small note
Monday, January 28th, 2008As a reminder, the William Carlos Williams machine is still around. I recently remembered it, and it brought a small bit of delight.
Archive for January, 2008
note
Thursday, January 24th, 2008I have poems in the winter 2007 issue of The Missouri Review. I'm not positive, but I think it should be available at your local franchise book store by now.
past, or passing
Wednesday, January 23rd, 2008The Eyak language became extinct today. Think of all the languages you'll never learn, because there isn't enough time. I think of a Quiche passage from the Popul Vuh, the Mayan book of counsel:
We shall whisper the origin. We shall whisper the story and the tale, and that is all. One thing only we do, and that is to return; we have fulfilled our task, and our days are done.
Think of us, blot us not from your memory, consign us not to oblivion.
the room
Tuesday, January 22nd, 2008This morning's dream: my apartment is small, chilly and not very well lit. It should be well-lit just by natural light, and I don't understand it - the blinds are up, but there's a shadowy area, a blind spot. Suddenly I remember that there's a whole room I haven't been using - I've closed it off to save heating costs. I open the door to this room, and the light from a window in the room illuminates the entire apartment.
I wake, and again the poems ask: when are you going to get back to us?
in the snow
Sunday, January 20th, 2008I recently read this article again, and spent some time thinking about the story and the woman. In the story, we know she didn't die in pursuit of some mythical treasure - she chose to die, and she chose a fairly specific place halfway round the world from her, in North Dakota. She was, in fact, there when I was there. We were lonely and in pain at the same time. She passed through my town, and it was a town where I too did not belong.
How does a Japanese woman choose a remote American region as the place of her death? Perhaps she saw it in the movie Fargo, and believed it to be the loneliest place on earth. She might have been right. I have been to worse places, but few that were lonelier. My heart hurts for her. When I think of her, I feel as though some secret group of tendons deep inside my body is seized by an invisible fist, and tugged hard. This is not because I could have helped her, or because we were close in space or in heart. It's because she and I had the same secret tendons, the same ghost strings buried in our bellies. It's difficult to articulate. But suffice it to say, I wanted to help her, but I'm many years too late.
