Scene of the crime.
“Live the
questions now. Perhaps you will then gradually, without noticing
it, live along
some distant day into the answer…....”
writes Rainer
Maria Rilke.
Thinking about
this all weekend.
“Don’t curate
dinner,” says partner earlier at dinner.
The kids over having
to spend another minute with mom and dad.
Our to meet Rob after.
Jameson is not
your friend.
Chatting
degenerating into nonsense.
Feeling like I don’t
care.
Nothing matters.
Just sitting
chatting with an old buddy.
Trusting that what
he said means nothing.
Just to be there.
Sortov.
Remember that.
Not your friend.
You writing is
good, not great, he reminds, cocky condescending.
Time for sleep.
How are you getting
home asks Rob.
Train.
Not the train.
Found myself on bench
at West Fourth at 3 AM.
M after M train.
No F trains.
Will I ever be repaid for the F trains that have been
canceled I asked the train conductor.
I’ve been
there.
Out into mean
streets I walk out,
Finally making my
way home by 345 am.
Three hours later,
the alarm rings for the kids’ breakfast.
Not feeling tip top.
Coffee and
breakfast with the kids.
Poems, a first page
of A Separate Peace,
Please no more Dad.
You are overwhelming
them, says partner.
The kids are off.
Cereal and angst
in their bodies.
Ready to face the
world.
Coffee with mon
amour.
Good to have a
friend.
The conversations
the night before not sitting so well.
At least I have a
friend.
Not feeling tip top.
Labor management at
4 PM.
Yoga at 1215.
I trudge my way
there, through a 90 minute flow.
Sweating out the
poison.
Don’t go to it.
Realize you already have what you are looking
for,
Ossi reminds us in
class.
Find your peace.
Savasana
Resting.
Body finally in peace.
Up to clean my
mat.
Jameson reminds me
he’s not done.
Dancing from my stomach to head back to down.
Its raining slush.
Bathroom locked.
Jameson sprints
from my stomach up to my mouth.
I hold her.
Hold it Ben.
All the yoga
goddesses are around.
Maintain your
dignity.
Find your peace.
Like a cat who
wants no one to know she stumbled,
I walk outside in nothing
but my shorts.
And vomit on the
tree outside class.
Thinking of
John Cheever I ride my bike home.
God knows he’s
been there.
A lonely day in
1952, he writes in his journal:
“When the
beginnings of self-destruction enter the
heart it seems no bigger than a grain of sand.
It is a headache, a slight case of indigestion, an infected finger; but you miss the 820 and
arrive on credit extensions.. The old
friend that you meet for lunch suddenly exhausts your patience and in an effort
to be pleasant you drink three cocktails, but by now the day has lost its form,
its sense and meaning. To try and restore some purpose and beauty to it you
drink too much at coctails you talk too
much you make a pass at somebody’s wife and you end with doing something foolish
and obscene and wish in the morning that you were dead. But when you try to trace back the way you came
into this abyss all you find is a grain of sand.”
There are not too many grains of sand in this part of
Brooklyn.
But plenty of
friends.
Not a grain of sand.
Write and prepare.
Think about
comrades.
Ride to the meeting
in the snow.
Meeting the pres.
Late.
Talking it through.
Back to kids.
Cooking dinner.
Talking Whitman with
Mark.
Caroline off
teaching.
Chating Rilke with
the teenager.
Don’t let the blues grab you.
You gotta talk to
the blues.
Rilke says we can
learn from that exquisite sadness.
The gloom is a gift.
Eventually, it lifts
if you let it.
Work it.
“… love your
solitude and try to sing out with the pain it causes you,” writes the bard.
“For those who are
near you are far away... and this shows that the space around you is beginning
to grow vast.... be
happy about your
growth…”
Is it possible to live
and love as Rilke did?
“Let everything
happen to you
Beauty and terror
Just keep going
No feeling is
final...”
Or am I John
Cheever without the succinct sentences?
Is democracy
crumbling?
Can joy re
enter the fray.
“Live the
questions now.”
Even if answers
are not forthcoming.
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