On Death

 

From How We Die, Sherwin Nuland

“Every life is different from an thaty has gone before it, and so is every death. The uniqueness of each of us extends even to the way we die. Everyone of death’s diverse appearances is as distinctive as that singular face we each show the world during the days of our life. Every  man will yield up the ghost in a manner that the heavens have never known before; every woman will go her final way in her own way” (3).

“Poets, essayist, chronicles, wags, and wise men write often about death but have rarely seen it. Physicians and nurses, who see it often, rarely write about it. Most people see it once or twice in a lifetime, in situations where they are too entangled in its emotional significance to retain dependable memories. Survivors of mass destruction quickly develop such  powerful psychological defense against the horror of what they have seen that nightmarish images distort the actual events to which they have been witness. There are few reliable accounts of the ways in which we die.

An entire mythology has grown up around the process of dying. Like most mythologies, it  is based on the inborn psychologicall  need that all humankind shares. The mythologies of death are meant to combat fear on the one hand and its opposite–wishes–on the others. They are meant to serves us by disarming our terror about what the reality may be” (8). 

 Death and art- 9

Death and heart- 20

“It becomes the doctor’s job to identify the instigating cause of sickness by tracing back along the sequence until he has found the ultimate culprit–microbial or hormonal, chemical or mechanical, genetic or environmental,  malignant or benign, congenital or newly acquired. The investigation id done by following the clues left in the identifiable damage done to the body by the perpetrator. The crime is thus reconstructed and a treatment plan devised that rids the patient of the influence of the instigator or disease.  In a sense then, every doctor is a patholphysiologist, an investigator who identities the disease by tracing the origin of its symptoms. That having been done, appropriate therapy can be chosen” (90).

Quotables

You know how you hear things throughout the day, thinking to yourself “I need to remember that!,” then realize later on you’ve forgotten everything but the excitement of a perfect quotation? 

Since I can’t remember anything for shit, I write these things down.. then forget where I’ve written them. Or, I forget the source. I might be able to draw upon the jist of the quote in casual conversation, but not in my writing, not without the source.

So. Quotes on the blog. Instant access whenever I need them.

 Take that, memory.

Merton, on self & activity

From No Man is an Island

“We are warmed by fire, not the smoke of the fire. We are carried over the sea by a ship, not by the wake of a ship. So too, what we are is to be sought in the invisible depths of our own being, not in our outward reflection of our own selves. We must find our real selves not in the froth stiffed up by the impact of our being upon the beings around us, but in our own soul which is the principle of all our acts” (117).

“My soul does not find itself unless it acts. Therefore it must act. Stagnation and inactivity bring spiritual death. But my soul must not project itself entirely into the outward effects of its activity. I do no need to see myself, I merely need to be myself. I must think and act like a living being, but I must not plunge my whole self into what I think and do, or seek always to find myself in the work I have done. The soul that projects itself entirely into activity, and seeks itself outside itself in the work of its own will is like a madman who sleeps on the sidewalk in front of his house instead of living inside where it is quiet and warm. The soul that throws itself out doors in order to find itself in the effects of its own works is like a fire that has no desire to burn but seeks only to go up on smoke” (118).

On Friendship

From A Place Apart, by M. Basil Pennington

This is actually a a selection from the Mirror of Charity, by Aelred of Rievaulx, as noted in A Place Apart

“IT is such a great joy to have the sonsolation of someone’s affection–someone to whom we are deeply united by the bonds of love,  someone in whom our weary spirit may find rest, and to whom we may pour out our souls…someone whose conversation is as sweet as a song in the tedium of our daily life. He must be someone whose soul will be to us a refute to creep into when the world is altogether too much for us, someone to whom we can confide e all our thoughts. His spirit will give us the comforting kiss that heals all the sickness of our preoccupied hearts. Wh will weel with us when we are trouble,d and rejoice with us when we are happy; he will always be there to consult when we are in doubt.  We will be so deeply bound to him in our hearts that even when he is far away, we shall find him together with us in the spirit, together and alone. The wold will fall asleep around us, we will find, and our souls will be at rest, embraced in the absolute peace,. Our two hears will be quiet together, united as if they were one, as the grace of the Holy Spirit flows over us both” (121).

“It takes a log of courage to share with another what the Father is saying to us in our deepest conscience. And a bit of humility. But it is a powerful  aid to be true to our truest self. And such sharing undercuts some of the deepest roots of our loneliness and our self-deception.

We may say there is non one in our home would would want to share with us at this level, no one whom we can so trust. That may be so now. The fact may be that no one may want to trust us.  Most of us are blocked by fears. True friendship doesn’t just happen. We have to make time for it, cultivate it, gradually open ourselves and mutually uncover successive levels, till at last the light of love can shine into the very  depths, and we can rejoice in our shared beauty in complete freedom. It takes time.  It takes courage, patience and humility.  It takes a conviction that love and friendship are worth it. The full enjoyment of such a relationship may be long in coming, but even with the first stage the fruits are tasted and the hope and promise great.

Friendship doesn’t just happen, nor can it be forced;  it is a gift–but a gift that must be accepted and cultivated” (125).

On Solitude

From A Place Apart, by M. Basil Pennington

“The call to solitude, to know and enjoy a certain amount of physical solitude, and certainly, to enter into the solitude of God, is not the exclusive prerogative of the monk (even thought it might be the essential characteristic of his particular vocation). When I think of the role of solitude in the life of the active lay person, the name (though there are many) that most immediately and prominently comes to the fore in my mind is that of the great Father of India, Mahatma Gandhi. Father, grandfather, lawyer, statesman, activist, pacifist, his life would not have been fuller, and yet, or because of this, it was a life that always found time for solitude. Even when the whole of the subcontinent awaited his every word and the future of his people and his nation hung upon him, or because of this, each week Gandhi faithfully took a day apart and entered into silence and solitude, (In the light of such an example, what person can dare say they cannot afford to take time for apartness–indeed, who can afford not to take time for apartness?)  (29).

Do I really want time apart? Do I know I need time apart? I do make time and place for what I want, what I need. I think place is important. I speak of it even before the question of time, because, making time (note, I say “making the time”– we don’t just “find” it), we have to have some place to spend it. Moreover, a constituted place stands there beckoning to us, reminding us to make the time. Probably very few will be able to use a whole room in their house exclusively as a place for apartness, for prayer and solitude.

For most, the at-home place apart may well have to be an alcove, a dormer, a closet, o a corner of their room or some less used room. A shrine of sorts will mark it off from the space around  it, will proclaim a Presence, a place of encounter. everyone  has personal tastes and attractions.  It is interesting to look into the cells (as monks call their rooms; it has nothing to do with prison cells. “Cell comes from the Latin word cella, related to the word coelum, heaven, the place where one enjoys God) around our monastery 30-32).

Sticking around

I think people are beginning to assume I’ve moved back for good. Old friends are texting me to come out every weekend, I’m getting all sorts of Facebook friends requests… I think I’m even getting hit on.  Not that the advances mean anything more than “ah shit it’s 12:30 and the bar’s closing soon.”  Despite the fact that I’ve been living in Chicago and have been out and about in the world, I’m still probably just a piece of ass.  I’m not sad or surprised about this– makes me feel like  we’re all on equal footing, since anyone I hooked up with here would most likely be just that as well. 

The most interesting thing about this observation is that since I have been gone for so long,  I have it in my mind that I’m sort of like fresh meat. I’ve kept in touch with some of my female friends (very loosely, but in touch), but the guys? They have  no idea who I am now.  Not that they really did back then either!

Now though,  since I’m not really down for the one-night-stand thing with some random dude, I’m not down for it with one of these guys either– just because I know them, doesn’t mean I know anything about them.  Why would I even want to attempt a connection with some slobbery drunk, even if he is a friend I’ve known since kindergarten?  If I had something in common with an old friend and there was some sort of sober attraction, that’s one thing. But that sort of thing isn’t present ’round here.

Weird to be having such thoughts.. but the more I stick around here, the more I learn about the drama and the dynamics of my little town. It’s sort of inescapable. If I talk to one person, I learn about five others, even if I’m trying hard not to gossip.  Going into my third month at home.. am I learning anything about myself, or what I came back here for? I’m not sure.

A note on poetry, good, bad or otherwise

Most people I know say, of the poetry that they write, that it is done badly. It’s a hit and miss sort of subject, but what art isn’t?

I’ll tell anyone forcing me to write poetry that it will in fact, probably be ugly, but then again, lots of emotions are. I’ve been reading some poetry lately, gearing up for the poetry writing I’ll be doing in my nature writing class, and the results are as follows: two unstructured poems.

I’ve never taken a poetry class, and I’m realizing how little I have in the way of “proper” English instruction as I progress through my Masters, but I don’t really give a shit. At least I’m writing. And feeling. At least I’m alive. I don’t know what exactly makes good poetry “good,” but I know that for me, what makes it bad is the absence of any emotion. I’m not a flourishes and ribbons kind of girl, so I hope that’s not the kind of poetry I’ve just written, but if so, well, then, so it is.

Delicate red embers

Embers: slowly dying or fading emotions, memories, ideas, or responses still capable or being revived- Websters Dictionary

Bitter, like last night’s beer
sharpening on his tongue,
the atmosphere here is charged.
He carries me like a grudge
across the closed door to his heart.
My selfish actions
are
wedged in among the notches on his shoulder
and
I worry that the past will be worn like rough-hewn scars.

At sunrise we left the bar—
Special privileges,
We’re the regulars.
Dim with exhausted, blackened snow
(we laughed at this word once),
outside,
The streets are silent like a coma.
Near him once again
I fight to breathe deeply
And awaken,
Not lie here on my own.

I want

So badly to sit him down
inside
where I could make him warm,
but now the bar is closed—

would he even want to go back in?

He burned me once,
A celestial brand across my neck and aching body,
with the red hotness of his passion.
In the mirror in the morning
I glowed in newborn darkness—
Delicate with red embers
like
 blossoming baby stars.

But that was last summer, no, almost two years ago
And because I lived in the north
With cautious (scared) indifference
It is now
Once again,
Winter.

9 years

Boredom, spreading and ugly like a wound, festers within the town tonight.
Ripped up and open,  
like the earth sitting fallow, the bar is full 
with 12 people.
Barb with her new baby
and 3 couples at the table behind us;
I know their names and faces,
but it’s no longer any of my business.

Cheeseballs $3.25
2 beers for 5 dollars
and a 21 year-old at the table sits drinking, next to me.

-18 outside
and frozen in time and distance,
sharply the winter winds are screaming.

I drive past the small park and a stop sign that sent me once to jail;
 winter wheat is  soft and sleeping tonight
under  the white comfort.
 Darkness comes down from heaven and
I can’t see any of the stars.
I leave my car to frozen ruts;
Dog’s feet and demons cut through the silent yard.
There are no snow angels in my memory.

Fired up

So a new semester is underway, and with it, a new blog. For English 584, Nature and Environmental writing, we are required to post a couple times a week, as if we were keeping a nature journal.  I’m all about keeping a nature journal for this course– I write about all sorts of trivial, mundane shit (MFA or otherwise) so why not that too? But I wanted to keep it here on WordPress, have all of my digital ducks in a row.

Ehht. Not so much. I had to go with Blogger. Now I know I’m being a big baby about it, I know I can import the blog to WP once I’m done with it, I know all that. But it doesn’t make me feel any sort of warm fuzzy emoticon goodness about doing it.  I hate technology, hate how dependent we’ve become on it. See, even something that I normally would enjoy doing has become one more web-driven hassle for me.

Well, balls.  I’ve said my piece about it, both here and on the other blog, and I can only hope that somehow I retain my voice while writing on Blogger. It’s interesting, isn’t it– we writers know that depending on who we’re writing for, and where we’re being published, we may affect a different attitude and style. I keep all of my stuff together in one place, and write with one voice… if I go off in an experimental direction, I want it to be contained withing the greater body of work, too.

Whatever my whims and desires, there’s no getting around it. I now have an English 584 blog.