The Way to a Girl's Heart

I'm not gonna lie: this winter has been rough on a lot of levels. We've got, oh I don't know, 7000 inches of snow, and I can't get the chill out of my body. I'll be starting a countdown soon to the day when I can sweep out the front porch and begin to move all the plants back out there. I'll probably start some seedlings indoors in the middle of March--herbs, mostly, but maybe I'll grow some lettuce this year and see how it goes in containers. The thought of warm earth, of warm water and of praying mantises and robins...the smell of spring rain.

Now I can't remember what I was going to talk about. Oh. Right. Valentine's Day. Many people don't like today, usually because they have no one to give them gifts or because they have no one to sleep with. I don't like Valentine's Day because it's the day I lost my dad when I was just a child. We've always sort of tried to re-define the day in our family and try to make it fun--my Grandpop was good at that--he'd get lots of silly gifts and things, but now he's gone too. When I was in grade school and it came time to bring in valentines for my classmates, I hated everything about it because it was so fake--no one wanted to be my valentine, and I knew it. It was just so forced.

In college we used to have a ton of fun among my group of friends--giving valentines just because we liked each other. Those years were probably the happiest times for me on this day. A few more years of life with them, and maybe my personal Valentine's Day connotations would be different than tragedy and fear. It's sad; I think in a different life I'd be fond of Valentine's Day. I'm not the gushiest person, but I like these open declarations of affection--and sometimes people need a little boost, a little prodding from the calendar to make those declarations. I just wish there wasn't a national holiday that reminded me year after year of how alone I felt that night that he died.

I never really put it in those words before, but they feel true. I hope to create new meanings for this day--ways to reclaim the joy, like in those moments with my friends or from my Grandpop. But who knows, maybe all it would take is a diamond necklace.

I'm completely kidding--diamonds are so over.

Free Agent

I had a dream awhile back that I still think about: I had gotten laidoff but was told to continue to show up at my job--only no paycheck. So I'm in this delapidated building (usually buildings represent the brain, so I hear) and I'm at my desk on the top floor. I decide to go find some coffee, or whatever, anything but sit at this desk. I head downstairs and there's water everywhere--six inches deep. There are giant tortoises in a corner of one hallway. I had heard that they were "extras" in the movie some people were filming on the first floor. I found a kitchen, but there was only one tall, cracked vase. I decided this was useless, and I walked back out into the hallway as an Indiana-Jones-style rush of water was coming toward me from--where? AND there was a giant killer whale bodysurfing right along in front. It was black and white, had the face of a boxer (like a dog) and a grimace that should have been scary, but I had trouble taking it seriously. I stared for a second, mouth agape and then backed up behind a wall--the water and the whale rushed past, leaving me dry. That was it though; I had enough of this goddamn job. I ran into my made-up boss on the way back upstairs and said: I'm done. I'm going home and I'm not coming back. He looked resigned, and said, okay, just keep your phone off the hook for awhile so they'll think you're working. I think I said: whatever.

Let's pick this apart a bit, eh? Well the lay-off is obvious. I had gotten laid off in my real life. My job involved making phone calls--I loathed making these calls. You know what? I have no freaking idea what I was thinking with this dream! Other than the other obvious point: The cracked vase--and it wasn't what I wanted anyway. In life I tend to seek and not to find; furthermore, the stuff I do find is second-rate. What stuff, you ask? Well, understanding, for one. Direction, drive, ambition, love. Yeah, I just went ahead and tacked that one on there. How do you like that?! I wasn't even going to mention it because it's too big and too real and too cliche--love is a grimacing killer whale and I'm backing away. Love is the thing I couldn't find in the kitchen--in the building I wasn't even supposed to be in. I've informed the authorities that I'm conducting future searches on my own terms, and with a home-court advantage. If I see the killer whale coming again, I'll have to gather my courage and transform into a sea lion.

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.