What happens to a dream deferred?
Does it dry up
like a raisin in the sun?
Or fester like a sore--
And then run?
Does it stink like rotten meat?
Or crust and sugar over--
like a syrupy sweet?
Maybe it just sags
like a heavy load.
Or does it explode?
AH: Poetry is the biggest help in writing stories that I know. You learn so much about rhythm and acoustics and compression and selectivity. No wasted words, no "furniture moving." I read and re-read certain contemporary poets all the time. Look at John Rybicki out in Michigan, someone I quote often. The passion is palpable, the heartbreak--you have to read his new book, WE BED DOWN INTO WATER, to see what a strong man does with soul-shattering grief. I find I bring more poetry into my writing classes than fiction.
this is what I think, too! i'm feeling validated!
My heart -- I thought it stopped. So I got in my car and headed for God. I passed two churches with cars parked in front. Then I stopped at the third because no one else had. It was early afternoon, the middle of the week. I chose a pew in the center of the rows. Episcopal or Methodist, it didn’t make any difference. It was as quiet as a church. I thought about the feeling of the long missed beat, and the tumble of the next ones as they rushed to fill the space. I sat there -- in the high brace of quiet and stained glass -- and I listened.
At the back of my house I can stand in the light from the sliding glass door and look out onto the deck. The deck is planted with marguerites and succulents in red clay pots. One of the pots is empty. It is shallow and broad, and filled with water like a birdbath.
My cat takes naps in the windowbox. Her gray chin is powdered with the iridescent dust from butterfly wings. If I tap on the glass, the cat will not look up. The sound that I make is not food.
When I was a girl I sneaked out at night. I pressed myself to hedges and fitted the shadows of trees. I went to a construction site near the lake. I took a concrete-mixing tub, slid it to the shore, and sat down inside it like a saucer. I would push off from the sand with one stolen oar and float, hearing nothing, for hours.
The birdbath is shaped like that tub.
I look at my nails in the harsh bathroom light. The scare will appear as a ripple at the base. It will take a couple of weeks to see.
I lock the door and run a tub of water.
Most of the time you don’t really hear it. A pulse is a thing that you feel. Even if you are somewhat quiet. Sometimes you hear it through the pillow at night. But I know that there is a place where you can hear it even better than that. Here is what you do. You ease yourself into a tub of water, you ease yourself down. You lie back and wait for the ripples to smooth away. Then you take a deep breath, and slide your head under, and listen for the playfulness of your heart.
This weekend I attended a blow out birthday celebration for a seven year old… dog. My friend Wendy threw a class-act party, complete with a cake, ice cream, pin the tail on the human – the works. Her dog is a seven pound Maltese named Bella. Bella, like many American dogs, has a sweet life. For one thing she has a better wardrobe than I do –diamond collars, Gucci carrying cases, dozens of sequined tops, mini UGG boots... This particular evening she sported a pin k tiara and a tutu to match. After she blew out the candle on Bella’s birthday bone, Wendy wanted to go around the table and have every guest tell his or her favorite “Bella” story. I looked over at her – she sat there beaming, tears shining in her eyes.
So I got home, still shaking my head. I looked at my dog – a mutt who looks like a mini sheepdog– and felt… well, guilty. Now I look at my Sir Sampson and see not him, but all the opportunities he will miss by being my pet. He will never herd sheep – or snap the necks of waterfowl, as he was allegedly meant to…. He will never lie on the couch of a pet analyst and unload his many worries…. You know, about his terrible owner, and how she doesn’t buy him gold food dishes or a Chuck-It or… dare I say it? Neuticles.
Am I a bad pet owner? Does the fact that I use the word “owner” instead of “Mommy” make that statement more answer, less question?
.... citing facts about the steep rise of pet ownership in america....
Naturally I have questions regarding this situation. Why now? Why America? Are we, US citizens, really so lonely that we need these mute, submissive “companions”? And if we are, why don’t we step outside and meet a neighbor? Why resort to animals?& so on & so forth. I post this excerpt to bolster my claim that this guy stole my book idea. I wish we had 48 hours in every day, and we were able see through all the grandiose and radical ideas floating through our brains. Maybe when I retire I can patent my various fledgling inventions between golf rounds and adult diaper changes. But for now... back to work.
You Belong in London |
 A little old fashioned, and a little modern. A little traditional, and a little bit punk rock. A unique soul like you needs a city that offers everything. No wonder you and London will get along so well. |
