Pick your poet, find your line. My friends have been pointing me to resources lately, some well-known, others obscure. As my eyes drift over these recommended pages, seeking comfort, the words start to blur and my mind races away on its own trajectory. At these moments, other poets enter the room. Tonight, driving through this warm, windy city, with a loud street fair dominating my neighborhood, it was Mr. Bob Zimmerman:
"Seen a shootin' star tonight,
And I thought of you.
You're tryin' to break into another world,
A world I never knew."
And, later:
"Guess it's too late to say the things to you,
You needed me to say,
Seen a shootin' star tonight,
Slip away."
I used to like to compare the journey my friend and I undertook late in 2004 with the movie based on Oliver Sacks' book, "Awakenings." It was as if we both had been asleep for a long time, when we met each other, awoke, and joined the world -- for a while.
Today, I ran into a friend who knew us both when we met, and she called my friend a "butterfly."
Whether she is a shooting star slipping away, or a butterfly fluttering away, what is not happening to her is a reversal to her state two years ago. She is not asleep, but very much engaged, trying to help people who need her help badly.
That's who I need to become again, too. One engaged in the world, not withdrawing from it.
Saturday, May 27, 2006
Friday, May 26, 2006
Nostalgia
Part of missing somebody intensely, for me, is the pain of not being able to see her little gestures any longer. That little shake of the head, eyebrow raised, as a comment on something she finds absurd. The grace of her fingers, long and slender, as she plays the banjo. The way she sits cross-legged on a bed, the way she wrapped her hand around mine as we walked the streets, the little snores that come from her in the night. The way she cuts her food; or how she chooses clothes in the shops along Eighth Street. And, her interest in what I choose for her there.
(Our next reunion, should it occur, may well be in New York.)
The way she emitted the softest of "yea's" when she got her new car. The smile and the inevitable "yum" when she spied candy or ice cream I'd brought her. The way she gets excited by going out to the movies, and how she shakes her head wildly while dancing. The way she says "night, night" when signing off a phone call late in the evening. The way she told me goodnight in email (a rarity) from Biloxi on January 9th: "Goodnight, sweet man. I love you..."
I am sorry to say I even like the way she smokes -- a nasty habit -- and one I tried to convince my father stop after the Surgeon General's famous report every boomer remembers. The way she snuggled next to me when cold, the smart-ass comments she makes on almost any occasion. I also love the sound of her laughing out loud, like she did when I took her to "Team America," or when she watched South Park or The Daily Show.
The way she makes her bed, which is now in my apartment, reminding me every night that she is *not* here. The way, when packing for our trips to Mexico and Hawaii, she would pour shampoo and conditioner from big bottles into smaller bottles, carefully labeled. The labels she made for my dishwasher, so the kids would know when dishes were to be unloaded or left alone.
The items she picked out when she was first leaving for Mississippi, so careful in her planning. The odd, embarassed grin on her face when she returned ten days later, carrying secrets that would hurt me. Even though I sensed this at the time, I appreciated her odd new look for the gesture it was, and the emotional honesty behind it.
She'd had experiences I couldn't appreciate; but, much more importantly -- she'd figured out that the situation down there post-Katrina was so horribly compelling that she would just have to be going back, even though her first stint, with the Red Cross, had not suited her purposes at all. That's when she first picked up smoking again, down there in disaster's wake, living at a shelter wedged between two army bases.
I could go on and on, but to do so only would be satisfying to me, not any other reader, nor would she want me to. But, what is it we fall in love with in others, if not their unique grace as they move through this confusing, painful life?
In my home, there are concrete reminders in every room. The sound of her banjo lingers; the foods she bought have not all been eaten, toiletries and bedding are here and there, some of her clothes and books and files. The drawing she made of my youngest daughter. Presents she bought the kids, and me.
Her presence lingers, day after day, and night after night. To me, it is precious -- confirmation that my memories are based in fact, and that I am not crazy (at least in this regard) for imagining things that did not occur. We indeed breathed the same air.
Romantic love is an experience not every human has. Some people cannot love, for various reasons. Literature, psychology, folk wisdom all warn against love; that it hurts with an exquisite pain that endures long after the pleasure is gone. The final irony of love, and love lost, is we have to give ourselves away to find it, and then we must recover ourselves to move on, or to even find a reason to go on, alone.
I know I'm an incurable romantic, something of a packrat, and given to obsessing over details. I also know my memory is crystal clear on one level--that which Van Gogh advised: "Paint the gesture, not the hand."
(Our next reunion, should it occur, may well be in New York.)
The way she emitted the softest of "yea's" when she got her new car. The smile and the inevitable "yum" when she spied candy or ice cream I'd brought her. The way she gets excited by going out to the movies, and how she shakes her head wildly while dancing. The way she says "night, night" when signing off a phone call late in the evening. The way she told me goodnight in email (a rarity) from Biloxi on January 9th: "Goodnight, sweet man. I love you..."
I am sorry to say I even like the way she smokes -- a nasty habit -- and one I tried to convince my father stop after the Surgeon General's famous report every boomer remembers. The way she snuggled next to me when cold, the smart-ass comments she makes on almost any occasion. I also love the sound of her laughing out loud, like she did when I took her to "Team America," or when she watched South Park or The Daily Show.
The way she makes her bed, which is now in my apartment, reminding me every night that she is *not* here. The way, when packing for our trips to Mexico and Hawaii, she would pour shampoo and conditioner from big bottles into smaller bottles, carefully labeled. The labels she made for my dishwasher, so the kids would know when dishes were to be unloaded or left alone.
The items she picked out when she was first leaving for Mississippi, so careful in her planning. The odd, embarassed grin on her face when she returned ten days later, carrying secrets that would hurt me. Even though I sensed this at the time, I appreciated her odd new look for the gesture it was, and the emotional honesty behind it.
She'd had experiences I couldn't appreciate; but, much more importantly -- she'd figured out that the situation down there post-Katrina was so horribly compelling that she would just have to be going back, even though her first stint, with the Red Cross, had not suited her purposes at all. That's when she first picked up smoking again, down there in disaster's wake, living at a shelter wedged between two army bases.
I could go on and on, but to do so only would be satisfying to me, not any other reader, nor would she want me to. But, what is it we fall in love with in others, if not their unique grace as they move through this confusing, painful life?
In my home, there are concrete reminders in every room. The sound of her banjo lingers; the foods she bought have not all been eaten, toiletries and bedding are here and there, some of her clothes and books and files. The drawing she made of my youngest daughter. Presents she bought the kids, and me.
Her presence lingers, day after day, and night after night. To me, it is precious -- confirmation that my memories are based in fact, and that I am not crazy (at least in this regard) for imagining things that did not occur. We indeed breathed the same air.
Romantic love is an experience not every human has. Some people cannot love, for various reasons. Literature, psychology, folk wisdom all warn against love; that it hurts with an exquisite pain that endures long after the pleasure is gone. The final irony of love, and love lost, is we have to give ourselves away to find it, and then we must recover ourselves to move on, or to even find a reason to go on, alone.
I know I'm an incurable romantic, something of a packrat, and given to obsessing over details. I also know my memory is crystal clear on one level--that which Van Gogh advised: "Paint the gesture, not the hand."
Thursday, May 25, 2006
Coast to Coast
It's 57 degrees and windy in San Francisco tonight. It's 81 degrees and clear in Biloxi. Both cities are caressed by oceans. Here the water is cold, but there it is warm. There, the water is still filled with debris from the monster called Katrina that surged over the town eight months ago. And a new hurricane season is only days away.
The U.S. is a big country that is limping along, carrying a piece of itself wounded, bleeding, much like an animal with a terrible, perhaps fatal, injury. Nobody can say whether this year's hurricane season will be as bad as the last one, but it wouldn't take anything near a Category 5 storm to wreak unimaginable havoc if it should again hit the Mississippi coast this summer. Remember, Louisiana got off easy last year; it is Mississippi where Katrina came ashore, and Rita.
But as of tonight, all is quiet on both coasts. No monsters have yet appeared. A new storm has not yet devastated Biloxi, though one will, perhaps this very summer. A new earthquake has not yet leveled San Francisco, though one will soon, inevitably, perhaps this summer.
There, the air is warm. Somebody I love dearly is, by this hour, probably nestled in her tent, with her iPod perhaps playing and her incense burning, and her mini-fan blowing. She may have a photo of a lava hole from Hawaii near her bed. She has a pretty Tibetan ring on her finger, and she may have matching earrings on as well. I wonder if she played her banjo today. I can hum all of her songs quite well by now.
Here, there's a chill in the air. Shadows overtake my nights and mornings. I feel restless. I am sitting on the bed, very alone, listening to music, the wrong music for my ears; I have a pretty ring on my finger, but a huge hole in my heart.
Writers have to write, but the stories we tell depend always on others. My writing voice here in this little blog is desperately seeking its muse. But she is so gone. Having been inside that tent with her on that balcony in that church, I know what night feels like there, and I yearn for that tonight -- the sounds, the smells, the feel. Her pretty smile in the darkness, still visible only to me. So much else that cannot be written in our language, because words are so limiting.
No story can be written alone. I would gladly fly away from this place to be at her place in an instant if I were asked. Then, the book I should be writing would begin. Then, my voice would once again be liberated. I write, and have always written, only from love. Lacking that, the shadows surrounding me lengthen, and this, like all stories, will eventually wind down to its very sad and quiet end. I cannot continue telling my story into a void. All things must pass. All voices will cease. Silence ensues.
I'm just not ready yet. Hope dies hard, in direct proportion to the amount of love that has been lost...
The U.S. is a big country that is limping along, carrying a piece of itself wounded, bleeding, much like an animal with a terrible, perhaps fatal, injury. Nobody can say whether this year's hurricane season will be as bad as the last one, but it wouldn't take anything near a Category 5 storm to wreak unimaginable havoc if it should again hit the Mississippi coast this summer. Remember, Louisiana got off easy last year; it is Mississippi where Katrina came ashore, and Rita.
But as of tonight, all is quiet on both coasts. No monsters have yet appeared. A new storm has not yet devastated Biloxi, though one will, perhaps this very summer. A new earthquake has not yet leveled San Francisco, though one will soon, inevitably, perhaps this summer.
There, the air is warm. Somebody I love dearly is, by this hour, probably nestled in her tent, with her iPod perhaps playing and her incense burning, and her mini-fan blowing. She may have a photo of a lava hole from Hawaii near her bed. She has a pretty Tibetan ring on her finger, and she may have matching earrings on as well. I wonder if she played her banjo today. I can hum all of her songs quite well by now.
Here, there's a chill in the air. Shadows overtake my nights and mornings. I feel restless. I am sitting on the bed, very alone, listening to music, the wrong music for my ears; I have a pretty ring on my finger, but a huge hole in my heart.
Writers have to write, but the stories we tell depend always on others. My writing voice here in this little blog is desperately seeking its muse. But she is so gone. Having been inside that tent with her on that balcony in that church, I know what night feels like there, and I yearn for that tonight -- the sounds, the smells, the feel. Her pretty smile in the darkness, still visible only to me. So much else that cannot be written in our language, because words are so limiting.
No story can be written alone. I would gladly fly away from this place to be at her place in an instant if I were asked. Then, the book I should be writing would begin. Then, my voice would once again be liberated. I write, and have always written, only from love. Lacking that, the shadows surrounding me lengthen, and this, like all stories, will eventually wind down to its very sad and quiet end. I cannot continue telling my story into a void. All things must pass. All voices will cease. Silence ensues.
I'm just not ready yet. Hope dies hard, in direct proportion to the amount of love that has been lost...
Wednesday, May 24, 2006
Warp Speed
The news cycle, and the pure volume of news, has increased to the point that no journalist can maintain the pretense of staying truly informed. Technology delivers stories faster than we can process them.
Is anybody better informed? Or are we all suffering various degrees of "Future Shock," i.e., information overload.
It always helps, in life, to know what you actually believe. To have principles. As an old country song goes, "you gotta stand for something or you'll fall for anything."
We are living in a time when one essential struggle is how to maintain idealism and hope in the face of an alienating pace of change. Today, I learned of one small grassroots group, where people are trying to do the right thing on behalf of clients who really need their help. But the group itself appears to be in the midst of changes that are undermining the commitment of some of those it needs the most, if it is to carry out its mission.
The irony of this does not escape those of us who are older, because we have seen similar outcomes too many times. But a younger generation of idealistic activists may be at risk, as they too confront these hard lessons.
Given the over-stimulation of their environment, with instant electronic communication options in the hands of all, and so many media messages bombarding them that they can hardly sort out how they really feel about anything, it may not be a surprise that they would easily choose to quit, rather than stay and fight.
But no social change worth discussing has ever been won without a struggle. Any honest history of progressive movements in America makes this clear. It's time for the latest generation of activists to read these books, or talk to those of us who were there. Older friends have a perspective that can help you.
Nothing came easily. All advances came with a cost -- in blood, sweat, tears, and self-doubt. The last is the most toxic factor of all: whether in fact any of us, or what we do, matters.
What do you, dear readers (if I have any) think?
Is anybody better informed? Or are we all suffering various degrees of "Future Shock," i.e., information overload.
It always helps, in life, to know what you actually believe. To have principles. As an old country song goes, "you gotta stand for something or you'll fall for anything."
We are living in a time when one essential struggle is how to maintain idealism and hope in the face of an alienating pace of change. Today, I learned of one small grassroots group, where people are trying to do the right thing on behalf of clients who really need their help. But the group itself appears to be in the midst of changes that are undermining the commitment of some of those it needs the most, if it is to carry out its mission.
The irony of this does not escape those of us who are older, because we have seen similar outcomes too many times. But a younger generation of idealistic activists may be at risk, as they too confront these hard lessons.
Given the over-stimulation of their environment, with instant electronic communication options in the hands of all, and so many media messages bombarding them that they can hardly sort out how they really feel about anything, it may not be a surprise that they would easily choose to quit, rather than stay and fight.
But no social change worth discussing has ever been won without a struggle. Any honest history of progressive movements in America makes this clear. It's time for the latest generation of activists to read these books, or talk to those of us who were there. Older friends have a perspective that can help you.
Nothing came easily. All advances came with a cost -- in blood, sweat, tears, and self-doubt. The last is the most toxic factor of all: whether in fact any of us, or what we do, matters.
What do you, dear readers (if I have any) think?
Monday, May 22, 2006
Two Songs
When my 11-year-old was a baby, he used to like me to dance with him while a certain song played --"You're so pretty," by, (I think), The Breeders. The line I remember is "You're so pretty the way you are." He kept liking it as he got a little older and could start understanding the words. He'd ask me to put it on and dance with him again.
A couple years ago, I stopped by to see a special new friend one Friday afternoon, and she told me she'd been listening to a song by the Flaming Lips: "Do you realize?" That song includes the line, "Do you realize ... that you have ... the most beautiful face?" She had been feeling abit down that day and she said she started crying when she listened to those words.
Sometimes I think about music and how it touches people at their most vulnerable moments. It has the power to reach across space and time and reconnect us with parts of ourselves that sometimes seem lost. That Flaming Lips song has some other remarkable lyrics I remember:
It's wonderful when a song speaks an essential truth. He *is* so pretty the way he is; and she *does* have the most beautiful face. I hope they both always realize this, even when I'm no longer around to remind them.
A couple years ago, I stopped by to see a special new friend one Friday afternoon, and she told me she'd been listening to a song by the Flaming Lips: "Do you realize?" That song includes the line, "Do you realize ... that you have ... the most beautiful face?" She had been feeling abit down that day and she said she started crying when she listened to those words.
Sometimes I think about music and how it touches people at their most vulnerable moments. It has the power to reach across space and time and reconnect us with parts of ourselves that sometimes seem lost. That Flaming Lips song has some other remarkable lyrics I remember:
Do you realize—that everyone you know someday will die?
And instead of saying all of your goodbyes—let them know
You realize that life goes fast
It's hard to make the good things last
You realize the sun doesn't go down
It's just an illusion caused by the world spinning round
It's wonderful when a song speaks an essential truth. He *is* so pretty the way he is; and she *does* have the most beautiful face. I hope they both always realize this, even when I'm no longer around to remind them.
Report from the Gulf
Scientists are predicting perhaps a half dozen major hurricanes again this season, following on last year's disasters, Katrina and Rita. The region is still reeling, with many people still unable to move back into permanent housing. There are concerns that the many thousands of so-called "FEMA trailers" used by residents in the area could become flying projectiles if another major storm strikes land.
The Red Cross is back in the area, discussing its planning initiatives this time around. The organization says it doesn't want residents to go to its shelters but to flee the area, so it won't be announcing the locations of its shelters until just beforehand. It also has not released guidelines as to what people can do to protect their pets, or how to bring them safely to shelters.
It sounds much like another disaster waiting to happen on what the local press calls "The Forgotten Coast." Neither the Red Cross nor FEMA did a good job last year, and there's little reason to expect improvement this year.
Thank God, therefore, for the volunteers and grassroots workers devoting themselves to helping the still-traumatized survivors of last summer's storms. They, at least, are giving people the information they need, including advice for how to work the bureaucracies that so frustrated everyone last year.
These are the true angels in the story, including one particularly special angel in my mind as I write this report.
The Red Cross is back in the area, discussing its planning initiatives this time around. The organization says it doesn't want residents to go to its shelters but to flee the area, so it won't be announcing the locations of its shelters until just beforehand. It also has not released guidelines as to what people can do to protect their pets, or how to bring them safely to shelters.
It sounds much like another disaster waiting to happen on what the local press calls "The Forgotten Coast." Neither the Red Cross nor FEMA did a good job last year, and there's little reason to expect improvement this year.
Thank God, therefore, for the volunteers and grassroots workers devoting themselves to helping the still-traumatized survivors of last summer's storms. They, at least, are giving people the information they need, including advice for how to work the bureaucracies that so frustrated everyone last year.
These are the true angels in the story, including one particularly special angel in my mind as I write this report.
Sunday, May 21, 2006
Baseball numbers
Our little leaguers won their game yesterday, 9-8. The Giants beat the A's and Barry Bonds hit his 714th homerun .
Baseball and numbers. Baseball fans love stats. The game is the ultimate fantasy sport for pattern recognition obsessives (statheads).
My fantasy baseball team is weak, near the bottom in its league. But, during this long, wet weekend in the Bay Area, baseball and numbers are dominating my thoughts, as I struggle to ignore what is really on my mind.
Can you put somebody out of your mind? My friend says so. I'm not so sure. But I'm trying to fill my brain with numbers today to test out her concept.
Baseball and numbers. Baseball fans love stats. The game is the ultimate fantasy sport for pattern recognition obsessives (statheads).
My fantasy baseball team is weak, near the bottom in its league. But, during this long, wet weekend in the Bay Area, baseball and numbers are dominating my thoughts, as I struggle to ignore what is really on my mind.
Can you put somebody out of your mind? My friend says so. I'm not so sure. But I'm trying to fill my brain with numbers today to test out her concept.
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