No one comes here to lose. We don't show up to fail, to be
alone and lost.
And the most selfish action is
to create, to build, to embrace,
to persist and succeed.
Never doubt the strength that selfishness can wield.
Friday, November 30, 2007
Destination
No one comes here to lose. We don't show up to fail, to be
alone and lost.
And the most selfish action is
to create, to build, to embrace,
to persist and succeed.
Never doubt the strength that selfishness can wield.
Why I left....
What is this place of dispossession? No.
No is the place.
There is only one way in
and one way out. So go,
go as deep, walk as far,
scratch as hard as you can.
Your nails succumb
and still dig.
Stop at nothing. Don't stay
outside. Slip undetected;
shadow behind the homeowner. Grab
the door handle at the moment
before the lock
locks;
knock; smile;
smile; ask.
If the door closes, find the
worm hole, the chink; find the
way inside.
It is dark inside. Air
rank. Breathe. Souring
from the inside out.
Let the dark settle, gather;
gather in the dark;
suffocate a little; feel
the drowning;
let consciousness beige your brain.
Sleep. Do not open the door.
The door is as solid as when
you arrived.
Gather in the dark.
Hold a pillow over your mouth.
Wait.
Wait in the dark,
in the silence.
Gather the dark,
the quiet, the
steel. Then
shimmer.
No is the place.
There is only one way in
and one way out. So go,
go as deep, walk as far,
scratch as hard as you can.
Your nails succumb
and still dig.
Stop at nothing. Don't stay
outside. Slip undetected;
shadow behind the homeowner. Grab
the door handle at the moment
before the lock
locks;
knock; smile;
smile; ask.
If the door closes, find the
worm hole, the chink; find the
way inside.
It is dark inside. Air
rank. Breathe. Souring
from the inside out.
Let the dark settle, gather;
gather in the dark;
suffocate a little; feel
the drowning;
let consciousness beige your brain.
Sleep. Do not open the door.
The door is as solid as when
you arrived.
Gather in the dark.
Hold a pillow over your mouth.
Wait.
Wait in the dark,
in the silence.
Gather the dark,
the quiet, the
steel. Then
shimmer.
Wednesday, November 28, 2007
Kendra Kopelke and Steve Matanle
Readings are inspiring. Tonight, Kendra and Steve (I actually get to call them that if I want) read at the University of Baltimore. Awesome. No. Quieter than that. humbling; not the work - which is rich, generous, not their presence and rich voices, but the resilience, the showing up. That awes me.
I am always uncomfortable in their presence like an add-on guest, stepchild, chipped glass at the table, smeared lipstick (I think they will be surprised). It's okay. I show up anyway. I'm practiced.
I challenge myself: Can I find a place to put it down, a vehicle for the writing, the work, the tencity that Steve and Kendra possess.
____________________________________________________________________
I am always uncomfortable in their presence like an add-on guest, stepchild, chipped glass at the table, smeared lipstick (I think they will be surprised). It's okay. I show up anyway. I'm practiced.
I challenge myself: Can I find a place to put it down, a vehicle for the writing, the work, the tencity that Steve and Kendra possess.
____________________________________________________________________
If you ever did believe
It is 12:03 AM. My daughter and I just got off the phone. This is my litmus, my balance, my gravity, my solid center. Tonight was not a very special night but it was one of those nights that no matter how old she grows to be, she will recall. She will know I was in her corner, listening, sharing, loving. This night in my life will matter. This is important.
Two writers, who also happen to be instructors of mine at the University of Baltimore read tonight - poetry. Brave, raw, new work; they have yet to render or polish or rethink or craft. They put their early work out for the students to listen, learn. That is how generous they are as instructors, as artists. My daughter, Sara went with me; no one else has heard as much of my raw work as she; no one has stood as solidly in my corner as she; no one knows all the dark and all the bright in equal measure as much. And she knows she is made of some of the same fuselage: It burns brighter in her though and gets better mileage.
I got to Sara's apartment, third floor walkup on North Calvert, guided by the Christmas lights she had hung on her balcony and divine providence had granted me parking just a half block away. I phoned from the vestibule, "You're 3F, right?" "Yes." And she buzzed me in, but I was thinking of the next time, when I can push 3F and lean and say, "Hi, this is Carlton, your doorman." and listen to her peel of laughter as the buzzer buzzes to grant me admittance.
We share a glass of wine and see her holiday decorations, how she has broken the room into functionality and social interaction. She is a master of space. If there were a crown for that, Sara would win every time.
Then she goes with me, to my place, to the space where my work and life thrives: we go to the reading at UofB of the professors I most admire for both the way they teach and for what they write. I want to be as honest as they are; I want to move the world the way they do; I want to be able to say what I see as they do.
After, we return to Sara's latest haven. She is on a path and I do not see the end. She makes me salad with chicken and ginger sesame dressing. "You have to eat something if you are drinking wine," she says. Yes.
She sits on her small couch with me, and we unveil the day and our lives.
She is so alive in this space; her balcony, the moon to the right, the stars all above, her smiling leaning over the railing waving. In her living room with ceilings twice again her height, with a bricked up fireplace, with wood floors thick with paint, with art hangings about her and her smile and dropped right shoulder as she tells me a story of her father, and I tell her of the day she took her first steps between the two of us and of our celebration and there she was, connecting everything. And then she pulls out an album and in it, a photo of me; young, young. Maybe two, three. Walking. Balancing. She had snagged it, my childhood. Precious to me, but more precious to think it was precious to her. "I show this album to my friends. I say, that's my mom." and how I don't overflow with tears is a sign of the shield we build. "Yes." I say. I mean "Thank you."
We talk on a bit but all the ride home, I carry that photo and that thought in my mind. I marry it to the memory of her peel of laughter, unchanged since she was two.
Two writers, who also happen to be instructors of mine at the University of Baltimore read tonight - poetry. Brave, raw, new work; they have yet to render or polish or rethink or craft. They put their early work out for the students to listen, learn. That is how generous they are as instructors, as artists. My daughter, Sara went with me; no one else has heard as much of my raw work as she; no one has stood as solidly in my corner as she; no one knows all the dark and all the bright in equal measure as much. And she knows she is made of some of the same fuselage: It burns brighter in her though and gets better mileage.
I got to Sara's apartment, third floor walkup on North Calvert, guided by the Christmas lights she had hung on her balcony and divine providence had granted me parking just a half block away. I phoned from the vestibule, "You're 3F, right?" "Yes." And she buzzed me in, but I was thinking of the next time, when I can push 3F and lean and say, "Hi, this is Carlton, your doorman." and listen to her peel of laughter as the buzzer buzzes to grant me admittance.
We share a glass of wine and see her holiday decorations, how she has broken the room into functionality and social interaction. She is a master of space. If there were a crown for that, Sara would win every time.
Then she goes with me, to my place, to the space where my work and life thrives: we go to the reading at UofB of the professors I most admire for both the way they teach and for what they write. I want to be as honest as they are; I want to move the world the way they do; I want to be able to say what I see as they do.
After, we return to Sara's latest haven. She is on a path and I do not see the end. She makes me salad with chicken and ginger sesame dressing. "You have to eat something if you are drinking wine," she says. Yes.
She sits on her small couch with me, and we unveil the day and our lives.
She is so alive in this space; her balcony, the moon to the right, the stars all above, her smiling leaning over the railing waving. In her living room with ceilings twice again her height, with a bricked up fireplace, with wood floors thick with paint, with art hangings about her and her smile and dropped right shoulder as she tells me a story of her father, and I tell her of the day she took her first steps between the two of us and of our celebration and there she was, connecting everything. And then she pulls out an album and in it, a photo of me; young, young. Maybe two, three. Walking. Balancing. She had snagged it, my childhood. Precious to me, but more precious to think it was precious to her. "I show this album to my friends. I say, that's my mom." and how I don't overflow with tears is a sign of the shield we build. "Yes." I say. I mean "Thank you."
We talk on a bit but all the ride home, I carry that photo and that thought in my mind. I marry it to the memory of her peel of laughter, unchanged since she was two.
Saturday, November 17, 2007
If not you
We are so powerful. Immensely strong.
Responsible. We know what is right, almost
every time.
I was at Barnes and Noble today picking out a special card. A few feet from me, a large man, khaki jacket, jeans, hair curling over his collar, two days beard on his face, sat with a book in his lap, his beefy hand at his brow shading his face, seemingly intent on reading. Except he was not reading; he was crying.
How could I be certain? Was he crying? This large man, slumping in the reading chair, an open book on his right thigh, is whimpering, his chin trembling. The card in my hand is a photo of friends leaping from a cliff into water. I glance again, at the book in his lap, at the tilt of his fingers veiling his eyes. I focus on the card rack, open the card, "I'm here with you. Leap."
I want to buy the card. I want to say something to the stranger in the chair. I want to see the title of the book. I want to put my hand on his shoulder. I put the card back in the rack. New Fiction is just to my left: The Vanishing Act of Esme Lennox, Breakable You, Trespass, One Mississippi. I step back to the blank journals, plain covers, sunflower covers, leather bindings. He is still in the chair. His hand is still at his brow. His chin is quiet. I move to the back of the store, far from the stranger in the chair.
"Getting and spending
we lay waste our power..."
It is our responsibility to care for and protect every single living being. I shirked that responsibility. Did I?
Infinite power. What if the stranger had been a child? I would not have hesitated. But we are all children. We are all frightened children and we cannot afford to be so. Everything and everyone is counting on us; to take care, to evolve, to leap together.
I went back to get the card, to touch the man in the chair. He was gone.
Responsible. We know what is right, almost
every time.
I was at Barnes and Noble today picking out a special card. A few feet from me, a large man, khaki jacket, jeans, hair curling over his collar, two days beard on his face, sat with a book in his lap, his beefy hand at his brow shading his face, seemingly intent on reading. Except he was not reading; he was crying.
How could I be certain? Was he crying? This large man, slumping in the reading chair, an open book on his right thigh, is whimpering, his chin trembling. The card in my hand is a photo of friends leaping from a cliff into water. I glance again, at the book in his lap, at the tilt of his fingers veiling his eyes. I focus on the card rack, open the card, "I'm here with you. Leap."
I want to buy the card. I want to say something to the stranger in the chair. I want to see the title of the book. I want to put my hand on his shoulder. I put the card back in the rack. New Fiction is just to my left: The Vanishing Act of Esme Lennox, Breakable You, Trespass, One Mississippi. I step back to the blank journals, plain covers, sunflower covers, leather bindings. He is still in the chair. His hand is still at his brow. His chin is quiet. I move to the back of the store, far from the stranger in the chair.
"Getting and spending
we lay waste our power..."
It is our responsibility to care for and protect every single living being. I shirked that responsibility. Did I?
Infinite power. What if the stranger had been a child? I would not have hesitated. But we are all children. We are all frightened children and we cannot afford to be so. Everything and everyone is counting on us; to take care, to evolve, to leap together.
I went back to get the card, to touch the man in the chair. He was gone.
Friday, November 16, 2007
Change Everything
In your dreams, you see her
Tall, broad brow, narrow chin
Strong shoulders, square teeth,
The names of international leaders
tripping off her tongue.
Straight to the college
her Daddy graduated, finished
in three and half, played the cello
and once sang in the opera. Somewhere
in her lineage is a member of the DAR.
Graduate school at 22. Ph.D.
at 25. During the summers,
she volunteered at the therapeutic
riding camp, fed Biafra, saved
the whales, saw a dermatologist.
But you are cut from thinner cloth,
a world of untidy lineage, of a
firm grip, narrow, slipping
unnoticed behind the chair, feasting
on the image of his
hand holding her elbow.
Tall, broad brow, narrow chin
Strong shoulders, square teeth,
The names of international leaders
tripping off her tongue.
Straight to the college
her Daddy graduated, finished
in three and half, played the cello
and once sang in the opera. Somewhere
in her lineage is a member of the DAR.
Graduate school at 22. Ph.D.
at 25. During the summers,
she volunteered at the therapeutic
riding camp, fed Biafra, saved
the whales, saw a dermatologist.
But you are cut from thinner cloth,
a world of untidy lineage, of a
firm grip, narrow, slipping
unnoticed behind the chair, feasting
on the image of his
hand holding her elbow.
Wednesday, November 14, 2007
I don't want to be in love!
It's not that there are not men. There are always men, right? Just as there are always women.
Available, interesting, attending, listening attentively, nodding, smiling, practically fawning.
Because we are all alone. We are not alone. But we are alone. When it matters; in that small moment when you set your jaw, when you turn away with burning eyes, when the center of your chest cracks; we are alone.
Are you available?
For what?
Rubbish. What is the point if the potential is not there? Why bother?
I understand, the desire, though, to not dive so deep, to tread water. Isn't that what the recently abandoned, abused, forlorn, do? And while they are treading, they hold onto a bit of drift wood, just to get through, just to keep from going under again. Meanwhile, the drift wood grows saturated, heavy, weak, less buoyant. There is no where to go but under.
Available, interesting, attending, listening attentively, nodding, smiling, practically fawning.
Because we are all alone. We are not alone. But we are alone. When it matters; in that small moment when you set your jaw, when you turn away with burning eyes, when the center of your chest cracks; we are alone.
Are you available?
For what?
Rubbish. What is the point if the potential is not there? Why bother?
I understand, the desire, though, to not dive so deep, to tread water. Isn't that what the recently abandoned, abused, forlorn, do? And while they are treading, they hold onto a bit of drift wood, just to get through, just to keep from going under again. Meanwhile, the drift wood grows saturated, heavy, weak, less buoyant. There is no where to go but under.
Sunday, November 11, 2007
His Heart
Some adults, if they are lucky, overcome whatever losses they suffered early; the childhood horrors large and small. My children have been my gravity belt; they hold my center; not in a way that I must hold onto them; but rather through the tenuous utter faith that we love one another and are in this life together, come what may. Gravity/grave. Is it a grave responsibility? I don't think so. I think I am their gravity too. And if I go with what Sara said, I'm also the lighthouse. This poem is not about me. It about a father and his daughter. She's part of his gravity.
His Heart
Impecunious planet,
Denied a moon,
Erratic orbit.
Orbited by
A sanguineous heart,
Bereft of center.
In this inimical atmosphere,
A barefoot warrior
Wings through his heart.
Julia plants
Gardens of tulip
Rose trees and
Full leafed trees
Birds, butterflies,
Over his navicular.
Lassoing the heart,
She tethers
Precious gravity.
Jm oct 28 2007
Sweets
Ducking the saffron stars
landscaping hyacinth skies,
we trail urchin footprints
disappearing in the new night.
Dew of last October, a waning
moon setting early and
shadows like pewter bamboo
strands falling into a low river.
We trail singed pumpkin smoke,
sighting witches snagged in
the old oak branches, river winds
scrambling their cries. We
trail the ladybug, the witch, the
butterfly, the sugar maple leaves
skittering like rats at our feet.
Asphalt diamond and grape soda
Pooling at our feet, spells lifting
strands of hair at the back of
our necks and at every door, a
sweet hospitality and we
flee, seeking the next.
Word choice
Recently I told a friend that I'd written a new poem and the very first phrase was "Impecunious planet". He asked, "Why would you start with a word no one knows?"
He has a point. If a writer wants their work to be something any one can enter easily, slip into like a McDonalds, into the familiar, nutritionally weak but filling substance, then any word would do. The word "impoverished" would work just as well. Except that in poetry, sound matters. One might ask, "Why did Mozart use so many notes?"
The answer: My poem would not be served by the soothing "sh" and the forgiving "r" in the word "impoverished." My poem stands solidly due to the harshness of the hard "c" and the sibulent "s" sounds in "impecunious." And what risk? A reader may like the sound and not truly know the word but if they read on, the meaning may become clear or they may seek the answer by finding the word in the dictionary and saving another word from extinction. But that is not why I choose the word. I choose it as a chef chooses the right spice and a musician the right chord and a painter the right color; because it is the word that must be used; it is correct.
Todays word, delivered by word of the day, arrives just in time as I need it for what I will write later today, perhaps tonight. I think I knew this word before but I've fallen out of using it. But I am fortunate that I am reminded and just in the nick of time.
peripeteia \pair-uh-puh-TEE-uh\ noun
: a sudden or unexpected reversal of circumstances or situation
especially in a literary work
Example sentence:
In the last act of the play, the king's decision to avenge his brother
leads to a peripeteia that leaves him bereft of his throne and his family.
Did you know?
"Peripeteia" comes from Greek, in which the verb “peripiptein” means
"to fall around" or "to change suddenly." It usually indicates a turning point
in a drama after which the plot moves steadily to its denouement. In his
Poetics, Aristotle describes peripeteia as the shift of the tragic protagonist's fortune from good to bad--a shift that is essential to the plot of a tragedy. The term is also occasionally used of a similar change in actual affairs. For example, in a June 7, 2006 article in _The New York Times_, Michael Cooper described William Weld’s second term as Massachusetts’ governor as
“political peripeteia”: it “began with a landslide victory and ended with
frustrated hopes and his resignation.”
He has a point. If a writer wants their work to be something any one can enter easily, slip into like a McDonalds, into the familiar, nutritionally weak but filling substance, then any word would do. The word "impoverished" would work just as well. Except that in poetry, sound matters. One might ask, "Why did Mozart use so many notes?"
The answer: My poem would not be served by the soothing "sh" and the forgiving "r" in the word "impoverished." My poem stands solidly due to the harshness of the hard "c" and the sibulent "s" sounds in "impecunious." And what risk? A reader may like the sound and not truly know the word but if they read on, the meaning may become clear or they may seek the answer by finding the word in the dictionary and saving another word from extinction. But that is not why I choose the word. I choose it as a chef chooses the right spice and a musician the right chord and a painter the right color; because it is the word that must be used; it is correct.
Todays word, delivered by word of the day, arrives just in time as I need it for what I will write later today, perhaps tonight. I think I knew this word before but I've fallen out of using it. But I am fortunate that I am reminded and just in the nick of time.
peripeteia \pair-uh-puh-TEE-uh\ noun
: a sudden or unexpected reversal of circumstances or situation
especially in a literary work
Example sentence:
In the last act of the play, the king's decision to avenge his brother
leads to a peripeteia that leaves him bereft of his throne and his family.
Did you know?
"Peripeteia" comes from Greek, in which the verb “peripiptein” means
"to fall around" or "to change suddenly." It usually indicates a turning point
in a drama after which the plot moves steadily to its denouement. In his
Poetics, Aristotle describes peripeteia as the shift of the tragic protagonist's fortune from good to bad--a shift that is essential to the plot of a tragedy. The term is also occasionally used of a similar change in actual affairs. For example, in a June 7, 2006 article in _The New York Times_, Michael Cooper described William Weld’s second term as Massachusetts’ governor as
“political peripeteia”: it “began with a landslide victory and ended with
frustrated hopes and his resignation.”
Saturday, November 03, 2007
Invocation
Here is the silky slip of hair
between my fingertips; Julia
whittling my waist with her legs
to see the Lincoln Memorial,
Her sucker sweet cheek near my face
and our breathes brushed back by the
chill autumn air. Here is the easy
hand up, Julia's cartwheel on the marble
wall, Francesca's visage in the
reflecting pond. She is
water and sky and the crimson,
amber, cinnamon tinted leaves and her
eyes level, spot on.
Her chin is true north.
All the porcelain of my life is
pulling together. All my joy is gathering
swept up in this vortex; surely
happiness and forgiveness will follow
for the remainder of our lives.
between my fingertips; Julia
whittling my waist with her legs
to see the Lincoln Memorial,
Her sucker sweet cheek near my face
and our breathes brushed back by the
chill autumn air. Here is the easy
hand up, Julia's cartwheel on the marble
wall, Francesca's visage in the
reflecting pond. She is
water and sky and the crimson,
amber, cinnamon tinted leaves and her
eyes level, spot on.
Her chin is true north.
All the porcelain of my life is
pulling together. All my joy is gathering
swept up in this vortex; surely
happiness and forgiveness will follow
for the remainder of our lives.
Thursday, October 25, 2007
Tuesday, October 23, 2007
Mercury
Remember, mercury is in retrograde;
our past is often revisited
made evident at this time.
Or maybe I just notice
because I know mercury is in
retrograde
and it really happens that the past is always present in the
present and in the future,
just as TS Eliot suggested.
our past is often revisited
made evident at this time.
Or maybe I just notice
because I know mercury is in
retrograde
and it really happens that the past is always present in the
present and in the future,
just as TS Eliot suggested.
Monday, October 22, 2007
A Winter's Tale
a quote from the Shakespeare play:
HERMIONE
Sir,
You speak a language that I understand not:
My life stands in the level of your dreams,
Which I'll lay down.
Saturday, October 20, 2007
Friday, October 19, 2007
New Friend
I made a new friend recently. Her name is Stella.
My dog, Sally, was not too fond of this idea at first but she has warmed up to Stella. The whole process reminded me of the old story about when a couple has a second child. The couple brings home the "new" baby and says to the other child (who was just moments before the only baby), "Look at this wonderful, amazing, beautiful baby who is now your baby brother/sister." The older child is usually not so enthusiastic about this development. The explanation I heard regarding the child's reaction was: "Suppose your boyfriend/husband came in the door with a younger, perfect woman who had never disappointed them and asked you to be happy about this." Ahhh. It all made sense. This is why older children sometimes try to smother the new baby and why dogs are not always as welcoming of a new dog.
Yet, once Sally realized that not only do I possess enough affection for both, but that Stella turned out to be quite an entertainment, she became fairly happy about the development.
So, meet Stella. She doesn't have Sally's energy or Sally's long limbed grace, but I am confident that you can see she has something charming.
My dog, Sally, was not too fond of this idea at first but she has warmed up to Stella. The whole process reminded me of the old story about when a couple has a second child. The couple brings home the "new" baby and says to the other child (who was just moments before the only baby), "Look at this wonderful, amazing, beautiful baby who is now your baby brother/sister." The older child is usually not so enthusiastic about this development. The explanation I heard regarding the child's reaction was: "Suppose your boyfriend/husband came in the door with a younger, perfect woman who had never disappointed them and asked you to be happy about this." Ahhh. It all made sense. This is why older children sometimes try to smother the new baby and why dogs are not always as welcoming of a new dog.
Yet, once Sally realized that not only do I possess enough affection for both, but that Stella turned out to be quite an entertainment, she became fairly happy about the development.
So, meet Stella. She doesn't have Sally's energy or Sally's long limbed grace, but I am confident that you can see she has something charming.
Wednesday, October 17, 2007
Missed Connections
My friend Dave sent me to Craigslist this morning thinking that one of the "missed connections" may have been directed at me. My only familiarity with this aspect of Craigslist was via my friend, Heather, who once upon a time made contact with someone via this feature.
It sounds like an intriguing and simple and altogether delightful way to let someone know that you noticed them and give them the opportunity to respond if they wish. However, as I was reading some of the postings I discovered that something more was happening.
One post was full of such despair that I wished to find the person, give them a hug, a pat on the back, reassure them that all would be well and the sun would shine on them again. I was surprised at the intimate disclosures that would only be known by someone whom the writer knew. This very public forum was a way of reaching across the abyss of loss, of broken communications (thus the name "missed connections") took on deeper meaning.
Here is a string of posts I found particularly tender:
i had to.
Reply to:
Date: 2007-10-13, 11:35PM EDT
I'm sorry i had to leave. I know you understand. It was all just too much for me. I wish i'd been able to spend more time with you, to feel your arms around me for one last time, but it only would have made my decision even harder. I love you. I never told you, but i felt it every day. i still do. I hope you understand, i had to...
re: i had to.
Reply to: Date: 2007-10-15, 3:54PM EDT
it's ok. i know you did. doesn't make it any easier, though. i feel the same way you do. i hope you know that.
RE: i had to. (more info?)
Reply to:
Date: 2007-10-15, 4:41PM EDT
Can you give any clues re who you're posting this for? male? female? age? first initial?
If by some chance it is for me: I do understand why you left, but I'm more ready now. I've made room. Give things another try? If it is for me: you know I've been asking you to come back to my life. Think it over. And if not for romance, then as my friend.
More likely: it is not for me. Was soon for the L-word. But sometimes love is surprising like that.
I realized that any number of us may read this post and wonder if we are not the intended recipient of the posting. If not right now, then perhaps a while ago. If I go back to last year, would I discover some secret communication that I had missed because I didn't know this venue was out there, as big as a billboard and yet as easy to miss as a penny we've tossed into a wishing fountain.
I am sad for i had to and sad for the one responding. With all the ways we can touch one another's lives, why can't we stay connected? Why can't we speak the words that are most difficult. Why does the L-word make its appearance on a bulletin board instead of our lips?
BTW, I was not the subject of the post my friend thought might be meant for me.
It sounds like an intriguing and simple and altogether delightful way to let someone know that you noticed them and give them the opportunity to respond if they wish. However, as I was reading some of the postings I discovered that something more was happening.
One post was full of such despair that I wished to find the person, give them a hug, a pat on the back, reassure them that all would be well and the sun would shine on them again. I was surprised at the intimate disclosures that would only be known by someone whom the writer knew. This very public forum was a way of reaching across the abyss of loss, of broken communications (thus the name "missed connections") took on deeper meaning.
Here is a string of posts I found particularly tender:
i had to.
Reply to:
Date: 2007-10-13, 11:35PM EDT
I'm sorry i had to leave. I know you understand. It was all just too much for me. I wish i'd been able to spend more time with you, to feel your arms around me for one last time, but it only would have made my decision even harder. I love you. I never told you, but i felt it every day. i still do. I hope you understand, i had to...
re: i had to.
Reply to: Date: 2007-10-15, 3:54PM EDT
it's ok. i know you did. doesn't make it any easier, though. i feel the same way you do. i hope you know that.
RE: i had to. (more info?)
Reply to:
Date: 2007-10-15, 4:41PM EDT
Can you give any clues re who you're posting this for? male? female? age? first initial?
If by some chance it is for me: I do understand why you left, but I'm more ready now. I've made room. Give things another try? If it is for me: you know I've been asking you to come back to my life. Think it over. And if not for romance, then as my friend.
More likely: it is not for me. Was soon for the L-word. But sometimes love is surprising like that.
I realized that any number of us may read this post and wonder if we are not the intended recipient of the posting. If not right now, then perhaps a while ago. If I go back to last year, would I discover some secret communication that I had missed because I didn't know this venue was out there, as big as a billboard and yet as easy to miss as a penny we've tossed into a wishing fountain.
I am sad for i had to and sad for the one responding. With all the ways we can touch one another's lives, why can't we stay connected? Why can't we speak the words that are most difficult. Why does the L-word make its appearance on a bulletin board instead of our lips?
BTW, I was not the subject of the post my friend thought might be meant for me.
Wednesday, October 10, 2007
Oh Henry!
So I've been back to the Renaissance Festival (I haven't been in several years). And what is the thrill moment? Maryland's State sport, of course, the joust!
And what is even more unimaginable to me is that my favored knight from years ago is there once more.
He is valiant, true, and victorious. Well, I assume he is victorious, because I leave well before the end and the local papers have not published the results of this contest so it is left to my imagination.
AT this particular Renn Fest, the year is 1540. The season of mourning for his late, beloved Queen Jane has passed, and now King Henry awaits the arrival of Anna, princess of Cleves. Anna, the woman who will become Queen of England and Henry's fourth wife.
Ever the romantic, Henry must marry for love, even if the alliance is political. He has been captivated by Anna's portrait and reports of her charm, beauty and talents.
The King, his Courtiers, and Councellors are in Revel Grove, eagerly awaiting the arrival of Anna. Will this first face to face meeting spark the passion of love as Henry fervently believes? And what will Anna think of Henry?
How can women be so deceived? Remember, it is 1540 and very few of them believed they had options.
So I took a quiz to see which of Henry's wives I am most like. I can't say I'm disappointed with the results. :
>
>
Which of Henry VIII's wives are you?
Well, she did manage to remain Henry's wife for 24 years. Till the end of her life Catherine of Aragon would refer to herself as Henry's only lawfully wedded wife and England's only rightful queen consort; her faithful servants continued to address her by that title. Catherine has long had her admirers for the bravery and courage she displayed in contesting her divorce and fighting for her daughter's rights. She became a symbolic representation of the wronged woman. I guess you could say that the similarities speak for themselves.
And what is even more unimaginable to me is that my favored knight from years ago is there once more.
He is valiant, true, and victorious. Well, I assume he is victorious, because I leave well before the end and the local papers have not published the results of this contest so it is left to my imagination.AT this particular Renn Fest, the year is 1540. The season of mourning for his late, beloved Queen Jane has passed, and now King Henry awaits the arrival of Anna, princess of Cleves. Anna, the woman who will become Queen of England and Henry's fourth wife.
Ever the romantic, Henry must marry for love, even if the alliance is political. He has been captivated by Anna's portrait and reports of her charm, beauty and talents.
The King, his Courtiers, and Councellors are in Revel Grove, eagerly awaiting the arrival of Anna. Will this first face to face meeting spark the passion of love as Henry fervently believes? And what will Anna think of Henry?
How can women be so deceived? Remember, it is 1540 and very few of them believed they had options.
So I took a quiz to see which of Henry's wives I am most like. I can't say I'm disappointed with the results. :
>
>Which of Henry VIII's wives are you?
Well, she did manage to remain Henry's wife for 24 years. Till the end of her life Catherine of Aragon would refer to herself as Henry's only lawfully wedded wife and England's only rightful queen consort; her faithful servants continued to address her by that title. Catherine has long had her admirers for the bravery and courage she displayed in contesting her divorce and fighting for her daughter's rights. She became a symbolic representation of the wronged woman. I guess you could say that the similarities speak for themselves.
What confounds me
"For those who are walled up, everything is a wall . . .
even an open door."
French poet, René Char
even an open door."
French poet, René Char
Saturday, October 06, 2007
You Know Everything
Karen London died today. Karen left this place. And my life seems such a sham.
This is no pity party for me. This is not self-punishment in hopes of some redemption. It is just that when life/death stands right up to you, challenges you, deserts you, places the lump in your breast, the lump in your throat, the speeding train, the crash position on the airplane; you know. You know everything.
Every frivolous breath, every protective posture, every missed chance to speak true. You know and you can't close your eyes because it is within you now.
So all your falsehoods are laid at your feet. This is not the work I am supposed to be doing. This is not the man I love. This is not the right house for me to make art. This music on the radio, this snippet of conversation, this gossip at my feet, is fetid, rotting, unworthy.
And all that is worthy of attention, time, breath, step, and reach is that which is folded in grace.
Karen is gone but the love, of her husband, her children, her work, her friends was so true and so absolute that they will always possess it. Karen died today but nothing died, nothing passed away. Nothing at all.
This is no pity party for me. This is not self-punishment in hopes of some redemption. It is just that when life/death stands right up to you, challenges you, deserts you, places the lump in your breast, the lump in your throat, the speeding train, the crash position on the airplane; you know. You know everything.
Every frivolous breath, every protective posture, every missed chance to speak true. You know and you can't close your eyes because it is within you now.
So all your falsehoods are laid at your feet. This is not the work I am supposed to be doing. This is not the man I love. This is not the right house for me to make art. This music on the radio, this snippet of conversation, this gossip at my feet, is fetid, rotting, unworthy.
And all that is worthy of attention, time, breath, step, and reach is that which is folded in grace.
Karen is gone but the love, of her husband, her children, her work, her friends was so true and so absolute that they will always possess it. Karen died today but nothing died, nothing passed away. Nothing at all.
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