A walk. To battle the Monday-after-Vacation, gross obeseness of crud.
…There’s this walk I take, that we call “the loop.” It’s the long circle that takes you down the full length of the north-end neighborhood, and round to the point, looking down on Old Town, rising up from the sea. I usually take it when my brain is too full to negotiate actual directions and choices. It’s easy because it never wanders too far from itself and always comes back home again…like a good dog. Which is really convenient when you’re clearly too busy talking to yourself like a schizo, about all the things you didn’t get around to today, but need to, and how the associated reporting materials will be filled out, and in which order.
…Also, the ocean is good to focus on after a rough day. (If you let yourself.) It’s calming, somehow. Maybe because it’s bigger than anything that could possibly be bothering you at the time. Maybe because it’s so “in your face,” that you can’t help but get sidetracked by it.
…Sorta like how you can trick a kid outta crying if you give ‘em something new to focus on, instead of whatever it is they first wanted, or was taken away, that they can’t have now.
I totally know how that kid feels, today.
Those bastards stole my vacation goodness away…and I was pretty ticked about it.
…So clearly, after work was done, (and my car payment was made), “the loop” was in order.
…Anyway…the point I was getting at is: mid-between casa de mi, and the beginning of “the loop,” is this house:
About once a week, they print out a poem, short story or anecdote in bulk, and plop it in that little plastic holder bolted on the post and driven into the ground, just on the corner, there. I dunno what the owner’s story is…I frankly don’t think anyone does. And not too many people take the souvenirs, but I know I’m not the only one who stops to at least read ‘em.
The rule is: it can only take up one page.
…So far, that’s the only quantifying identifier in content or theme. And it has become an addictive reader board, like a fortune cookie’s guts, housing who even knows what words of wonder, day-to day. The top black flip-up cover says, “take one”…like those realtor get-ups you might use to sell a house. Only this one is used to sell you “thoughts” instead. Sometimes they’re goodish ones. Sometimes not. Sometimes I wanna write a note back, and pop it in the box, for the Word Fairies. Things like:
” I liked the one about the dog.”
…or…
” Sylvia Plath isn’t always totally depressing like I thought…“
…or…
” This one hurt my inside parts. But that’s okay sometimes. So, thanks.”
…Also, I wonder if they take requests?
” Maybe less Politics please…”
” Can you find something about sunshine for the next one? It’s been raining for six solid weeks…”
” Have you ever considered limericks? I’d suggest a good Dottie Parker…”
Regardless…its always nice to have some clean, warm air…to hear the sound of sprinklers and dog pantings and runner’s tread…and watch the sun set out over the water. Its nice to have words like these in my head, other than the chanting of “to do” lists for tomorrow, and the balancing of my checkbook. Those things can wait. But a hard-earned piece of goodness and mental rest after a long day, cannot.
…So: “Thank you, Word Fairies. Keep up the good work!”
(Here are a couple, most recent…)
***
Poem: “The Clearing,” by Gregory Djanikian
from “The Man in the Middle” (Carnegie-Mellon University Press)
**”Poetry is an act of generosity.” ~ Don Skiles**
And something will happen:
You will stand at the edge of a field
hearing the wind-skirted
leaves of the trees, and you
will try to remember
the woman you almost married,
though her life will spiral
like a hawk away from you,
and you will want her,
as deeply as you’ll want
the hawk to settle on your fist,
or the wind to empty
your eyes of grief for all
you’ve renounced to become
what you now are, but
nothing this day will claim you,
neither hawk, nor wind, nor lover,
and you’ll sense how your past
has seduced you through the years
to this field, this reckoning,
to, finally, this poem
which you will write by learning
what matters is not the words
but the unlabored
breath through which
they’re spoken and given up,
like hawks, or lovers
or this life you keep on revising.
***
Poem: “You should at times go out, ” by Elizabeth Daryush
You should at times go out
from where the faithful kneel,
visit the slums of doubt
and feel what the lost feel;
you should at times walk on,
away from your friends’ ways,
go where the scorned have gone,
pass beyond blame and praise;
and at times you should quit
(ah yes) your sunny home,
sadly awhile should sit,
even, in wrong’s dark room
or ever, suddenly
by simple bliss betrayed,
you shall be forced to flee,
unloved, alone, afraid.
***
~D
