to sing goodnight to
I am absolutely adoring Marvin Pontiac’s No Kids. The layering is lovely in the second verse (or is it the chorus?). I think it’s difficult to say it in songwriting these days, like “Where is my mom?” and “I have some pain,” so this is very refreshing.
And because I must leave Rachel Ray’s scarf fiasco to my Dad, her biggest fan, I suppose I’ll turn to poetry instead and include some newish poem here. I don’t know why I’m having trouble breaking lines all of a sudden. It might be because I’m pushing toward the new year of non-fiction writing.
HIGH CULTURE: A PILCROW
In the lower worlds, where all things are slowed but not gone, they take the old diseases and give them new names. Suffering is a human cholera. It takes the nape of a child. Turns the skin in on itself. It’s easier to watch a skeleton become a skeleton after all. Who am I to question water’s holiness? Dip two fingers in. Take it to the forehead, chest, shoulder to shoulder. Take a rainforest by the mouth and see if it is a blessing then. In Yellowstone, half the bison herd died this winter. Herds once in ten millions that survived since prehistory on the grasses starved to death on the mountainsides. Or, animals of instinct, left the park for food and ended face to the slaughter cull. The bodies are sunken now. Thawing in the sulfur pits. Steam rising over their hides like claws.
how the clasp of nothing takes her in
Heron Rises From The Dark, Summer Pond
by Mary Oliver
So heavy
is the long-necked, long-bodied heron,
always it is a surprise
when her smoke-colored wings
open
and she turns
from the thick water,
from the black sticks
of the summer pond,
and slowly
rises into the air
and is gone.
Then, not for the first or the last time,
I take the deep breath
of happiness, and I think
how unlikely it is
that death is a hole in the ground,
how improbable
that ascension is not possible,
though everything seems so inert, so nailed
back into itself–
the muskrat and his lumpy lodge,
the turtle,
the fallen gate.
And especially it is wonderful
that the summers are long
and the ponds so dark and so many,
and therefore it isn’t a miracle
but the common thing,
this decision,
this trailing of the long legs in the water,
this opening up of the heavy body
into a new life: see how the sudden
gray-blue sheets of her wings
strive toward the wind; see how the clasp of nothing
takes her in.
Back in the Buckeye State. I never read Mary Oliver unless I’m in Ohio. I’m not sure why, but the poems make the most sense here. This is one of my favorites. Tomorrow, I’m going to drive down to see the blue herons. I hope I’ll be able to get some good pictures.
The trees here are about a month behind Georgia, as is the weather. It’s been rainy, though I’d expect that from Ohio, especially as a welcoming. This afternoon was beautiful though. I was able to sit out in the warmth and watch two male chickadees compete at the feeder for the female. And then, suddenly, a black squirrel came through the ivy, which startled me at first, confusing it for a giant black rat since I haven’t seen one in awhile. I read that at one time the Ohio River Valley all the way north to the Lake was so thick with trees that the black squirrels were able to move all the way from the Ohio to Erie without ever touching the ground.
And still, to me, Ohio seems pretty much the same, and there’s such a great comfort in that. I haven’t been down to the valley yet for a run, but hopefully this week I’ll be able to stop making lists and packing and worrying about the move to take a few still moments among the marshes. They are my best memories here, and I no doubt want to take it with me.
On the music side of life, I’m so delighted that Duffy finally made it to the US, even though the CD has been out in Europe for months. I hope she doesn’t go the way of other soulster Brits. And since I couldn’t decide on which to post, I’m posting both Mercy and Rockferry.
bringing only empty boats
Writing about this year, at this point, is both bane and boon, as Dr. P would say. But this second semester has been, despite the six classes, really amazing. Even though I was in the hospital for pneumonia and exhaustion, these students, especially the night students, were the best I’ve ever had.
For my birthday, S got me tickets to see Josh. The concert was at the Melting Point here in Athens. It was, as are all of his concerts, amazing.
Ingrid Michaelson opened for him. I am now in total adoration of her. If you don’t own or have downloaded her CDs, do it now. Seriously. Do. It. Now.
The best moment during the show was when she played her song, the hat, and she got the audience to sing along with her. I took a video, though I wish I would have recorded more. I’ve tried to find the round on youtube, but, actually, the Athens crowed was clearly the most spirited:
So my time in Athens is at its end. It’s bittersweet. It’s sweet, even. It was the best place for me at the best time. And now, as the world demands, things are on their elliptic still and I’m moving and moving. So, after Ingrid, Josh played. I took many many videos, but Girl in the War is one of my favorite songs, and so I will post this one. This is the first encore. The audience is trying so hard to be quiet and sweet too, but by the second verse, they just seem to need to sing it, and loudly. And Josh–he is just so delicious.
on knowing the secret behind a smile
So today Starbucks made the big switchover to the Pike Place roast, which is what they served 37 years ago in the first Starbucks in Pike Place Market in Seattle.
It represents the best of who we are, according to the press release this morning. If I saw that statement come through in a rough draft I would write “vague” or “maybe a little more detail here.”
The friendly fellow at the drive through, however, regaled me with how this brew will totally. be. the. best. coffee. ever.
I told him it was my birthday. He said, well then this coffee will be a birthday wish come true. I told him that my real wish would be for Starbucks to institute a two line policy: express line and frappuccino line. The first for the people ordering the skinny soy brownie mocha sprinkle honeysuckle cheery blossom iced hazelnut frappuccinos. And then the second line for the gal or fellow that just wants to get a cup of coffee. That truly would be a birthday miracle. Though I suppose with the sun blinking through the clouds, finally, and a pretty delicious Pike Place coffee, I won’t complain. Though at 28 I am officially getting old now, so I think I am in the beginning stages of legitimized grouchiness.
Sarah M. got me a ticket to go see Josh with her when he is in Athens on May 3rd. Even though big, burly bodyguards have to protect him with tasers and billy clubs from rabid fans when he plays in places up north or in Ireland, I don’t think he’s very well known down here. So, it could be a great opportunity for me to rush the stage and chop a lock of his hair. Or maybe just see him up close and take some good pictures. Yes, that would be more appropriate.
And in other music news, am loving the new Cut Copy:
breeding lilacs
It’s been a little gloomy in Athens these days. Unfortunately, it seems that today will follow suit. Yesterday, only 29% of my students showed up with rough drafts for their mandatory conferences. You always have a few no shows, but 29%? That’s about the percentage that I enjoy eating ham on Easter–or Easter for that matter. Or the percentage inside of you that sort of wants to roll just an inch into the crosswalk when someone is crossing (but just to nudge them to see their reaction, and of course you don’t do it because only 29% of you really wants to go through with it because 29%, well, that’s just not enough).
Hopefully, despite the weather, I won’t have the same problem today. Until I know for sure, and since I can’t stop repeating it, I’ll keep listening to my favorite Scots. I haven’t put Travis in the queue for a few years, actually, but there’s no time like a glummy present.
truth & beauty
Last night on my way home from work, I saw, at the corner of a few major streets downtown, a painted window for someone’s birthday. It was reminiscent of the days back in high school where we would paint each other’s cars during sports events– Go Revere Girls’ Tennis—Back To State!—Beat those Bitches from Canfield. It was always very classy. But tonight, this is what I saw painted on someone’s window in blue lettering:
MARGE IS 22
I can’t get it out of my mind. It seemed so definite and fatalistic, and also kind of perfect in a way. Maybe that is because of my own impending
JESSICA IS 28
in April.
Actually, I think I’m going to opt for the Edina Monsoon epitaph:
JESSICA IS 28. HELLO DEATH. HELLO OBLIVIAN.
So tonight my parents are going to see Emmylou and Patty Griffin in concert in Cleveland. It was my Christmas present to them, but I have to say that I’m feeling an enormous sense of jealousy. I told my Mom that half way through Patty’s set she has to be one of those people who screams “I love you Patty,” as that is what I would do if I were there. Something tells me she won’t do it. Just a hunch.
It only took me about a day and a half to finish Ann Patchett’s Truth & Beauty. I couldn’t pull myself away. If you don’t know, it’s about her friendship with Lucy Grealy. They were both at Sarah Lawrence together, and then at Iowa, and really had an amazing friendship up until Lucy’s death a few years ago. The book was really tender, but kind of brutal in a way. Maybe I’ll think differently about it with a little distance. It also makes me feel like a complete failure as a writer. Though, what’s new. Anyway, I recommend it if you haven’t read it yet.
