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.
