The radio is on all the time these days. Though, I'm not sure if you
still call it the radio when it's your iPhone streaming the radio and
hooked up to a speaker system. Yes, that's still radio, but not your
parent's radio. The "radio" plays in the morning, at its lowest level,
while I pour the hot water over my pre-ground and measured drip coffee.
One of two times I'm alone during the day, I still don't want to be
completely alone. Carl Castle's voice isn't so low that lulls me back
to sleep; there's something just animated enough about it to help my
brain, eyes and body begin to adjust to the day.
My coffee is
never right, though. I haven't seemed to perfect it after all these
days of doing it myself. When Peter makes it, it's better. He advises
that I stop mid-pour and stir the grounds, but I only remember half the
time. I don't know what I'm doing the other half that makes me forget,
but I always regret it later when two minutes into my hot cup it's
bitter. Or worse, when it's thin and weak. I've attempted to switch to
coconut and almond milk in my coffee to align with the new health
regimen I'm on, but that, too, always seems to disappoint me. It's just
not the way to start the day, disappointed in your coffee.
When I
make dinner at night, or when I'm with the baby, I turn the radio back
on. Another adult voice reassures me that, indeed, there's a
conversation going on in the world out there.
The radio is
actually because I miss him. Or another way to say it is: the radio is
as good as it gets. If I couldn't stream something, some fully frontal
lobed human into my life, I might actually be forced to notice that I
am completely alone. Despite the clang and pounding and weight of my
children, whom I love, I can not solve the physical and mental craving
that I have for him. I can not solve that I miss him. Or another way to
say it is: the radio has saved my life.
Wednesday, October 16, 2013
Day 7: Never Say Never
So he found his blue shirt, hanging taut from a fresh pressing, and took
it out of the closet. With ease, he removed the white undershirt he'd
been wearing all day. He never would have walked around like that when
Mary was alive. Well, she wouldn't have allowed it, that's true. But,
still he had had a great fondness for her, if not the deepest of
connections. Perhaps it was the likely outcome of teaching Yeats to
undergraduates. Love was never going to seem as profound in real life
as it did in poetry, nor as profound as it seems to a 20-year-old. Mary
believed Irving had lived in an idealized world, where sunsets were
always on fire and each ship found its way home. True for the
metaphysics, yes, but not true for Walcott or Bishop and usually not
true for Yeats. But, Mary's interest in poetry was only that her
husband was interested in it and that it made him happy. She obliged
him the interest, seeing it that way, rather than as his passion, his
career. It could have been her father's fault. Mary's father had never
liked him.
Still, this fondness for her was very real and their life together had been pleasant. He would have liked her to come to these dinners with him. Why hadn't they done more of that? Well, the blue shirt was for her. And that, Irving felt, was nice. It was nice to still do things for her.
He buttoned the oxford to the top, debating a tie and then deciding no. As he turned, he shifted his weight to the right leg, carefully pivoting and hoping to avoid that left leg buckling, as it did so often. As he moved toward the doorway, he stopped at the mirror hanging above the dresser, a baroque sort of antique that had irritated him for fifty years. He saw his eyes there, buried a bit, but he saw them and winked, smoothed his shirt into his pants, placed his tarnished money clip into his pocket, along with the phone his daughter had given him and a small tin case with a few pills. Irving was glad to have given up on many medicines, casualties to his no-care attitude about which sickness might eventually take him. He hoped, as he put the tin in his pocket, that he might find lamb on the menu tonight. It was into April, still brisk, but the equinox promised new garden bounties, delights that he took in by breath and taste and that he allowed to linger. Perhaps Mary had been right about his world, his feeling that life was sumptuous.
Still, this fondness for her was very real and their life together had been pleasant. He would have liked her to come to these dinners with him. Why hadn't they done more of that? Well, the blue shirt was for her. And that, Irving felt, was nice. It was nice to still do things for her.
He buttoned the oxford to the top, debating a tie and then deciding no. As he turned, he shifted his weight to the right leg, carefully pivoting and hoping to avoid that left leg buckling, as it did so often. As he moved toward the doorway, he stopped at the mirror hanging above the dresser, a baroque sort of antique that had irritated him for fifty years. He saw his eyes there, buried a bit, but he saw them and winked, smoothed his shirt into his pants, placed his tarnished money clip into his pocket, along with the phone his daughter had given him and a small tin case with a few pills. Irving was glad to have given up on many medicines, casualties to his no-care attitude about which sickness might eventually take him. He hoped, as he put the tin in his pocket, that he might find lamb on the menu tonight. It was into April, still brisk, but the equinox promised new garden bounties, delights that he took in by breath and taste and that he allowed to linger. Perhaps Mary had been right about his world, his feeling that life was sumptuous.
Monday, October 14, 2013
Day 6: Photo #1
Tom was nervous, but he shouldn't have been. He had been through the
same process hundreds of times before, but today would mark his fiftieth
visit to a gallery without any interest in his portfolio. In fact, he
hadn't sold a work, either through a gallery or on his own, in over
three years. A friend suggested he set up a shop on Etsy and try
selling them there, but a quick perusal of the site revealed it
horrendously oversupplied with art. Art with bird appliques, modge
podged wooden pieces, sailboat landscapes, too-adorable squirrels, 70s
throwback mushrooms and owls, photographs of dandelions blowing in the
wind. Exhausting. It exhausted him to take it all in.
No, he would sell the old-fashioned way, he supposed, though he merely considered it the serious way. He was a serious artist, with serious credentials. There was a day where the name Tom Fowler had meant something, where gallery directors would have been clamoring to get him in the door. But something had happened, he wasn't sure what. He heard repeatedly that there just "isn't an interest in abstract expressionism," they said. As if what he did was that, was dripping and smearing paint. How, in fifteen years, had so much changed?
His best year, most prolific, most creative, most driven year had been 1998. He was working alongside a studio partner who sculpted and the partnership seemed inspirational for both of them. She liked to sculpt in the early morning, he as the sun filtered through in the late afternoon. They were rarely there at the same time, but each days' progress could be inspected, was noticed by someone else. Also, that same year, his second daughter had been born: fat, long and dark. She rarely cried. Something about her was a mystery to him, but not in the way everything about Cecilia, his first daughter, had been a mystery. He put diapers on the right way, he understood he needed extra clothes for them. Maeve was a mystery because she was an observer, often babbling, but plaintively, as though she knew a lament for every new discovery in life. As though she understood the stark dualities of life. He took her to the studio when he could, and painted dark, dark paintings. Dark orbs, floating in an etherial mist, dark shapeless blossoms unfolding into a darker plane. People bought them and, frankly, he didn't understand why. Maeve grew into a quiet child, sadder than he might have imagined possible. And he did not want to imagine anymore. He stopped bringing her to the studio, but Tom did not change his medium and did not stop painting at dusk. His sculptor rented her space to someone else and Maeve took up painting. Ultimately, Tom changed his palette, because Maeve simply could not. Jungles, webs and snakes at first. Then, broken tables and chairs; knives with handles, grooved for fists; savage rhinoceros. Maeve turned eyes into gaping holes.
No, he would sell the old-fashioned way, he supposed, though he merely considered it the serious way. He was a serious artist, with serious credentials. There was a day where the name Tom Fowler had meant something, where gallery directors would have been clamoring to get him in the door. But something had happened, he wasn't sure what. He heard repeatedly that there just "isn't an interest in abstract expressionism," they said. As if what he did was that, was dripping and smearing paint. How, in fifteen years, had so much changed?
His best year, most prolific, most creative, most driven year had been 1998. He was working alongside a studio partner who sculpted and the partnership seemed inspirational for both of them. She liked to sculpt in the early morning, he as the sun filtered through in the late afternoon. They were rarely there at the same time, but each days' progress could be inspected, was noticed by someone else. Also, that same year, his second daughter had been born: fat, long and dark. She rarely cried. Something about her was a mystery to him, but not in the way everything about Cecilia, his first daughter, had been a mystery. He put diapers on the right way, he understood he needed extra clothes for them. Maeve was a mystery because she was an observer, often babbling, but plaintively, as though she knew a lament for every new discovery in life. As though she understood the stark dualities of life. He took her to the studio when he could, and painted dark, dark paintings. Dark orbs, floating in an etherial mist, dark shapeless blossoms unfolding into a darker plane. People bought them and, frankly, he didn't understand why. Maeve grew into a quiet child, sadder than he might have imagined possible. And he did not want to imagine anymore. He stopped bringing her to the studio, but Tom did not change his medium and did not stop painting at dusk. His sculptor rented her space to someone else and Maeve took up painting. Ultimately, Tom changed his palette, because Maeve simply could not. Jungles, webs and snakes at first. Then, broken tables and chairs; knives with handles, grooved for fists; savage rhinoceros. Maeve turned eyes into gaping holes.
Day 5: The Old Man
At ninety-five, it wasn't difficult to start ignoring people's advice:
Take the stairs! It will keep your heart strong!
Watch the red meat and keep an eye on your blood pressure and cholesterol!
Do the crossword or Soduku daily, to keep your brain active!
No wine at your age!
And so, Irving ate out every night, drank whatever he wanted, took the stairs and indulged in naps over Soduku, Jeopardy! instead of the crossword. At a younger age, he had worried what would happen if things started to atrophy, and he was sure that they had, but he had survived, though some days that was regretable. In any case, he was past that, past the worry a younger man has about vulnerability.
Each night was not a different place. He had his favorites: Firefox for steak, Pesce for, you guessed it -- fish. But some nights, he tried a new place, something he had read about in the paper, or a place his daughter mentioned, when she probably also mentioned he was spending an awful lot of money eating this way. It's true, he was. But that was just fine with Irving. Everybody had gone to college by now, even Joel, the grandson he thought would never make a cent. Even Joel had got an education. Video games, doing something with illustrations, or animation more likely, Irving realized. In any case, no one needed help with those things anymore. Eating his dinner wherever he wanted seemed like a perfectly good way to spend some money.
That night he was going to a new restaurant. It had just opened the previous month, in a neighborhood that had certainly changed since Irving was a boy. Mostly, it seemed populated with young people, no children to be seen anywhere and probably no one his age, to be sure. But, why not. Irving decided, why not.
Moving carefully, with most of his weight on the right foot, he made his way to the back of his apartment, past the crocheted framed messages his wife had made at their second house. Bible verses, mostly. Corinthians. But also Yeats, his favorite, and an attempt by his wife to honor his life's work in her own way. Irving regretted not being able to read very well anymore and, for perhaps the first time in 50 years, was very glad for these lines to be writ large in the crossstitch: "She bid me take love easy, as the leaves grow on the tree / But I, being young and foolish, with her would not agree." Still, Mary was fighting with him, armed with poetry. Ah! She was having the last laugh, he thought. She did have a good sense of humor.
Irving paced himself down the stretch of hallway, remembering that Mary thought he looked best in a blue shirt, which is what he would wear.
Take the stairs! It will keep your heart strong!
Watch the red meat and keep an eye on your blood pressure and cholesterol!
Do the crossword or Soduku daily, to keep your brain active!
No wine at your age!
And so, Irving ate out every night, drank whatever he wanted, took the stairs and indulged in naps over Soduku, Jeopardy! instead of the crossword. At a younger age, he had worried what would happen if things started to atrophy, and he was sure that they had, but he had survived, though some days that was regretable. In any case, he was past that, past the worry a younger man has about vulnerability.
Each night was not a different place. He had his favorites: Firefox for steak, Pesce for, you guessed it -- fish. But some nights, he tried a new place, something he had read about in the paper, or a place his daughter mentioned, when she probably also mentioned he was spending an awful lot of money eating this way. It's true, he was. But that was just fine with Irving. Everybody had gone to college by now, even Joel, the grandson he thought would never make a cent. Even Joel had got an education. Video games, doing something with illustrations, or animation more likely, Irving realized. In any case, no one needed help with those things anymore. Eating his dinner wherever he wanted seemed like a perfectly good way to spend some money.
That night he was going to a new restaurant. It had just opened the previous month, in a neighborhood that had certainly changed since Irving was a boy. Mostly, it seemed populated with young people, no children to be seen anywhere and probably no one his age, to be sure. But, why not. Irving decided, why not.
Moving carefully, with most of his weight on the right foot, he made his way to the back of his apartment, past the crocheted framed messages his wife had made at their second house. Bible verses, mostly. Corinthians. But also Yeats, his favorite, and an attempt by his wife to honor his life's work in her own way. Irving regretted not being able to read very well anymore and, for perhaps the first time in 50 years, was very glad for these lines to be writ large in the crossstitch: "She bid me take love easy, as the leaves grow on the tree / But I, being young and foolish, with her would not agree." Still, Mary was fighting with him, armed with poetry. Ah! She was having the last laugh, he thought. She did have a good sense of humor.
Irving paced himself down the stretch of hallway, remembering that Mary thought he looked best in a blue shirt, which is what he would wear.
Day 4: My Bedroom
Scene: 3 bright white walls, a king size bed, overstuffed with
decorative pillows, one seemingly homemade painting hung on the stage
left wall, 50 or so paint chips strewn on the floor.
L: (Pushing her hair around uncomfortably, squinting) Blue Danube or Galapagos Turquoise? What do you think, Kaiya?
K: (Crossing from stage left, she puts her chin on Lyra's shoulder) The turquoise, for sure. It lends a little contrast to the darker blues in the curtains, ya know, for interest.
L: Hmmm. Yeah, I think you're right. I was leaning that way, but I'm so torn. I don't want it to be too dark or too green. Michael hates green, he really does. I don't understand it. Who hates green?
K: Well, he does, I guess. Lyra, you know it doesn't matter, right? He's not going to care what color you paint the wall. If you like it, he'll like it.
L: I don't know. Maybe I just should leave it white. We'll have to paint it back anyway. Then that really doubles the cost, right? Because we'll have to pay to paint it now and pay to paint it again when we move out. That seems silly.
K: Ok, whatever. Do whatever you want to do, Lyra. I'm getting hungry. I think you should just paint it the turquoise because you obviously want to paint it and you went to all the trouble of asking me here to help you decide.
L: No, no I'm just starting to think it's a bad idea. And, besides, I asked you over for more than help with paint. You're my sister! Can't I ask for your help and not have to take your advice? If Michael were here, he'd know exactly whether this color would be too much. For some reason, he just knows stuff like that. He has a better sense for it than I do.
K: Well, for Christ's sake, Lyra, then just wait until he gets home and stop obsessing. Can we go to lunch?
L: Sure, yeah, yeah, let's go. I'm just going to get some tape and tape these up here. Maybe they'll look different at night.
K: Yeah, yeah, do that. When does Michael get home anyway?
L: Next week. Tuesday, I think.
K: Really? Gone for two weeks this time, then? That's longer than usual.
L: Yes. But, I was thinking I'd surprise him, you know, with the painted room. I was thinking I'd make good use of the time.
K: Yeah, I can see that.
L: What does that mean? What do you mean?
K: Lyra, it's just, you're just. There's a hundred paint chips in here. What have you been doing since Michael left?
L: I'm fine, Kaiya. I'm totally fine. I've been taking walks, I've been helping Shane at the school, I've been painting. You know, yesterday I went over to the school and worked with a couple of kids. I was there, I don't know, maybe 4 or 5 hours. It was good. I've been keeping busy, I have. And there's the garage, and her bedroom, that's getting done. I'm totally fine.
K: You are, huh? You're working in her room?
L: Sure, I am. Yesterday, I drank my coffee in there and changed a lightbulb.
K: That's not what I meant. Lyra, I meant...
L: I know what you meant...
K: Lyra, Lyra, listen to me. I don't think you know what I meant.
L: Michael's not coming home. Is that what you meant?
K: No.
L: Well, I think he's not. I think he's probably not.
L: (Pushing her hair around uncomfortably, squinting) Blue Danube or Galapagos Turquoise? What do you think, Kaiya?
K: (Crossing from stage left, she puts her chin on Lyra's shoulder) The turquoise, for sure. It lends a little contrast to the darker blues in the curtains, ya know, for interest.
L: Hmmm. Yeah, I think you're right. I was leaning that way, but I'm so torn. I don't want it to be too dark or too green. Michael hates green, he really does. I don't understand it. Who hates green?
K: Well, he does, I guess. Lyra, you know it doesn't matter, right? He's not going to care what color you paint the wall. If you like it, he'll like it.
L: I don't know. Maybe I just should leave it white. We'll have to paint it back anyway. Then that really doubles the cost, right? Because we'll have to pay to paint it now and pay to paint it again when we move out. That seems silly.
K: Ok, whatever. Do whatever you want to do, Lyra. I'm getting hungry. I think you should just paint it the turquoise because you obviously want to paint it and you went to all the trouble of asking me here to help you decide.
L: No, no I'm just starting to think it's a bad idea. And, besides, I asked you over for more than help with paint. You're my sister! Can't I ask for your help and not have to take your advice? If Michael were here, he'd know exactly whether this color would be too much. For some reason, he just knows stuff like that. He has a better sense for it than I do.
K: Well, for Christ's sake, Lyra, then just wait until he gets home and stop obsessing. Can we go to lunch?
L: Sure, yeah, yeah, let's go. I'm just going to get some tape and tape these up here. Maybe they'll look different at night.
K: Yeah, yeah, do that. When does Michael get home anyway?
L: Next week. Tuesday, I think.
K: Really? Gone for two weeks this time, then? That's longer than usual.
L: Yes. But, I was thinking I'd surprise him, you know, with the painted room. I was thinking I'd make good use of the time.
K: Yeah, I can see that.
L: What does that mean? What do you mean?
K: Lyra, it's just, you're just. There's a hundred paint chips in here. What have you been doing since Michael left?
L: I'm fine, Kaiya. I'm totally fine. I've been taking walks, I've been helping Shane at the school, I've been painting. You know, yesterday I went over to the school and worked with a couple of kids. I was there, I don't know, maybe 4 or 5 hours. It was good. I've been keeping busy, I have. And there's the garage, and her bedroom, that's getting done. I'm totally fine.
K: You are, huh? You're working in her room?
L: Sure, I am. Yesterday, I drank my coffee in there and changed a lightbulb.
K: That's not what I meant. Lyra, I meant...
L: I know what you meant...
K: Lyra, Lyra, listen to me. I don't think you know what I meant.
L: Michael's not coming home. Is that what you meant?
K: No.
L: Well, I think he's not. I think he's probably not.
Day 3: A Family Story
My mom is fond of discussing soybeans and wheat. Particularly, what
fields of soybean and wheat look like at different times of the year.
The smell of a feathered field, moments after the chaff flies. The
verdant rows of a crop that for so long sustained the people where I'm
from. Not in the form of hormone-laced tofurky, but as a commodity,
grown, harvested and purchased responsibly. Even today, with relative
freedom to live anywhere, she can not leave the Middle West, can not
leave a place with visible growing seasons, a place where the weather
reminds her of work ethic, where the pummel of rain is a respite; an
incantation, convincing you of God, for a moment.
My daughter plays with a bell when she visits my mother, its worn, wodden handle turned blonde from use. The brass clapper at the mouth dangles just long enough to seem enticing and chewable. The bell is from the one room school house where my grandmother taught, in Belvedere, IL, three hours from the farm she grew up on. Three hours from the place where my mother surely earned her stoicism, three hours from the place where my mom remembers her own mother talking about being locked in the closet by her brothers, tortured by her brothers, who my mother never met for reasons unknown or perhaps totally obvious.
When my grandmother was dying, she told my mom, "Everyone is terminal, Janey." And to this day, that is how my mom lives, sure that life will end and grateful for days of golden, amber, jade, moments of rest amid weeks of toil, looking up at the sky to predict the days' work.
My daughter plays with a bell when she visits my mother, its worn, wodden handle turned blonde from use. The brass clapper at the mouth dangles just long enough to seem enticing and chewable. The bell is from the one room school house where my grandmother taught, in Belvedere, IL, three hours from the farm she grew up on. Three hours from the place where my mother surely earned her stoicism, three hours from the place where my mom remembers her own mother talking about being locked in the closet by her brothers, tortured by her brothers, who my mother never met for reasons unknown or perhaps totally obvious.
When my grandmother was dying, she told my mom, "Everyone is terminal, Janey." And to this day, that is how my mom lives, sure that life will end and grateful for days of golden, amber, jade, moments of rest amid weeks of toil, looking up at the sky to predict the days' work.
Thursday, October 10, 2013
Day 2: Undeniable
I read today about the nobel prize awarded to two physicists who, in
1964, discovered the likely existence (there was no physical proof of it
then) of a particle they believed responsible for conferring mass upon
other objects. Something about imagining it as a particle moving
through a molasses-like space, pulling things along with it, something
else about electroweak forces. One commentor in the NY Times article
suggested it could be helpful to
think of it as a bill attempting to pass through Congress, growing more
"ponderous" and "bloated" as it traveled. Ha! Bemoaning my own lack
of conceptual knowledge, or understanding, really, I read with wide-eyed
amazement. It was the infamous "God particle," the Higgs Boson. Over
the next 40 years or so 10,000 scientist attempted to prove the
existence of the boson. And they did, using the Hadron collidor. I
marvel at things like this: the effort, the belief, the math, the
imagination, the yearning to understand that it takes to accomplish such
a fundamental understanding of our universe, something that brings us
closer to knowing ourselves, to understanding the elegance of the
worlds' complexity.
I remember seeing Tom Stoppard's play, "Arcadia" for the first time in High School, becoming obsessed with it. Obsessed with the idea of entropy, and later, as an older student reading the play, obsessed with how the complexity and perfection of the writing mirrored the complexity and perfection of the young Thomasina, a mathematical genius in love with her tutor. I can't help, as I get older and more ponderous myself, see this blurring of science and emotions and explanations of beauty, or "symmetry", as we try to explain it all with math or with vocabulary, I can't help but see it as part of something else that needs explanation. Can we explain our need to know, our desire to create? This is the work of poets, but it is also the work of physicists. In the end, we need so many languages to explain our existence. And I am glad to be in awe today.
I remember seeing Tom Stoppard's play, "Arcadia" for the first time in High School, becoming obsessed with it. Obsessed with the idea of entropy, and later, as an older student reading the play, obsessed with how the complexity and perfection of the writing mirrored the complexity and perfection of the young Thomasina, a mathematical genius in love with her tutor. I can't help, as I get older and more ponderous myself, see this blurring of science and emotions and explanations of beauty, or "symmetry", as we try to explain it all with math or with vocabulary, I can't help but see it as part of something else that needs explanation. Can we explain our need to know, our desire to create? This is the work of poets, but it is also the work of physicists. In the end, we need so many languages to explain our existence. And I am glad to be in awe today.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)