Sunday, June 27, 2010
T-Shirt
Wednesday, June 23, 2010
Comments
Tuesday, June 22, 2010
Early Summer, With Gratitude
How many times can you say "thank you" before it starts to lose its meaning? What about "I'm sorry?" Or "I love you?"
"Stop saying I'm sorry and just change!" I've heard this from any number of people--from my mother to a supervisor to exes. I hear it most frequently with regard to my "secrecy," my almost obsessive desire for privacy. (I do see the irony in posting this on a blog, but bear with me.) I don't tell most people in my life about things that are bothering me until weeks after their resolution. There is a difference between what I post here (public life and creative writing) vs. what happens in my day-to-day interactions with people. These are things and events I've already processed. It's events and relationships that are still in motion that I shy away from discussing. It's not because I'm intentionally trying to be malicious or even that I have anything to hide. I just like to keep things to myself. My family, friends, coworkers, etc. are (understandably) put off by my coolness, my unwillingness to say much.
When I meet someone who understands this personality quirk, I am euphoric. Even better, when I meet someone who understands my love for privacy AND the fact that in a small community privacy is almost non-existent AND--if nothing else-- is willing to help me create an illusion of privacy. Suddenly the problem is no longer constantly saying "I'm sorry" and hoping the words still have some weight. Rather, it's finding ways to say "thank you" again and again.
My latest attempt at a thank you.
If you drive us down to the river
I'll watch for deer along the way.
I do not know which is sweeter--
the smell of lavender blooming in the ditches
or that no one knows where we've gone.
What I Would Have You Be
I do not know precisely when I realized that I am being inexplicably pulled toward England. I do not know why, in recent years, the thought of going there persists. I’ve not gone to England for several reasons. Money is one; school was an obstacle and now work is. A plane will be involved in my travel, and that is daunting.
But perhaps there’s another reason. The England I will encounter can in no possible way live up to the England of my imagination—the England that melds fact and fiction. I am quite certain that upon arrival I will meet talking beasts and hobbits. In this perfect world, precise gardens of hedgerows and rose bushes create charming utopias where private parties gather to gossip and while away the hours. Stately women—myself included, of course—wander the grounds in Victorian dress. Elegant men in topper and tails bring me glasses of champagne and offer me their arms for a turn around the garden. We shimmer in the beauty of an English country evening.
Time is not a limitation in this wonderland. And so it is that Elizabeth I mingles with Eliot, he charming her with love songs and quartets. Tolkien finds another world in Bloomsbury. Shakespeare and Holmes study each other warily. Lewis, Austin, and the Brontes banter most civilly about women in literature; their bone-china teacups clatter gently against saucers in the silences of a proper English stoicism. The Stones and the Who occasionally grace us with their presence with a concert on the lawn.
On a whim I’ll leave this idyllic setting and take a train to London to investigate teahouses and bookshops, boutiques and museums. Here, fog, like a cat, curls about the buildings, adding mystery and softness to the old streets. The city is overwhelmingly large and surprisingly quaint. Helen Mirren and I have a lovely chat while King Arthur passes us on horseback. Elizabeth II invites me to her castle for tea, and Jeanette Winterson autographs my books.
It is, as I’ve said, quite impossible.
One day I will go there, and although I’ll not find Narnia or Lothlorien, Austin or Holmes, I’ll find an England that is charming simply because it exists. And perhaps that’s the point of travel: we build it up so that we are reminded that places are real, that we are real.
Wednesday, June 9, 2010
Fish
benches
Well, it's been a crazy couple of weeks for this half of the blogging project. For our theme of outside, I initially wanted to write about my great-grandmother, her roses, and the last time I saw her.
I still want to write about that, but something else came up. Two weeks ago my uncle committed suicide. He parked his car, walked through Discovery Park in Seattle, sat on a bench, and shot himself. Last week I was in Seattle with family; since returning home I've talked to my mother and e-mailed my aunts, uncles, and grandparents daily. There has been a lot to process. I am turning to words frequently as I work through what has happened.
On Monday night I took a notebook to the wine bar for jazz night, sat in a corner, and wrote out a few things. The prose I attempted was flat, accusatory, and bad. Then I decided to write a poem, which, in all honesty, is probably also flat, accusatory, and bad. But, it's what I have to give this week.
I know some of you already knew about this death. Thank you for all the thoughts and prayers. We've certainly felt them surrounding us and lifting us up.
Peace,
LLM
***
I do not know
the weight of a gun,
the feel of the cool metal
against my skin.
I do not know
what it is to pull a trigger
and know that the target has been hit.
I do not know
the beauty and terror
of one's last view of this earth.
But I sat on your bench last week
and saw nothing but glory,
felt nothing but despair.