You are currently browsing the monthly archive for December, 2003.
Two contrasting poems, linked only by one identical rhyming word pair. Written on the eve of 2004.
Sonnet
“It’s green,” I said – for grasses and for groves,
For living leaves, for spring and eyes and tea;
But when I first decided, I was young
And unaware of greens for jealousy
And currency and sickness, and the tongues
Of daft environmentalists propose
That it may be a god, in which they must
Deny what former beauty it possessed.
“But blue,” she said, for shells and seas and skies,
For depths and vast expanses yet unguessed;
As much for spring as green, and more for eyes,
Through joy and sorrow equally expressed.
In speculation give the green its due,
But there can be no ugly shade of blue.
Poem
Just when did it become a crime
(In terms of written verse)
To make the ends of couplets rhyme?
(It seems there’s nothing worse
To modern writers’ appetites
Than this abomination)
So I will serve in little bites
This brief expostulation.
To all against me I entrust
Examples penned with ease;
It rhymes just where I think it must
And rhythms as I please.
You say I’m writing Robinson
Or Tennyson or Frost;
I sing myself; of hope to come;
Of Paradise not lost.
Perhaps like Cheevy, born too late,
My tea is in old kettles,
But you cannot appreciate
My metric mental mettle.
Disgusted, you abandon rhyme,
As though it’s trite or phony;
Continue in that idiom
And this is where it leaves you.
Others think a meter too
Confining for the purpose;
Then there’s this bizarreness
And new shape and
Sometimes syntax
Gets thrown window out the and what the hey
It’s (poetry right?);
Please never be too quick to judge
My rhyming line conclusions;
In any case, I will not budge,
Though you call me a Seussian;
The meter is my mother tongue,
The rhyme is second nature;
But words make fools of old and young -
I’m still a bit immature.
One of the problems endemic to amusing storytelling is that one wishes that one always had one to tell. Today I want to post, but so many things are running through my mind that I’m rather unfocused. What’s more, I’m just about out of amusing life anecdotes. Remember (those of you who went to school) career day, where you went to your parent’s workplace and had to write a report on it, blissfully unaware of what actually was taking place? Well, those memories came back to me today, and I thought it would be a good time to describe the average cubicle-life day of a working-class slave to the system.
The day begins with me finding my way from the bed to my automobile in as few lethargic steps as possible. Hopefully when I get there all the doors are shut and there are no felines slumbering in the back seat. After scraping the ice and other questionable matter from the transparent surfaces of the vehicle, I lumber into it and crank up the little four-cylinder that is the heart of my Dodge Neon powerhouse. As the little engine that could meows to life under the hood, I make my way down the mountain roads on my 12-minute journey (which becomes 15 or more if one encounters a hay-truck or an octogenarian – both likely in my area). I arrive no more than five minutes late and no more than five minutes early.
I am at first greeted by the fingerprint scanner which allows me to enter the door to my building. I place everything in my two hands into one arm and somehow get the lid of the thing open to key in the secret code and put my finger on the thing. Thankfully, I suppose, it lets me in again.
“Morning Michael.” This joyous refrain is repeated by most of the office women when they first see me. I acknowledge with a similarly tired response and brush by several of them in the thin hallway that leads to the punch clock.
*8:30*
(a good morning indeed – not punching in at 8:00 today)
If more than two people did the job I do, and if the other of the two was not randomly absent today, the mail would have been done. Today this is not the case. I pick up the big mailbox full of blue nylon bags and begin sorting the morning arrivals. As usual, a few are missing the return address on the other side of the index card conveniently located at the top right of the zippered envelope (leaving us nowhere to return them), assuring me that later today we will receive a call regarding a missing correspondence bag from one of our banks, and someone will demand to know where we are hiding them. I laugh to myself.
Once the mail has been sorted and delivered, I grab a stack of papers (presumably to push them), and sit down at my terminal, opening the various programs necessary to avoid the monotony of having only one open. Actual work begins to get done.
*9:15*
From here on, a number of scenarios are possible. In fact, the possibilities are nearly endless, in keeping with the variety typically associated with cubicle life. I will provide an example.
All of a sudden, as work begins to get done, the boss call us into an office for a brief meeting. She just wants to let everyone know that the fact that the turnover rate of employees in File Maintenance has increased of late is no indicator that she is on the warpath. Good to know. I return to work feeling immeasurably more secure about my job and continue. Actual work begins to get done.
*9:45*
The phone rings.
“This is Michael speaking, how may I help you?”
An elderly voice replies:
"Well, I'd just like to know what I got in the bank."
“Do you know your account number?”
"Yessir, I got it right here - one, zero, one, three, zero, four, eight, one."
I attempt to pull up the account under that number, to no avail. Perhaps it’s not a checking account.
“Is this savings or checking?”
"Checkin."
Pause.
“Could I have that number one more time?”
"Yep. It's two, zero, zero, one, one, four, three, eight, zero."
Pause.
“Do you know your Social Security Number?”
"Well, I got it right here with m'pictures, lemme see...gotta get m'specs on here..."
Good idea.
I was able to get the SSN to pull up the correct account.
“Alright, sir. Would you like to know your balance?”
"Well, I'd just like to know what I got in the bank."
“Yes.”
Stifling a laugh, I give him the balance, thank him, and hang up the phone. Actual work begins to get done.
*10:10*
About this time, the regular daily gossip machine revs up, and I begin to see people edge around cubicles and into other areas of the room, even talking in lip-reading whispers across my back. Gossip conversations are peculiar; they are never held at a single and undetectable volume, and I can’t be sure of the reason why. Small sentence fragments and exclamations come out just loud enough to be discerned, even through cubicle walls. “Well, I didn’t think…” “But did you see…” “Oh!” “I never would have thought -” “Well, she’s always…” and so forth.
This behavior continues until my meager lunch at 11:45, intermingling gossip with actual conversation, neither of which is generally interesting, useful, or even entertaining. Over the cubicle wall I hear:
“I can’t believe that finger thing right outside the door.”
“What?”
“Every time I put my finger on it, I feel like I might as well had put it in a toilet.”
Muzzled laughter.
“Do you have any idea how many fingers go through that thing in the morning?”
Of course, not everyone in the office is as perceptive or health-conscious as she. I also hear:
“Well, they’s gonna take down that big silver cross in our church – y’know, the one thas bin there since I’s about ye high (accompanying hand motion) – and replace it with a wooden’un. An’ that cross is almost’s old’s I am! I cain’t believe what th’ church is doin’ today.”
Understand that I’m not really listening for this now; it’s sort of a permeating ambiance that is constantly in the background of the working environment. I rarely participate.
Now and then someone walks through asking about where this or that form or sheet is, and wondering if someone has talked to this or that customer today. Every so often the boss walks through, to drop everyone a casual FYI or complain about how my color choice for my database program hurts her eyes and would drive her crazy.
Somehow, I escape the mayhem to lunch.
*11:45*
*12:15*
(It’s that quick, and the madness begins again.)
After lunch, the day begins to drag on. Actual work begins to get done.
The phone rings.
“This is Michael, how may I help you?”
"Yes, zis ees (name), and I want to see eef som tranzfers haf com een from Germany."
No doubt.
“May I have your account number?”
"Yes, eetz (number)."
The number pulled the account up.
“Could I have your Social Security Number?”
"Vell, zey usually ahsk for only ze last four deegits. I haf zem?"
“That’s fine.”
She gave me the numbers as I heard from the hall:
”Geez, I smell some’n burnin! Do you smell some’n burnin?”
”I thought it was Chinese food.”
"Do you see ze tranzfers?"
”Smells like boiled cabbage.” “Oh, I jus thought some’n’s hairs got too close to th’ heater.”
“I see two wire transfers, for (amount) each.”
"Yes, zat should bee ze amount for one of zem...and ze others?"
Coming around the corner, “I smell pickles. You got pickles in yer lunch?”
”Naw, just chicken strips. But I smell Chinese.”
”Whole place smell like cott’n candy all mornin.”
“Um, yes, that’s both – for (amount) each.”
"Zere should bee ze wire tranzfer, yes, but two?"
“There are two wire transfers showing…”
”Wish I had got Chinese for lunch.”
“…for (amount) each.”
"Oh, vell I vas eggspecting two pensions from Germany..."
I look back through the account for previous examples to compare. I found some from last month.
A co-worker returns from lunch, addressing another:
”Oh, you know that whole fax thing this morning?”
“I’m not showing pensions yet.”
"But two vire tranzfers? Zere should be only one, I sink."
“For (amount)?”
"Yes, and zen two pensions."
”Yeah, apparently that was another bank, and you were only the last half-hour of the problem…”
”…chicken strips and a baked potato…”
From across the room, “Gosh, it smells in here!”
“I only show two wire transfers – the pensions may post in a day or two.”
”So, If I eat ten million bags of ‘em, I need…”
"Oh, vell I don know why zere ah two tranzfers..."
”…but SHE said it was going to go through on the thirty-first…”
"Zere should be only one. But don't vorry about eet. So, vat ees my balance, zen?"
”I thought it was so inappropriate how…” “Oh!” “Can she do that?”
Getting back to the appropriate screen.
“Your balance is (amount).”
”If SHE does that…” “Well, I wouldn’t hesitate -”
"Oh! Itz ah leetl mor zen usual, I sink becaus Euro ees strong..."
”Didn’t you get that memo?”
"I don care about dollar, only about Euro!"
(laughs)
“Anything else I can help you with?”
”I’m back thar if y’need me.”
"No, sank you. I vill go now. Byebye."
In this manner the day goes on, sometimes to a frightful climax with an afternoon meeting and sometimes fizzling out into five-o’clock-ish oblivion. If the reading frightens you, you ought to join the ranks of cubicle-dwellers everywhere and see for yourself. The stories are true; only the numbers have been fabricated.
I trust that this account has drastically and appropriately narrowed your view of the modern working class and the consumers we battle with. But don’t give up hope for capitalist America. After all, we do get to move into new cubes next month…
And yes, the door handle to the printer room shocks me every time I touch it.
Poem 12/23/03 (many thanks to Chesterton)
Rejoice! Rejoice, Jerusalem!
Your prince is born a pauper’s son:
He shines, a summer solstice sun
That blinds and lights the world of men.
A consummated covenant
Belongs to Him, both God and man,
The roaring lion and the lamb
Embodied in his temperament.
His anger is a flaming sword,
His kindness is forgiven sin,
His counsel pledges life again
When death has cut its fragile cord.
Rejoice! Rejoice, Jerusalem!
Your murdered King with mercy comes,
Enslaving all His ransomed ones
That thereby they will be free men.
I thought I would provide an anecdote here for those of you who have participated in handbell choirs around the globe. My landlady plays in a handbell choir which she has been persistently urging me to join since my family moved up here. I, of course, have persisted in telling her that I have neither the time nor the interest. I think she has grown deaf to my objections. However, since this is not the point of the story, we must move on.
Out of respect, and gratitude for a rent-free Walden, I went to see one of their local performances. They had a very interesting setup, including a small rack of White Chapel bells and a large set of chimes. The show proceeded smoothly (as far as I was concerned) until the introduction of the third or fourth piece. The mistress of ceremonies got up and began: “This piece is based on the Scripture lesson of the lion and the lamb laying down together in peace; it’s a message of peace to the whole world.”
Those of you who know me can probably imagine my gut reaction to this statement. But something I read recently caused my indignation to rise at another level. G. K. Chesterton, in “Orthodoxy,” makes a fascinating statement about that very scripture passage, in a segment of the work dealing with paradoxes embodied in Christianity. He writes something to the effect that we assume (in that scripture passage) that the lion has become lamb-like, in order to lie with him. But the interesting parallel, he writes, is that in the person of Christ himself, lion and lamb coexist without compromise of essence. Christ’s ferocity in the temple is in no way mitigated by his humility on the cross. As Christians, writes Chesterton, we must embrace the world in meekness while fighting it with fire.
I did my best to enjoy the piece after the introduction, and the performance was done in a Seventh-Day Adventist church, where it seemed that none of the vegetarians noticed the inherent contradictions in the offending sentence. As they all talked afterward about cherishing the spirit of Christmas, something – no, everything – was missing in the words and sentiments. Every chance I got, I wanted to try to fill the empty space labeled “content” in the words, but the chances were few and nobody seemed really interested.
Celebrate Christ this year, Christ born a child, and sent not to bring peace, but a sword; Christ who is extravagant in love and ruthless in battle; Christ who is both necessarily terrible and abundantly merciful, as He must be to a lost world, and in all glorious and mysterious.
Circumstances being what they are, it would be better that they were not. I find it hard to believe even as I type that I am awake this late (or early, as the case may be), and it is even more difficult to think to myself that I am typing at this hour. No one with the kind of sleep deprivation I am experiencing right now should be typing. And yet, here I am.
Earlier in the week I had set aside Saturday (which has just passed several hours ago) for a day of errands, cleaning and miscellaneous to-do list items, followed by an evening practice with a band consisting of several new acquaintances in the area. Everything proceeded according to plan, with brilliant and almost uncharacteristically feminine domestic efficiency. (The reader may feel free at this point to interpret that the last sentence introduced a “too good to be true” scenario.) I purchased groceries, emptied my house refuse at the local “Transfer Station” (the reader may here interpret “land fill”), cleaned floors and various used surfaces, dusted (yes indeed!), purified the bathroom (a near-impossible accomplishment), and otherwise readied Walden to receive guests, all while doing the ever-present laundry. When the work was finished, I headed off to play.
I met Jimmy at the local Christian coffeehouse (home of the what-would-Jesus-Drink), and we made a series of stops on the way out of town to practice, including Papa’s Pizza for dinner and Lauren’s house to pick her up, along with her sisters (they sing in the band). We then traversed a small mountain in the ice, at about 25 MPH, to find Will’s house, wherein lay the basement of all their garage band dreams. Having arrived, in the dark, we played music all evening in a rather pitiful attempt to work out several songs for a performance next week. I discovered about halfway into the evening that this was the group’s first practice in nearly 6 months, and I didn’t know whether to be mildly relieved or slightly apprehensive. Things seemed to work out well, though, and we all left Will’s house at about 11:30 on a good note.
On the way out, as I was gathering my belongings, I instinctively felt my pockets, as if to check that everything normally there was still there. The routine examination failed when I reached the left front pocket and it was void of anything even resembling a checkbook (the reader may feel free here to chuckle a bit at the embedded pun). I thought I must have left it in the basement, as it sometimes slides out of this particular pair of jeans due to inadequate pocket size. I emerged a few moments later with no checkbook, determined to check our vehicle. I asked everyone if they had seen it, and all replies were in the negative as we stepped out into the freezing cold and the snow. The car check returned nothing. As we drove back, my thoughts were (and I think understandably) occupied with the creation of an inventory of all places visited during the day, and I was writing up a list of these places in order to call them in the morning regarding my checkbook. The dump, the grocery, the pizza place (not to be confused with The Pizza Joint), the coffeehouse, Lauren’s, my car; and as I was rounding out the list, Jimmy and I pulled into the Huddle House (the only thing open after midnight in Blairsville) for second dinner, in honor of hobbits everywhere. We conversed on important and consequential things for some time, making me forget about the checkbook altogether. I remembered it as we left, but only to remind myself not to worry, because I was sure to find it at one of the aforementioned places.
I got back to my car, which revealed no checkbook, and drove home. I arrived, I think, at about 2:45 AM, and went in to crash immediately. As I was laying down I saw that I had forgotten that my pillowcases were still in the dryer with some other clothes, and I went to retrieve them. I opened the door of the dryer, three-quarters asleep already and in the dark, and it was then that my life began to make more sense to me. There was one of my checks, right on top of a pillowcase and in plain view. I took it out, not quite realizing what had happened, and began to move the clothes around in the dryer. There was another. And another. In a few minutes I had the whole checkbook, quite separated and utterly destroyed, but very clean and Mountain Fresh. I guess I should be grateful that it was static-free.
Some things ought not happen at 3:00 AM. Some things ought not happen at all. But some things happen to me. I don’t know how I’m going to tell this to a customer service rep in such a way that they will feel even a bit pleased to find a way to get me another free checkbook. But I suppose it must pay, on occasion, even to work at a bank.
I woke up this morning to the sound of my alarm as usual, and rolled in a slovenly manner off the bedside to make my morning pilgrimage across the room in order to stop the beeping. Organizing my morning routine according to these first two steps is intentional; walking across the room is supposed to force the drowsiness from my eyes, even following a minimal amount of sleep. This morning, the prescribed regimen was on its way to a resounding failure when I happened to glance (with yet-blurry vision) out the window.
There, lying on the ground and elsewhere, was the first real snow of my Walden winter. I estimated (without my glasses on) that there was a two-inch blanket already bedding down the ground, and the flakes were still falling. The scene absorbed my attention for a while and I didn’t notice how short my time was growing before work, so I rushed through the rest of the morning necessities and ran outside, subconsciously relieved that all my car doors were shut.
I was noticeably less relieved when I couldn’t get them open.
My ice scraper was conveniently located in the backseat of my car, and any de-icer I owned was purely a figment of my imagination. My only recourse was to apply my hands, poor circulation and all, to the icy door and frame directly to force it open. Eventually it gave, and I fetched the scraper to change the look of my exterior from snow sculpture to, well, car. Once this was accomplished I was, as one might imagine, late for work.
As I pulled out of the driveway I found myself sliding, not of my vehicle’s volition, down the gentle slope into the main road. I was doing my best to drive quickly on ice without driving recklessly (which, if it is not an awkward and singular paradox, must be a blatant contradiction). Nervously swerving this way and that, hoping to gain time on the way in, I risked the welfare of my life and automobile on more than one occasion. By some miracle, I finally arrived. Twenty minutes past when I should have.
“Stop wipers. Turn off car. Remove key. Turn off lights. Open door. Do not leave keys in car. Grab books and assorted materials.” Things like this flew through my head at an alarming rate as I rushed into the Operations Center of the beacon of light, the bank I call home away from trailer. I clocked in, threw my things across the desk (not far) and collapsed in my cube, on top of a piece of paper that had not been there the day before. With effort, I raised my head up to read it. This is what I saw:
‘Inclement Weather’
“If at all possible, our banks will always be open for customers. However, since weather conditions vary in different regions, it is necessary to have an employee policy as explained below.
If conditions are severe, such as snow/ice, but the employee feels they can safely get to work by 10:00 AM or before, there is no need to make up the time missed.”
There was more, but I couldn’t read any further. The mixture of fury and hilarity that bound up my countenance overflowed in silent contemplation. I got a stack of papers and proceeded to push them.
The Christmas season is once again proceeding without a hitch in its annual invasion of our lives, and it is in that imperialistic spirit that I impose the following account on the reader.
Long after it was too late, my supervisor remarked to me with a smirk, “You could have just said ‘no’,” but at the time I found it impossible to turn down the request that I lead the “K.I.S.S.” Bank Choir in a celebratory program of carols for the local elderly. The acronym, as I soon discovered, stood for the choir motto (Keep it Sweet and Simple), which I was instructed to adhere to rigorously during my brief tenure. I took care to observe this maxim wherever and whenever possible, selecting a small sampling of carols and organizing two brief rehearsals (in preparation for two brief performances).
“Can you do this?” I was asked by a strange woman, as she waved her arms rather aggressively in a fashion I could only assume was intended to represent conducting. I replied in the affirmative, sealing my fate as both leader of the bankers’ choir and eternal friend of Kathy Wright. She is the eccentric Anglican artist in bookkeeping, whom everyone at the bank knows as the Pink Flamingo, due to her unique inkstamp, easily located on any of her documents. She loves Bible study and textual criticism, art and architecture, the elderly and her grandchildren, the oppressed or enslaved at home or abroad, and lengthy discussions about any of the above. She managed by the raw power of her charisma to recruit more than ten bank employees for an organization that must be, in principle, diametrically opposed to their everyday profession.
Our Chorale held its two practices as scheduled, and our eccentric Anglican baked massive cream puffs for everyone in attendance at the second rehearsal (this was her subtle way of contributing to my vocal warm-up strategy for the inexperienced). We worked on finessing the more essential details like melody and rhythm in our pieces (familiar favorites revisited) and after a total of about two solid hours of hard work, we all felt competent to present our program before the deaf and hard of hearing.
Fortunately, the preparation was carefully matched to prospective audiences and two were chosen: a retirement housing facility and a nursing home. Warmed up and limber, we strode confidently through the cafeteria door of Branan Lodge on Monday evening. There were only two of us at the time (Anglican baker and I), but the others arrived shortly before the scheduled performance hour. Dressed quite festively, I in my offensively loud tie and everyone else sparkling in a glittering array of sweaters, giving the group the semblance of a heavily decorated fire engine, the concert commenced before a somewhat less than enthusiastic audience. The uneasy silence of the crowd began to unnerve me, and I made a split decision in an effort to rouse and engage them. Whereas the concert had been accompanied by solo guitar to that point, which many of them undoubtedly had a difficult time hearing, I unshouldered the box and stepped over to the piano for an improvisational rendition of “Adeste Fideles” (though in English), a musical episode of fanfare-like proportions. It was regal, majestic, and lacked no confidence. We hammered through two verses and then, as I was preparing the grand buildup to the climactic third and final, I raised my head in triumph to view our choir, our magnificent spectacle – all of whom, to my sudden dismay, were staring at me in a way similar to that in which an elephant looks at an oncoming truck. Unable in the seconds passing to determine the reason for this new development, my gaze drifted down toward the music before me. An epiphany occurred amid the exercise of my genius as I realized that we had just sung the third verse, because our music only included the first and third (as it had from the beginning), and I was in the process of building up to choral oblivion. Had I been in my right mind, I would have simply taken the opportunity for a glorious instrumental outro. None would have been the wiser. Instead, I did something I cannot recall doing in a performance in the history of my life.
I stopped. Dead.
I laughed an embarrassed laugh in disbelief and commented on the mistake. To everyone. And then we finished the concert.
Of course I was careful to avoid the same mistake at our next (and last) performance. The atmosphere at Union County Nursing Home was different in many respects from the lodge. Among the highlights of the show was the woman in the wheelchair in front of me, falling into slumber, upright, as I watched, through the singing of “O Little Town of Bethlehem.” In both concerts we loudly and often encouraged audience participation, but the Lodge residents didn’t seem to have the urge to sing. The greatest moment in the whole choir event took place at the nursing home during my shining solo on “O Holy Night.” People below the age of 75 are generally too societally adjusted to attempt to sing with the soloist in the middle of a performance, but as I lifted my voice I heard it echoed by two men at the back of the room, who, judging from previously observed actions, were not completely in their right mind any longer. But they knew every word, and sang so delightfully out of key and rhythm and with such conviction that I almost could not continue from hearing them. They expressed their thanks and joy to me afterward, one of them confidently commenting that he had come to hear me the year before. I considered it unnecessary to tell him that would have been impossible.
My friend Michael Springstead provided a few sparks of inspiration that ignited, eventually, in this, my most recent effort.
Poem 12-16-03
The autumn from my summers born
Betrayed me in a solemn wood;
In circles here, in paths well-worn,
Great monuments to faith once stood
Around a sacred hollow.
I searched the wood to find my peace,
But left without a proper guide;
And quickly lost and ill at ease,
Cartographers all cast aside,
I found no path to follow.
As nature dictates year to year,
The forest shed its garments green;
And as the reds and golds appeared,
The songbirds took the second theme
While I forgot to reason.
Ecstacy, deluded joys
Went quiet in a waking breeze -
A leaf fell down without a noise,
And one by one, from all the trees
The royal robes were shaken.
The magic lost its fatal hold
When winter bit and bared and scarred,
But I was lost in bitter cold,
In sweet Pandora’s Scotland Yard,
And all I had was taken.
Determined to escape my death
When all that to my name remained
Were clothes, an axe, and living breath,
I saw my course must be maintained
By cutting trees for fire.
I planned to hew a pathway out,
From tree to tree, for bearing’s sake;
But most had grown so tall and stout,
While I had thinned enough to make
A beggar look a sire.
The few there fit to be consumed
Were withered saplings; these I took
For temporary living rooms,
With each new day resolved to look
For one more wretched refuge.
When weeks had passed, and maybe more,
I came upon a patch of ground
I knew that I had seen before;
And then I spotted, small and round,
The stump of what I’d first used.
At once I did not realize
That grievous errors, multiplied,
Had filled those months that I’d despised;
With each felled sapling, in me died
A virtue or a promise.
By now, an ashen ring exposed
The heartwood to the dreadful clime,
And not a single stem arose;
The freeze went long beyond its time,
Until it made me honest.
One recent poem
Poem 12/3/03
From broken dreams to days alone,
A house built out of milling stone,
A thorn and thistle garden grown
To choke a flowering promise.
I chased a love not meant for me;
But ‘ere good reason sent for me,
The Spirit I found bent o’er me -
His rod the pangs of conscience.
From what had brought my soul to grief
To what was meant for my relief
I traveled far, and rest beneath
The maples on the mountains.
A colder frost this winter brings,
As if revenge on all my springs
Is in the bitter song it sings,
And in the days I’m counting.
From desperate plea to silent stare
To this, my solitary chair;
The letters meet the paper there
And I meet disillusion.
I wonder how the stone was laid,
And when the garden greens were grayed,
And what, in compensation, paid
My heart for this confusion.
What seems now like an age ago,
A single stone, one winter’s snow;
One thistle was allowed to grow
And then the time grew shorter.
The little foxes ran the vines;
Amid distorted wedding chimes
You’d built your wall, and I had mine -
Our sin had mixed the mortar.
Then from one wall to four of stone,
From broken dreams to days alone;
To nothing reaped from nothing sown
I come as one beguiled.
In truth, I find I’m strangely free -
A love once chased has chastened me;
I wish I could look back and see
That I was not a child.
Often we write, or at least we think we write, to posterity; in doing so we generally portray ourselves as we would want to be remembered by any who discover what we have written. There are rare moments when we write in order to remind ourselves who we really are. It is to that end that I inscribe today’s reflection.
I must preface the account of the events of this morning with a brief account of the night before. I had taken most of my instruments and musical equipment over to a new friend’s house to learn some of his music, anticipating a performance with his group at the end of this month. I left late in the evening, and had not yet eaten the third meal of the day. When I finally returned to my veritable Walden, I took one armload of equipment in, and then realized that I had laundry, dishes, and other miscellaneous cleaning to do before work in the morning. I was ravenously hungry. Therefore, I proceeded to the tasks at hand, finally eating dinner at an unreasonable hour and turning in for the night sometime during the morning.
The careful reader, reading between the lines as it were, may have spotted at least one of two crucial errors of omission. I will expose them in reverse chronological order, for emphasis. First, I neglected to set the alarm so that I would awake at the usual time to go to work. This, naturally, was an awful realization when I awoke late this morning. The terror was multiplied exponentially, however, once I had finally gotten ready to go and rushed out the front door. The first sight that fell upon my eyes was that of my automobile, which sat comfortably in its usual place, in below freezing weather, with both driver’s side doors considerably more than ajar. I ran down to the vehicle, nearly killing myself on the iced-over porch, to find that my (then) most beloved instruments (guitar and mandolin) had spent the evening in the open air. The local cat, whom I feed daily, was asleep in the backseat and bounded out as he heard me approach. Too flustered to react at the time, I laid hold of my ice scraper and began vigorously applying it to the windshield. Through this fail-safe process I discovered that both the inside and outside of my car had frosted over equally in the night. The day became darker as I recalled that I had never tried to defrost the inside and outside of my car simultaneously, and had no idea what the experience would be like – especially while driving.
By this time I had essentially given up all remonstrations and expostulations against Providence and I was on the road. The car began dripping inside and out. My instruments remained in the backseat and I was beyond fashionably late for work. I was thankful, though, at the sudden memory of my feline companion, that he had done no more than sleep in the back of my open car.
