I have been searching for poems and music since we moved into this house. We moved in and never looked back. We have boxes in the basement that we have not touched since we started parking in front of the house. The rules say that we should just get rid of them. That would include my cookbooks and many of my other books so we are not following that very tempting rule. I still don't have room for all my books upstairs.
I'm covered with dust. The basement is under reorganization due to the bathroom remodel so a few things have bubbled up including a box of poetry and a box of music. But not the poems I was looking for! I found Broumas so you'd think I'd find Bell! He's not my favorite poet, but one of his poems has a line that I never forget:
...don't let them tell you I didn't love your mother
I loved her....
But what poem, what book?
I did find all the books that tell me how to be a writer and William Carlos Williams stories. Apparently I carried a box of books directly to the book case in my room and promptly put something in front of them. Jane Miller is back. I have two copies of American Odalisque and I did find Memory at These Speeds.
The best part is that poetry is back and I'm not in pain or mourning. Poems, I missed you.
Jane Miller has a book of poems that I love by that title. Today I understand what she means. Yesterday I was triumphant about my finds from the prom years. Today when I tried to reorganize the envelops into plastic boxes for safety I felt this knot in my chest, like I was on a roller coaster at the scary high fast curve. If I can find my poetry books, I'll post another Jane Miller poem.
This might be harder than I thought. I did find a story from PennyK and a series of letters to ClearCreekGirl from her son. These artifacts are like a gold mine in a field of landmines.
Hand is moved. Sleeve is longer. Hat is
different. Bone is moved. Gloves are
missing. Dog is missing. Nozzle is moved.
Tail is shorter. Country is missing.
Air is darker. Background is closer.
Lines are fuzzy. Shapes are general-
ized. Mouth is open. Dog is hiding.
Air is shorter. Hand is longer. Hat is
missing. Tail is moved. Gloves are
different. Nozzle is open. Window is
brighter. Dress is shorter. Country is moved.
Air is darker. Sleeve also. Bone is missing.
Lines are fuzzy. Background is closer.
Shapes are open. Gloves are general-
ized. Mouth is open. Hand is hiding.
I went to a wonderful Halloween party last week. It was at the home of a dear friend and her partner--a new friend. I hadn't had my friend for many years, 15 years I'm embarrassed to say. We had a falling out over something stupid, and didn't speak for a long time. I really hurt her feelings. Of all the friends I've missed, I missed her the most. She loved me, she knew me well, she recognized my bullshit, and she called me on it some of the time. I think she let a lot of things pass because of how much she loved me.
The 80s were hard for me. I didn't know how to be on the planet. My astrologer says it was because I'm actually from another planet. I suspect it had more to do with the AIDS epidemic and what that taught me about medicine and politics, and my inexperience with having friends in general. Let's just say I was a difficult child and leave it at that.
The end of the 80s were even harder due to the deaths of several people close to me within a short period of time. They don't tell you that when those close to you die, they take part of you with them. I lost what I'd learned about "how to be on the planet," and was left with an aching gaping hole.
During the 80s and early 90s I wrote constantly. When I wasn't working as a nurse to make money, I was writing or engaged in some other humanity building activity like dancing or going to some 'cultural' event.
When my friends died I was paralyzed and in horrible pain. I no longer wrote because it was too painful. One friend was a man with AIDS who worked nightshift with me and always knew when I was writing something new. Another friend died in a climbing accident. I wrote her letters every day for 7 years. It was her contribution to my becoming a writer. The other friend was a poet who took his own life. These deaths all happened within 8 weeks.
I was silenced by the pain and I pulled away from my life thinking that this would give me some relief. [It did not.][There are no shortcuts in grief.] I packed my life away in labeled manila envelopes with dates on them.
Anyway, after spending a grand Halloween evening with my friend, and feeling like I had finally bridged the gap between the 80s and now, I started looking for my past life as a poet. I was hoping to find some material for my NaNoWriMO project. I found all kinds of amazing things, including a poem from Marvin Bell which I apparently tore out of a journal and saved. Looks like it was on my bulletin board for a while. I'm putting it on the next entry.
My partner has been helping me to find my envelopes that have been tucked away and she has been putting up with my crap in the middle of the floor! [This is a big deal because we are also remodeling.] I have not found my poetry books yet, so this is not my favorite Marvin Bell poem.
I'm a psychiatric/mental health nurse practitioner, postmodern redneck. Postmodernists say that we are not individuals, that we "perform many different subject positions." I plan to use this blog to perform them all in one place. Let's see what happens.
This is an old picture of me. It should stump my cyber-stalker.