And I am exhausted with the stress of it, with the feeling of alienation, with the decisions left to be made. I don't know what to do, I am heartbroken ahead of time, I cry at odd moments, alone, at home. I cannot force myself to accept the morality of it, even if it may be a necessary evil, even if there is no one to take him, to keep him, even if his life would be worse if I abandon him. It is still heartbreaking for me, and I am trying, I am trying to keep my pieces together, to find him a new home, to find the support I need, to be excited that I am leaving the country, moving to Boston, to be excited that my future is so up in the air. But still, part of me thinks of the commitment made, the seven years, and I am exhausted with the stress of it.
But I feel a constant need to think about it, to talk about it, as if when I make myself feel just horrible enough it will make up for the fact that I can't keep him. As if when I know, honestly, that I've tried as hard as I can, it will make it easier to put him down.
I am broken with the exhaustion, with the not knowing, with the amount that this adds up to a failure on my part, that there is nothing more that I can do, but that I'm still not doing enough.
Wednesday, April 28, 2010
Monday, March 15, 2010
poetry
Atmosphere and Door | Anne Heide
Allow me to suffer. Allow me to build my house of burned brick and
then. Allow me a pasture of Here.
Allow me the Grace once called question. Because if it is ever the
answer I’d want, I’d never.
Allow me Good News.
Allow me to suffer. Allow me to build my house of burned brick and
then. Allow me a pasture of Here.
Allow me the Grace once called question. Because if it is ever the
answer I’d want, I’d never.
Allow me Good News.
Wednesday, March 3, 2010
Hipsters? Post-post-post modern? Oh, adbusters...
https://www.adbusters.org/magazine/88/the_coming_barbarism.html
Thursday, January 28, 2010
If the stars were mine, I'd give them all to you
I realize that somehow, this is turning into an odd collection of poetry and not so much recollections of any kind. I am home again, after spending a month in Minneapolis for the break. After spending time with people I miss like heart stopping. And I know that I don't ever want to live there again. It is a hard knowledge to come to, in some ways also heart stopping. Because how do I manage friendships if I will never live in the same city. How do I maintain friendships if I will never see them with regularity again. These are not arguments that I need to be having with myself. I am content with my friends in Worcester, I like them a lot. I am content with my friends in minneapolis, and I will maintain what I can.
But really, the reason I'm posting anything at all:
Aristotle by Billy Collins
This is the beginning.
Almost anything can happen.
This is where you find
the creation of light, a fish wriggling onto land,
the first word of Paradise Lost on an empty page.
Think of an egg, the letter A,
a woman ironing on a bare stage
as the heavy curtain rises.
This is the very beginning.
The first-person narrator introduces himself,
tells us about his lineage.
The mezzo-soprano stands in the wings.
Here the climbers are studying a map
or pulling on their long woolen socks.
This is early on, years before the Ark, dawn.
The profile of an animal is being smeared
on the wall of a cave,
and you have not yet learned to crawl.
This is the opening, the gambit,
a pawn moving forward an inch.
This is your first night with her,
your first night without her.
This is the first part
where the wheels begin to turn,
where the elevator begins its ascent,
before the doors lurch apart.
This is the middle.
Things have had time to get complicated,
messy, really. Nothing is simple anymore.
Cities have sprouted up along the rivers
teeming with people at cross-purposes—
a million schemes, a million wild looks.
Disappointment unshoulders his knapsack
here and pitches his ragged tent.
This is the sticky part where the plot congeals,
where the action suddenly reverses
or swerves off in an outrageous direction.
Here the narrator devotes a long paragraph
to why Miriam does not want Edward's child.
Someone hides a letter under a pillow.
Here the aria rises to a pitch,
a song of betrayal, salted with revenge.
And the climbing party is stuck on a ledge
halfway up the mountain.
This is the bridge, the painful modulation.
This is the thick of things.
So much is crowded into the middle—
the guitars of Spain, piles of ripe avocados,
Russian uniforms, noisy parties,
lakeside kisses, arguments heard through a wall—
too much to name, too much to think about.
And this is the end,
the car running out of road,
the river losing its name in an ocean,
the long nose of the photographed horse
touching the white electronic line.
This is the colophon, the last elephant in the parade,
the empty wheelchair,
and pigeons floating down in the evening.
Here the stage is littered with bodies,
the narrator leads the characters to their cells,
and the climbers are in their graves.
It is me hitting the period
and you closing the book.
It is Sylvia Plath in the kitchen
and St. Clement with an anchor around his neck.
This is the final bit
thinning away to nothing.
This is the end, according to Aristotle,
what we have all been waiting for,
what everything comes down to,
the destination we cannot help imagining,
a streak of light in the sky,
a hat on a peg, and outside the cabin, falling leaves.
But really, the reason I'm posting anything at all:
Aristotle by Billy Collins
This is the beginning.
Almost anything can happen.
This is where you find
the creation of light, a fish wriggling onto land,
the first word of Paradise Lost on an empty page.
Think of an egg, the letter A,
a woman ironing on a bare stage
as the heavy curtain rises.
This is the very beginning.
The first-person narrator introduces himself,
tells us about his lineage.
The mezzo-soprano stands in the wings.
Here the climbers are studying a map
or pulling on their long woolen socks.
This is early on, years before the Ark, dawn.
The profile of an animal is being smeared
on the wall of a cave,
and you have not yet learned to crawl.
This is the opening, the gambit,
a pawn moving forward an inch.
This is your first night with her,
your first night without her.
This is the first part
where the wheels begin to turn,
where the elevator begins its ascent,
before the doors lurch apart.
This is the middle.
Things have had time to get complicated,
messy, really. Nothing is simple anymore.
Cities have sprouted up along the rivers
teeming with people at cross-purposes—
a million schemes, a million wild looks.
Disappointment unshoulders his knapsack
here and pitches his ragged tent.
This is the sticky part where the plot congeals,
where the action suddenly reverses
or swerves off in an outrageous direction.
Here the narrator devotes a long paragraph
to why Miriam does not want Edward's child.
Someone hides a letter under a pillow.
Here the aria rises to a pitch,
a song of betrayal, salted with revenge.
And the climbing party is stuck on a ledge
halfway up the mountain.
This is the bridge, the painful modulation.
This is the thick of things.
So much is crowded into the middle—
the guitars of Spain, piles of ripe avocados,
Russian uniforms, noisy parties,
lakeside kisses, arguments heard through a wall—
too much to name, too much to think about.
And this is the end,
the car running out of road,
the river losing its name in an ocean,
the long nose of the photographed horse
touching the white electronic line.
This is the colophon, the last elephant in the parade,
the empty wheelchair,
and pigeons floating down in the evening.
Here the stage is littered with bodies,
the narrator leads the characters to their cells,
and the climbers are in their graves.
It is me hitting the period
and you closing the book.
It is Sylvia Plath in the kitchen
and St. Clement with an anchor around his neck.
This is the final bit
thinning away to nothing.
This is the end, according to Aristotle,
what we have all been waiting for,
what everything comes down to,
the destination we cannot help imagining,
a streak of light in the sky,
a hat on a peg, and outside the cabin, falling leaves.
Thursday, December 10, 2009
Really, they're twins...
SLOW DANCE
More than putting another man on the moon,
more than a New Year’s resolution of yogurt and yoga,
we need the opportunity to dance
with really exquisite strangers. A slow dance
between the couch and dinning room table, at the end
of the party, while the person we love has gone
to bring the car around
because it’s begun to rain and would break their heart
if any part of us got wet. A slow dance
to bring the evening home, to knock it out of the park. Two people
rocking back and forth like a buoy. Nothing extravagant.
A little music. An empty bottle of whiskey.
It’s a little like cheating. Your head resting
on his shoulder, your breath moving up his neck.
Your hands along her spine. Her hips
unfolding like a cotton napkin
and you begin to think about how all the stars in the sky
are dead. The my body
is talking to your body slow dance. The Unchained Melody,
Stairway to Heaven, power-cord slow dance. All my life
I’ve made mistakes. Small
and cruel. I made my plans.
I never arrived. I ate my food. I drank my wine.
The slow dance doesn’t care. It’s all kindness like children
before they turn four. Like being held in the arms
of my brother. The slow dance of siblings.
Two men in the middle of the room. When I dance with him,
one of my great loves, he is absolutely human,
and when he turns to dip me
or I step on his foot because we are both leading,
I know that one of us will die first and the other will suffer.
The slow dance of what’s to come
and the slow dance of insomnia
pouring across the floor like bath water.
When the woman I’m sleeping with
stands naked in the bathroom
,
brushing her teeth, the slow dance of ritual is being spit
into the sink. There is no one to save us
because there is no need to be saved.
I’ve hurt you. I’ve loved you. I’ve mowed
the front yard. When the stranger wearing a shear white dress
covered in a million beads
comes toward me like an over-sexed chandelier suddenly come to life,
I take her hand in mine. I spin her out
and bring her in. This is the almond grove
in the dark slow dance.
It is what we should be doing right now. Scrapping
for joy. The haiku and honey. The orange and orangutang slow dance.
Matthew Dickman
and
Seeing Whales
by Michael Dickman
You can go blind, waiting
Unbelievable quiet
except for their
soundings
Moving the sea around
Unbelievable quiet inside you, as they change
the face of water
The only other time I felt this still was watching Leif shoot up when we were
twelve
Sunlight all over his face
breaking
the surface of something
I couldn’t see
You can wait your
whole life
_____
The Himalayas are on the move, appearing and disappearing in the snow in
the Himalayas
Mahler
begins to fill
the half-dead auditorium
giant step by
giant step
The Colorado
The Snake
The Salmon
My grandfather walks across the front porch
spotted with cancer, smoking
a black cigar
The whales fold themselves back and back inside the long hallways of salt
You have to stare back at the salt
the sliding mirrors
all day
just to see something
maybe
for the last time
_____
By now they are asleep
some are asleep
on the bottom of the world
sucking the world in
and blowing it out
in wave-
lengths
Radiant ghosts
Leif laid his head back on a pillow and waited for all the blood inside him
to flush down a hole
After seeing whales what do you see?
The hills behind the freeway
power lines
green, green
grass
the green sea
More than putting another man on the moon,
more than a New Year’s resolution of yogurt and yoga,
we need the opportunity to dance
with really exquisite strangers. A slow dance
between the couch and dinning room table, at the end
of the party, while the person we love has gone
to bring the car around
because it’s begun to rain and would break their heart
if any part of us got wet. A slow dance
to bring the evening home, to knock it out of the park. Two people
rocking back and forth like a buoy. Nothing extravagant.
A little music. An empty bottle of whiskey.
It’s a little like cheating. Your head resting
on his shoulder, your breath moving up his neck.
Your hands along her spine. Her hips
unfolding like a cotton napkin
and you begin to think about how all the stars in the sky
are dead. The my body
is talking to your body slow dance. The Unchained Melody,
Stairway to Heaven, power-cord slow dance. All my life
I’ve made mistakes. Small
and cruel. I made my plans.
I never arrived. I ate my food. I drank my wine.
The slow dance doesn’t care. It’s all kindness like children
before they turn four. Like being held in the arms
of my brother. The slow dance of siblings.
Two men in the middle of the room. When I dance with him,
one of my great loves, he is absolutely human,
and when he turns to dip me
or I step on his foot because we are both leading,
I know that one of us will die first and the other will suffer.
The slow dance of what’s to come
and the slow dance of insomnia
pouring across the floor like bath water.
When the woman I’m sleeping with
stands naked in the bathroom
,
brushing her teeth, the slow dance of ritual is being spit
into the sink. There is no one to save us
because there is no need to be saved.
I’ve hurt you. I’ve loved you. I’ve mowed
the front yard. When the stranger wearing a shear white dress
covered in a million beads
comes toward me like an over-sexed chandelier suddenly come to life,
I take her hand in mine. I spin her out
and bring her in. This is the almond grove
in the dark slow dance.
It is what we should be doing right now. Scrapping
for joy. The haiku and honey. The orange and orangutang slow dance.
Matthew Dickman
and
Seeing Whales
by Michael Dickman
You can go blind, waiting
Unbelievable quiet
except for their
soundings
Moving the sea around
Unbelievable quiet inside you, as they change
the face of water
The only other time I felt this still was watching Leif shoot up when we were
twelve
Sunlight all over his face
breaking
the surface of something
I couldn’t see
You can wait your
whole life
_____
The Himalayas are on the move, appearing and disappearing in the snow in
the Himalayas
Mahler
begins to fill
the half-dead auditorium
giant step by
giant step
The Colorado
The Snake
The Salmon
My grandfather walks across the front porch
spotted with cancer, smoking
a black cigar
The whales fold themselves back and back inside the long hallways of salt
You have to stare back at the salt
the sliding mirrors
all day
just to see something
maybe
for the last time
_____
By now they are asleep
some are asleep
on the bottom of the world
sucking the world in
and blowing it out
in wave-
lengths
Radiant ghosts
Leif laid his head back on a pillow and waited for all the blood inside him
to flush down a hole
After seeing whales what do you see?
The hills behind the freeway
power lines
green, green
grass
the green sea
anything worth doing is worth doing badly
Failing and Flying
by Jack Gilbert
Everyone forgets that Icarus also flew.
It's the same when love comes to an end,
or the marriage fails and people say
they knew it was a mistake, that everybody
said it would never work. That she was
old enough to know better. But anything
worth doing is worth doing badly.
Like being there by that summer ocean
on the other side of the island while
love was fading out of her, the stars
burning so extravagantly those nights that
anyone could tell you they would never last.
Every morning she was asleep in my bed
like a visitation, the gentleness in her
like antelope standing in the dawn mist.
Each afternoon I watched her coming back
through the hot stony field after swimming,
the sea light behind her and the huge sky
on the other side of that. Listened to her
while we ate lunch. How can they say
the marriage failed? Like the people who
came back from Provence (when it was Provence)
and said it was pretty but the food was greasy.
I believe Icarus was not failing as he fell,
but just coming to the end of his triumph.
by Jack Gilbert
Everyone forgets that Icarus also flew.
It's the same when love comes to an end,
or the marriage fails and people say
they knew it was a mistake, that everybody
said it would never work. That she was
old enough to know better. But anything
worth doing is worth doing badly.
Like being there by that summer ocean
on the other side of the island while
love was fading out of her, the stars
burning so extravagantly those nights that
anyone could tell you they would never last.
Every morning she was asleep in my bed
like a visitation, the gentleness in her
like antelope standing in the dawn mist.
Each afternoon I watched her coming back
through the hot stony field after swimming,
the sea light behind her and the huge sky
on the other side of that. Listened to her
while we ate lunch. How can they say
the marriage failed? Like the people who
came back from Provence (when it was Provence)
and said it was pretty but the food was greasy.
I believe Icarus was not failing as he fell,
but just coming to the end of his triumph.
Thursday, November 26, 2009
Exactly where we're from
I suppose thanksgiving, on top of being about eating crazy amounts of food, is about being thankful. Here are some things I am thankful for.
Family
Friends
my home
exploring
travel
the Camino
my cat (some days)
learning new things
curiosity
climbing and building and roaming
bicycles
music
sunshine
rain
laugher
I am thankful for the fact that I have friends covering the world that would put me up at a moments notice, that let me call them, email them, chat with them, that mostly always respond (sometimes promptly) that give me reasons to write and laugh and decompress. For the fact that I am lucky enough to have a family that allows me all the same things, that I am always happy to see, that call and listen and allow me to complain when it is necessary.
I am thankful that I have all that I do, that I have a warm, comfortable apartment (regardless of its location) that I have food and music and the luxury of time and money to explore.
I am thankful. And occasionally filled with contentment and patience. I am occasionally filled with joy. And once in awhile recounting those things is probably good for me.
Family
Friends
my home
exploring
travel
the Camino
my cat (some days)
learning new things
curiosity
climbing and building and roaming
bicycles
music
sunshine
rain
laugher
I am thankful for the fact that I have friends covering the world that would put me up at a moments notice, that let me call them, email them, chat with them, that mostly always respond (sometimes promptly) that give me reasons to write and laugh and decompress. For the fact that I am lucky enough to have a family that allows me all the same things, that I am always happy to see, that call and listen and allow me to complain when it is necessary.
I am thankful that I have all that I do, that I have a warm, comfortable apartment (regardless of its location) that I have food and music and the luxury of time and money to explore.
I am thankful. And occasionally filled with contentment and patience. I am occasionally filled with joy. And once in awhile recounting those things is probably good for me.
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