So many purpose-filled creatures here clustered together along the stalled line of their own stories, shuffling, not quite touching each other. And then above, alongside, a cabbage white butterfly spirals up next to me, lifting my eyes and heart skyward.
Friday, October 10, 2014
A red-spotted toad, from The Western Ecological Research Center
A small velvet beanbag lands on my ankle: it’s a toad, tiny delicate thing, who promptly hops off and into the grass. Another evening, it’s a house gecko who falls on my arm as I walk into the house with a load
of groceries. Those touches give such unlikely gifts. They weave my frayed attention into a single strand of webbing on which I slackline, wobble, slowly stand and balance beneath the moon, hold still until it drifts.
Tuesday, October 07, 2014
It’s stuck in my throat, this choking howl, these rales rasping on what I’ve swallowed: bezoar of boiled wool from a too-tight jacket I gnawed off, three fingernails that broke ragged as I scratched under a fence. Fool, me, trying to pass as “company.” Semi-feral, wilding under the thinnest crust of a dinnertime smile: load me up, I’ll spit out this hairball of restraint, upchuck all ties. Which fork to use now? The one in the road.
Saturday, October 04, 2014
His opening gambit: a floral, or one that’s just cetalox. No, I said, I’d prefer incense, resins, smoke; a touch on a test strip is still too light. Delighted, smiling: “Ah!” he said, “You know your scents!” We tried another two, then he leaned in. “What about oudh?” Yes, I’ll bite.Three dark bottles. “Women, ah, women are their own perfumes.” A mist, then a verse from Eugene Onegin shimmered and decayed. “What about this one?” Wet ink on vellum, a lost ghazal exhumed; the third a sonnet of benzoin, aloeswood, and labdanum. He repaid my attention with a suggestion: a fourth fragrance, without aloes, an off-center chypre. “There are dimensions to it I think you’ll like.” No stories painted by scent in this; rather, I’m the story, hallowed much the same way as a butterfly pinned to a thorn by a shrike. It was sharply beautiful, that chypre, blending my sweat and skin with oak moss and vetiver, leather, neroli: “I’ll take it.” Or I’m taken by it, I thought, impaled on the word. “Tell me what you think in a few days,” he murmured. “When you wear a scent, it awakens.”
Saturday, September 27, 2014
Photo by David Morris
My longer trajectory is a trick of the light. I used to take stock, mapping short-term and long-term plans as if those disembodied articulations of desire were apotropaic, would magically ward off chaos in five- year chunks. Not so; not here. The landscape looks real, but it’s only made real in a moment of contact: clay under nails, a small bruise where my shin met a low limb hard, respiration (mine, yours) fogging the horizon ahead. Ever prepared I was, two maps in hand, when a sudden gust turned them to kites with no strings, floating, soaring up and over a low ridge before they were lost to sight, like I am now.
Friday, September 26, 2014
Aleatory sky: the low cumulus as plumped and still as if posing for a matte painting, fat gray doves of low clouds feathered against the dry-brushed scrim of pewter altostratus.
These bits of poems rattle around my skull like loose change; my fingers pick up their copper penny tang as I scratch for a pen, an unopened bill or scrap of receipt to jot them down, hold them still. It’s as random as a coin toss, this way, mutable as the weather and as surprising as that grasshopper that hitched a ride with me.
What is my work here, then? Which me does this, sitting in the interstices of a working day as quietly as a hunter in a blind? The shutters of sensory attention tripping open or closed: a signal in, then out, and the polyphonic voices riffing on rhythms I can’t hear unless I stop: field songs.
Saturday, September 20, 2014
I peel off the soaked t-shirt and sweats; I’m down
to socks when I look at myself in the bathroom mirror.
Again the shock of this new old me. Naked, it’s clearer
that I can’t see without assessing. I’m still wearing
stories, scars, a callus near the ball of my right foot,
a slight sunburn, a chafed spot that sets me swearing.
Parts melt like beeswax or are shirred, skin needling
from sweat. And then the child I was giggles, drowns
out my noisy old woman’s knees, my past ever present.
The young woman I was caused those creaks: shot put
and knelt kisses, jumping off huge logs dark with soot.
Reflecting, what I see: I’m worn, but incandescent.