a pseudopoem

Pallbearer to an Angry Funeral

Pallbearer bear witness to witless crime
Old woman screaming and pleading in time
Give it back, Georgie! You said it was mine!–
Evelyn, shut up, he seems to say from the grave,
His casket alight four aluminum tracks waiting
to bear him down to Heaven forever.
Pallbearer gives him a nod and Georgie says,
“It’s a nice tux you’ve got on. You got class, kid.”
Georgie’s tone is so approving that Pallbearer smiles
and hums a tune from his distant past that George might know.
He thinks their pasts overlap at least that much.

Georgie’s breath comes out in a violent hiss
and Pallbearer stares, alarmed until he
realizes Georgie is beckoning him closer to whisper
something in his ear. In all the commotion
Pallbearer thinks he can steal a moment with
Georgie. The priest is flustered at the pulpit
and Evelyn is making a scene.
Georgie says, “Evelyn would shit if she knew this,
but I buried our treasure in Malibu, and I wanted
you to know that.”
The statement is abrupt, and Pallbearer thinks Georgie may be just pausing before saying something else
but he doesn’t, and Pallbearer is touched to be
let in on this secret.

4:30 in the morning.

in moments of silence, i concede that i have changed.

who i was is not who i am, and that sad fact confronts me. someday i will put to rest the notions of life as a vehicle for change, and i will see that cogs do justice to other cogs if they just fit properly, and hope is a fresh coat of oil on our backs as we slide together coolly and hardly. whether we were conceived as smooth ball bearings moving slickly in time, or massive rusted iron interlocking in space, i cannot say.

my only authority is the precision of being in line at the right time, and my grinding squeal is a call to other cogs whose turn it will be in only a moment’s time.

Reading as writer + Imitation.

What Kincaid does (primarily) is write a piece with repetition as its structural base and a descriptive tone as its goal. Repetition is displayed in three ways: in the first (and the most obvious) she simply repeats “like” statements one after the other. All adhere to a common pattern and theme (the criticisms of her mother on her) and she does this consistently throughout the piece. The other facet is this: in her repetition, in the second half of the piece, she begins each sentence with “this is how,” which is an obvious critical beginning; repeated several times, it takes on the quality of a nagging voice, and—because of a tacit passage of time, in the subjects of her criticism—the mother is established as a character, and the daughter is one who repeats each statement to describe how ponderous it is to hear them. In the last facet of the piece’s repetition, there is an element of continuity to some of the criticisms (i.e. the father’s khaki clothing) that mark them as details her mother especially wants her to consider.

Also (in a note on punctuation), each criticism is separated from others by a semi-colon. This is the proper method of separating long statements, and it draws attention to the fact that this is one sentence. It is a long and arduous sentence, but there is nothing to divide these statements from the other except for a semi-colon, that non-binding of punctuation marks. Each runs into the other, and it bolsters the tone by making the reader read them faster and without as much thought.

The language (diction) is specifically chosen to mirror the different ages of the narrator in the piece. In the beginning we see “little cloths,” “nice blouse” and “gum,” and we understand that the age of the narrator there is not advanced. We also see a critical sentence being revisited in different ways in the piece: first, we see “slut” as “…the slut you are so bent on becoming.” Then it becomes “the slut I know you are so bent on becoming,” and finally “the slut I always warmed you about becoming.” Between the former and the latter is a shift in time (at least it is suggested) and it’s clever for the narrator to have written it in to express that.

Near the end we see the narrator’s mother confiding in her more, and she gives advice (general, repeated in different forms) on how to live with and love a man. Then, to conclude the piece, we see the second of two statements from the narrator herself “but what if he won’t…” and the mother’s reaction, directed specifically at her.

All throughout, we see how the repetition colors the tone, and how the tone suggests the relationship between the narrator and her mother.

–

Christopher shows a lot of promise; he enjoys showing us his joking side, but he seems to be otherwise shy; Christopher has been doing well in developing his handwriting; Christopher is a gifted young boy; he will go far if he continues with his work ethic; he needs to spend a little more time on homework; Chris is a pleasure to have in class, and is always sharing his thoughts with other students; he is very helpful in tutoring other students; Chris asks difficult and engaging questions; Chris needs to spend more time on his handwriting; he is an intelligent boy, and a joy to work with; he is sometimes difficult to talk to; Chris is at an advanced level in Mathematics; Chris is very adept in Literature; I need to spend more time on homework…soon; Chris relies on humor to diffuse difficult situations; Chris is “a thinker” (I don’t user that term lightly) and shuns notions of “pseudo-intellectualism.” He would be an asset to your college.

Final.

The completed “final” piece can be found here.

I’m writing this from home, and I wouldn’t mention that except to say that setting has a significant effect on who we are as writers. Stepping off the plane today I felt the place take over the piece, and my father was closer to me than ever because…Wisconsin people are different from Vermont people. And I needed to see someone on the plane lean over and help someone else’s daughter buckle in to identify with him again. I love this place.

I’m less comfortable with this unit because I think I fall into my typical essay tendencies. I want to include parentheticals to too many things, and the qualification is important because these are details of my past. And though I could learn from the writers we’ve studied—and have—it’s…difficult to get over what I’ve done for so long. I found it important to tell you in the first draft of my long piece too many details of my father’s early past. I talked about him standing up to a teacher who slapped a girl; I talked at length about two stories involving tax collecting (a brief occupation in his life), and…at the end of it, I kept the one and abandoned the other. I still couldn’t get rid of what I thought were revealing (but possibly unnecessary) glimpses of his life.

In the 100 word drabbles I felt freer. Like our five-ten minute exercises in class, I’m constantly forced to move with the flow of a piece, and not consider what sounds stupid, or what is “hooky,” or where it’s going or what it needs to mean. I usually find that at the end of the piece, when I’ve written something substantive in the beginning and can find a common thread throughout. In the same way, I feel the 100 word drabbles let me be “not me.” To some extent, that’s what I’m going for.

I’m thinking of the drabbles right now because at the airport I wrote those interspersed, italicized monologues on moleskin paper in short bursts. I read the paragraphs preceding them, or at least where I thought they would fit, and I wrote responses to them. Essentially I wrote drabbles. In the meantime I tried to trim some fat off the piece. I removed the details of myself I found extraneous (the thread or dichotomy between my father’s relationship and mine) and only alluded to things I thought were essential for the reader to be apprised of.

There were pieces I was very happy with, that I think could almost have stood as “pieces” themselves. This piece was a second-person exploration of a relationship in my past, and I liked that I made it bodily…or imagistic. There were metaphors that extended sentences, and images made of coils of strange logic and dreamlike qualities. I don’t usually write like that. My other long piece is another of the better ones. Like the piece on my father, this one was written “lucidly,” and without consideration. It began as a thought and moved to a series of thoughts and then it was a philosophy and then a retrospective on my life.

Ultimately I was disappointed with the reception of the piece because what stood out was the “rawness” of it, and I like that—it’s important for me to know that my tone is honest and the reader is pierced by shards of something in it—but I want to know that it’s technically sound and interesting. I want to know that readers would read it without being prompted to.

Creative nonfiction requires that we speak about ourselves and our experiences, and I think I write from the mind and it’s always my mind and my tone that I’m recording. I don’t love inhabiting that place all the time. I’m looking forward to fiction because it requires elements of me and it’s obviously a part of my dreamscape, but it’s also someone else’s. Creating that persona will be liberating.

One last note: There have been countless others in this class whose work has inspired me and (at times) daunted me and shamed me. I’m trying to learn from them. One thing I’d like to do is to not make things about me strictly, but…maybe to write something that isn’t like a bowel movement, where I’m evacuating years of pent-up emotion. A little distance would go a long way. I’m looking forward to shedding my need for atonement.

A Note: I would be more categorical in this, but the connection I’m using is failing, and my access to the motherblog is limited. In any case, those pieces that were written in my “writer’s notebook” are typically categorized as “outside-class” or (sometimes) “for-class.” The 100 word drabbles are outside writings, as are a couple of my longer pieces, and some fiction spread throughout. All other writing for the unit begins where the other unit left off. Also, I forgot to post this before, but the recording can be found here.

Baby: this is your daddy.

I…have no idea why.

–

Children,

This is God.

My son and I are on a motorcycle ride through Heaven, and I thought now would be an appropriate time to maybe tell you some things. Many of you have stopped talking to me, and I feel our bond is kind of tenuous, so…listen. You’ve had the Catholic Church shoving me down your throats since you were little boys and girls, and for that I apologize. It’s not strictly my fault, but without me, there would be no them, and you’d be chilling out listening to Zoroastrians do their song and dance, or worshipping the Buddha. So, for whatever part I played in this, I am sorry.

You have heard me spoken of as a kind God, as a vengeful God…as a God who hears every one of you, or as a God who has no bearing on your individual lives. You have heard me spoken of as caring or uncaring, as petty or magnanimous, and I wanted to tell you that I’m none of those things. Instead I’m like…your dad. And your dad’s dad. And his dad’s dad stretched out through time, until Adam and before him—until before there was time. In fact, I’m all of those things. I’m limitless. I’m…really arrogant, aren’t I?

Let me give you a brief history of time. It should help you guys figure out why you are the way you are, now:

Before there was speech, you guys weren’t happy. You’d grunt at each other and never get your meaning across exactly as you intended. You’d hunt the mastodons and be pissed that your mate was out with another guy. You’d hunt him down and kill him, and that was beginning to be a problem, so I granted you speech. Then you were fine for awhile. You spoke things through pretty reasonably, and everyone was on the same page.

Then one of you invented fire. It was bound to happen—I know that—but one of you rubbed sticks together or struck a flint against a rock or witnessed lightning striking tinder—I honestly don’t remember—and then there was fire. You stuck your hand in and it was hotter than the hottest sun beating down on the flat rocks where you stretched and lazed during the day, and you were burnt. No one would come near you, so you became consumed with the fire. You stuck other things in. They…stole the fire. You put water in—it extinguished the flames. You put food in: it was that much better. You digested it more easily. Your mouth would water when you put that food on the fire, and you learned to make it better, and you were slowly starting to grasp what the fire did when you were killed. By the group that cast you out. To possess the fire themselves.

For thousands of years, your species would find and develop other things—more glorious things—things that were made of parts unlike the whole. As your comprehension of the world grew, and as science took its root in your lives, you became “smarter.” Your brains got bigger. You thought you were pretty awesome.

That’s when I sent a flood to waste your asses.

Because even though you had basic communication and fewer base instincts than the animals around you…even though you had fire and invention (the wheel!) and the world was beginning to take shape around you, and even though you were slowly crafting a kingdom…even though you had potential to be peaceful and loving and gracious and hosts whose baser instincts were won over by your better ones…you still killed each other. Instead of living in harmony, you wiped each other out. You were jealous and spiteful, and instead of hugging the man who brought you fire, you exterminated him. That pissed me off.

The Catholic Church will tell you it was your false prophets and your greed and your abandon…fundamentalist Christians will tell you it was Sodom and Gomorra (like I hate my gay children…), and Republicans will tell you it was campaign finance reform. Nope. Don’t believe it, any of it. It was the killing.

You must think I’m a hypocrite, then, for sending my son to die, and I guess I have that to answer for, but…well, no I don’t. If you’re lucky enough to ever come up here (and most of you will—it’s not like we have a seating capacity), I’ll explain it to you. I’ll sit down and talk to you, and you’ll be nervous at first, but then you’ll realize that I’m a pretty nice guy, and really I just want us all to get along.

Don’t you know that I love all of you? Doesn’t that ring true? Don’t you know that when you sing to me, I’m singing back? Don’t you see me smile?

Erica: last week, your lover died from complications due to AIDS. You railed at me for a long time, and you asked me why don’t you understand? You told me I couldn’t possibly exist if I let this happen. You said he hadn’t ever deserved it—he was a kind and gentle man. Erica: do you think I didn’t know that? Do you think I didn’t grieve with you? Didn’t cry with you? Did you think I wanted to take him away from you? You said I did. You called me a bully. And that’s not true. He was just…fated to die. He had options. He’d made decisions. He had to live with them, and he did. He was a wonderful man. He was my son.

The universe is a bubble in my heart, and it sometimes expands, and it sometimes shrinks. I feel all of it.

Thomas: your father left the world, and you didn’t know what to think. You said he never cared for you, but you don’t know the half of it. Every day your father spoke to me and praised you…in that order. He spoke to me because he thought it was easier than telling you how proud he was. I’m sorry for that; I just thought you should know.

Rita: Your son is out there, waiting. Go find him.

Jim: She knows.

Alice: I will help you. Always.

This took everything out of me.

This is a link to my 3500+ word creative nonfiction piece. Blah.

From Tuesday.

I’m becoming disgusted with my writing. I feel like it’s descending into gimmick again. It’s maddening.

–

The shack in this old town could have been anything, but it wasn’t: It was a blacksmith’s shop, and just down the street they made butter that they stored in jars and kept cool by placing them in cellars under the earth–the warmer it got outside, the further down they seemed to burrow, descending seemingly bottomless into the black earth with its cool, dank walls. The blacksmith kept his tools neatly arranged in rows and columns on the wall, and an anvil sat in the furthest corner from the door where he banged on pots, pans, ladles, spoons, bolts and cornices for windows.

They were not gray. Most everything in my life is. It is a color that comforts me. My favorite shirts are gray. My car is gray. On the best days, my disposition is gray. Gray is dependable and undemanding. Gray is only not gray when other colors start impinging on it—“sable,” with its smooth, seductive pronunciation; “silver,” with its vast variety (sterling, stainless, burnished, polished or otherwise). Gray does not describe a gradient. Gray is very simply gray.

The old man with the bottlebrush mustache is a reenactor—some themed…

–

That’s as far as I got. My picture was of a man with silvery hair (and a little bit of black) bending his head down to look at the ground. In the background there was a town (I think) with a black shack in the furthest corner. Behind the town was a mountain, and above that was the sky.

A Cat, a Marble and a Schoolteacher.

Pa placed two heavy hands on Charley’s trembling shoulders and shook him gently. “Charley–he’s going to be alright.” But Charley would never forget the way Mr. Tickles wavered as he stood after Charley dropped the soup can on his head. Something was wrong with him–that much Charley knew.

Cats don’t have many marbles. Most aren’t terribly bright. I’ve heard people say that cats KNOW something, that in the glint of their eyes is a reflection of their souls burning, and I guess that’s where you get the stories of witches’ cats, cats with human forms at night, etc. I don’t know that I buy that.

When I began teaching, I had a student who was autistic. Obviously he wasn’t that active with the other kids, but he wasn’t lethargic either. I felt like he knew more than he told. I felt like when he stared within himself he saw something captivating, something bright like silver flashing quickly in and out of the place he kept it stored.

Charley is an autistic boy at the Wheaton School. He is bright but uncommunicative. He plays sometimes by himself (he DOES like to play) and it’s old games he likes. Most kids born in the digital age prefer computer games to jacks, but Charley likes them. He plays with marbles, and something remarkable happens. He devotes his full attention to them, and his line of sight is a tunnel through which something moves. In the glinting, rolling orbs I see his reflection, and sometimes I think a ball is burning, but before I can reach down to grab it, it’s gone, and I can only see it rolling in his eyes.

You were right about the parentheses.

I still find the line about the headphones problematic. I like it, but…Yeah.

–

He’s active. He’s eager. He’s leaning forward to engage with the screen. Probably nothing is nonchalant with him. I wonder what he thinks when he comes in here, looking to have his computer fixed or configured or whatever. He’s sitting next to Evan, only looking at him when he has to, like any man in a “service” situation, and he adjusts his headphones—his barriers to the world—that cover his whole ears with a practiced hand. It’s not that he’s boring (I don’t know anything about him), but his shirt is a dull gray and his pants are khakis.

And it appears that I’m wrong about their intimacy because Evan is talking to him, and he’s talking back, and his answers are assured–”Yeah. Yeah.”–and his eye contact is…superb, and the long hair that covers his face might just be like that because it looks good that way.

His cheeks are somewhat rosy. His complexion is average (no pimples) and he smiles nicely. I mean that it’s a big wide smile and it comes very suddenly, very readily, and he’s not shy.

I notice that his laptop is not like other peoples’ here (it’s a different model) and I wonder if that says anything about where he’s come from or how much he’s worth.

–

She is black (neither very dark nor very light) and her hair is bunched into dreads of medium length.

Her words trail off, and she seems to be asking for something subliminally, like…“I don’t believe that’s all you can do,” or “Isn’t there more?” She moves toward the door in the same way, slinking–waiting. Her legs are long and they move before her and her bottom follows behind her and crinkles in the middle as the cheek puckers through denim.

My offering.

He’s active. He’s eager. He’s leaning forward to engage with the screen. Probably nothing is nonchalant with him. I wonder what he thinks when he comes in here, looking to have his computer fixed or configured or whatever. He’s sitting next to Evan, only looking at him when he has to (like a man in any “service” situation), and he adjusts his headphones (his barriers to the world) that cover his whole ears with a practiced hand. It’s not that he’s boring (I don’t know anything about him), but his shirt is a dull gray (long-sleeved) and his pants are stock khakis.

And it appears that I’m wrong about their intimacy because Evan is talking to him, and he’s talking back, and his answers are assured–”Yeah. Yeah.”–and his eye contact is…superb, and the long hair that covers his face might just be like that because it looks good that way.

His cheeks are somewhat rosy. His complexion is average (no pimples) and he smiles nicely. I mean that it’s a big wide smile and it comes very suddenly, very readily, and he’s not shy.

I notice his that his laptop is not like other peoples’ here (it’s a different model) and I wonder if that says anything about where he’s come from or how much he’s worth.

–

She is black (neither very dark-skinned nor very light) and her hair is bunched into dreads of medium length.

Her words trail off, and she seems to be asking for something subliminally, like…”I don’t believe that’s all you can do,” or “Isn’t there more?” She moves toward the door in the same way, slinking–waiting. Her legs are long and they move before her and her bottom follows behind and crinkles in the middle as the cheek puckers through denim.