Friday, June 27, 2008

The Heat in my Hands

I gave myself over last night to Chris Abni's Dog Woman. It is one of my favorite collections of poetry. Provocative and achingly precise. The mastery of language and form always divorce me from whoever I am at the moment and take me to old holy places. In the author's note, Abani mentions he was reading Rilke's Duino Elegies, among other things. The Duino Elegies are one of my favorite collections of poetry, ever. Rilke finished writing them one winter in Switzerland. My one winter in Switzerland, I carried my copy around and felt somehow connected.

This week has been exhausting. Work is wringing me out. Yesterday after a three hour nap I convinced myself to sit with a pad of legal paper and to move the pen across the page, for the first time in seven months. Most of what came out was throw-away but a couple of brief lines or phrases glimmered with potential. I hope the heat in my hands is creativity, welling up and ready to burst. I'm tired of not writing, I'm tired of giving myself up to the malaise of winter in my bones. I want my old sanguine self back, sparking at the corners , fingertips stained in ink.

This weekend looms full of baseball and a wedding. The wedding with be an interesting study of family and things unspoken. One cousin was to be married tomorrow but the engagement was called off last week. Everything was already paid for, the hall, flowers, happy details of ritual dedication. So as not to lose the money, another cousin will be married tomorrow instead; the sibling of the jilted lover. The family has been instructed to not speak of things that should not be spoken of. I'm particularly interested in sitting with my grandmother and her sisters, the most vicious tongues to ever cross of a border. If I don't have anything to write about after this weekend, I may as well never consider myself a storyteller ever again.

Speaking of story tellers. I think The Decemberists are fantastic storytellers.

Engine Driver
The Decemberists
"I am a writer, writer of fictions. I am the heart you call home. I've written pages upon pages, trying to rid you from my bones."

1 comment:

Anonymous said...

i miss writing with you. in fact i miss writing. mad love puti la la...