Winter 2019. Not only a politico, a thoughtful literary mind.
Photo by Erik McGregor.
Photos from #CUNYSummerofStruggle.
by Photo by Erik McGregor.
History and
Beach Readings, Escape to Cape Cod
On the way to
Cape Cod, we listened to Ulysses by James Joyce.
“History, Stephen said, is a nightmare
from which I am trying to awake.”
It is with us every day, each of the day that make up the weeks, that fill the
months, the years of our lives.
Through
a stream of consciousness, we think, the way we dream, fear, remember, live, throughout a day in Dublin,
sitting in Cape Cod
a majestic story to take us through a week.
19 years ago, we were off to Greece,
18 we were off to Paris.
And then
Italy,
And then
Sweeden.
And then Berlin.
And then Italy again.
Drinking in Dublin.
And then hiking through Spain.
Chasing Cyclops in Sicily.
Swimming the sea in Sardinia.
Walking
Piss Alley in Toklyo, lost in Shinjuku, Japan,
Protesting in Hong Kong,
Eating Lau in Vietnam,
Watching time in Cambodia.
Going for an anniversary swim in Cape Cod.
We love Dublin, traveled there together
as a family in 2012.
Now we have memories, movies of Roan Inish,
“I
may be daft, but I’m not blind…”
"I'm not daft" says
Fiona.
Secret road below the surface.
Covid is not over, not by a long shot.
We still awake to the ascending numbers,
history that we cannot escape.
It’s the reality that sinks in each
day.
The realities congeal into a
moment.
“Everyone has a plan till they are punched in the face,” Steve told his graduating students, quoting from Mike
Tyson.
That punch hits of every day.
Steven Deadalous could not escape it.
Neither can we.
Trump blue lives matter flags down the
street in Sandwich, Massachusetts.
History was with on the
bike caravan for CUNY the day we left.
Marching with John Lewis, declared my sign.
John, who taught us about raw courage and good trouble
leaving that morning.
Ken and I talked about his pacifism as we
rode.
And remembered John who said:
““You are a light. You are the light. Never
let anyone—any person or any force—dampen, dim or diminish your light. Study
the path of others to make your way easier and more abundant. Lean toward the
whispers of your own heart, discover the universal truth, and follow its
dictates. […] Release the need to hate, to harbor division, and the enticement
of revenge. Release all bitterness. Hold only love, only peace in your heart,
knowing that the battle of good to overcome evil is already won. Choose
confrontation wisely, but when it is your time don't be afraid to stand up,
speak up, and speak out against injustice. And if you follow your truth down
the road to peace and the affirmation of love, if you shine like a beacon for
all to see, then the poetry of all the great dreamers and philosophers is yours
to manifest in a nation, a world community, and a Beloved Community that is
finally at peace with itself.”
A few days into Cape Cod, we heard about
Bluestockings closing.
And Emily rising..
I first met Emily at the Kavanaugh
hearings. We got arrested together.
Then did a book reading atbluestockings, then laughed, then fought a pipeline in Brooklyn.
Harvey Milk lost the first few times he ran.
John Lewis lost the first time he ran for office.
Emily
won on her first try.
Here in Sandwich, we swim every morning,
Every afternoon, every evening after
dinner.
We write in the morning and read on the beach, thinking about our lives.
The little one with the Hobbit.
The
teenager takes her Barnard classes
on zoom.
Caroline
drafts the novel that will change everything.
From
here to New York and back again with ourselves.
“It was a loneliness that walked the streets of the Village and filled the
bars, loneliness that made it seem such a lively place,” Anatole Boyard, Kafka
Was the Rage.
“The world was a carousel, an amusement park full of
spinning lights and loving noises.”
Diane Di Prima, Memoirs of a Beatnik.
The first few
days, I make my way through a couple beat, porn memoirs from Dad's old
collection.
Caroline just ordered Kafka was the Rage.
Colin said I should read it.
It took di prima 176 pages to get beyond
bodies to mention poetry.
Love her voice.
Broyard,what a writer.
Listening to Joyce with Caroline in free
moments, outside reading and writing.
Such gift in the sunset.
The next few days,
I pick up luc sante,
rimbaud, and the oranges of hieronymus bosch, miller’s memoir of big sur,
another favorite of dads....
My favorite Samuel
Delany read Rimbaud
and saw a path....
we are all on that drunk boat, floating
through time.
Late night swims.
Looking at the trees
Wandering through the doons.
Afternoon strolls through Provincetown,
Swimming in our underwear, under the piers.
Exploring old bookstores,
Talk
of old trips to New Orleans.
Thinking
about Rofes and Auden and Oliver, who wrote here.
Looking at the Victorians
And old paperbacks.
Picking up a copy of Trout Fishing in
America, by Richard Brautigan.
“I drank coffee and read old books and waited for the
year to end.”
Looking at the water
and dreaming.
The book about trout
fishing wasn’t really about trout fishing.
“Excuse me, I said. I thought you were a trout stream.
I'm not, she said.”
I'm not, she said.”
My dreams take me.
Dad and Will visiting
We went for Indian food on Houston
Street, but Dad ran away into the night.
Running away into the night.
I have no idea where.
Sometimes I can
sleep.
Or the sadness creeps.
You leave home.
But take yourself.
It’s a simple adage, that becomes more and more real.
Joyce saw it, chasing Ulysses, remembering
Dublin, writing in Paris:
“Think you're escaping and run into
yourself. Longest way round is the shortest way home.”
Scenes from Cape Cod.
