Gone, across the borderline.
This past September 11th, I read a number of journal entries by various friends reflecting on the date. All I could think of was this poem. Today's the second of October, and yesterday in particular (as today) the same poem has been running through my mind.
John Sheehy told my freshman writing seminar in the fall of 2002 that on September 11, 2001 he posted this poem on his office door. Honestly, I didn't get it then, but a few weeks ago when I went back to read it, it suddenly shook me. I got it. Here it is.
I have heard that hysterical women say
They are sick of the palette and fiddle-bow.
Of poets that are always gay,
For everybody knows or else should know
That if nothing drastic is done
Aeroplane and Zeppelin will come out.
Pitch like King Billy bomb-balls in
Until the town lie beaten flat.
All perform their tragic play,
There struts Hamlet, there is Lear,
That's Ophelia, that Cordelia;
Yet they, should the last scene be there,
The great stage curtain about to drop,
If worthy their prominent part in the play,
Do not break up their lines to weep.
They know that Hamlet and Lear are gay;
Gaiety transfiguring all that dread.
All men have aimed at, found and lost;
Black out; Heaven blazing into the head:
Tragedy wrought to its uttermost.
Though Hamlet rambles and Lear rages,
And all the drop-scenes drop at once
Upon a hundred thousand stages,
It cannot grow by an inch or an ounce.
On their own feet they came, or on shipboard,
Camel-back, horse-back, ass-back, mule-back,
Old civilisations put to the sword.
Then they and their wisdom went to rack:
No handiwork of Callimachus,
Who handled marble as if it were bronze,
Made draperies that seemed to rise
When sea-wind swept the corner, stands;
His long lamp-chimney shaped like the stem
Of a slender palm, stood but a day;
All things fall and are built again,
And those that build them again are gay.
Two Chinamen, behind them a third,
Are carved in lapis lazuli,
Over them flies a long-legged bird,
A symbol of longevity;
The third, doubtless a serving-man,
Carries a musical instmment.
Every discoloration of the stone,
Every accidental crack or dent,
Seems a water-course or an avalanche,
Or lofty slope where it still snows
Though doubtless plum or cherry-branch
Sweetens the little half-way house
Those Chinamen climb towards, and I
Delight to imagine them seated there;
There, on the mountain and the sky,
On all the tragic scene they stare.
One asks for mournful melodies;
Accomplished fingers begin to play.
Their eyes mid many wrinkles, their eyes,
Their ancient, glittering eyes, are gay.
In news of the living, I am doing well.
Living is going well. Yesterday I went to Meeting, and afterwards Mike asked me how I was doing, and I indulged in a brief worried complaint about my current financial distress, and the immediate necessity to buy wood and have a clean stovepipe. He immediately offered- "How about I come by with my brush and see what I can do? Also, Ian (the chimney sweep) comes to Meeting; I'm sure if you're really in a pinch you can work something out with him." Some churches give you guilt trips. Mine gives offers of charitable chimney sweeping.
Also on Sunday, I taught my first 'First Day School' class (for the uninitiated, what Quakers call Sunday school). It off beautifully, as unprepared as I felt. I have two eighth graders who are very enthusiastic. The theme of this year is peacemaking, so for our next class/gathering, we're reading various Quaker writings on nonviolence, conscientious objection, and peacemaking, as well as writing letters for Amnesty International. Other exciting plans, from analyzing fantasy novels for anti-war themes, to attending an anti-war protest, are in the works.
I have a new hobby: birdwatching. I am illicitly showing up to (with Bob's blessing) Bob's Ornithology class. I know (knew?) next to nothing about birds. I can name most trees in the New England forest, track and identify most mammals, forage for medicinal herbs, give at least the order of most insects I see, and generally feel comfortable in the woods. Until a few weeks ago, however, I could only identify: chickadee. cardinal. blue heron. blue jay. barred owl. robin. loon. Oh, dear.
When I first started learning the trees, what was previously an enormous green blur suddenly took on distinction and character, like the first time I put on glasses in second grade. The same thing is happening now. Because birds can be so tiny and unobtrusive, I find my eye is catching other details more, as well. Last week, driving down Canal street, I noticed a house set back from the road that I'd never noticed in a year of living there. Oh, dear.
I like my cabin. I'm happy with living alone and without amenities, but it's certainly making me appreciate said amenities more. What I miss the most, by far: effortless, clear, white light at night to read by. The view out of my window in my morning, though, the walk through the woods: these things make up for it.
It is, in fact, lonely living alone in the middle of the woods, with nothing except the phone line to help me feel connected to anyone or anything else. I find myself lonely wherever I am, though, and it is far easier for me to be lonely while actually alone than to be so painfully lonely when surrounded by others. Living alone is dramatically easing the acuity of my loneliness, even as I notice the presence of loneliness more often. It becomes almost pleasant; a reminder of my affection for other people, rather than an almost unmanageable pang. When I am around others now, I more thoroughly appreciate their presence- and I'd like to think that I am also becoming better company: a little less demanding of affection, a little more self-contained. May these trends continue.
That's all, I suppose. As ever.
John Sheehy told my freshman writing seminar in the fall of 2002 that on September 11, 2001 he posted this poem on his office door. Honestly, I didn't get it then, but a few weeks ago when I went back to read it, it suddenly shook me. I got it. Here it is.
I have heard that hysterical women say
They are sick of the palette and fiddle-bow.
Of poets that are always gay,
For everybody knows or else should know
That if nothing drastic is done
Aeroplane and Zeppelin will come out.
Pitch like King Billy bomb-balls in
Until the town lie beaten flat.
All perform their tragic play,
There struts Hamlet, there is Lear,
That's Ophelia, that Cordelia;
Yet they, should the last scene be there,
The great stage curtain about to drop,
If worthy their prominent part in the play,
Do not break up their lines to weep.
They know that Hamlet and Lear are gay;
Gaiety transfiguring all that dread.
All men have aimed at, found and lost;
Black out; Heaven blazing into the head:
Tragedy wrought to its uttermost.
Though Hamlet rambles and Lear rages,
And all the drop-scenes drop at once
Upon a hundred thousand stages,
It cannot grow by an inch or an ounce.
On their own feet they came, or on shipboard,
Camel-back, horse-back, ass-back, mule-back,
Old civilisations put to the sword.
Then they and their wisdom went to rack:
No handiwork of Callimachus,
Who handled marble as if it were bronze,
Made draperies that seemed to rise
When sea-wind swept the corner, stands;
His long lamp-chimney shaped like the stem
Of a slender palm, stood but a day;
All things fall and are built again,
And those that build them again are gay.
Two Chinamen, behind them a third,
Are carved in lapis lazuli,
Over them flies a long-legged bird,
A symbol of longevity;
The third, doubtless a serving-man,
Carries a musical instmment.
Every discoloration of the stone,
Every accidental crack or dent,
Seems a water-course or an avalanche,
Or lofty slope where it still snows
Though doubtless plum or cherry-branch
Sweetens the little half-way house
Those Chinamen climb towards, and I
Delight to imagine them seated there;
There, on the mountain and the sky,
On all the tragic scene they stare.
One asks for mournful melodies;
Accomplished fingers begin to play.
Their eyes mid many wrinkles, their eyes,
Their ancient, glittering eyes, are gay.
In news of the living, I am doing well.
Living is going well. Yesterday I went to Meeting, and afterwards Mike asked me how I was doing, and I indulged in a brief worried complaint about my current financial distress, and the immediate necessity to buy wood and have a clean stovepipe. He immediately offered- "How about I come by with my brush and see what I can do? Also, Ian (the chimney sweep) comes to Meeting; I'm sure if you're really in a pinch you can work something out with him." Some churches give you guilt trips. Mine gives offers of charitable chimney sweeping.
Also on Sunday, I taught my first 'First Day School' class (for the uninitiated, what Quakers call Sunday school). It off beautifully, as unprepared as I felt. I have two eighth graders who are very enthusiastic. The theme of this year is peacemaking, so for our next class/gathering, we're reading various Quaker writings on nonviolence, conscientious objection, and peacemaking, as well as writing letters for Amnesty International. Other exciting plans, from analyzing fantasy novels for anti-war themes, to attending an anti-war protest, are in the works.
I have a new hobby: birdwatching. I am illicitly showing up to (with Bob's blessing) Bob's Ornithology class. I know (knew?) next to nothing about birds. I can name most trees in the New England forest, track and identify most mammals, forage for medicinal herbs, give at least the order of most insects I see, and generally feel comfortable in the woods. Until a few weeks ago, however, I could only identify: chickadee. cardinal. blue heron. blue jay. barred owl. robin. loon. Oh, dear.
When I first started learning the trees, what was previously an enormous green blur suddenly took on distinction and character, like the first time I put on glasses in second grade. The same thing is happening now. Because birds can be so tiny and unobtrusive, I find my eye is catching other details more, as well. Last week, driving down Canal street, I noticed a house set back from the road that I'd never noticed in a year of living there. Oh, dear.
I like my cabin. I'm happy with living alone and without amenities, but it's certainly making me appreciate said amenities more. What I miss the most, by far: effortless, clear, white light at night to read by. The view out of my window in my morning, though, the walk through the woods: these things make up for it.
It is, in fact, lonely living alone in the middle of the woods, with nothing except the phone line to help me feel connected to anyone or anything else. I find myself lonely wherever I am, though, and it is far easier for me to be lonely while actually alone than to be so painfully lonely when surrounded by others. Living alone is dramatically easing the acuity of my loneliness, even as I notice the presence of loneliness more often. It becomes almost pleasant; a reminder of my affection for other people, rather than an almost unmanageable pang. When I am around others now, I more thoroughly appreciate their presence- and I'd like to think that I am also becoming better company: a little less demanding of affection, a little more self-contained. May these trends continue.
That's all, I suppose. As ever.