The Finlander and I are heading out in the morning for a week long celebration of Anniversary 25, so I thought before we left I would run up to the Walmart, scan a few wedding pics, and post them on the blog. But the great American outpost has failed me. The clerk was happy to scan away those pics of Gene and I looking oh very young and somewhat dazed, but she couldn't quite grasp the technology of simply saving them to my thumb drive without making prints. You'll have to use your imagination. We were stunning, perky, etc. Ah, well.
I'm going to have to use my imagination, too, it seems, to envision it. I feel like a woman out of context, looking at those pictures. It was September 28th, 1985, late in the afternoon, 4-something, I think. The temperature was mild. The skies were blue. I remember the wedding invitations read, "Hear ye, hear ye, it has been proclaimed," etc. Later, there was dancing & drinking & smoking, etc. The next day I remember thinking, well, this will be an adventure. Yes, indeed. And now here we are in an entirely different context, wondering what the next 25 years will bring.
I'm loving James Schuyler Collected Poems, loving the ease with which he narrates/navigates. Here's a piece from The Morning of the Poem.
This Dark Apartment
Coming from the deli a block away today I saw the UN building shine and in all the months and years I've lived in this apartment I took so you and I would have a place to meet I never noticed that it was in my view.
I remember very well the morning I walked in and found you in bed with X. He dressed and left. You dressed too. I said, "Stay five minutes." You did. You said, "That's the way it is." It was not much of a surprise.
Then X got on speed and ripped off an antique chest and an air conditioner, etc. After he was gone and you had changed the Segal lock, I asked you on the phone, "Can't you be content with your wife and me?" "I'm not built that way," you said. No surprise.
Now, without saying why, you've let me go. You don't return my calls, who used to call me almost every evening when I lived in the coun- try. "Hasn't he told you why?" "No, and I doubt he ever will." Goodbye. It's mysterious and frustrating.
How I wish you would come back! I could tell you how, when I lived on East 49th, first with Frank and then with John, we had a lovely view of the UN building and the Beekman Towers. They were not my lovers, though. You were. You said so.
A barred owl has found a resting place in our tiny woods. All week long he's been calling, Who cooks for you? Who cooks for you-all? Gene heard him first, but now I've heard him, too. Of course I want to see him! The dogs and I also found a green heron fishing in Baugo Park several days in a row by the duckweed pond and Gene and I saw a blue heron fishing over at Cobus Creek Park. Can I write the barred owl in my bird watching book if I only heard him? It was unmistakable. He's the only one that cooks for you. Hmm...
Fall. Everyone is back in school, the house is empty & I've been fortunate enough to borrow some books that engage me to the nth degree. I give thanks to the book lending gods that happen upon my way. Last week Jack Gilbert's Monolithos gave my mind motion. Love this:
Poetry Is A Kind Of Lying
Poetry is a kind of lying, necessarily. To profit the poet or beauty. But also in that the truth may be told only so.
Those who, admirably, refuse to falsify (as those who will not risk pretensions) are excluded from saying even so much.
Degas said he didn't paint what he saw, but what would enable them to see the thing he had.