Tuesday, February 1, 2011
So far, I think I’ve been fairly successful in using the Web in general and the blog medium in particular as means of hustling my thoughts into the bright light of day. And hustle I must, because tomorrow is a form of paralysis. I don’t trust it, and I don’t believe in it. Oh, it exists, alright — the way everything exists in these brains of ours. But try to make sense of it, and the next thing we know, we’re setting our lives by calendars and clocks. Time. I don’t have time. If I only had time. We need time. Give me time. Time heals all wounds. Time is what runs down your arms when you eat a ripe juicy peach. It’s summertime, it’s wintertime, it’s springtime, it’s . . . fall. Fool. Last night I dreamed my elderly mother and one of her elderly friends from our elderly hometown were descending the steps from a brightly lit abode late at night just as my son and I were arriving on foot. They had their purses and were all smiles, as if they’d been playing cards in a roomful of friends circa 1962, when such things were common in their world and mine, when the cars parked in the driveway were glorious sulking pieces of metal fitted with chrome grimaces and smiles, except that in the dream there were no cars, only a house with a dome made of bricks and little castle windows, and these two women as happy as could be even though they could hardly walk for fear — mine, not theirs — that each step might send them skidding into the street below. But it didn’t happen. Nothing did. Why should it? I saw them, and that was enough. They were happy, and the joy it gave me was almost more than I could stand. It still is. The thing about time is this: I’m immersed in a very important project that’s weeks and months from completion, and if I don’t stay alive long enough it won’t be completed. It’s the same old story: So what? We die when we die. We die in the beginning. We die in the middle. We die in the end. We die with words on our lips, with thoughts in our minds, with hopes, dreams, memories, desires, inklings, hints — and often it’s our death that does the work we could not do, or that we were afraid to do, or that we couldn’t even imagine doing because we were too busy imagining something else — and is that so bad, really? I’ll finish it or I won’t. Statistically speaking “time” is in my favor. And yet I remember a crazy tobaggon ride I was on once as a kid, skidding wildly past rocks and tree trunks toward no particular destination. So luck is involved. To be the kid, to be the man whose mother laughs in his dreams, to be alive just long enough to
“Time” is my newest Notebook entry. Old notes are archived here.
“He imagined himself” added to Poems, Slightly Used.
2.1.2011 #1 (poem, Sandburg, Frost)