The Cost

SEPTA's on strike. That's the public transit system 'round these parts, for those of you who are wondering. I've been getting by alright so far, but then on Friday, my car broke down. So I suppose I'm lucky I can walk. And walk, I will. I don't know what the strike is about nor does anyone know how long it will last, but the most recent talk left the problem unresolved, and our governor has decided he'll no longer be the mediator. I've been dreaming about walking down dark alleys in the early morning hours, waiting in creepy train depots, (our one option left is a train), and nearly getting mauled by guard dogs. (There are no dogs on the way there. Also I'm not afraid of dogs.) But anyway. The whole thing has taken its toll on me. I'm not wild about crowds, heat, or stress, but I've had an ample dose of all of the above since the strike started. The trains are crowded and hot--I can get panicky...and then the recovery time seems to take three times as long as the incident. I sleep as much as possible, and try to take my time, get fresh air, and hopefully sometime this week, I'll get my car back...but all this seems kind of irrelevant.
I will survive. It's the rest of the city that SEPTA's really screwing with. There are a huge amount of people who need the buses and the subway system everyday because there is no other way for them to get around--get to work, get to school, get to dialysis treatments or whatever. I just think public transportation should be a guaranty. Like the postal service. Delivering people. Someone needs to fix this--and fast.

Creation

There is debate over whether or not the film Creation will be released in this country, as it has been deemed "too controversial." I would think the folks who control these sorts of things would welcome controversy because it ususally translates into a huge financial success. But money matters aside, there is no excuse for ignorance regarding evolution. I hope it is released here. I want to see it, and I know that a movie about Darwin is likely the only way a large portion of this country will ever learn about his life's work.

Getting Somewhere

It's the middle of September. Soon there will be frost on the grass in the early morning hours (too early for me). I will have to bring in all the plants so they don't die. I will cover many of the windows with plastic so that the heat won't pour out of the house. I do this every year.

I like the cycle, but it's wearing on the psyche...with the constant death of things past and the questionable future survival of things present. Despite the weight of all that I do hope, even amidst the frost, for fresh new things to come.

From Return to the City of White Donkeys, here is another James Tate poem (also the writer of "Red Dirt") called "Being Present at More than One Place at a Time":
I took a step and looked around. No one
was looking, so I took another step. I glanced
at the ground, looked up at the sky. Everything
seemed to be in order, so I took another step,
this one almost a hop. A woman walks up to me
and says, "That was cute." "Thanks," I say,
"watch this," and I leap high into the air.
"That's overdoing things," she says. I hang
my head, ashamed of myself. I stand there for
half an hour, not moving, barely breathing.
A cop comes up and says, "You're loitering."
"I'm not loitering," I say, "I'm repositioning
myself. I"m adjusting to the currents."
"My mistake," he says. "you had the appearance
of a loiterer." "It's the fog." I said.
When he was gone, I took a step and looked
around. I could see a vast, golden city on
the horizon. No, it's only the fog, I thought,
and jumped backward, surprising myself.

Touchy, Touchy

As I plod through Richard Dawkins' The God Delusion, I find myself mostly agreeing with him. I don't like his condescending attitude nor his writing-style sometimes, but I can't really refute his stance. With that said, I am very interested in the power of the mind. I had the opportunity to go to a reiki healing session this past week. I think I was very open-minded during the session, but I was also very on edge and anxious upon arrival. I only mention this because anxiety, I think, makes me more vulnerable, fragile, and more willing to accept help. The whole experience was sort of a roller coaster of comfort, discomfort, peace, and sadness. I felt that my practitioner was confronting things--energies, I guess--as she encountered them, and then brushed them aside...moving along methodically and dispassionately (which, in general, I appreciate).

It's been said to me since then, "oh, I'm surprised you put yourself through that..seeing as how you don't like much to be touched." (This was my therapist talking) And it's true sometimes. Especially when I'm out in public or at a party or with people who don't know me very well or around people I don't really trust...I don't like to be touched. I want an ample bubble of empty space between myself and everyone, mainly strangers. But I do like touch--especially by trusted people. Even if it's a professional trust, I'm quite happy with that. I had a discussion a little while ago with this same therapist when I was pretty distraught. The question was suddenly posed to me: What would give me comfort? At the time I was at a loss for an answer--but I think I did feel comforted at the reiki session. Another person taking lots of time to sort of stand guard over me--on my behalf--sweeping dust and dirt away, calmly awaiting, expecting, my rejuvenation.

The Art of Losing

Latest impulse-buy: unfinished poems by Elizabeth Bishop (1927-1979) called Edgar Allen Poe & The Juke-Box. I enjoy unfinished works, and our editor for this collection, Alice Quinn, is painstaking in her efforts to give us the most information possible for these poems, or almost-poems. One of my favorites, which eventually came to be called One Art, went through at least 16 drafts, and Ms. Quinn prints all of them for us. In the first draft, called How to Lose Things, Bishop explains how to train oneself to lose items by starting small with pens, keys, and the like. Then she goes on to the second stanza with these verses: "You may find it hard to believe, but I have actually lost/ I mean lost, and forever, two whole houses,/ one a very big one. A third house, also big, is/ at present, I think, 'mislaid' - but/maybe it's lost, too. I won't know for sure for some time/ I have lost one peninsula and one island./ I have lost - it can never be has never been found -/ a small-sized town on that same island./ I've lost smaller bits of geography, like/ a splendid beach, and a good-sized bay./ Two whole cities, two of the/world's biggest cities (two of the most beautiful/ though that's beside the point)/ a piece of one continent -/ and one entire continent. All gone, gone forever and ever."

I like the tone--it's kind of silly and mad (think Alice in Wonderland). In later drafts Bishop writes this line to open the poem: "The art of losing isn't hard to master;" and she seems to stick with this but really strips away much of the above excerpt. By the 16th draft she's written 6 stanzas of 3 lines each. Here's what I get from it: The art of losing (things/places/people/love) isn't hard to master (we can practice so when we experience it we take it more lightly each time), and then "their loss is no disaster." I think Bishop doesn't really believe this will work, especially in matters of love, but she hopes for the ability to make her head trump her heart. This thought also appeals to me, and I'm also familiar with its futility.

Holding Ghosts

Taking deep breaths in, then out. No words seem adequately able to explain why I feel so burdened. It has something to do with life and death, and my family. What if no one remembers the people I've loved after I'm gone? What if their memories die with me? How can I shoulder the histories of my mother, her sisters, my father, his brothers, my grandparents, and their parents? What if it's all lost? Even as I try to honor them and hold it all in my arms, it slips past me--like wisps of silk, or like sand. I paw through photographs, I surround myself with stories and hopes of what they were like just in case I'm the only one willing to be the keeper, the archivist. It's as if there is no future for me, only their past. I'm being buried in it.

I know, in my head, that this is ridiculous.

Though I love the idea of my "logical" family, rather than my biological one (this is from Maupin's Tales of the City series) I find myself with a sloth-esque need to cling to what's left, or what's known, of the people that I come from. I am decended from butchers, gardeners, vintners, miners, artists, and bakers. I have blood in my veins that came from nine countries. I'm proud, anxious, jealous, witty, dignified, honest, melancholy...and I know I had to get it from somebody. Because, believe me: I could do without a few of those traits.

Champagne in a Brita Pitcher

This morning I dreamed that I went to a party with Michelle and Barack Obama. We drove there together, and I don't remember the drive that much, but we were on some dusty back roads, and it was evening. When we went inside the house, a modest and normal house, there were all the other guests as we went downstairs to the basement. The party was evidently going to be down there. I stumbled quickly down the stairs and practically crashed into our host, a woman I did not recognize. I had a heavy pitcher in my arms, and it propelled me foreward and made me feel disoriented. So I went over to the table where the food was--pretzels and veggies and so forth--with Michelle close on my heels. She had in mind to replace the water with champagne. Now I realize this has a very water-to-wine kind of implication, but seriously I don't think my head was there. I had had water in a glass earlier yesterday (for real) and I decided I wanted ginger ale instead. I drank most of the water, but for some reason I just added the ginger ale on top of the water I had left. This act struck me as odd, like why would I want watered-down ginger ale? Aaannyway, Michelle managed to swap out the drink easily enough, and we moved on to mingle. Meanwhile, Barack had taken a seat on a cushy chair against the wall. He really wanted to just rest, to not have to be "on," or to have to worry about anything presidential. He wanted, for just this night, to not have to be anything. But when I looked over, he was surrounded by fawning adorers. There was a woman kneeling next to him, barely able to contain herself, with her arms around his leg. He was all, "Please, everybody, thank you...but I really can't do this tonight."