.
I have been productive in spite of the virus raging through my body.
I blow into the fire and it blows back at me, a low aching moan. I'll leave
you to your smoldering logs, Sean says after dropping off native honey
for me and a typewriter for Brett. I wait for things I don't even believe exist.
I have been sick since Saturday, but it's only yesterday and today that I
would admit to it. By Tuesday afternoon my fever spiked and I couldn't
drive and when I looked at faces I swear I saw through skin to bone as
if it were all made of glass and I felt fear and giddiness, a pool of self
and also an unconquorable stone. So, Thursday I sat by the fire burning
paper bags and grading exams because I couldn't do anything else and
occasionally the door would bang and I would twirl around, still slightly
feverish and paranoid. In the afternoon, when the sun dips and hovers but
somehow, this time of year, feels no nearer than noon, Brett came home
to smoke cloves on the porch. My room is clean. My exams are graded.
I have been productive in spite of the virus raging through my body.
I blow into the fire and it blows back at me, a low aching moan. I'll leave
you to your smoldering logs, Sean says after dropping off native honey
for me and a typewriter for Brett. I wait for things I don't even believe exist.
Saturday, November 1, 2014
October 25th, 2014
It is the kind of gray that gnaws at your bones by the time I get home from hiking. The hike, however, was beautiful. There was a golden forest, a bamboo field, many still moments in which I peered through trees looking for a mythical creature. There was even a spear, perfectly formed, which still sits in the back of my car. I watched a hawk circle so far above me that sometimes I was no longer sure it existed. The air was warm and the rock we lay against was cool, so he gingerly, with the sureness of a child, offered me his arms for warmth. It felt not unlike hugging a straw man, but I didn't mind very much as there was nothing to it anyway. When we pulled up to the house the three of them watched and did not wave hello and the gray came then. We sat in a jarring silence, occasionally making small talk like pebbles breaking water until the mushroom lady walked by. I have never she said seen such a crop mushrooms. Strange year. The mushrooms, they are all out of order and schedule because the weather has been so wild. She doesn't say a word directly to me unless I ask questions. She doesn't say anything about the stories she has heard that were weaved from the thin bits of evidence I've left lying around. She makes no comment about the men. The porch splinters. There are ever so many canaries in the coal mine.
It is the kind of gray that gnaws at your bones by the time I get home from hiking. The hike, however, was beautiful. There was a golden forest, a bamboo field, many still moments in which I peered through trees looking for a mythical creature. There was even a spear, perfectly formed, which still sits in the back of my car. I watched a hawk circle so far above me that sometimes I was no longer sure it existed. The air was warm and the rock we lay against was cool, so he gingerly, with the sureness of a child, offered me his arms for warmth. It felt not unlike hugging a straw man, but I didn't mind very much as there was nothing to it anyway. When we pulled up to the house the three of them watched and did not wave hello and the gray came then. We sat in a jarring silence, occasionally making small talk like pebbles breaking water until the mushroom lady walked by. I have never she said seen such a crop mushrooms. Strange year. The mushrooms, they are all out of order and schedule because the weather has been so wild. She doesn't say a word directly to me unless I ask questions. She doesn't say anything about the stories she has heard that were weaved from the thin bits of evidence I've left lying around. She makes no comment about the men. The porch splinters. There are ever so many canaries in the coal mine.
Wednesday, October 22, 2014
October 22, 2014
4:11: the alarm goes off and I lie in bed with God asking him if I really have to get up and creating
impossible equations in my head if I sleep for 20 more minutes and then work through lunch
today, what percentage of students in sixth period will get their progress reports? 4:20 a.m:
uninvited, an image of my father's Bible, and then his hands turning the pages, and then his face
over it, earnest. 4:21 a.m. I think of how my father used to be a person, used to be a person in the world, used to be alive. I cry for a moment. 4:30: in the kitchen heating coffee from yesterday in a pan. I make an egg and toast. I feel so fully adult and proud, that it is like washing dishes for the first time. How unaccustomed I am to taking care of myself. 4:47a.m.: I light candles, turn on one light only, and begin to grade. 6:57 a.m. I drive through Elizabeth park to hide in the trees for ten minutes. I sing at the top of my lungs and have this thought if everyone everyday did everything they love and were made to do, for fun or pay, the world would be so much happier. You should write then, I tell myself. 7:15. Walk through doors of school. 11:00 DaVaughn tells me his understanding of paragraph structure has moved from a 2 to a 7. I am thrilled. He is thrilled. This is worth skipping lunch for. 12:40 Daquan looks up at me while working on the review for the exam and says, for no reason, "Miss, I love everyone in the world". I laugh. There is a fight brewing, I am out of ideas for managing this too big and too needy class, someone's phone has been stolen, I don't know who knows paragraph structure, nor why my seniors didn't come to me knowing it, but Daquan loves everyone. There is hope yet. At 3:10 I buy a bagel because I have eaten only breakfast and two apples. I am at the college by 3:30, but this is too late because I must make copies. 3:59 I watch the clock switch to 4:00 while the copying machine whirs out number 15 of the 20 copies I need. 4:10 four students walk in late and I don't feel bad for 3 minute indiscretion. At 4:51 Jaqueena, who missed school today emails me simply "hi" and I know something is going on. I respond. She responds with the sex of her baby. she missed school for the appointment. I am suddenly aware that the future of this child relies on the future of Jaqueena and the future of Jaqueena relies on, in part, my class. My strength is renewed. For Jaqueena's unborn child I will roll this boulder uphill every day. 5:20 Dylan and I sit down to talk. He hasn't been to class in weeks, since the semester started, but his baby, who is almost one, was sick and he was caring for the child. His eyes are watery with sleep because he worked third shift and he is worried. I tell him what he needs and tell him he can do it. I tell him he has to. I tell him he will. 6:10 I get home for the day and call my mother to tell her all the ways education can be improved because behind everything all day it's all I think about because there are minds and lives in the mouth of the same toothless lion that has education by the neck and my mind is buzzing with ideas. 7:30 I take a bath. 8:30 I make tea and fall into bed. I fall asleep three times writing this and I don't have the energy to edit it down to 14 lines. I finish my tea. I have gotten used to drinking tea and water right before bed to flush out my system for the next day. The added benefit is that sometimes I wake in the middle of the night to use the bathroom and, as time alone is so infrequent, I just lie there, in the center of time, feeling held. I am grateful for my home, for my job, for my body, for my bed. I am grateful for the sound of tires through a puddle or the moon through the window. It is a different thing to be glad in the middle of the night when you are free and your mind belongs to nothing but those moments. These are the sorts of things I want to tell my students. Every day is an envelope in which I am stuffing little notes that I hope they open and read when they need it most. 9:50 there is a flash of lightening and soon after a clap of thunder. 9:52: my eyelids are thick. Wake me in the morning, we have an exam to finish writing.
October 19th, 2014
You wrap me in your wind and I want no other arms.
The blades of grass rustle a praise and urge my lips
to moisten with your song. These days are monuments
to what bigger monuments there will be.
You will be first in line
to lead
which means to serve
He says as I walk back to my car and I am thrilled and
terrified by the invitation. I want only to hide in this
garden amongst the evergreens and under low boughs.
I ran my hand along the underside of the branch and
caught the eye of a passing walker. He seemed frightened
by me. Let me rest in the garden a little longer Lord, but
not forever. I will follow You out into the world's desert.
4:11: the alarm goes off and I lie in bed with God asking him if I really have to get up and creating
impossible equations in my head if I sleep for 20 more minutes and then work through lunch
today, what percentage of students in sixth period will get their progress reports? 4:20 a.m:
uninvited, an image of my father's Bible, and then his hands turning the pages, and then his face
over it, earnest. 4:21 a.m. I think of how my father used to be a person, used to be a person in the world, used to be alive. I cry for a moment. 4:30: in the kitchen heating coffee from yesterday in a pan. I make an egg and toast. I feel so fully adult and proud, that it is like washing dishes for the first time. How unaccustomed I am to taking care of myself. 4:47a.m.: I light candles, turn on one light only, and begin to grade. 6:57 a.m. I drive through Elizabeth park to hide in the trees for ten minutes. I sing at the top of my lungs and have this thought if everyone everyday did everything they love and were made to do, for fun or pay, the world would be so much happier. You should write then, I tell myself. 7:15. Walk through doors of school. 11:00 DaVaughn tells me his understanding of paragraph structure has moved from a 2 to a 7. I am thrilled. He is thrilled. This is worth skipping lunch for. 12:40 Daquan looks up at me while working on the review for the exam and says, for no reason, "Miss, I love everyone in the world". I laugh. There is a fight brewing, I am out of ideas for managing this too big and too needy class, someone's phone has been stolen, I don't know who knows paragraph structure, nor why my seniors didn't come to me knowing it, but Daquan loves everyone. There is hope yet. At 3:10 I buy a bagel because I have eaten only breakfast and two apples. I am at the college by 3:30, but this is too late because I must make copies. 3:59 I watch the clock switch to 4:00 while the copying machine whirs out number 15 of the 20 copies I need. 4:10 four students walk in late and I don't feel bad for 3 minute indiscretion. At 4:51 Jaqueena, who missed school today emails me simply "hi" and I know something is going on. I respond. She responds with the sex of her baby. she missed school for the appointment. I am suddenly aware that the future of this child relies on the future of Jaqueena and the future of Jaqueena relies on, in part, my class. My strength is renewed. For Jaqueena's unborn child I will roll this boulder uphill every day. 5:20 Dylan and I sit down to talk. He hasn't been to class in weeks, since the semester started, but his baby, who is almost one, was sick and he was caring for the child. His eyes are watery with sleep because he worked third shift and he is worried. I tell him what he needs and tell him he can do it. I tell him he has to. I tell him he will. 6:10 I get home for the day and call my mother to tell her all the ways education can be improved because behind everything all day it's all I think about because there are minds and lives in the mouth of the same toothless lion that has education by the neck and my mind is buzzing with ideas. 7:30 I take a bath. 8:30 I make tea and fall into bed. I fall asleep three times writing this and I don't have the energy to edit it down to 14 lines. I finish my tea. I have gotten used to drinking tea and water right before bed to flush out my system for the next day. The added benefit is that sometimes I wake in the middle of the night to use the bathroom and, as time alone is so infrequent, I just lie there, in the center of time, feeling held. I am grateful for my home, for my job, for my body, for my bed. I am grateful for the sound of tires through a puddle or the moon through the window. It is a different thing to be glad in the middle of the night when you are free and your mind belongs to nothing but those moments. These are the sorts of things I want to tell my students. Every day is an envelope in which I am stuffing little notes that I hope they open and read when they need it most. 9:50 there is a flash of lightening and soon after a clap of thunder. 9:52: my eyelids are thick. Wake me in the morning, we have an exam to finish writing.
October 19th, 2014
You wrap me in your wind and I want no other arms.
The blades of grass rustle a praise and urge my lips
to moisten with your song. These days are monuments
to what bigger monuments there will be.
You will be first in line
to lead
which means to serve
He says as I walk back to my car and I am thrilled and
terrified by the invitation. I want only to hide in this
garden amongst the evergreens and under low boughs.
I ran my hand along the underside of the branch and
caught the eye of a passing walker. He seemed frightened
by me. Let me rest in the garden a little longer Lord, but
not forever. I will follow You out into the world's desert.
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