Quick-draw Friday

All the strange meetings we have in our dreams . . .  Last week one of my students said she met me on the street and we decided to go to Sbarro for lunch.  I'd never choose Sbarro for lunch.  And last night I went to visit my brother.  He was attending a small liberal arts college where the lack of structure turned into something nefarious, but I couldn't figure out what.  Then I was visiting Montana with a friend, but I accidentally drove off without her and ended up at that mountain from Close Encounters.  Where will I end up tonight?

Things I Used to Be Scared Of, Part 1

Putting on turtlenecks (because something might grab you while you're waiting to be able to see again)

 Escalators

 Falling asleep in a dark room

 Seeing a ghost of an old lady when I get up at night to pee

(OK, I'm still sort of scared of that one . . .)

Truth's Secretary

When I was a smaller human, I liked the idea and practice of paperwork.  

I was set up with a desk and old office supplies, and I would stamp things, and staple them, and take them to my mom for her initials, then initial them myself and put them in the proper pile. 

It was not dolor to me. 

But if my life had been only that—yes, dolor.

It was the comforting click-clack sound of stapling, the deeply familiar blue-black of the stamp pad ink.  O, how I loved my date stamp, with the moveable numbers!

 

Sometimes I would add a thumbprint to something, if it needed to be extra official. 

Charles Simic wrote this:  “Each one of us, our poets claim, has the potentiality of being the truth’s secretary for a brief spell.”

And, anyway, “metaphor,” via Latin, via Greek means “to transfer.”  Means, also to link things, connect them, be an attentive amanuensis.  To staple together.  (Also, remember carbon paper?  Carbon paper fits in here somehow.)

 

WHILE YOU WERE OUT

To:  Joanna

Re:  Notes for a poem

The other day on the subway (the B train), the sense that everyone was doing a performance piece, playing themselves, costumed and attituded, Cindy Sherman-style.  The delight of that, the momentary satisfaction of seeing your own “character.” 

Dear Brother:

That summer Mom paid me to stay home with you during the day instead of working at the library, sorry I got up every morning and put you in front of the TV and fell back asleep on the couch for a couple hours while you watched Fraggles and your weird Maya the Bee show and the Beetlejuice cartoon, which you loved but which gave you nightmares. 

Also, you’re welcome.

Love,

Sister

Suze Orman Prose Poem

Watching Suze Orman before bed seemed like a recipe for whatever, but I did it anyway.  I was not bringing home $25K per month, like the guy who called in to ask permission to send his four year-old daughter to private grammar school for $36K/year.  (APPROVED.)  In bed I put in my earplugs and took sleepy breaths.  The radiators were off, even though it was still winter outside, even though it was late March.  I thought of horse breaths on a chill day.  Have I ever seen horse breaths on a chill day in real life?  If I had gone to a private grammar school, would I still be here thinking of horse breaths on a chill day?  Oh, Suze.  

After the Botanical Garden

My brother and I sit at McDonald's eating soft serve and French fries.  He says, "Let's each say something positive," and for a moment we just sit and stare.  Stumped.  Then we realize we are eating ice cream in the middle of a weekday afternoon.  That we are together.  That we exist on the Earth at the same time.