Memory problems

Last night my husband quoted a line from one of my favorite e.e. Cummings poems and when I tried to remember more about the poem there was nothing there in my brain. It was like opening up a book you've read a hundred times to find it inexplicably blank. This whole inner monologue of panic came about because the poem has entered my life on more than one occasion, so it seems impossible that I could ever forget it.

Years ago, I'd say when I was in my early teens, I was channel surfing one random Saturday afternoon (a typically short and unrewarding process without cable and only about 10 channels to choose from, 3 of them being PBS) and settled on a random movie where a rather familiar-looking man brought a woman into a bookstore and insisted on buying her a book of poetry. A scene or two later a poem was recited via a voice-over and it just devastated me. But, when I went to a bookstore to find the poem, I couldn't remember the author or the title, just the fact that the words "rain" and "hands" appeared in it - not a lot to go on.

Naturally, I never found it and eventually forgot about both the movie and the poem. About 8 or so years later, my college roommate brought home a copy of Woody Allen's Hannah and Her Sisters to watch for a class. Not only was that THE movie from years before - I recognized it instantly and was amazed to learn it was a Woody Allen movie I'd had such a reaction towards and that the random actor was Michael Caine (!) - but, best of all, there was that poem again. It still ranks among my happiest discoveries and reignited my interest in poetry. Since then the movie has also become a top favorite of mine, among Woody Allen's body of work and movies in general.

A few years later a soon-to-be lover sent me this poem to explain his intentions - the relationship was ultimately unsuccessful, but it was a very effective form of communication. And now, my husband likes to quote the last line to me (and I love hearing it from him) and I feel as though the movie, the poem and I have a long, shared history, much like I have with people.

From time to time it's necessary to explain the function of poetry to people due to its inaccessible qualities. Unlike novels or short stories, there isn't room for explanation - the reader has to trust her own feelings and create personal meaning, as opposed to struggling with what the poet wants to convey. This makes people nervous, understandably. So, I suppose that this example is as good a way as any to demonstrate how a poem can embed itself in a person, connecting the words on the page to experience, freezing a moment beyond rote, empty memorization.

somewhere i have never travelled, gladly beyond
by E. E. Cummings

somewhere i have never travelled, gladly beyond
any experience, your eyes have their silence:
in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me,
or which i cannot touch because they are too near

your slightest look easily will unclose me
though i have closed myself as fingers,
you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens
(touching skillfully, mysteriously) her first rose

or if your wish be to close me, i and
my life will shut very beautifully, suddenly,
as when the heart of this flower imagines
the snow carefully everywhere descending;

nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals
the power of your intense fragility: whose texture
compels me with the color of its countries,
rendering death and forever with each breathing

(i do not know what it is about you that closes
and opens; only something in me understands
the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)
nobody, not even the rain, has such small hands

The Two-Headed Calf

Back when I didn't share an office this poem hung on my door.

Most people didn't notice it; a few read it and didn't even try to understand it. But a hopeful minority of visitors read it and smiled the same pained, but tickled smile that I always feel creep across my face when I read it.

The Two-Headed Calf by Laura Gilpin

Tomorrow when the farm boys find this
freak of nature, they will wrap his body
in newspaper and carry him to the museum.

But tonight he is alive and in the north
field with his mother. It is a perfect
summer evening: the moon rising over
the orchard, the wind in the grass. And
as he stares into the sky, there are
twice as many stars as usual.

Ain't got shit to do

I'm on vacation.

A long, wonderful, intensely empty vacation. I know, I just returned from a fabulous Hawai'ian vacation, I'm not denying that.

BUT.

But, that was a rush-around, try-to-see-and-do-everything, all-while-dealing-with-my-mother, vacation. Not relaxing. Amazing and unforgettable (and the change of scenery really helped me feel less burnt-out at work) but I did not return well-rested and I had a nasty sinus infection the entire time we were there.

No, this is the vacation I've been dreaming about since I started working at Stanford in August of '06. I have no family obligations, no long-term holiday visitors, no airport travel - none of that. I can sit around, unwashed, for indeterminate amounts of time. This is especially sweet because January and February are going to be hell, I already know this. It's application season, so I will return to boxes of mail to laboriously open, file and process and it will not cease until March.

Fear not, my vacation will not spent entirely on sloth. Sean and I are heading down to Palm Springs for 6 days (more like 4 with two days of traveling) to kick it with his mom and step-dad. They rented a condo or something, so we're going to join them in their imbibing of nog and other inebriates. The reason this does not irk me is because participating was entirely voluntary, we get to explore parts of the state we've never visited, and all that is expected of us is to show up and be relaxed. We plan to go hiking in Joshua Tree National Park on Xmas day (weather permitting) and I'd love to make it to a few yoga classes, if I can find a studio that's open down there.

When we return home, my pal Steph arrives in from the east coast to stay with us for one night. I can handle entertaining people in low doses, in fact I'm looking forward to seeing her.

And sure, there's a bunch of stupid crap I'd like to get done while I have the time: planning my next round of poetry submissions, cleaning the bathroom, cooking good stuff and lots of yoga, but the openness of my time makes these things purely pleasurable undertakings (except the bathroom, that task always sucks).

Today, Sean and I are hanging around the house, hoping our landlady finds a plumber to come unclog our kitchen sink - she was surprisingly cheerful about it when we called this morning. I'm glad we held off until 11:00 - no one wants a work call coming in before 10 am on Sunday. Simply no one.

I'll leave you to enjoy your day with this little nugget of news: the New York Times ran a story today which basically claims that the Bush administration knew about the financial crises as far back as 2003 and did nothing to avoid it. You can read about it here.

Happy, happy holidays!

It's been a while...

since my last post. I was in Hawai'i for ten days (yes, I am one fortunate human being) and before that work had pretty much engulfed my life.

I'll be posting a proper blog later this week, but in the meantime, why not enjoy this classic clip from Stephen Colbert's The Colbert Report, with guests Sean Penn and poet Robert Pinsky, which first aired on April 19, 2007 and is just further proof that Stephen Colbert is the greatest thing since band-aids.

(I tried to embed the video, to no avail.)

I think it's done...

Letter Head

Should we call me a cat’s toy
poor tired mouse? Wound,
rewound, rusty key wrench
thumb flat on my
back back back. Click
grind. How we see
me… that’s not quite
it – a double-breasted bauble
a mailbox slit rammed with
letters, ink seeps
from my nose and collects
spreading over plains
to pool between our legs. We
won’t extend one finger,
probe an envelope licking line
on a brief paper kick – not for old
time’s sake or even a bubble of gas,
a laugh. We, fog of loose’d pages
a sigh, leaves that never hit
the ground. Wet boats sink
paper melts from our mouth.
We are the page, slicing
each pad of the fingers I own.
I the whole hand open
wide (ever willing)
and grope.

These Days

I had a kick-ass dream the other night where a friend (not a real one, just a dream friend) introduced me to a friend of hers. This friend of our friend invited us to crash at his dirty little house, but best of all, was equipped with an endless amount of acid. Each hit was in a small tablet form and attached to a band-aid, fully wrapped. He gave me a heaping handful.

Where are these people in real life, dammit?

I'm way too sober these days.

As I probably already mentioned, I've been submitting my poems to all sort of contests - it's annoying that to do so one must pay a fee to enter, especially considering I don't have a very good chance at winning any of them. Nonetheless, it's good to keep the cycle going - garbage in, garbage out.

Sean is taking a drawing class at Stanford on Monday nights, so I have a little alone time at my disposal. Last night I spent it making enchiladas. I tend to eat at least two fudgey popsicles for dinner when left to my own devices. Just pathetic.

Have you read Obama's speech on faith? I'm not a believer at all, but one can't discount the fact that a large percentage of our population claim to be. It's disgusting that Muslim is now being bandied about by the right as an indictment and drafting public policy based on narrow "faith-based" ideologies is beyond stupid. So, it's awfully refreshing to hear anyone, presidential candidate, or otherwise, suggest a pragmatic way to allow the church and state to remain separate, but not mutually exclusive:

"Now, make no mistake, as someone who used to teach constitutional law, I believe deeply in the separation of church and state, but I don’t believe this partnership will endanger that idea – so long as we follow a few basic principles. First, if you get a federal grant, you can’t use that grant money to proselytize to the people you help and you can’t discriminate against them – or against the people you hire – on the basis of their religion. Second, federal dollars that go directly to churches, temples, and mosques can only be used on secular programs. And we’ll also ensure that taxpayer dollars only go to those programs that actually work."

That last sentence particularly delights me - am I the only person who fees utterly irate when churches engage in political rhetoric, yet don't pay taxes? As the late, great George Carlin said (loosely quoted) "why not make them pay their fucking admission fee like everyone else!"

If believing in God is the only thing that can convince people they should give a shit about one another (why general feelings of humanitarianism aren't enough, I don't know why) then we should definitely work toward partnering them with government action. Ideally it should all go toward the common cause: universal good, you know?

Self-Indulgence

I'm working on this new poem - this is my first draft, after several rough drafts. My process is to write it out long-hand several times over, modifying it until I feel it is "done" enough to bother typing. How do I know when it's ready? I don't mind reading it. I worry that this poem is a bit inaccessible. I showed it to my friend Brian and he seemed to feel it was a bit hard to enter. I don't mind this - it's a hard balance for me to strike, saying what I want to say, how I want to say it, but also allowing some of it to get through to the reader. I don't want to play to an audience, but it would be nice if they caught my general gist.

I think it needs to be expanded outward. There's more to say, although I'm tempted to let it be for a while.

Letterhead

Should we call me a cat’s toy or
tired mouse? That’s not quite
it – a double-breasted bauble
a mailbox slit rammed with
letters, outgoing notes unread. We
won’t extend one finger,
unfurl a knuckle inside the crease
split a jagged line – not for old
time’s sake or even a bubble of gas,
a laugh. We, flurry of loose’d pages
a sigh, leaves that never hit
the ground. We boats sink
paper melts from our mouth.
We are the page, slicing
each pad of the fingers I own.
I the whole hand, cup
at the sea, open.