“Don’t wander off,” they said –
You already know. The path led
Anywhere, deeper by wider
As long as interest conspired
Distraction, while gloom gathered.
Shadows grew. Branches shattered
And drama flew. It was a squall,
Caught between sunshine. After all,
Here’s the plot: I didn’t get lost.
Just once – JUST ONCE – I’d like a fictional character to wander off the path and be perfectly fine. But I guess that wouldn’t be much of a story…
I don’t mean to become a ghost
But sometimes I can’t help it.
When the spaces I haunt begin to show,
The places that spread my spirit across the map;
This and that, too private,
Become pain that makes me gasp –
The heart that holds the ribs
And the head; a haunt just out of place
With time.
May is the month I go home to visit.
Home is neither a place I can stay too long, nor a place I can stay away from too long. That is the simple truth of it.
When time has stretched a bit too much between visits, it gets to the point where the place won’t let me rest. It feels like something deep inside gasping for breath. It’s a ridiculous situation.
It’s currently an unfixable situation. I’m not going home to visit this May. Perhaps August, perhaps October; at least then my haunting activities will be in time with the season.
My roommates have developed a catch-phrase.
Or perhaps it is a verbal tic, or the beginnings of a vernacular; it is hard to tell. Linguistic classification aside, here is the newly-evolved word: “Ooooooof.”
It is the sound of dismay upon opening the laundry room door to discover that, yes, it still smells of dead bird. It is the sound of the power going out, 2 hours into a 3 hour Old School RuneScape online quest. It is the sound of a used lunch container discovered after a weeklong stint in one’s work bag.
In short, it is a useful phrase that conveys a lot of emotion. As you might guess, the depth of said emotion may be further communicated by modulating the vowels. The laundry room situation, for example, has progressed from “ooof” – barely an exhalation – to “ooooooooooof” – a moan of horrified despair.
What makes all this even more entertaining is that – at the right time, under the right circumstances – if you sit very quietly in the shared living room and listen carefully, you can hear “ooof”s echoing from four rooms at once. It’s magical. I like to envision them exploding like tiny dandelions gone to seed: “oof!” “oof!” “OOOF!”
Quick, make a wish! – just be careful you don’t plant more.
If you’ve ever watched The Princess Bride, you know the importance of a good definition. Hence, I present a brief, highly-subjective dictionary.
Answer (n): the second half of a question. See Question. (v): to map knowledge through communication. See Map.
Compassion (n): “do no harm” turned inside out.
Create (v): to map between memory and unknown. See Map.
Empathy (n): the active state of seeing Self in Other, Other in Self. See Self, Other.
Map (v): to create relational understanding. See Create.
Memory (n): tool for the growth of Self towards empathy. See Empathy.
Need (n): 1) the action of natural laws on biological systems; 2) (social sciences) failure of empathy. See Empathy.
Other (n): the cause of change within the Self. In thermodynamics, a system in equilibrium has no change. As long as the concept of Other exists against the concept of Self, change is driven by the interaction of the two seeking equilibrium. See Self.
Resource (n): that which removes barriers to work. See Work.
Self (n): an entity which, lacking other options, you must learn to live with. See Other.
System (n): framework composed out of entropy. Perfect or imperfect map of cause and effect. See Map.
Today (n): space for work. See Work.
Tool (n): physical or mental construct that applies some sort of leverage to a problem, question, puzzle, experience, or idea. Either reusable or recyclable.
Toolbox (n): red, metal, latched; a mental construct. Lives on the floor of memory’s closet. See Tool.
Unknown (n): the first thing to establish in a system. See System.
Question (n): 1) tool that develops new tools. See Tool. 2) the first half of an answer. See Answer. (v): to approach unknowns. See Unknown.
Work (n): action driven by need. See Need.
In other words –
If a word is important enough to use repeatedly, it’s important enough to establish at least a working subjective definition, lest you discover that it does not mean what you think it means. After you’ve built an entire argument around it.
I look forward to hearing what definitions you might have discovered for your own most-used words!
Child of sunlight skies –
Who are you?
You hold the gift of “do no harm,”
Words to wear –
Anchor, charm,
Seal to bind
These lips and heart.
In my words, wisdom,
Perspective, thoughts and vision –
Ward against “They know not what
They do.”
What to create at world’s end?
Tuck in threads and rework the song,
Craft ends into hidden rebirth.
We are here to work, here to listen,
Tie off ends towards memory, towards forgetting –
Snip arteries, tie off the vein.
In the needle, the weft – the warp and the hum
You may lose the art of beginning again.
Let it go. Sometimes you must lose pain,
But all artists donate themselves. Today I give you my heart.
(Original version posted in Fragments, (c. 2020 PC)
What does it mean to complete your work?
Or rather – what does it mean to undertake your work, when you are aware that it may remain incomplete?
Memory and looking forward are both essential to living a human life. That is to say, humans – more than any other creature we have been able to determine – experience time as defined by that which falls either side of now. When tomorrow is no longer a certainty, we lose a handy mental compartment for all experiences labelled “not today – but someday.” We are forced to understand that some experiences are actually labeled “never.”
This loss of infinite tomorrow is a defining moment for most humans. It shapes us, far more than the moments we’re supposed to remember – first bike, first day of school, first pet, first kiss. First understanding of mortality: now there’s one for the family album. It definitely has that Hallmark appeal.
The reason this is such a defining moment is because of what follows. Almost immediately, the question becomes: what are you going to do about it?
What are you going to make with this life that is not infinite? What are you going to craft out of precious minutes and uncertainty? Are you brave enough, humble enough, to begin what you may not see to completion? Are you willing to work with no guarantee of leaving a legacy?
Jorge Luis Borges’ story, “The Secret Miracle,” is one of the most concise and memorable explorations of these questions. (It is, incidentally, the piece I think of whenever I am feeling sorry for myself over a stubborn piece of writing – or my own excuses about said piece of writing. I digress.) This story stays in my mind for two reasons: first, its plot, and second, a burning question the plot raises for me.
The piece begins with disaster and ends with a foregone conclusion. In between lies the story, the space where miracle is shaped. It has a certain amount of realism (magical or otherwise), and along with that realism goes a necessary fatalism.
The story’s protagonist, Jaromir Hladík, is a Jewish playwright in Nazi-occupied Prague; you see where the fatalism comes in. He has spent his life wrapped in his work, but has never achieved the artistic merit he is convinced he can produce. Yet his life seems to be ending.
Seconds away from death, he is granted a divine intervention. He is granted one year to finish his last, greatest play. The year, however, occurs only inside his head. It is time secured by the suspension of everything else, including bullets poised in flight. Between the order to fire and the end of his life, Jaromir Hladík must decide what “complete” means for him and his work.
You see, Hladík is convinced that this is the play by which history will judge him. He is certain that this is his work of record, the achievement that will secure his name and memory among the great playwrights. That is the rationale given for his single-minded pursuit of the play’s completion, even in the face of a death sentence. He is determined his work will live on.
But like many of Borges’ pieces, this story seems to fold inwards on itself. Hladík’s miracle directly contradicts his stated impetus. His chance to complete his play is contingent on circumstances that guarantee no outside validation. His masterpiece is completed in his head. In short – no one else will ever see it. It’s completion is literally between him and God.
Why does Hladík continue to work under these circumstances?
Why do any of us continue our work? We are all facing imminent death; not, perhaps, in such a dramatic or unsubtle fashion, but certain death.
In Hladík’s case, the relationship between creator and created is repeatedly blurred and re-worked. He begins as a creator unsatisfied with his work – a creator stripped of satisfaction in his creation. His creative capacity is threatened by the Nazi forces of anti-creation (destruction, repression, conformity).
The real struggle, however, is between Hladík and his wish for completion on his terms. It is the struggle of a Self trying to create an Other.
It isn’t a comfortable process. Most Selfs don’t want to give life to Others – they only want to extend Self. But most Others are determined to exist – especially the ones trapped inside a Self. To paraphrase Barbara Kingsolver’s words on parenting (High Tide in Tucson, “Civil Disobedience At Breakfast”), the job of a Self is to make themselves redundant, by giving the Other the ability to survive without them. It is the job of a creator to make themselves irrelevant to their creation.
Hladík’s struggle is resolved through the agency of a miracle which strips away the necessity of his Self. With no tomorrow, he can afford to release his ego. He can allow his expectations to become irrelevant to his purpose.
The final letter he envisions seals both his play and his demise: existence and eternity in a single point, erasure of the line between creator and created.
It is not Hladík who completes the play, but the play who completes Hladík.
While the world may judge his play and his body of work to be unfinished, Jaromir Hladík is complete.
Now – what are we to take from this?
Obviously this narrative – powerful though it is – is far more polished and refined than the real lives each of us grapple with. Hladík has the benefit of considered editing, an advantage denied most of us who live outside works of fiction. So what I say here is an intentional simplification of a complex thing.
Here’s an opinion. Self is not – itself – meaningful.
Let me clarify – each life has value, but value is not quite the same thing as meaning. Lives acquire meaning through interaction with Other. Each interaction with Other forces a life to confront it’s Self. Each confrontation with Self – when resolved – yields a Self more prepared to assist the being of the Other. And the more a Self focuses on Other, the more prepared a Self is to work without assurance of completion. In short, a Self who makes peace with its need for posterity is much better equipped for the business of living a generous life.
Yes, it’s almost a tongue-twister. Just wait till I put it in rhyme.
I’m sorry it’s taken me this many words to say this simple thing: we work without assurance of completion because we are part of an existence that we cannot comprehend. We cannot comprehend what part we may play in that existence, what secret miracle we may be granted or grant others. The process of working in the face of no tomorrow is the process of returning our Self to Other, until – like Hladík – the line between creator and creation dissolves.
What do you see in a can of tomato paste?
For only six ounces, it holds a world of possibility. It holds pizza, curry, or chocolate cake (true story – read Patricia Polacco’s Thunder Cake for the recipe). It is the warmth of tomato soup on a winter night. It is marinara; it is the miracle and the multitude. Loaves and fishes don’t have anything on a six ounce can of tomato paste.
Canned tomato is never to be confused with fresh tomato. It is an entirely different species. Fresh tomatoes are the definition of fleeting. They exist for a brief season. The end-of-summer ripeness is beautiful, but it is over quickly. Once the flood of vines retreats to the hot house, it is time to surrender the fresh tomato.
In its place arises the canned tomato. Once tomatoes are rendered into sauce and again rendered into paste, the water content is traded in, along with the bright gush and sugared tang. In return, tomatoes become immortal. Their taste gains umami muscle; their texture, a lipid silkiness. Simply put, it gains “zing.” It is a transformation that invites experimentation.
Actions that would be a sin with a fresh tomato are a delight with tomato paste.
Like all good companions, it is open minded. It has the head of an adventurer and the heart of an egalitarian; the luck of the draw plays to its strengths.
Produce in varying stages of freshness? No matter. It embraces all vegetables, cooked down or roasted. Parmesan or parmigiano reggiano are equally welcomed.
It takes well to oils, tolerates fat-free, accepts vegan and vegetarian options, and displays affinity for all major culinary traditions; there’s probably something in your pantry that will go well with it. Garlic? Ramen spice packets? Ranch dressing? Fish sauce? All fair game.
Ginger, coconut cream, cardamom – cumin and cilantro; the “Scarborough Fair Combo” of parsley, sage, rosemary and thyme; a fire drill of peppers, from black to bird’s eye. It loves cheese, bread, eggs, fish or fowl, and takes an ecumenical interest in beef and pork; each of these receive the best tomato paste has to offer. On occasion, it even provides modest cover for the mysteries of sausage or hash.
In conclusion: there’s a lot to learn from tomato paste – a lot to enjoy.
Now – if only I could find the can opener.
I stand between jungle and plains,
The broad expansion of fast food chains
And cell phone towers’ exotic heights
Where parakeets swoop.
From package to bird to tree
Nutrients cycle raucously
Grackles guard their carnival spoils
Where pigeons roost.
Each new crumb holds triumph and route,
Both squawked about.
Each new crumb is food
For feathered tomorrow’s ravening brood.
I catch my bus transfer at a spot which is a bit of a food court for the local avian population – including, to my delight, a flock of monk parakeets.
I spent yesterday destroying evidence.
Now, the obvious question arises – why go to the effort of destroying evidence if you are then going to talk about it? A more sensible approach would maintain silence regarding the whole business.
I never claimed to be sensible. But more importantly, it wasn’t THAT kind of evidence. It was, simply, evidence of life in a confined space. Dishes, dust, trash, recyclables, scattered papers, laundry –
Ah, the laundry. That, I’m afraid, did not go so well. There was a Calamity. A bird built a nest in the pipe leading to the dryer vent and then, sadly, took the pipe as its final resting place. Truly a case of “fallen off the perch.”
Since that pipe acts as the air intake for the dryer, it was not long before myself and the other apartment residents noticed a Presence among us. I would like to report mysterious drafts of feathers and a ghostly chirping, but that would be inaccurate. Instead, we were stricken with a Smell.
The dryer smelled, the laundry room smelled, any clothes put in the dryer smelled – soon, the apartment was littered with piles of fishy-smelling clothing that no one wanted to put away in their closet. Poltergeist looked like copy for Apartment Therapy in comparison; a little classic haunting activity would have been a welcome break.
As it was, once the bird’s earthly remains were removed, the Smell remained. Attempts at exorcism with Lysol and vinegar have so far been unsuccessful. I’m currently looking into the merits of goat blood.
Some evidence doesn’t go down without a fight.
Yes, I was cleaning. But it feels much more rewarding when I think of it as “destroying evidence”.
A strange jewel, a quiet creature: this company we keep could be either, so let’s say they’re the same thing.
It holds a gemstone’s depths and facets, always a new twist of whatever light shines through. It is precious. It is best held close to the heart; it is a gift for you alone.
It is also a small shadow, a creature that came in the window you didn’t open. Now, it is Here – politely, unavoidably, whether you want it or not; it is here to stay. It will not abandon you.
It’s the jewel no one fights over, the companion no one wants. No one ever claims it. Disease, addiction, depression, obsession – any of these are preferable to talk about with others. Pick your poison, they say – but don’t pick Grief.
That’s easy to say. No one ever picks grief, it picks you. It’s like the Emily Dickinson poem:
“Because I could not stop for Death – He kindly stopped for me – ”.
Perhaps that isn’t quite true. It isn’t a process of picking and choosing, after all. Grief can enter through any experience. Grief is part of the process of mapping the scope of our love for someone or something. Grief is about love.
That is, often we would not understand that we loved something if we didn’t discover it through grief. It must have been love, to spark grief. If the love was not suspected or expressed, this is the part where regret may come in – but it is possible to grieve without regret, just as it is possible to love without regret.
It isn’t always a dramatic process. It may take a while to realize that what you experience is, in fact, grief. This is particularly true if what you grieve isn’t a typical focus of grief; grief is not just for that which is dead or unreachable. You can grief anything you love, at any point of the process of loving. You can grief a friendship, a way of life, the world, your own mortality. You can grieve for the past, the present, and the future. Any of these are valid.
It may take even longer to find a way of expressing that grief in a way that adequately fits the experience – and it is an important enough thing, both in itself and on behalf of whatever sparked it, that it must be truthfully expressed.
So the question becomes: how do we say it? It seems it needs practice. It is not a frequent, or comfortable, topic of conversation. It is a difficult thing to share with others, and it is a difficult thing for others to hear. Thus the words themselves are rare – “I’m grieving.”
It’s a simple thing, an acknowledgement of a state; it’s a boundary. The world is either grieving or not-grieving. To color in the lines of this boundary, more words are needed.
“I live with grief;” “Grief came to stay with me.” Grief shares my days, I hold grief, grief colors my sight. The feeling of love has become mixed with pain. The feeling of love has become the same as pain. Give me time, because it feels as if I need forever. Give me tomorrow, because today is a hard thing to bear.
You may be wondering: “How do I live with grief?”
Grief doesn’t go away. Once it is there, it’s there, though it may lie buried deep.
What do we do with that which we can’t escape?
Accept it, fight it, argue with it. Live life despite it, or alongside it; seek understanding. Any of these are possible, all are reasonable, though some are futile. Grief is as varied and individual as love in its experience and expression. Don’t bother looking for a “correct” response.
But if you can – remember this: grief is not a selfish guest. It can coexist with almost any other emotion or experience. Let it stay; do not rush or deny it; treat it with respect. Allow it to do as it needs, and it will eventually lay itself down to rest, not gone but at peace.
Today, my friend, may you be at peace.
Skeleton At The Feast