A menagerie of scribbled thoughts, memories, and favorite things
The slow overture of rain,
each drop breaking
without breaking into
the next, describes
the unrelenting, syncopated
mind. Not unlike
the hummingbirds
imagining their wings
to be their heart, and swallows
believing the horizon
to be a line they lift
and drop. What is it
they cast for? The poplars,
advancing or retreating,
lose their stature
equally, and yet stand firm,
making arrangements
in order to become
imaginary. The city
draws the mind in streets,
and streets compel it
from their intersections
where a little
belongs to no one. It is
what is driven through
all stationary portions
of the world, gravity's
stake in things, the leaves,
pressed against the dank
window of November
soil, remain unwelcome
till transformed, parts
of a puzzle unsolvable
till the edges give a bit
and soften. See how
then the picture becomes clear,
the mind entering the ground
more easily in pieces,
and all the richer for it.
3 comments:
His novel "Infinite Jest" spoke to me. Aside from the literary pyrotechnics and the unpretentious erudition that left me agape minutes after finishing it, it also put into words (something I had never been able to do) what I felt about, well, everything. It changed me positively in the sense that, although I was never given any answers to my most grueling personal questions, it showed me a certain path, some other way for me to ask these questions in a more mature way, without being whiny. Oh, the follies of youth. This is not an inspiring work of art, though, as evidenced by the way he died. It's very pessimistic and showered with irony, qualities that most casual readers stay away from. Still, every reader has his own book that defines him, that leaves them naked after it's been read, and feelings thereafter linger. This was MY book.
And the fact that it was given to me as a birthday gift greatly added to my enjoyment of reading it.
He also wrote an essay, "Big Red Son", that is near and dear to my heart, although I'd rather not go into any details about it.
I am still angered by his loss. Yes, for him it seemed like the only way to go, but I felt he was selfish at not giving us fans at least enough of what he was capable of. He had written only two novels, and I was waiting anxiously for a new one. Aside from posthumous work (if it will ever be released), I won't be able to read new stuff from him again. Pity. He was great, but selfish.
At least Hemingway had a reason.
I feel the emotion on your comment, how enormous the void his death has left on you. It's amazing how strangers can affect our lives with the words they write.
I read your blog entry and even in those two very short sentences, your loss was evident.
Perhaps he had his reasons. He must have had his reasons for doing what he did.
Oops...
A couple of errors and typos in my comment...
Didn't have my editor with me when I wrote this...
:)
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