Expecting the Unexpected
A
brief spring rain just drizzled across the city. Now, the sparrows are
gliding from tree to tree, flitting up and down fences, and picking at
shredded paper in the warm sun. Before the rain, I stood outside on our
porch, surveying the numerous varieties of flourishing grass that need
to be mowed. A jay glided upwards to perch in the towering canopy of
the old oak tree across the street. A pair of cardinals dashed through
my vision, one after the other, toward a blossoming magnolia tree in
what seemed the ritual precursor to mating. A robin alighted on the
chain-link fence near the catwalk I take to the gas station. Then in
the neighbor’s front yard, among the dandelions and sparrows pecking at
blades of grass, I spotted a bird I'd never seen before. Its throat and
belly were both the yellow of tulips in full bloom, its eyes were
banded by black, and its crown was the same soft brown as the common
sparrows that fill the trees and skies in our neighborhood. After
twittering about for a moment or two, it took wing. Now, it's long gone.
I
think, after consulting Google, that it was a common yellowthroat that
perhaps had strayed from one of the densely wooded areas that spot the
Cincinnati metro area. I'm certain that it's a possibility, but it may
have been a yellow-breasted chat, or perhaps a yellow warbler. But, I'm
not certain, and to me, this is crucial—even if this admission gives
you a bit of skepticism about my ability to identify birds.
You
see, I no longer know what will ignite the next poem, and I never know
if I'll need a fire extinguisher. It could easily be the image of that
bird blending in with the dandelions or its sudden absence or simply
the sounds of the words “yellow-breasted chat.” Better, to my mind, are
the unreasonable notions that swirled, ever so briefly, around my head
before I strolled inside to sate my curiosity and find out what type of
bird that tiny thing was. At first, I assumed it was some sort of finch
I'd never seen. Or perhaps it was simply a sparrow that had wondered
too near the nuclear power plants near Lake Erie whilst migrating. Or,
in an even less likely turn of events, the sparrow might have been
kidnapped by garden gnomes who had painted it the color of daffodils
with the intention of keeping it as a mascot. Luckily, that sparrow
escaped to lounge among the dandelions of the neighbor’s lawn. Finally,
since it is spring, it could be the result of genetic mutation, and
that bird could simply be the luckiest male sparrow in the world.
So
how many potential poems is that? No matter. I won't write one of them.
The point, however, remains the same. To write, you have to pay
attention. Keep your mind (and your imagination) open. When it's safe,
try saying hello to strangers. Listen to both far-right Republicans and
unwashed leftists in Che Guevara t-shirts. And carry a notebook
wherever you go. Just think, the entire world—no, the entire
universe—is soil for your poems! Your pen is the plow that breaks
through the hard ground of the ordinary, and your imagination is the
rain that tumbles down with a bolt of lightening, a roar of thunder.
In Medias Res
The
respite from rain has ceased. The skies are occluded by slow moving
clouds emptying swaths of rain onto the hills of Cincinnati. I'm
tempted to conflate the dreary weather with my mood, but honestly, do I
feel like a chill wind? Do I feel like wet, vibrant leaves gathering on
suburban lawns?
It has been a difficult week—for me.
But my mind is still aflutter with thoughts of fiction and poetry, alighting here and there.
More,
both of our dogs are curled asleep on the sofa beside me and I have a
day before me in which I can contemplate literature and take seemingly
insignificant steps—deleting sentences, crossing out cliches, and
rearranging paragraphs—to add my voice to the constant conversation of
the world's literature.
It is not so bad.
***
On
Tuesday night, Michelle and I were lazing on the couch, indulging
ourselves in a little mindless television. We let the dogs cavort
upstairs in the wide-open spaces of our attic bedroom. Archie, our
Italian Greyhound, appeared as if from nowhere, at the foot of the
sofa. His right hind leg was pulled up to his side as he stumbled
forward on three legs.
Michelle picked him up, coddling him
for a moment. Together, we ran our fingers along his leg, looking for
something bruised or broken, but he never once lunged with a bite. He
never once whelped in pain. He just let us move our hands across his
leg as though nothing—aside from the constant shivering that might have
been simple fear—was wrong.
All night, Archie kept his right
hind leg off the ground. We watched him, concerned. But figured it was
just a bruise or a slight sprain. Something Dixie had done to him by
playing a little too rough.
We went to sleep.
***
What is the proper order here?
When
you write a poem, a story, or even an essay, it's often easy to follow
the clock of your memory. Wind it back to what seems the beginning and
go from there. In their epics, of course, the Greeks eschewed such
notions—always jumping to the middle of the conflict, allowing the epic
to unfurl both backwards to the beginning and forward to the end.
In The Odyssey, what does this tell us about causality?
***
Sometimes,
I suspect it's difficult not to view one's life as a kind of epic poem.
Like Stephen Dedalus, perhaps. In contemporary terms, perhaps a
melodramatic mini-series is more appropriate.
Regardless, we
constantly look at our own lives through the lens of narrative. We
constantly rewrite and revise the stories we tell ourselves about
ourselves.
I am still looking for the words to describe
Archie's injury. Part of me wants to blame myself for not watching the
dogs more closely. Part of me wants to blame Dixie, our Jack Russell
Terrier, who is perhaps twice his size.
But we've not reached the beginning yet.
***
On
Saturday, rejection after rejection seemingly tumbled from the heavens
like hail. I did not react well. Instead, I kept thinking about endless
rhetoric I've heard. The Internet is changing publishing—with lower
cost publishing virtually anything can be published.
I kept
asking myself why my flawed poems have yet to catch this wave. Is it
because such sweeping generalizations miss the particulars of
publishing a poem anywhere? Or is it because my poems just aren't as
good as they should be?
My wife had to cheer me over diner food.
***
Where is the beginning?
We've
learned that when Archie was born, his hind knees had a congenital
defect. The tendons between two of his leg bones are not straight.
Instead, they angle across the joint, resulting in more pressure and a
likelihood that the tendon could pop loose from the groove where it
lays. And his tiny knee cap floats from its normal position—painfully.
Typically,
this condition, called meida patella luxation, manifests itself
gradually. Yet, with Archie, some sort of trauma on Tuesday exacerbated
his condition. Archie will need surgery.
In the meantime,
there is nothing I can do for him, aside from being here for him,
restricting his movement as much as possible, and providing him with a
little pain killer when he needs it.
***
I want you to think for a moment about ordering. Why do we make the decisions we do about ordering?
And how have I done today? Are all of these disparate parts connected?
Can
you see how one thought is strung together with another—the way a
tendon connects two bones, the way a difficult day can help connect a
couple, the way a line connects to the next one and the next, turning,
here and there, toward the end?
Archie will be fine by next
month. I will be fine. We will be fine. And this knowledge, I suppose,
is a kind of beginning. Isn't it?