Clearing off the dust of an old poem.

A Poem: written in the morning

So many nights of struggle, of convincing and persuasion. 

I am lost in a sea of words forgotten or misread or even twisted now 

 into words proclaimed in anger or hate or apathy

It is not so

I would never do this, never be unmasked as your villain. 

I want to understand this prison you're in 

that possesses this strange power to  create the bars that hold you with every word or action that is uttered or made

I want to do this out of love

Not some sort of masochistic revenge on myself to make myself suffer

Not a desire for misery or self flagellation

Love

And the feeling that I am strong enough now to endure

I do see some of myself in this 

Maybe that's why

Maybe I do understand deep inside

Maybe you recognize me and it scares you

Maybe we are good for each other

Maybe we can endure mirages and those storms of emotions that won't let go

Maybe we can endure this because we both understand 

We can both feed and nourish the other

Not kill and annihilate like it has always been.

Before we were two maelstroms left to rage in emptiness

Now we connect and impede the storm

We will hold the storm inside our arms so it cannot get out. 

Don't drift away because then I can't reach you

Don't drift because now

You are just out of reach of my arms

I can't help to keep the storm away that way

We will keep the storm away. 

Call You Lover

Don’t call me “dear”

it sounds so harsh to my delicate ears

Call me by my name but only sometimes

I can call you by your name though

any time of the day or the night

and you shall respond.

You will be there for me whenever I want

Respond to me as I wish

No surprises accounted for

You will act how I think you should act

For you are

the reflection of my negation

and the one breath whose presence keeps me warm

and whole.

My wounds you understand

you nurture and protect

With a love conditioned by only one thing:

my forgetfulness the day after

I will not disintegrate

Like that

with you

I will not let you be the you that I have not charted

The you that I did not expect

The you that lives and breathes outside the lines I have drawn

in the discarded dirt of my unkempt garden.

In other worlds

You have become dust

Just like that

The wind takes you away and disperses you

So that I can no longer see you

Your tiny particles so small to be

otherwise lost

time is whisked away with you by the wind

and memory fails.

You---------

You were the lone daffodil 

Hidden inside crinkled sheets 

Blown to  pieces

And bits

with one wrong move

and somewhere

in a far off land

My “I” will never hope to exist

Without you.

Warpaint.

War Paint

The bell for dismissal rings. We rush down the hall

Towards our lockers, throwing our social studies books in our bags

For the test tomorrow: 1960’s American culture

We walk quickly home to fetch our rackets

Meeting back at the court to find none free

Taking  turns hitting the ball against the green wooden backstop of the end court

For a while simply feeling the rhythm as we discuss the latest boys:

Our targets. Their lips: our bulls' eyes

We trade secrets about the latest L'Oreal lip gloss, its shimmer drawing us onward

To the end cap at the corner drug store

And so we fall quickly, eagerly into an intimacy that came to us so easily then.

Back at home  we spy from the window of my brother's room

the soccer field beyond the gate

Parting the primary-colored football curtains to obtain the most discreet viewpoint

I stealthily borrow my dad's binoculars with the royal blue velvet-lined case

Slide them out, removing the plastic lens caps and putting them carefully back inside

We observe like fisherman for a while as the players grow tired and gather

To eat the grapes off the thick grapevines that lined my back fence

Tongues purple, legs sinuous and toned, sweat gathered but now evaporating

Within the coolness of the shade found there

I feel as if I am personally enticing them with the Dionysian fruit.

We place the latest by Dead or Alive upon the turntable as we

Darken our lower eyelids with the blackest eyeliner available

Maybelline:  the red pencil, always the red pencil

Lit with a disposable Bic lighter to make the black run freely

We slip one into each of our purses

And take off down the road, through the confines of the dusty expressway

1976 Delta 88, Medium metallic blue with a white vinyl top and velour seats

My blue sedan, tank-like, and ready

Complete with a withered, rusty hole in the driver's side floor

Eaten away by rock salt: the process and product of a cavernous northern winter

For this was our next mission, the most important

Our hair flying behind us, our optimism running as high as the engine’s RPMs.

We pull into the Franklin Street parking ramp, free after 5

To  survey like snipers from above

Peer below and nervously laugh as we plot our next move

Our teenage insecurities rolling over us

As we wait for the current chosen one to enter the bar below

Luring us by his potential future glances and attention

And so it and our descent begins

Down the ramps toward street level

My stiletto heels and her combat boots scraping and thumping

Resounding  echoes that bounce against the multitude of concrete surfaces

Of our post-industrial city at night:

Darkness passing over in order for us to see clearer

To navigate more precisely, for after all

Only nighttime will illuminate the mind’s recesses,

And so allow for our escape.

  

A Flash

I wake up to darkness. Blank with no light at all. I feel my way towards the window to see if I can make out any light. Nothing. It is a moonless night. It is beginning to get cold, and I feel a rush of the draft upon my skin coming from the opening between the window and the sill. That window has never closed right.  Need to address that tomorrow. The condensation is moist and cold on the panes of glass. I realize my cheek is wet from resting it against the window. I close the drapes and feel them wrap around my body. The built up grime from my cigarettes on the drapes leaves an oily dusty film on my fingers. My first instinct is to wash them, but I fear not finding my way to the bathroom.  I grope my way towards the bed and sit down; the quilt is freezing cold, the slippery cotton sateen more suited to the summer heat.  Goosebumps break out on my legs, and I feel the hair stand on end on my arms. I lay down next to my cat just to be close to some warmth.  I run my fingers through his thick fur, the density of it gives me comfort. As he breathes, his fur moves and increases the sumptuousness of it.  I wish I could wrap him around my body to chase away this chill. He is too small, so I wrap myself around him instead.

I hesitate to get inside the sheets, but I still do. I must just sleep out this power outage until morning.  No sense in staying awake in the dark.  I feel something move past me.  I think? No, that was just the draft I tell myself.  Now I will worry. I am just about to fall asleep when I hear a sound out in the living room. Don’t do this to me now! I cannot go out there. I can’t. But I guess I have to. I find my robe that I had left on the chair and slowly move down the hall using my fingertips to navigate where I am. I sense the molding to the bathroom door when I see a flash in the living room beyond. I freeze.  Quietly, I continue further; my bare feet gripping the rough floor boards tensely.  I reach the living room.  The openness of the space scares me. Now where did the flash come from? It is so dark, and my eyes have not even adjusted to it. It is that bad. I wrap my arms around my body as if to give myself some protection from the unknown beyond. Still feeling my way forward with my feet, I reach the turkish carpet. It’s roughness gives me some apprehension. Without seeing the carpet, its merit decreases.  It becomes just a mat on the ground to protect the floor.

Just then, I am covered by a presence encircling me. I cannot move, but feel the breath of this person on my face. They begin to caress me: my waist, then my hips. I attempt to scream, but my efforts are met with a male “shhh” and a “don’t worry”. I am strangely comforted by these words. I am lifted up as if weightless and lie down on the sofa. I don’t wish to scream any more. I am met with warm hands on my feet, massaging them and giving me sensations that I have never felt before. I relinquish my will to this strange man. I don’t stop to think where he came from. Strangely, no. Do I wonder how he came to be in my living room? The door was locked after all. No, I don’t.  His effect on me is so strong to overcome my reasoning capacity.

He begins to remove my robe.  His fingers are rough and a little hardened.  His touch is insistent, yet soft and reassuring. He causes no pain at all, no reason to resist or even to wish him to stop. He lights his cigarette, but I am unable to see his face in the glow.  This must have been the flash. He turns away as he does it. So far, I only know him through his touch. I am able to reason through all of this, but not the fact that I am being intimate with a stranger who has entered my house through a locked door.  I do remember locking it.  I even checked it twice. I remember how it felt in my hand vividly. He touches my chapped lips with his fingertips.  He seems to want to memorize me with his hands. Now, my eyebrows.  He exhales smoke into the air above me. He picks up my own hands and places them on his face.  I begin to touch it. I start with his jawline.  It is strong and roughly stubbled.  I move to his eyelids.  He closes them to allow me to feel them.  I move my fingertips around the sockets, attempting to visualize him or at least get a sense of his bone structure.  I feel a sense of urgency come over me. I know somehow that I need to feel his hair to get a sense of who he is. It is rather short and seems to be combed back off of his forehead. It has some kind of pomade feel to it. A little creamy to the touch, and it stays on my hands. His hair is still soft though, not coarse, and I continue to comb through it, luxuriating in it, feeling more content as I do.

He climbs onto the couch with me and positions himself against the back. I am impelled to curl up against him to get warmer, but I stop myself. He wraps his own arms around my waist and rubs my back lightly. He seems to be my height or close to it. Our feet line up, and he doesn’t seem to need to bend his legs to fit. I rest my body against his without hesitation. He is not thin, or his body would not feel so right to me.  No angry bones getting in the way.  Nothing sharp to annoy me and cause me pain. Just softness and warmth. I curl my arms against my chest and nuzzle my body against his. In a few moments time, I shut my eyes and fall asleep, darkness and fear forgotten. This was the blanket I was looking for all along; his warmth that which had always been missing from me.

This is a companion piece to this story here.

Cellular Respiration: a new poem

Cellular Respiration

He digs his shovel in

Deliberately

Metal against rock reverberates

As his lower back spasms and springs back into a healthy S curve

Slivers of polystyrene sift through the pile of dirt, growing and expanding like a malignant mass

On top of an old forgotten portion of the garden

Black eyed susans forgotten then passed away into the compost pile at the back of the shed

He begins to build up various levels of ruin inside his faded citron wheelbarrow

His feet burn

Hidden inside closed cell resin coverings equipped with adequate holes for drainage

He takes a strong sip off the rubber tube resting upon his shoulder

His moist curling hair dripping the taste of salt onto his lips as he works

He needs a refill

He walks towards the garage to obtain another bottle, hopefully chilled

He rests his shovel against the doorway

And enters the cool shade, skin drying quickly, heart slowing down

The smell of fumes pervades as his half-painted lockers

Stand to dry, grey at attention

Their new home a respite compared to the sad junk yard from which they came

He bends into the tiny, 5 cubic foot fridge

And pulls out a cold one

The latest elixir that a gardener needs

Ginseng, protein, Vitamin C, B6, B12, chromium, zinc, and taurine

the perfect concoction for optimum bodily efficiency
And just what a gardener needs to sustain himself

In his hot and grueling fight to maintain

His Garden---safe, hidden, uncorrupted by man.

What is Literary?: The Case of June Miller

When thinking about the question of whether a piece of writing would be considered literary or non-literary recently, I began to wonder about our own subjective relationship to what would constitute literary and what it would mean depending on one’s own personal perspective.  

I happened upon, in the writings of Anais Nin, the characterization of June Miller, wife of the writer Henry Miller. June is an interesting case.  As Anais had written in her published and widely renowned diary written from 1931-1934, June had told her once:

“I don’t care for films, newspapers, ‘reportages’, the radio. I only want

to be involved in life while it is being lived. ‘Do you understand that Anais?” 

Anais responds: “Yes, I do”.  June goes on to say, “Henry is literary….I know Henry thinks

I’m mad because I want only fever. I don’t want objectivity. I don’t want distance.  I don’t

want to become detached.”

Anais’s reaction to June is what this particular diary entry is all about, and one thing that she realizes is that she and Henry are both so different as compared to June, and it is this idea of embracing experience and not becoming detached that creates the difference between them.  

It is interesting that as Anais writes of June, she brings to her character the necessary detachment in order to analyze who she was as a person and most of all as a woman.  When Nin herself writes of her role, she says:

“What I have to say is really distinct from the artist and of art.  It is the woman who

has to speak.  And it is not only the woman Anais who has to speak, but I who

have to speak for many women.”

Nin is attempting to create a universal commentary on womanhood with everything she writes.  June, conversely, wishes to be the sole creator and author of her own life.  As Eagleton has written:  “One of the things we mean by calling a piece of writing “literary” is that it is not tied to a specific context.”  In other words, each literary piece may emerge from certain contexts, but their inherent meaning, and what the reader interprets from them, is not tied to those specific contexts.

June wishes to be infinitely tied to those contexts and does not wish to be separated from them.  It seems she sees Henry’s and maybe even Nin’s analyzing eye as potentially intrusive on her freedom to live in the moment and experience events, people, and things grounded to context. As Terry Eagleton writes, in non-literary contexts, there is no choice over meaning, and it tends to be determined by the setting itself.  

When Nin describes the outward persona of June, she refers to it as false and is “repelled by her insincerity”.  She writes:

“By the end of the evening, I felt as Henry did, fascinated with her face and body

which promises so much, but hating her invented self which hides the true one.

This false self is composed to stir the admiration of others, inspires others to

words and acts about and around her.  I feel she does not know what to do when

confronted with these legends which are born around her face and body; she feels
unequal 

to them.”

I get the feeling when reading this passage and comparing it to June’s point of view that Nin is attempting to deconstruct June and render her more “literary” and more “authentic”.  It gives me the feeling that she is not doing justice to June Miller, the woman, by recreating her into the universal woman. As the diary entry goes on, we see June opening up to Anais, becoming vulnerable.  This pleases Nin in that she finally gets past this sense of insincerity.  Could she be then attempting making June into a “literary” figure by pulling off her mask of identity? Could she be taking away her individuality in the process? This is what she writes about who she “thinks” June is behind her masks:

“June. At night I dreamed of her, not magnificent and overwhelming as she is, but

very small and frail, and I loved her.  I loved a smallness, a vulnerability which I felt

was disguised by her inordinate pride, by her volubility.  It is a hint of pride.  She

lacks confidence, she craves admiration insatiably.  She lives on the reflections of

herself in the eyes of others.  She does not dare to be herself.”

She is breaking June down, like one would break down and interpret a literary piece.  She is rendering June literary, a woman who wants anything but to “be” literary.

Nin wants June to merge with her as woman.  She wants them to be the same and to be exposed without a true identity:

“We have both lost ourselves, but that is when one reveals most of one’s true self

You’ve revealed your incredible sensitiveness.  I am so moved. You are like me,

wishing for such perfect moments, and frightened for fear of spoiling them.”

Is it possible that this journey towards literary is merely a journey to find ourselves, a narcissistic endeavor, if you will?  Are we only looking for our own reflections in the mirror of a literary work?

In the end, June “conquered” the inauthentic, non-literary June.  By the end of her diary entry, she has rendered her universal and literary.  To Nin, this was an act of possession:

“I discovered June’s purity.  It was June’s purity I was given to possess, what she

had given to no one else.  To me, she gave the secret of her being, the woman

whose face and body have aroused instincts around her which left her untouched

which terrified her.  As I had sensed, her destructiveness is unconscious.  She

is imprisoned in it, and detached and bewildered.  When she met me, she

revealed her innocent self.  She lives in fantasies, not in the world Henry lives in.”

It is interesting to note here that she is calling June “detached” whereas June is trying to avoid becoming “detached”.  So who is correct? Is June’s outward persona that she shows the world and uses to experience life her detached side, or is it the inner woman she holds inside, small, frail, and vulnerable, that is detached? As Eagleton writes, “No piece of writing is closer to reality than any other.”  And I would have to agree.  Neither piece of June is less “June”.  They are both valid and both engaged at all times.  So shouldn’t we then say that writing is always both literary and non-literary at once?

Lastly, Henry’s writing is different than Nin’s writing.  Miller writes about his signature genre, the autobiographical novel:

“It is not a mixture of truth and fiction, this genre of literature, but an expansion

and deepening of truth.  It is more authentic, more veridical, than the diary.  It is

not the flimsy truth of facts which authors of the autobiographical novels offer, but

the truth of emotion, reflection, and understanding, truth digested and assimilated.

The being revealing himself does so on all levels simultaneously.”  

So, perhaps, how did Henry understand his wife? He understood that there are parts of June that contradict some of her other facets, yet are still just as valid.  Just like in a literary work, there will be parts that are mere context, mere facts, mere historical moments, but there will be behind all of this an inner detachment (or attachment) to what the work is/means/is symbolic of/is interpreted as. Perhaps it all comes down to a difference in understanding the nature of the term “literary”: literary is not a simple unmasking to find the truth.  It is more of an interwovenness between facts and truth unearthed from these facts, so, if we reject one for the other, we are shortchanging of what it means to call something literature and thus “literary”.