***
i think trust must be
knowing
that someday i will be
standing
somewhere a
good ways off (a
good time hence),
and not
wishing
it was all different.
***
***
And somehow I wonder how we
ever managed to live before we knew
adenosine and scapula and macrophage
and watched with curious invasions the
mitoses of a million unknown brethren and then
further – as in all things, all thrills, all deep hungers, never
satisfied with the joy already in front of us – as we began with
feverish indignation, with righteous entitlement, to uncode, unfold,
unravel the very letters and words of our
deepest identities –
and yet somehow we
did live. We ate, breathed, slept, and made
love to our wives, who carried for us hundreds and thousands of
children, new lives always springing from old ones, joined to, joyed with
one another –
and all this without knowing
how it all worked, was it was all “called.” We did not need to “call” these things
at all. They came to us
unbidden
in the first place.
***
Is anyone still there? We shall see. Regardless, I am here. Even if I am the only one. Hope everyone is well. – R.E.W.
we’ll see how this goes. whimsy often betrays.
***
last night i was certain
that i wanted
some scorching black drink brewed
fresh and only for me
and when it was done and
all the grounds were coursed through and
all the oils and sacred secrets had been
sucked out i
poured it into a cup and
set it somewhere new, different,
seemingly benign
heat scores and
time wears and apparently
together they conspire to draw
rings in unsuspecting innocent wood
at last when
undeft fingers clumsily looped into
ceramic rings to
rescue planks of ancient trees it was
too late
and already carelessness had
spent its fortune on
making some mark that
no one but me would
ever see
i hoped, more
dearly than i hope that
euclid was right, and that five hundred
billion years hence no one
still
will have heard my name
***
it’s been a while. challenges are welcome. please, shout to the heavens the horrors of this poem. it will, in all honesty, be appreciated.
***
Fiction has long been a part of my life. There have been books historically which i have read and re-read incessantly throughout my life. When i was a child and a teenager, most of these tales took the form of fantasy or science fiction. Even fancied myself a bit of a fantasy writer at one point, and i still feel as though i could set down a rather rousing epic if i put my mind and (more importantly) my heart to it. Some period of time into my early adulthood i started shifting my reading and writing interest to more “literary” fiction, whatever that nomenclature signifies. i have begun and left unfinished no fewer than five novels, having never caught sufficient steam or momentum, or perhaps having never had the requisite discipline, to see these projects through to completion. My reading in this arena has been, for a time, rather diligent at least, and there is certainly a tremendous and nameless appeal that the fictive voice holds in my heart. It is not out of the realm of possibility that i may at some point dig up from under the earth of time and business these efforts and breathe life into them anew.
Poetry has also competed for dominance in my aesthetic sensibilities, and though i have not quite had the patience to study it as thoroughly as i ought, there are still times when it seems that the only mechanism which will do a subject justice is the poem, thus as you can see i have written my fair share of them. Most of them are at the very least elementary, and some even go so far as to be downright terrible and asinine.
Recently, however, despite my traditional attachment to these slightly more artistic forms of communication, i have begun to suspect that perhaps my gift really lies in the area of non-fiction. i have never written very much of it, save on this particular blog, and even though the bulk of my posts here can be classified as non-fiction, they still feel fictitious, at least in the sense that they are driven by narrative rather than by research. i must confess i owe at least a portion of this suspicion to my wife, who first pointed out that she found my non-fiction to be my best work. Lately i have toyed with idea of working more exclusively in this domain, and it is starting to gain sway for me. i suppose what always steered me away from writing non-fiction was a lack of qualification. i am an expert in precisely zero subjects, save perhaps the subject of myself. But perhaps this is enough. Perhaps there is enough of a story in my life – and i suspect there is, not because i have lived a particularly adventurous or meaningful life, but because i have lived a particularly rebellious one – to merit its writing. After all, God has written a rather amazing story already, having provided for me time and time again despite my unwillingness to receive that provision. i think perhaps i will stay away from fiction, at least for the time being – God is, after all, a better story-teller than i will ever be – and stick strictly to writing about my experiences with Him and the recovery He has seen fit to mercifully bring into my life. Maybe in this, at last, after a year of dabbling in essentially every variety of writing and succeeding at none, i have found my calling. Time however, will tell.
The well-known adage “truth is stranger than fiction” has a less-familiar second clause, which i find even more profound than the first. “It is because,” Twain says, “fiction is obliged to stick to possibilities; Truth isn’t.” If you had asked me 30 months ago what i dreamed would be “possible” for the coming years, for my personal and spiritual life, for my career, and for my marriage, i would not have been able to even begin to guess at the current shape each of those elements has in my life. i believe that the purpose of writing is to provide insight and wisdom into the life of another, and by doing so, be a force for peace, for reparation, for reconciliation. Fiction gives us a certain view of truth through its exploration of possibilities, and poetry another through its propensity for ambitious metaphor, and both can provide some measure of universality, and thus each may, in part, accomplish the objective of establishing commonality. But God has written a truth, full and glorious, that no human word can sufficiently capture, and in my case, as it is for many of us, that truth is more compelling and more exhilarating, and thus ultimately vastly more unifying, than any story or device which we have ever conceived of or read. These stories, our stories, with all of their ugly and rambunctious and supercilious components, are the stories which people most need to hear. These are the stories that will heal, because ultimately they are not about us at all. Tell yours, and i will do mine.
***
***
1a
stopped at a light, on my way to
somewhere I wish I already was,
the curve of the windshield seems today flat,
like a muted television in a department store
tuned to some episode of
reality TV, while I am
shopping for something else-
nearby a woman sits cross-legged on
naked concrete median, packing
spare clothes in freezer bags-
she mumbles to herself,
taking inventory of her
ragged rugged pack, which
contains all that she owns-
in two dimensions
she laughs to herself at some joke that
none of us can hear-
2
at dinner my friend explains his
brother’s experience as a
cast member of this or that
reality program.
“Everything he said,”
he tells me, “was entirely
scripted. He is actually
nothing like that.”
We laugh and take small bites of
twenty dollar entrees.
1b
the light turns green and
we all drive on. The flatscreen shows now
pristine white shopping centers, as if I
changed the channel to
programming I could understand and
think about later while falling asleep
in a warm bed-
***
I
back to land, to
numbers, screens, digits, dials,
quotas, schedules,
alarms. my heart recalls well
days at sea, but already forgets
the lessons learned there. i am in
need of some words, some mantra, some
prayer perhaps, to remember these things–
II
what i do not know is
vaster by far than the
rolling wave of what i do.
what is great and greatly
unkown can be either
feared and shunned or
wondered at, praised,
beloved. i have seen many things.
there are many more i will
never see–
yet all things, whether
teariest pleasure, creeping weeping joy, or
darkest, deepest terror, all will
someday end–
the edge of one ocean is
too, the border of another, newer one,
not yet traversed,
holding more wonders,
more joys, more fears,
and yet more lessons to learn
and recall when needed most.
***
***
swaying left and right,
left and right
left and right.
i am abed, stomach
shifting and churning.
against white sides they
beat and shift
making sleep fitful and
incomplete,
dreams ugly, vivid, and
stark–
until i remember
who owns the waters.
suddenly sheets are
swaddling clothes, bed is
bassinet, and waves naught but
mother’s arms, mother’s song.
i am soon
fast asleep.
***
***
words thrown together –
but not in sentences.
without verbs, present action:
alone
disjoint
inert.
***
Loneliness is never more cruel than when it is felt in close propinquity with someone who has ceased to communicate. – Germaine Greer
Christianity teaches us to love our neighbor as ourselves; modern society acknowledges no neighbor. – Benjamin Disraeli
***
Sitting spectatorially in
sofa stands, i watch as two October wars
rage. Through glass eyes, glass screen
i patricianly observe, black box in hand to
mediate. The third, the visceral, in me:
which to settle upon? Both will
make history, both will be assessed,
tossed around analyzed up and down for
years to come. In the first conflict i at least
have a voice, but using it seems only
quietly gurgling: it drowns in ideology rivers and
policy rain converging in
halftrue stewy sea whose water is mostly
salt. My heart finds it
undrinkable, instead just floats upon it
recklessly abandoned like
an oar that used to steer someone else’s boat.
In the other i have
no say, no power, no
stake even. The outcome changes
nothing, no lives are trampled or
saved, no schools closed or
opened. And yet i am compelled,
entrapped; disabled by bomb blasts of
awe. It sucks me in smartly, tightly, like a
fat man’s belly near a pretty girl.
There is an elation here, an
involvement, a genuine
hope. I opt finally for
this innocence, this nowness, this
momentary onliness:
the crucial importance of baseball. i
smile, and remember what it was like
to play as a boy.
i couldn’t tell you
who won the debate, but i am
pretty sure it wasn’t
you or me.
***
***
The streets creak reluctantly awake.
Scurrying hurrying by go the vehicles of
salesmen and bankers, movers, shakers, makers of things, their
headlights stabbing yellow knives into the sleeping flesh of
night, shuddering merciless into the still rumble
waves of engine growl. These are the
drivers of cars and economies, every effort matters, every
pedal pushed, gas or brake, timing is everything, and everyone hurtles along
together foreignly fast, envelopes already pushing, shoving, as if
today only existed to atone for
what was forgotten yesterday. Sidelined and
sitting passive, watching waning peaceful dark, my car is parked and
silent, still dewed from evening rain and i
wonder how i might politely, gently, undisturbedly
decline to drive anywhere this day.
***