Lemonade

I suppose I won't make my deadline. I had sort of loosely planned to post every Tuesday...but here we are with one minute left. And while I'm breaking rules, albeit my own, I may as well say what's on my mind: things kind of suck right now. I've had quite a few curveballs thrown at me in the last year or so. I won't go into specifics. I often console myself with the thought: ItCouldBeWorse, or WhenLifeGivesLemonsMakeLemonade, or (and this one is the worst) WhenGodClosesADoorHeOpensAWindow. OK, in truth, only the first thought offers me consolation. The second just makes me feel like a failure, and the third--alright, you got me: I don't think of that one at all. I used to get pissed when God would close a door because, goddammit, I didn't want to squeeze through some second-rate-dregs-He-calls-windows. But for the last couple years I haven't even given God credit for any doors or windows or any other way to get for outside to inside, or whatever. I'm tired of analyzing why things happen.

I really try to keep a Big Picture kind of perspective, like when I look back on this moment in my life, I'll think it turned out ok. Things aren't REALLY that bad; I have all the basic necessities, and I'm healthy and alive--and I love life. It's good: the plants, the food, the friends...so what's the problem?

I try to appreciate the good stuff and just focus on that, I try to walk that fine line of working toward a goal and still living here and now, and I try with every fibre of me to hold at bay the worried whispers--the anxious what-ifs--but it's not enough. I always want to be impervious to the worry and the anxiety. Here's the truth: I live in it like it's a part of me, like the "red dirt" from Mr Tate's spooky poem. The what-if's have seeped in, uninvited, and I have learned to tolerate them and listen to them. I prepare for their coming to fruition, so I won't be surprised.

Why "Red Dirt"?

I know what you're thinking. Claudie? Blogging? I guess I never started because I tend to be such an inconsistent journaler...and there's such a glut of stupid ramblings on the web, I just wanted to stay out of it. I don't want my friends to feel bad for not reading it, and I don't want to feel weird for posting too-much-info-type-of-stuff. But I've got some time these days, so what the hell. Awhile ago my sister, Steph, and I wanted to start a Journalers' Society--and we laughed for hours (ok, maybe 15 minutes) about what acronym we could use to define ourselves. We never started it. But I haven't forgotten.

So on to the obligatory explanation for my blog title. It is an homage to a poet, James Tate. I'm very interested in some of his work, and "Red Dirt" is the title of one of his poems (here's where I attempt to improve my pathetic 40 wpm typing speed):

Red Dirt

An archaeological team from a nearby university
asked my permission to dig in my backyard, and I said
no. They promised to restore my lawn to its current
state when finished, and I said no. They said the
university hadn't the money to offer me recompense, but
they personally were willing to offer me five thousand
dollars for my trouble, and I said no. I didn't hear from
them after that. They never told me why my backyard held
such interest for them. And I didn't think to ask. I could
think about nothing else for months to come. Was there an
old Mayan city down there, or Incan, Etruscan, Viking?
It could be anything. I was sitting right on it. Some
nights it as almost too much to bear. I could hear the
screams of the sacrifices. I could see the jaguar god
stoically watching on his throne of gold. How was I supposed
to sleep? I couldn't tell anybody, and I couldn't call the
police. I didn't even want people coming to the house for
fear of the harm that might come to them. My friends thought
I had taken ill, and sent me baskets of fruit. And, I suppose,
I was sick in a way. I had lost my appetite, and had grown
weak. The endless beheadings and mutilations had made me
numb. I had become a servant to the jaguar god, one of
thousands, of course, but I did get to come close enough
to him to see the serene beauty of his eyes. How could I
have ever doubted his cause. At night, I slept with the
other servants in an immense dormitory. We were as peaceful
as seraphim. When the winds blow, fine, red dirt sneaks in
and covers the floor. I dream we are being buried in it,
each day a little more. We go about our many duties, but
the dirt is inching up on us. In its way, it is beautiful,
the waves it makes, like the whistling of time. No one
mentions it. It's best this way. A peasant girl smiled
at me; then, she was gone.

(James Tate, from return to the city of white donkeys)


weird, right? Do you like it? Does it make you feel anything? History, sand, wind, vast spaces, a sense of being a small part of a larger thing, a loss of self. The immense dormitory reminds me of things I've seen in dreams, as I often conjure large, dusty, endless buildings and rooms. This poem affects me with its imagery, and I haven't finished thinking about it. I plan to write a bit about those dreams, and just the dirt of my life: the dusty, timeless red dirt, and the rich loam of the here and now.