the way I work

 

Dear Fellow Workers,

The title here, 'the way I work,' is a bit of a joke; I don't really work in the normal sense.  I just sort of drift, or bop around, from one project or notion to another.  This is not said as an explanation, or excuse.  Anyway, when I go to write a poem, I don't sit around a desk expecting, waiting for it to show up.  It's more like leaving a door open and hoping a wayward bird flies in.  I am always muttering to myself in my own mind: your people may call it 'thinking.'  And sometimes, all this muttering forms some phrases and lines that seems worth jotting down-  and so they are all over the place, in journals, on scrap paper, on receipts.  They lie around like that for months, or even years before I have some reason to take a look at them and shape them up a bit.  I mentioned a week or so ago that I had sifted through them looking for some to submit to a call for poetry, and I found several I thought you might like.  This is another of them.

The writer of 

There isn’t any time left, of course, but I will
write a song for you and you won’t even
know what it means, and it will hit you
like a ton of bricks, and I will say very
little about it for the rest of my life.  
 
It will feel like a one-room apartment with 
hazy late sun coming in.  It will sound like
dust motes on the air.  It will be a dainty
woman singing loud, and a tough guy
weeping his sad ballad. 
 
It will let the light through, and keep out
the lies and mosquitos.  It will stack up like
bowls in a cupboard.  It won’t leave you alone. 
It will stain you and your whole life, and all
through it, under every overpass,
along every fence line,
at all the stoplights,
you will think of me,
because of the song that I have not yet become the writer of.

 

poetry corner

 

Dear Reader,

I am sending some poems in, for approval or reproval, rejection or exception.  No, that is not one of the poems I sent in.  And this one following isn't either.  They wanted a poem for everyone, you know, a soft, pillowy, kind poem that doesn't let you feel time or sadness.  I like that kind too, and so I gave them some of my shortest, comfiest things.  Although, what do we mean by 'kind'?

This poem I am giving you is not kind, but it could be soft enough to crash into at speed, and it might not even need this title, borrowed from a C. S. Lewis book.  

Till We Have Faces

I once knew a woman who changed her name to Iris.  She once had a huge black dog, large enough that she could have ridden him.  He had the name of a Greek god.

I once knew a woman that the building was killing.  It made an air that depleted her vitality.  She would try not to enter the building; she would send in others, to be damaged unwittingly, one supposes.

I once knew a woman who said “read this book- it is for us.”  I met her again, much later, at another party, and she had a handbag with a telephone handset on it.  You could speak into her bag.

I once knew a woman who dug into her ancestry.  She made large cardboard tombstones for them.  

I once knew a woman whose father was a diplomat.  He built a motorhome out of teak and marble and drove it all over India.

I once knew a woman who played piano with real joy.  She wasn’t anyone you would know.   It was just her and her piano, pleasuring each other.  She came from a time when a lot of people knew how to play a piano.

I once knew a woman who warned me to never yield my position on the sidewalk; stand your ground, she said.

I knew four men:  they had the head of a rhino, a horse, a bear, an eagle.  They had all this confidence that I wanted for myself.  To steal it, of course, if necessary.  They would give it to you, but it wasn’t the real thing, they gave you confidence, they praised you, but only as much as it wasn’t taking anything from them.  They couldn’t really give confidence, they could loan it, like a plastic container with leftovers in it.  I thought they couldn’t give it because of greed, but a poet I know said they didn’t actually have confidence; that I was mistaken.  He said these four men had the same doubts as I did, as he did.  I wonder about that.

rhododendron

 

Dear Garden,

Today I have two songs for you, with the title of rhododendron.  One, two.

 

surf guitar

 

Dear Listener,

I have a nice version here, a kind of surfed up, rockabilly Lust for Life.  It think it is just grand; I hope you do, too.  It's your song for the day!

Well, will ya look at that!?

 

Debbie Harry

Dear Whom it May Concern,

Every once in a little while, upon a time, so to speak, I get so ebullient, so touched by something I read that I cannot bear not to share it; and so I get a little pile of the book* to give to friends, or I email everyone with the essay.  Well, once upon one of these times, I was filled with love and admiration for Helen DeWitt.  Well, no, that isn't quite right, because I am still filled with love and admiration for Helen DeWitt.  I think she is a great, great mind.  I feel my cells changing when I read her books.  I adore her, and when I went to share a thing she'd wrote, on cloud nine with my affection, I said that it wasn't just that I loved her, it was that I wanted to inhabit her, to be her.  One of my friends said:  You cannot be her; she has blonde hair and she smokes!  A pause while we consider.

I still wonder at what that means, that rebuttal.  There is, I think, an irony, in that being blonde and smoking is actually available to anyone with, hmm, say 20 bucks and a few hours?  So, those are not the things preventing me from being Helen DeWitt.  The obvious reason, is that someone is already being Helen DeW.  Namely, Helen DeW.  And all of this is crazy self-evident, so what am I saying to you today, exactly?  I am saying:  what are we doing if we are not trying to be like the humans we admire?  Where else can you go for the teachings?  (And yeah, I will give you cats as role models, as mentors, as idols, and in fact you can take the whole of the fauna, and the flora too, and take geo physical while you are at it, but it seems to me to make a lot of sense to emulate those we admire, in any and every way.  And you know, sure, you can model yourself on the cosmos, too; it seems a good design).

You might wonder, though, what has become of my topic: the impulse to share things I love.  Well, it takes an occasional beating from clumsy responders, but even now, I have three very fine poetry books stacked up and ready to give to what I hope will be a receptive and open heart, and I am so excited about it!  And, if they land poorly, that is fine too, because a book lives a long life** and many other readers will come upon these three specific copies and maybe one of those readers will want to be Sandra Cisneros, Ada Limón, Olivia Gatwood.  They won't even need bleach.

* e.g:  Faux Pas, Pilgrim at Tinker Creek, The Hare with the Amber Eyes, Cold Comfort Farm, Cary Grant's Suit. 

** the used copy of Wuthering Heights I read was 76 years old.  I read a copy of The Hunchback of Notre Dame from the library that was 100 years old!  It worked just as good as new.

today

 

Dear May Day,

I expect you are at home, observing the national strike.  As your day unfolds, in solidarity and resistance, you might listen to this wonderful song, your song for the day.  My DJ played it a few weeks back and I was smitten.  You might be smitten, too, but wait until tomorrow to buy it!

because, because, because

 

Prop food from Wallace and Gromit animated film A Matter of Loaf and Death.

Dear Reason,

Because of Covid 19, I had to get a cell phone, and because I had a cell phone, I had to get on social media (did I have to, though?), and because of that, because I am now giving entirely too much of my screen time to the tiny, absurd, glassy, smudgy finger-printed cell phone surface (when I could be at the Drive In watching 30 foot high heads in close ups with 8 foot wide lips!!!), I have seen some mighty fine recipes.  One of them is this one, from Poppy Cooks.  She calls it the Ultimate Girl Dinner.

A little day music.

 

teardrops & sighs dress

Dear Listener,

A while ago I sent you the Faye Webster song "But Not Kiss" and today I am giving you a nudge to the longer Tiny Desk Concert from Faye Webster, because it is very fine!

pan-fried

 

Still Life with Frying Pan and Eggs, screenprint, William Scott

Dear Dinnertime,

This is really good- I think you should try it.  I added an egg and breadcrumbs, cause that's what I thought it needed after the first time I made.  I put in a lot of minced chives.  I also left out the salt and ground in an obscene amount of black pepper.  I think you should think of it as a concept, and not a recipe.  Mix some stuff up, make little mounds on the pan, cover them with won ton or dumpling wrappers and then pour on the water/cornstarch/flour mix.  Oh, and cornflour is the British word for cornstarch, so don't let that stop you from making these!  Eat it with sliced cucumbers with vinegar sprinkled on them, and maybe some sesame seeds.  

sandwich cookie

 

A cookie crochet pattern on Etsy.

Dear What to Do?,

How about we make these TKO cookies?  I had one, in September of last year- on a side quest kind of a pilgrimage to Bouchon.  I have to tell you, confess to you, that I have a Marxist & Feminist dislike for the Men of Food.  I kind of hate Celebrity Chefs and their expensive luxury goods, books, beaneries, dining rooms, joints, and all that hoopla.  I know you have made things just as good if not better, dear friend, and so have I; and I know that you are barely going to be thanked, let alone be paid for, let alone monetize making food for the people you love on a corporate level.  (Now you are asking, are we getting a recipe?  Or an embittered rant?  How about both!?)  What I am saying is, I love you for making your kids a peanut butter sandwich, a quesadilla, a pita with tuna fish.  I love you for making ordinary food that people live on everyday, and I hate that we all 'celebrate' by paying someone else to cook for us; that we rave about and idolize the cooking of the Named Ones and we don't even remember to say thanks to our mothers for the thousands of meals that kept us alive for years.

So, that is what I hate, and what I love is making things.  I bought one of these at Bouchon, and it was really very good.  The cookie is like the now extinct chocolate wafer cookies we once bought to make nifty cheesecake crusts and icebox cakes.  So, how about we make these Posh Celebrity Chef Oreos and see what we think?  Will they be good?  I am not sure, because I haven't made them yet either!

PS  Maybe you don't want a cookie, maybe you want a keychain?

Addendum:  I made a half recipe:  if you'd like half as many, try this recipe instead, or make your own adjustments. 

fronds & wands

 

guimauve wands

Dear Reader,

I am back at my Job, and it crowds my letters to you right out.  I'll be done this week, though, and then it is back to the regular demons:  Ennui, Apathy, and Insecurity.  They will keep me from writing too, as often as they can, and so will the dread and dire condition the world is in.  Am I promising you more?  If it sounds like maybe, you got it in one!

I have things for you, though, and so let's get on with the dispersal!

Fennel fronds.  This is delicious, you should try it tonight!  If you like it, you should check out other wonderful things that Coco Larkin Cooks.  I have made a brussels sprouts recipe, a pasta recipe, an egg dish, stuffed cabbage:  All of them worthy.

Here is Arooj Aftab, once, twice, three times.  

You can go here, too, if you like.  These are really good, but only if you like gummy, chewy, marshmallowing sugarstuffs.  What I mean, is that these are candies to appeal to your inner child, and you may have so much outer adult that you will taste only toothache and longing.

PS  The French people, whom you might think of as sophisticated and refined in their outer adulthood, ils adorant les guimauves.  History and a recipe, right here.  

happy bunny day

 

vistas, surfaces, elements

 

(Preceding seven photographs from The Beatrice Wood Center for the Arts)

that's imposs

 

Dear Distance,

I had forgotten how much I love this song, your song for today.  The Wodehousian 'imposs,' the touch on the clutch, the alienation of proximity, the climaxing anguish.  The bouncy bop juxtaposed against the abject loss.  It is a great song and you can take your arguments elsewhere, boys.  

Didn't you, don't you, feel that way so much?  Even when they are right there, in the next room, the next town?  Even when they are where you are?

sit with the ick

 

Sparer Chairs, David Hockney, 2014. 

Dear Setting,

I thought, when I heard that we were supposed to just sit with our feelings, our bad, icky feelings, that I was already kind of doing that- I feel all kinds of bad feelings, most of most days; but I see now that there is another way to interpret that sentence.  The emphasis is on the 'sit' - resisting the impulse, the compulsion to 'do something.'  This is quite another, much more difficult thing to do.

Just last night, at dinner with a friend: the waitstaff member came over and said the usual kind of things to establish our contact, our social contract for the duration.  They said: I am (insert name), and I will be taking care of you/your server for tonight.  This is a very familiar exchange; we know what is expected of us, and we comply by responding at the appropriate times in the appropriate manner.  But there is also a lot of choice in this exchange.  Was I going to be point person?  Speaking first, was I going to defer always to my companion?  Was I going to say nothing and let my companion always speak first?

The four way intersection with stop signs works because we know the rule: first at the stop bar or to the right goes first.  It cause me a fair amount of anxiety, these intersections, because when they are crowded, or have two lanes in any one direction, I lose track of who arrived where and it what order.  It's a great feeling of relief to transact the four way stop all on your lone, without any other cars at all.  The back and forth of conversation between people that do not know each other is similar- it works because we know we need to 'respond' at certain times.  

Okay, now imagine yourself in one of these Groundhog Day type convos you seem to always be in with a family member:  They say "you know what I hate?" and you feel a flush of 'ick,' because you feel you should intervene in this person's (possibly) uncomfortable feelings of hate, you should help them to feel un-hate by pointing out what a nice day we are having or something like that.  Well, instead of rushing in with the weather, you let it sit there, the statement of hate, and you also sitting, in your feeling of ick.  It's an incredibly bold move, I know.  It's downright subversive, and the feeling of ick is uncommonly powerful and you know if you just said some small thing about the weather and condoned this hate by your complicity, by your responding, that the ick would dissipate some; I mean, how can you just stand there while people say a thing they want a response to?  It's hard, like not even lifting your racket when the ball comes over the net at you; hard like standing there in a game of chicken, trying not to flinch.  Because it is pretty automatic, for me, anyway, to step right up and respond to any and everything.

And, you think?  So?  Well, let's take this non-responding and sitting in the ick slowly, let's just try it, try it somewhere with low stakes, someplace outside of the family.  Maybe when you are ordering food at a restaurant.  Maybe when the waitstaff comes over and needs your answer, you withhold the smiling pleasantries and just state that 'tap water is what you will have to drink.'  It does feel icky, oddly, to me, the pared down facts version of what I will have to drink, because I am not re-assuring and kowtowing.  And that is how I am trying to learn to sit with the ick.

  

PS  There is a song for you, today, for this sitting.

re-make

 

(On a related note, check out the ceramic cat mewseum)

Dear Remorseless,

Today, I am ripping out all of it and re-making my whole life- the past part, of course- the future part is impossible to contain.

Here is where I am starting:  my job will now have been UPS driver.  I have been at it for 27 years, and I love it, because I know all the people I deliver to, and they are always happy to see me.  It isn't a great job, pay-wise, but it's steady work, and it leaves me plenty of time to write in the evenings and play music in my all-girl band.

I also only have punky and net clothing now.  And boots.  Most of it is black, or pink.  My favorite thing to wear is a big crinoline with a men's dress shirt and noisy, clunky, buckled boots.  The shirt is done up partly with safety pins- big gold ones that I got in a junk shop.  I have 12 pairs of fishnet stockings, and I never hesitate to wear the torn ones, with odd shaped holes in the ankles.

I have read all of Truman Capote's books, plays, letters and screenplays, and of course, also, the entirety of Colette.  I only have shelving everywhere.  And ceramic cat figurines.  I have 27 thousand books, and thirteen hundred vinyl records.  There is a sofa, and some chairs.  There is nothing, nothing in the kitchen at all except a moka pot.  All the kitchen cabinetry is filled with books.  I often wish I had time to learn to cook.  I play mah jongg for money and I always win.  I give my winnings to the animal shelter.

I got a law degree, when I was younger, because I didn't like people thinking I wasn't smart enough, but now I know this is just how they make you feel when you are female.  I chose law not because I had an interest in it; only because I thought I could buy your respect by going to school for so many years.  It was a folly, yes; but there is no youth without folly.  Having that degree and doing nothing with it was, after all, the whole point.

A few other details of my re-made past; when you said you thought I was in danger of wasting my life, I threw my drink at you, glass and all.  When you cajoled me into having dinner with you, I packed up all my stuff and moved two days later, and I left no forwarding address.  When you told me I should just ignore it and get on with my life, I slashed your tires and stopped answering your calls.  When you told me it sounded like a mental problem, I burned all your letters and joined a writer's group.  I also never spoke to your thoughtless ass again, because why would I?  That time you made fun of the shirt I liked, the shirt with all the dancing people on it?  That was the day I vowed I would never listen to anyone's advice unless I asked them for it.  It has saved me a lot of consternation, and if I hadn't stopped talking to you after that, I would have thanked you for the lesson.

PS  Here is your song for today.

more flowers

 

budding

 

More on love.

 

Dear End of the Month of Love and Chocolate,

Here is a song for you- if you watch it, keep your eyes out for Nile Rodgers' beautifully transparent guitar.

welcome back, little flowers