For anyone who's wondering, I've moved my blog over to Wordpress. I'd love it if you came & checked it out:
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thunder clouds & tea leaves
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thunder clouds & tea leaves
Isn't it pretty? :) Thanks, everyone!
Friday, October 12, 2012
Wednesday, July 18, 2012
Uncertainty & Finding Comfort
I apologize again for not blogging like I should.
.
Just an hour ago it was hot & bright, but now the rain is falling in grey sheets. I watched the clouds roll in through the windows at Hendrix & it made me think of my last post. Strange, it was only a month ago, I think. So much has changed-- or I should say, not changed, when I expected it should. Ben has not found a job yet, & every day I wonder what we will do, where we will go. Objectively, our situation is not terrible. He has some income guaranteed, though not as much as he has been making, we have a few places we can move to in Clemson if necessary, his parents are willing to help to some extent, I think, & I can always go back to writing for income instead of working on my poetry for scholarships & such. We could make our lives work as well as ever, probably, but it seems sad to continue such an existence, barely stretching out each little paycheck, when we thought that, by summer's end, we could live a more secure life.
.
I try to carry through w/ faith he'll eventually find a position-- he's been so close so many times, eventually the stars should align. & I reassure myself that our worst case scenario isn't the end of the world. We have options for living until something better comes up.
.
Until then, I try to keep myself occupied w/ my work. It has been a luxury to fully immerse myself in my studies, as I have these past two months, & I can sense that I am beginning to make some breakthroughs. Essays on poetics that were impenetrable to me not long ago are beginning to make some semblance of sense. My ear has become more attuned to the music of language, & what poetry I have written since reflects this new knowledge.
.
It is strange to remember the sparer life I once led, & the happiness I had then. As a young college student, eating cafeteria food & also ramen in my dormitory. Going to Walmart when the rain soaked the sky w/ charcoal & silver, listening to the thunder shake the trees w/ heat, laughing as we barreled through the storm, thin plastic shopping bags straining our hands. I felt so safe w/ my friends, so assured as I watched the seasons change the face of the lake each year, so very sure I was headed somewhere wonderful w/ these people, & how much we loved each other in our serendipitous camaraderie. Friendship seemed to come so easily then, & there was little distance between us all. What could have happened to us? Something between us all has broken, or maybe it was something in me?
.
Something in me has to change soon. I feel my life slipping like water all around me, but I am still & cold as a rock. I need to go somewhere, instead of planting myself here, all in my longing for the past, while circumstances wear me to my barest & most vulnerable state. My nerves are all exposed & maybe this is why I cannot ever sleep the night w/out fear waking me in a sweat, like my whole body is crying.
.
The rain has pulled back, quickly as it appeared. Typical summer weather, w/ its sudden fits of thunder & cool wind, then its pulling the clouds back like hair from its face, all embarrassed, like, "That didn't just happen." The sun is dappled on the bent backs of clouds, the sky is great fish belly swimmer over us all, scales of blue & grey w/ sunlight silvering and gilding all. It makes me remember how quickly things can change & not just for the worse. I cannot give up hope, I need to know I can make my life better.
.
What are my hopes for the future?
.
I want my hair to grow, long, dark & cresting like a mermaid's hair-- a mermaid from a place of ice water & glacial cold.
.
I want a little room w/ a window overlooking a garden, that sends light dancing across the walls in the afternoon, making patterns like pale, many-colored pebbles, while I write. I want a shelf w/ different glass jars full of whole leaf teas, & a beautiful tea set to serve them in.
.
I want good, close friends, & a bar or cafe where we can meet & talk, about anything at all. I want my relationship w/ Ben to be like it used to, relaxed, carefree, full of laughter. I want an apartment w/ books crammed everywhere, in haphazard stacks, so family visitors come in & shake their heads in mute disapproval.
.
I want a place where I can walk & watch nature go by, or where I can hear church bells in the distance ring tears from my eyes, tears that fly vividly from me like water flies all shining from a spinning clay pot, as it is shaped in the potter's steady hands.
.
I want to stare into the night sky, glowing & shivering like a vast city on a dark glacier, & feel the perfect peace of my own nothingness straining up and up to the cold-burning stars. I want to feel science tugging on the levers that work gravity & mass & light, tugging on my own sleeve like an insistent child. I want to understand, & I want to dip my feet into the cold river & see Venus & the moon reflected on the smooth gleaming back of a frog & feel my own body wearing the water like a robe, feel the wholeness of everything hover and sing on my skin, reflecting the stars on my shining glass body.
.
My feet roots, my belly a glowing globe, my face a telescope, always pointed far away.
.
Just an hour ago it was hot & bright, but now the rain is falling in grey sheets. I watched the clouds roll in through the windows at Hendrix & it made me think of my last post. Strange, it was only a month ago, I think. So much has changed-- or I should say, not changed, when I expected it should. Ben has not found a job yet, & every day I wonder what we will do, where we will go. Objectively, our situation is not terrible. He has some income guaranteed, though not as much as he has been making, we have a few places we can move to in Clemson if necessary, his parents are willing to help to some extent, I think, & I can always go back to writing for income instead of working on my poetry for scholarships & such. We could make our lives work as well as ever, probably, but it seems sad to continue such an existence, barely stretching out each little paycheck, when we thought that, by summer's end, we could live a more secure life.
.
I try to carry through w/ faith he'll eventually find a position-- he's been so close so many times, eventually the stars should align. & I reassure myself that our worst case scenario isn't the end of the world. We have options for living until something better comes up.
.
Until then, I try to keep myself occupied w/ my work. It has been a luxury to fully immerse myself in my studies, as I have these past two months, & I can sense that I am beginning to make some breakthroughs. Essays on poetics that were impenetrable to me not long ago are beginning to make some semblance of sense. My ear has become more attuned to the music of language, & what poetry I have written since reflects this new knowledge.
.
It is strange to remember the sparer life I once led, & the happiness I had then. As a young college student, eating cafeteria food & also ramen in my dormitory. Going to Walmart when the rain soaked the sky w/ charcoal & silver, listening to the thunder shake the trees w/ heat, laughing as we barreled through the storm, thin plastic shopping bags straining our hands. I felt so safe w/ my friends, so assured as I watched the seasons change the face of the lake each year, so very sure I was headed somewhere wonderful w/ these people, & how much we loved each other in our serendipitous camaraderie. Friendship seemed to come so easily then, & there was little distance between us all. What could have happened to us? Something between us all has broken, or maybe it was something in me?
.
Something in me has to change soon. I feel my life slipping like water all around me, but I am still & cold as a rock. I need to go somewhere, instead of planting myself here, all in my longing for the past, while circumstances wear me to my barest & most vulnerable state. My nerves are all exposed & maybe this is why I cannot ever sleep the night w/out fear waking me in a sweat, like my whole body is crying.
.
The rain has pulled back, quickly as it appeared. Typical summer weather, w/ its sudden fits of thunder & cool wind, then its pulling the clouds back like hair from its face, all embarrassed, like, "That didn't just happen." The sun is dappled on the bent backs of clouds, the sky is great fish belly swimmer over us all, scales of blue & grey w/ sunlight silvering and gilding all. It makes me remember how quickly things can change & not just for the worse. I cannot give up hope, I need to know I can make my life better.
.
What are my hopes for the future?
.
I want my hair to grow, long, dark & cresting like a mermaid's hair-- a mermaid from a place of ice water & glacial cold.
.
I want a little room w/ a window overlooking a garden, that sends light dancing across the walls in the afternoon, making patterns like pale, many-colored pebbles, while I write. I want a shelf w/ different glass jars full of whole leaf teas, & a beautiful tea set to serve them in.
.
I want good, close friends, & a bar or cafe where we can meet & talk, about anything at all. I want my relationship w/ Ben to be like it used to, relaxed, carefree, full of laughter. I want an apartment w/ books crammed everywhere, in haphazard stacks, so family visitors come in & shake their heads in mute disapproval.
.
I want a place where I can walk & watch nature go by, or where I can hear church bells in the distance ring tears from my eyes, tears that fly vividly from me like water flies all shining from a spinning clay pot, as it is shaped in the potter's steady hands.
.
I want to stare into the night sky, glowing & shivering like a vast city on a dark glacier, & feel the perfect peace of my own nothingness straining up and up to the cold-burning stars. I want to feel science tugging on the levers that work gravity & mass & light, tugging on my own sleeve like an insistent child. I want to understand, & I want to dip my feet into the cold river & see Venus & the moon reflected on the smooth gleaming back of a frog & feel my own body wearing the water like a robe, feel the wholeness of everything hover and sing on my skin, reflecting the stars on my shining glass body.
.
My feet roots, my belly a glowing globe, my face a telescope, always pointed far away.
Saturday, May 26, 2012
unsure
Just finishing "Coming After, Essays on Poetry" by Alice Notley. I'll admit it was a bit of a struggle, it's taken me nearly two weeks to get through. Like a lot of other books of on poetics, it's composed of a series of essays, some more dense that others. Felt like I was wading in dark water against a strong current many times.
.
My eternal frustration in attempting to educate myself, especially in the field of poetry, seems to be that the available texts on the subject don't seem to be written on any sort of learning curve. They're either extreme beginning types'a stuff (Avoid abstractions! No cliches! Use strong imagery! Consider your line-breaks! Dadadadada...) or they're written in a manner just out of my reach. A language I can't understand, a logic I can't follow. Many of Notley's judgments on poems seem arbitrary to me; her leaps of association when interpreting pieces far-fetched. It is possible that her writing is flawed, but that is not I call I am near informed enough to make.
.
Of course, I'm not giving up. My solution at the moment is to just continue plugging away. If I read enough, practice enough, eventually this will all seem less baffling. It just kills me that I know I could do this all much more efficiently if there were resources for people in my position, to guide them. A syllabus of sorts for the non-collegiate. I suppose I'm just very mundane-minded for a poet. Goal oriented. I can read poems and enjoy them, have opinions, entertain postulations about what the poem is saying how the poet achieved the voice and rhythm of the poem. I'm just so afraid I'm wrong. WRONG. Teaching myself, ingraining myself with the wrong principals.
.
And then of course it boils down to that vexing, never-ending question: What is poetry supposed to be, what is art supposed to be, why do we suppose anything, because really, really who's to say? I don't know, of course. I keep teasing myself with the idea that there is a right answer to all of this, an Objective. Correct. Answer. To-It-All. I want to believe in the Truth, goddammit. Because without some form of conviction, I'm just floundering. But is there truth in art, in anything? Catch me on different days, and I'll give you different answers.
.
And maybe that's the ultimate answer, haha.
.
But whatever all that means, whatever I conclude, I know one thing: I want to go to school. I want to learn. And I want my voice to be heard; I want to publish and reach an audience who can enjoy my work. And I want to be knowledgeable to teach enough someday. All this requires learning about poetic conventions and schools of thought and techniques and history, greatly beyond what I already grasp. So whether I believe in it all or not, I need to learn it. Then again, I wonder if this is true. The idea that you have to learn Da Rules in order to break them. It's an old adage often repeated to me by teachers, and lately, myself. It's a comforting idea behind why I'm doing this all. But is it true? (And there's the question again!) I guess when I think about it, though it seems like being free from all convention can in some cases lead to innovation and genius, I don't have that sort of great mind. Thinking so would be beyond arrogant (and then of course the voice chants in my head, there you go judging yourself by the standards of others, what do you care, just do what's right, what's really truly right-- well how do i know?-- listen to your intuition, what else do you have!-- oh but again i'm probably just fooling myself, arrogance again)
.
What. Ever. I like learning. So I will learn. I like reading poetry. So I will read poetry. I feel the need to reach out with my words, it's the only thing that give me purpose sometimes. So I will publish.
.
So I'm back on the same path, nothing changed, perhaps a little surer.
.
My eternal frustration in attempting to educate myself, especially in the field of poetry, seems to be that the available texts on the subject don't seem to be written on any sort of learning curve. They're either extreme beginning types'a stuff (Avoid abstractions! No cliches! Use strong imagery! Consider your line-breaks! Dadadadada...) or they're written in a manner just out of my reach. A language I can't understand, a logic I can't follow. Many of Notley's judgments on poems seem arbitrary to me; her leaps of association when interpreting pieces far-fetched. It is possible that her writing is flawed, but that is not I call I am near informed enough to make.
.
Where do I get started, how do I make the bridge between where I am, fairly far beyond the beginner's level, and a place where I can understand works of criticism that, at the moment, seem impossibly complex? The answer is probably "school" which is beyond frustrating to me, since I'm in a position where I'm trying to use my poetic talent to get into school. And also just unfair. Why does poetry, the understanding and enjoyment of it, have to be such a rarefied thing? The thing that always floors me in the reading of many modern journals and essays is the level of snobbery. I just can't. How they look down their noses on everyone who is not part of their club! And why? I read so many complaints about how the masses are too stupid to appreciate poetry, but who has a hope if poetry is written solely to be dissected by academics? Shouldn't there be resources for people who want to take part in the art, as an audience and perhaps as artists, who for whatever reason can't or don't want to be English majors?
.Of course, I'm not giving up. My solution at the moment is to just continue plugging away. If I read enough, practice enough, eventually this will all seem less baffling. It just kills me that I know I could do this all much more efficiently if there were resources for people in my position, to guide them. A syllabus of sorts for the non-collegiate. I suppose I'm just very mundane-minded for a poet. Goal oriented. I can read poems and enjoy them, have opinions, entertain postulations about what the poem is saying how the poet achieved the voice and rhythm of the poem. I'm just so afraid I'm wrong. WRONG. Teaching myself, ingraining myself with the wrong principals.
.
And then of course it boils down to that vexing, never-ending question: What is poetry supposed to be, what is art supposed to be, why do we suppose anything, because really, really who's to say? I don't know, of course. I keep teasing myself with the idea that there is a right answer to all of this, an Objective. Correct. Answer. To-It-All. I want to believe in the Truth, goddammit. Because without some form of conviction, I'm just floundering. But is there truth in art, in anything? Catch me on different days, and I'll give you different answers.
.
And maybe that's the ultimate answer, haha.
.
But whatever all that means, whatever I conclude, I know one thing: I want to go to school. I want to learn. And I want my voice to be heard; I want to publish and reach an audience who can enjoy my work. And I want to be knowledgeable to teach enough someday. All this requires learning about poetic conventions and schools of thought and techniques and history, greatly beyond what I already grasp. So whether I believe in it all or not, I need to learn it. Then again, I wonder if this is true. The idea that you have to learn Da Rules in order to break them. It's an old adage often repeated to me by teachers, and lately, myself. It's a comforting idea behind why I'm doing this all. But is it true? (And there's the question again!) I guess when I think about it, though it seems like being free from all convention can in some cases lead to innovation and genius, I don't have that sort of great mind. Thinking so would be beyond arrogant (and then of course the voice chants in my head, there you go judging yourself by the standards of others, what do you care, just do what's right, what's really truly right-- well how do i know?-- listen to your intuition, what else do you have!-- oh but again i'm probably just fooling myself, arrogance again)
.
What. Ever. I like learning. So I will learn. I like reading poetry. So I will read poetry. I feel the need to reach out with my words, it's the only thing that give me purpose sometimes. So I will publish.
.
So I'm back on the same path, nothing changed, perhaps a little surer.
Saturday, January 28, 2012
amend that
I really need to start enjoying my life, for whatever it is. I vow to record at least one memory of an event or observation that brought me true happiness each day.
.
Today, walking to campus with Ben in the sun made me happy. The happiness was colored with nostalgia and longing, but the memories conjured were good ones. Greeting spring in the botanical gardens with Ben two years ago and taking pictures. Playing in flower petals fallen like autumn leaves from the trees freshman year with Jonathon and Tyler. Walking back to the Sloan Street apartment with Craig after getting Starbucks, then going downstairs and playing Final Fantasy VIII. Playing Trickster.
.
I suffer from the curse of rarely enjoying events while they are happening, and only appreciating them in hindsight. Maybe this is isn't the worst thing-- after all, things only happen briefly, but the memories are with you for a lifetime. So when I'm old, I'll look back and remember living a happy life, even if I was rarely happy during the times I look back on with such affection. Odd, isn't it?
.
I hope that I'll learn to love my life as it happens someday. I always feel so old, like it's too late for me to change the things that are wrong with me. But I'm not even 23! I have to believe things will get better. All my happy times are not behind me!
.
It's ridiculous that I have to even tell myself this, isn't it? Oh, me.
.
Today, walking to campus with Ben in the sun made me happy. The happiness was colored with nostalgia and longing, but the memories conjured were good ones. Greeting spring in the botanical gardens with Ben two years ago and taking pictures. Playing in flower petals fallen like autumn leaves from the trees freshman year with Jonathon and Tyler. Walking back to the Sloan Street apartment with Craig after getting Starbucks, then going downstairs and playing Final Fantasy VIII. Playing Trickster.
.
I suffer from the curse of rarely enjoying events while they are happening, and only appreciating them in hindsight. Maybe this is isn't the worst thing-- after all, things only happen briefly, but the memories are with you for a lifetime. So when I'm old, I'll look back and remember living a happy life, even if I was rarely happy during the times I look back on with such affection. Odd, isn't it?
.
I hope that I'll learn to love my life as it happens someday. I always feel so old, like it's too late for me to change the things that are wrong with me. But I'm not even 23! I have to believe things will get better. All my happy times are not behind me!
.
It's ridiculous that I have to even tell myself this, isn't it? Oh, me.
Monday, January 23, 2012
journal of randomness-- bla weekend I
I haven't made much progress on the book since the last time I wrote. It's odd-- I'm usually the type of person who like to finish a novel in a single sitting-- maybe one weekend at the most, if it's a long one-- but I find myself wanting to savor IQ84. The experience is so immersive and I don't want it to end. I'm enjoying living with these characters and contemplating their world. As I enter the final act, I'm become more apprehensive about it all coming to a close. What am I going to read next, and is there any chance I'm going to enjoy it as much as the Murakami?
.
I'm about to begin reading in Hendrix, accompanied by Ben, who is beginning "Girl with the Dragon Tattoo." I've been often told that I should read this, but I've been putting it off, probably because it's so popular that it's scared me off. As much as this makes me a douche, I enjoy reading stuff that hasn't saturated pop culture. I mean, Murakami is far, far from an unknown, but I'm the only person I know in my area who reads his books, aside from Craig and Lan Chi who started reading him after I suggested his stuff. I like going into a book free from any influence of other's opinions. The overwhelming public embracing of "The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo," etc. feel like this weird peer pressure to read it. I dunno. It's all very illogical. But I just have this reaction that as soon as I feel like some force is steering me to do something, I don't want to do it.
.
Either way, I hope Ben likes it. I don't want his journey into book-readin' to stop with "The Hunger Games" trilogy. I'm afraid that if he doesn't get into this series, he'll give up on the whole idea of books. Which would make me ever so sad. There's something very comforting about the two of us sitting at our usual table at Hendrix with our drinks, sometimes Chinese takeout, holding hands and silently reading our books.
.
If you've been paying attention to the republican primaries, or life in general, you probably have realized that South Carolina is a stupid state. I'm pretty sick of living here. Ben's co-worker/friend and my erstwhile acquaintance from my CGSA (Clemson Gay Straight Alliance) days, Alexa, is meeting with the current members of the CGSA chapter at one of the tables next to me. Every once and a while, their conversation can be heard over the gentle hum of conversation at the tables here. And when words like "lesbian" or "queer" pop up, at least half a dozen heads turn, and I can see looks of distaste on their faces. How did I end up in a freakin college campus where discussion of LGBT issues garners this reaction?
.
Can't write anymore for now, sorry.
.
I'm about to begin reading in Hendrix, accompanied by Ben, who is beginning "Girl with the Dragon Tattoo." I've been often told that I should read this, but I've been putting it off, probably because it's so popular that it's scared me off. As much as this makes me a douche, I enjoy reading stuff that hasn't saturated pop culture. I mean, Murakami is far, far from an unknown, but I'm the only person I know in my area who reads his books, aside from Craig and Lan Chi who started reading him after I suggested his stuff. I like going into a book free from any influence of other's opinions. The overwhelming public embracing of "The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo," etc. feel like this weird peer pressure to read it. I dunno. It's all very illogical. But I just have this reaction that as soon as I feel like some force is steering me to do something, I don't want to do it.
.
Either way, I hope Ben likes it. I don't want his journey into book-readin' to stop with "The Hunger Games" trilogy. I'm afraid that if he doesn't get into this series, he'll give up on the whole idea of books. Which would make me ever so sad. There's something very comforting about the two of us sitting at our usual table at Hendrix with our drinks, sometimes Chinese takeout, holding hands and silently reading our books.
.
If you've been paying attention to the republican primaries, or life in general, you probably have realized that South Carolina is a stupid state. I'm pretty sick of living here. Ben's co-worker/friend and my erstwhile acquaintance from my CGSA (Clemson Gay Straight Alliance) days, Alexa, is meeting with the current members of the CGSA chapter at one of the tables next to me. Every once and a while, their conversation can be heard over the gentle hum of conversation at the tables here. And when words like "lesbian" or "queer" pop up, at least half a dozen heads turn, and I can see looks of distaste on their faces. How did I end up in a freakin college campus where discussion of LGBT issues garners this reaction?
.
Can't write anymore for now, sorry.
Friday, January 20, 2012
wanderings in greenville, sc
It is wan and grey here, not quite cold, but bitter. January in South Carolina rarely means snow, but more often pale lichen clinging to the tree trunks. There are still birds, bold as flowers in the yellowed grass. I arrived with my computer in my bag and IQ84 in my arms, unsure of my destination. For more than an hour I walked around Falls Park accompanied by my music, earphones tucked under a green knit cap.
.
It's really a nice park. Maybe a little too well-manicured for my tastes. It seems very new, like an arboretum. Nothing has had the chance to become overgrown; to accumulate moss or history. The stones that mark the little paths crisscrossing the grass around the waterfall show little wear or dirt. The lawns are immaculate, the flowerbeds all brown with the stench of fresh mulch. The Reedy River that feeds the falls looks so man-made you half expect a log flume to float by, a family fitted in bright yellow ponchos looking out excitedly. The stones over which the waters tumble, quiet as a dream, look as though they might have been cut from foam and painted by the special effects department for some movie scene. But maybe
this cinematic feel doesn't hurt my view of it.
.
My life seems starker here. With my headphones blasting loudly in my ears, the surreal world around me takes on a different aspect. Each song turns my mind like a pebble, shines its light through a different facet of my being. Memories rise and fall in swells. The ducks bob in the current. Little prop dolls. An old man is seated at a table by himself under the bridge. His hair and stubble are grey, his eyebrows two furious slabs of black. He draws in a drag from a cigarette. Exhales. Smoke obscures his face in ominous clouds. I think he looks like a sailor. His heavy jacket and hat seem very old. The guitar strains light the scene. Imagine the weight of so many seasons settling like dust. The clouds spew angry spittle. Above me, they are formless. No individual bursts of charcoal highlighted by slices of a far sun. Just an endless blanket of grey. Smoke from the factory.
.
I'm not sure what I will do. For now, this is enough. Sheltered from the storm in a small tea shop, I'm in another world for sure. Everything here is porcelain. Clean. Lines cut sharply, curves smooth as the face of an apple. Out the window, the skeleton of an abandoned warehouse, strangely beautiful in the winterlight. The brick arches of its windows seem they should frame something important. I imagine the high ceiling strung with paper lanterns and white lights. Clear vases with lilies and a few smooth stones on each table. A band plays some old jazz standard. The people watching wear grubby old clothes, though .
.
But for now it is empty. Around the building the earth is upturned and powdery as a construction project commences around it. They have not touched the building, though. Who knows what they are doing. The sidewalk is clean, by the river is muddy. Some of this may be a reflection of the sky.
.
I love true northern winters, when the night sky grows ruddy right before a heavy snow. My earliest awareness of this phenomena is from my childhood, a night I spent and my grandparent's house in Long Island. We spent the evening in front of their small television, watching the annual PBS broadcast of "Les Miserables." It was the first time I ever watched the play, and the songs sounded hauntingly resonant, like bells echoing in an empty cathedral. Reverberating and making me feel, for the first time, the parts of me that are hollow. Later on, I would discover that my mother had listened to the recording of the original London cast when I was still an infant, and this was why the melodies sounded so achingly familiar. But at the time they held a mysterious power, like I had tapped into the collective unconscious of the human animal, or I had heard the name of a lover from a past life, long before I knew fully what it even meant to have a lover.
.
After the broadcast, we had to drive out to their mall. I cannot remember why. I think we ended up in a sports store. I remember the fuzzy smell of baseball caps, the stitching under my fingers, the ridge of each letter, the catch of individual threads. Grey carpeting covered the small space. Standing at the counter with my grandfather, looking up at everything. The height of the shelves, the teenagers, it was all dizzying.
.
But what I remember best was the sky outside. We went out about an hour before the weather broadcasts promised the snow would begin to fall. The late evening air stung my face with a cold mist of rain. The temperature was plummeting rapidly, my breath was puffing out in heavy smoke. When you are little more than six years old, the mall parking lot seems to stretch on forever. I imagined all the cars as they would soon be, mired in snow. I looked up at the clouds, eager to catch the first snow flake. The clouds were the color of rust on metal. Colossal, they heaved across the sky like a herd of giants. Angry and powerful, cold shining off their backs in sheets. Their terrible weight seemed to drag them closer to the earth. Excitement swelled in my heart. Something magical was coming.
.
Later we watched the snow descend, swift and silent, over the stone angels and shivering trees in my grandparents' backyard. Beyond their fence was a lonely stretch of tall grass broken only by towering metal telephone poles. Tomorrow I would sled down that long slope of powder, I thought as I sipped some spiced apple tea. The piles of pretty rocks my cousins and I usually mined below the metal towers would be covered completely. So too the dead willow where we used to pretend to practice martial arts, after watching "Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon." Snow erased everything. Good, bad, it didn't matter. Memories gave way the the cold gleam of an infant mind.
.
There was a guest bedroom upstairs where I could sleep, but I ended up staying on the couch watching television, a privilege I didn't enjoy at home. I alternated between watching the weather report and a special on the Discovery Channel about the Mars Rover. The dust-red desolation of Mars, the rusted sky, the telephone wires buzzing with electricity and voices-- these all mixed and danced in my half-sleeping mind until the static of the red red snow lulled me into an intoxicated slumber.
.
It's really a nice park. Maybe a little too well-manicured for my tastes. It seems very new, like an arboretum. Nothing has had the chance to become overgrown; to accumulate moss or history. The stones that mark the little paths crisscrossing the grass around the waterfall show little wear or dirt. The lawns are immaculate, the flowerbeds all brown with the stench of fresh mulch. The Reedy River that feeds the falls looks so man-made you half expect a log flume to float by, a family fitted in bright yellow ponchos looking out excitedly. The stones over which the waters tumble, quiet as a dream, look as though they might have been cut from foam and painted by the special effects department for some movie scene. But maybe
this cinematic feel doesn't hurt my view of it.
.
My life seems starker here. With my headphones blasting loudly in my ears, the surreal world around me takes on a different aspect. Each song turns my mind like a pebble, shines its light through a different facet of my being. Memories rise and fall in swells. The ducks bob in the current. Little prop dolls. An old man is seated at a table by himself under the bridge. His hair and stubble are grey, his eyebrows two furious slabs of black. He draws in a drag from a cigarette. Exhales. Smoke obscures his face in ominous clouds. I think he looks like a sailor. His heavy jacket and hat seem very old. The guitar strains light the scene. Imagine the weight of so many seasons settling like dust. The clouds spew angry spittle. Above me, they are formless. No individual bursts of charcoal highlighted by slices of a far sun. Just an endless blanket of grey. Smoke from the factory.
.
I'm not sure what I will do. For now, this is enough. Sheltered from the storm in a small tea shop, I'm in another world for sure. Everything here is porcelain. Clean. Lines cut sharply, curves smooth as the face of an apple. Out the window, the skeleton of an abandoned warehouse, strangely beautiful in the winterlight. The brick arches of its windows seem they should frame something important. I imagine the high ceiling strung with paper lanterns and white lights. Clear vases with lilies and a few smooth stones on each table. A band plays some old jazz standard. The people watching wear grubby old clothes, though .
.
But for now it is empty. Around the building the earth is upturned and powdery as a construction project commences around it. They have not touched the building, though. Who knows what they are doing. The sidewalk is clean, by the river is muddy. Some of this may be a reflection of the sky.
.
I love true northern winters, when the night sky grows ruddy right before a heavy snow. My earliest awareness of this phenomena is from my childhood, a night I spent and my grandparent's house in Long Island. We spent the evening in front of their small television, watching the annual PBS broadcast of "Les Miserables." It was the first time I ever watched the play, and the songs sounded hauntingly resonant, like bells echoing in an empty cathedral. Reverberating and making me feel, for the first time, the parts of me that are hollow. Later on, I would discover that my mother had listened to the recording of the original London cast when I was still an infant, and this was why the melodies sounded so achingly familiar. But at the time they held a mysterious power, like I had tapped into the collective unconscious of the human animal, or I had heard the name of a lover from a past life, long before I knew fully what it even meant to have a lover.
.
After the broadcast, we had to drive out to their mall. I cannot remember why. I think we ended up in a sports store. I remember the fuzzy smell of baseball caps, the stitching under my fingers, the ridge of each letter, the catch of individual threads. Grey carpeting covered the small space. Standing at the counter with my grandfather, looking up at everything. The height of the shelves, the teenagers, it was all dizzying.
.
But what I remember best was the sky outside. We went out about an hour before the weather broadcasts promised the snow would begin to fall. The late evening air stung my face with a cold mist of rain. The temperature was plummeting rapidly, my breath was puffing out in heavy smoke. When you are little more than six years old, the mall parking lot seems to stretch on forever. I imagined all the cars as they would soon be, mired in snow. I looked up at the clouds, eager to catch the first snow flake. The clouds were the color of rust on metal. Colossal, they heaved across the sky like a herd of giants. Angry and powerful, cold shining off their backs in sheets. Their terrible weight seemed to drag them closer to the earth. Excitement swelled in my heart. Something magical was coming.
.
Later we watched the snow descend, swift and silent, over the stone angels and shivering trees in my grandparents' backyard. Beyond their fence was a lonely stretch of tall grass broken only by towering metal telephone poles. Tomorrow I would sled down that long slope of powder, I thought as I sipped some spiced apple tea. The piles of pretty rocks my cousins and I usually mined below the metal towers would be covered completely. So too the dead willow where we used to pretend to practice martial arts, after watching "Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon." Snow erased everything. Good, bad, it didn't matter. Memories gave way the the cold gleam of an infant mind.
.
There was a guest bedroom upstairs where I could sleep, but I ended up staying on the couch watching television, a privilege I didn't enjoy at home. I alternated between watching the weather report and a special on the Discovery Channel about the Mars Rover. The dust-red desolation of Mars, the rusted sky, the telephone wires buzzing with electricity and voices-- these all mixed and danced in my half-sleeping mind until the static of the red red snow lulled me into an intoxicated slumber.
thoughts while reading haruki murakami's "IQ84"
I sit in my living room under a quilt, the remains of a half-eaten lunch on the table before me, with a large pot of ambrosia tea and a cup. I have music playing softy on the computer. The windows open to a barren winter scene, and grey light filters through them. A few withered leaves still shiver on the thin branches crisscrossing over the parking lot. The lamp is on beside me, providing some warmer light. Mogmi is with me, alternating between sitting on the wooden chessboard and looking out the window, sniffing under the door that leads out to the hall, eating and drinking from his bowl, running and leaping wildly at whatever ghosts he sees, chasing them until they disappear through the cracks in these old walls, and sleeping like a sphinx on top of the TV.
.
As I indicated in the title, I'm reading "IQ84." Lan Chi gave it to me for Christmas, knowing that Murakami is my favorite author at the moment. I don't really know if I have anything in particular to say about it; I certainly don't feel equipped at the moment to offer any deep analysis of what Murakami is trying to say in this text. As it is, I'm only half-way through the novel. But as I was reading, I felt my soul straining against my skin. Tears pinched my eyes. It's the feeling I get when art suggests whatever I feel is missing in my self. Does everyone have this unnameable sensation? That something inside you was lost in some mysterious past, and you spend your whole life searching for it, not knowing what it is? I know many people do, but is it universal? There's a German word for it, I think, but I can't remember.
.
Murakami's work always touches me right on that scar, shudders me in some breathless way. As I read, I feel the calling to write. I'm not sure what, but I've vowed to myself to not ignore the call to write when I feel it, even if I feel unsure.
.
What follows will be disorganized scatterings of thoughts and reactions.
.
I long to ride a train through the countryside
to see stretches of plains starred with wind and light
and how they unwind low and long
clouds sagging with unspent grief, darkeyed
a mournful summer afternoon.
A train, a mechanism, a clock, a watch
the rhythm of galaxies spindled turns.
Somewhere on the coast the ocean's salted breath
rises to the ice moon. Tan children splash
in the tide. Their skin glows warm
against the rough hairs of sun-bleached towels.
.
I read my novel. A town of cats where I go
to disappear. Sink beneath the reedy waters.
My fingers brush the pulp of the page.
The slight raising of ink. Tick, tick, tick
the train on its track, the typewriter in measure,
stars blink out one by one.
What does anything, anything care?
.
Fish and chips in the hotel restaurant.
Later, a bad pizza and some coke. We walked
the quiet grounds, the clubhouse, the pool,
empty tables under the bells of umbrellas.
Quiet as a church. That was years ago,
and it no longer matters, probably wasn't even
me. The odd taste in my mouth lingered since morning,
I wonder if I'll even remember this book
next year.
.
I read for another hour or so, while the light changes outside my window. It becomes yellow with the setting winter sun. The music continues playing, a solemn drifting melody lilting beneath lyrics about sinking into the ocean. I imagine the end of a long film about lovers. An unkempt looking boy in a t-shirt and jeans with longish brown hair tickling his neck, just below his chin. He is riding a train in the window seat, his willowy dark-skinned girlfriend silent as a ghost beside him. One thin arm is stretched above her head, branching into five fingers with bud-pink nails caressing the leather of the headrest. The other is resting by her side, her hand just barely touching the boys. She stares ahead. The boy stares out the window as the panorama of the countryside wishes by like a swift-footed dream. The scene fades to black.
.
Either way, there's nothing we can do. Repeat this to yourself like a mantra. Swim it into your dreams.
.
As I indicated in the title, I'm reading "IQ84." Lan Chi gave it to me for Christmas, knowing that Murakami is my favorite author at the moment. I don't really know if I have anything in particular to say about it; I certainly don't feel equipped at the moment to offer any deep analysis of what Murakami is trying to say in this text. As it is, I'm only half-way through the novel. But as I was reading, I felt my soul straining against my skin. Tears pinched my eyes. It's the feeling I get when art suggests whatever I feel is missing in my self. Does everyone have this unnameable sensation? That something inside you was lost in some mysterious past, and you spend your whole life searching for it, not knowing what it is? I know many people do, but is it universal? There's a German word for it, I think, but I can't remember.
.
Murakami's work always touches me right on that scar, shudders me in some breathless way. As I read, I feel the calling to write. I'm not sure what, but I've vowed to myself to not ignore the call to write when I feel it, even if I feel unsure.
.
What follows will be disorganized scatterings of thoughts and reactions.
.
I long to ride a train through the countryside
to see stretches of plains starred with wind and light
and how they unwind low and long
clouds sagging with unspent grief, darkeyed
a mournful summer afternoon.
A train, a mechanism, a clock, a watch
the rhythm of galaxies spindled turns.
Somewhere on the coast the ocean's salted breath
rises to the ice moon. Tan children splash
in the tide. Their skin glows warm
against the rough hairs of sun-bleached towels.
.
I read my novel. A town of cats where I go
to disappear. Sink beneath the reedy waters.
My fingers brush the pulp of the page.
The slight raising of ink. Tick, tick, tick
the train on its track, the typewriter in measure,
stars blink out one by one.
What does anything, anything care?
.
Fish and chips in the hotel restaurant.
Later, a bad pizza and some coke. We walked
the quiet grounds, the clubhouse, the pool,
empty tables under the bells of umbrellas.
Quiet as a church. That was years ago,
and it no longer matters, probably wasn't even
me. The odd taste in my mouth lingered since morning,
I wonder if I'll even remember this book
next year.
.
I read for another hour or so, while the light changes outside my window. It becomes yellow with the setting winter sun. The music continues playing, a solemn drifting melody lilting beneath lyrics about sinking into the ocean. I imagine the end of a long film about lovers. An unkempt looking boy in a t-shirt and jeans with longish brown hair tickling his neck, just below his chin. He is riding a train in the window seat, his willowy dark-skinned girlfriend silent as a ghost beside him. One thin arm is stretched above her head, branching into five fingers with bud-pink nails caressing the leather of the headrest. The other is resting by her side, her hand just barely touching the boys. She stares ahead. The boy stares out the window as the panorama of the countryside wishes by like a swift-footed dream. The scene fades to black.
.
Either way, there's nothing we can do. Repeat this to yourself like a mantra. Swim it into your dreams.
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