An Eye That Will Not Close

from Twenty Day's Journey
in Door in the Mountain, New and Selected Poems 1965-2003
Huub Oosterhuis
Translated from the Dutch by Jean Valentine, with Judith Herzberg

4
Flood me then
stone that rushes red through the dam
fear tomorrow this moment
dry wood of imagining
dim awareness of then       now torn open
skinned alive.
My mind is lead, every cell
hard, heavy, metallic.

I climb up onto a road       trip
over the edge, fall
into your glass depth
you       beaker filled with fire

my body turns to mist but stays alive,
an eye that will not close.

7
Chalk marks still line the floor
just where you stood. Our shoulders touched.
I was afraid. You were just saying
ordinary things.

Much became little       the mail
was left lying for days.
Nowhere now--
my sense of you everywhere.

9
In small patches
it has clotted
become glass

something like a house
but empty

a shape
under a bright silk scarf.

I rub sand
into my eyes
so I won't see anything.

I hear you walk
as if you were carrying something:

your feet
grown back.

Words for Denise (Denise Gess, In Memory)

Here's the text of the eulogy I read at Denise's service this morning....

*****

WORDS FOR DENISE

--Her eyes: playful, wry, soulful.

--Her belief in beauty. Her apartments, her furniture, the art on the walls. The way she dressed: black, preferably.

--Her intelligence, her belief in her opinions, her principles. And the way those hands moved!

--Her charisma. Let’s just say it: a movie star.

--Her spacious heart.

--Her pride in Austen. Her love for her family, for her mother, her father. For Joey and Mary. Nancy, Shannon, Bob, Nicholas, Michael, her Uncle Bob and Aunt Eileen. Bill and Wayne. Andreas. And more and more and more.

--Her generosity, her eagerness to say, I love you deeply, and not be afraid to say it.

--Her old plea, the old accusation, “Nobody loves me.” Or, worse: “You don’t love me.” And the joy on her face, when we rolled our eyes, or gave her that look that said, I’ve had all I can take of you.

--Her goofiness, her quickness to laugh, the laugh that came from deep in the body.

--Her cup of hot coffee, held with both hands, close to collarbone and throat, even if it was 96 degrees outside.

--Her sleekness, her sexiness. (Can we say that in church? Why not.)

--Her courage. Enough courage to pack a stadium.

--Her ability to walk into any room, to change the particles in the atmosphere. A ray of sparkling energy moving right into you.

--Her temper.

How does one represent a life force? It can’t be done in sentences. The sentences aren’t big enough to contain her. They’re too orderly, they move too predictably. Not to mention that there are many Denises. Denise as parent, Denise as daughter, Denise as writer, editor, lover, book reviewer, friend, teacher, mentor, cook. As for a eulogy? You don’t write a eulogy for someone whose spirit is bigger than death.

Still, we try. Here: two letters, which came to me last Saturday.

From Christine Carr:

Stunning is the word—vibrant, life embracing. God, she had to be the most entertaining person I’ve ever known, and one of the most generous of souls. Rest in peace? Not in her vocabulary. I hope she’s creating a storm wherever she is.

And from David Groff, the editor of her first novel:

As a young editor, Good Deeds was important to me; I learned a lot about the working of fiction from how Denise wrote and revised. She was wonderfully open minded—and open hearted—about her writing. I met her again in recent years at a reading and remember being so happy to reconnect, even briefly. I hope you and her family feel nourished by her vitality and her accomplishment.

Her accomplishment. In the last year, I’ve thought a lot about her accomplishment—or even the larger story behind it. What did Denise believe in? This was not something we talked about much directly. She might have known she was dying, but I don’t think she wanted me to know she knew. But aside from her attachment to family, there was the Word. The Word, as in the project of fiction. For Denise, fiction was religion. Fiction the way to defy limit, the way to bring wholeness and order to the daily chaos. It was about narrative, emotional logic. But first and foremost: empathy, the reach outside the self, the attempt to plumb the minds of characters whom we might have otherwise dismissed as self-absorbed, unlikable, unworthy of us. In writing such work she gave us something more profound than entertainment. Her three novels are not only acts of attention, they’re celebrations. They’re reverent, though they’re a little sneaky about that. They tell us, Hey. You. Wake up. There’s wonder in front of us, even in the oddest creatures. Maybe especially in the oddest creatures.

And if that’s not a kind of faith, then what could faith be?

Before I close, a story.

Last November 6th, I took the train down from New York to spend the day with Denise. It was Election Day, the results hadn’t yet trickled in, and as such, we were nervous and excited about the future. I hadn’t known that both her mother and Mary were coming in from New Jersey for dinner that night, but we had the sweetest afternoon together, just the two of us. We were side by side on the sofa. She swung around, lay down, put her feet up on my lap, and slept some, but not before asking if she could do it, which struck me as sweet. There was a big night ahead. Later, the four of us took our places at the table. Candles were lit. Napkins folded. Boxcars screeched on the tracks across the water. It was the first dinner that Denise had cooked since her diagnosis. The day before, chemo. In two days, food would be the last thing she’d want. But not yet. We carried the bowls and dishes to the table. Stew, salad, macaroni and cheese, pound cake. A work of art, but casual. What a relief it was to be casual, relaxed amidst the grave story that had brought the four of us together. Denise smiled, laughed, content to see us sitting together. The flames of the candles wavered. We passed the bowls and lifted our knives, forks, serving spoons. We passed the salt and pepper. Music was on. Marvin Gaye? Joni Mitchell? Then, what-- What was it? A harmonic shift, a melodic leap? She got up. Maybe she was going to bring out another dish from the counter, but no. Instead she started dancing. I’m not talking about a timid dancing, but a life-large, it’s-great-to-be-in-my-skin dancing. She grinned the widest grin her face allowed her to make. She lifted her chin. And she would not stop. She kept right on dancing by her corner of the table, even when we cried, “Denise! Denise! Be careful!”

That joy, that defiance: those two things, in tandem.

And we loved you deeply.

My Friend. Five Emails.

(from January 18, 2009...)

My Angel Man,

I'm such a goof I kept thinking Mark was going to Stanford in 2010.
But I am glad you're okay and understand completely how busy you are.

I'm going to be blunt here: go visit your Mom. The broken hip is
always so very tough on the older body, and Anne sounds as though she's
in very good hands, but the pneumonia will be hard on her and my gut
feeling is you should see her. What's Bobby say?

Okay. I just lit a candle for you and her. I will be home tonight ( I
am probably going to my brother's for dinner) but I'm up late so you
may call late with the time difference. And I'll be home tomorrow day
till 3:00, then go the MRI, and home all tomorrow night.

I love you deeply. I kept seeing your face. In fact, I had a dream
about you, very short -- oh my, I just remembered it now -- you were
coming out of a plane, but you were smiling and the press was snapping
pictures so it was a positive dream.

D xxxxxxoooooooo

*****

(from January 28, 2009)

We are on a wavelength today. I just sat at the computer to tell you I
had the best time today and love you so much I can't even begin to
find words. You have been the best friend to me always and my brother
and my dream love. Your eyes just sparkle with intelligence and
mischief and kindness and loyalty. I am going to have March 20 as my
goal to come to NYC to hear you read.

Paul, do you know I had only looked at the top half of the front page
of the Times and didn't even see that Updike died! I saw the
publishing piece and went right to that never even glancing down at
the bottom of the front page. Rabbit Run is still one of my favorite
novels and the short story "Separating" in Too Far To Go still breaks
my heart. The ending of it was so daring and so painful. All those
Joan and Richard Maple stories gathered in one collection feel like a
novel.

I remember being beside myself with joy when Updike and Cheever
appeared together on the Dick Cavett Show. Oh, I was in heaven.

Anyway, today was superlative!

I keep thinking there was something else you wanted to tell me about
your teaching and I interrupted. Just smack me if I do that again.

Okay. More later. I'm sending all good energy for Friday.

Biggest love to you,
D. xoxoxoxoxoxoxo

*****

(from February 2, 2009)

Hello Dearest Man,

You are so kind to even remember how I begin to feel on the 4th day.
It was rougher yesterday; today just nausea. But you'll be happy to
know that I went to the 12:15 show of The Wrestler yesterday.
PAUL!!!!! What a movie. What an amazing performance. What direction
and camera work. I think Mickey Rourke is one of the riskiest, best
actors ever. Ever. And Ms. Tomei? Superior. No, the NY/Jersey girl she
does in My Cousin Vinny is very different from this character. You'll
see when you rent it and you must.

I've got to say that 12:15 on a sunny, warm Sunday was probably not
the best time to see The Wrestler. It left me feeling all sorts of
things I can't identify yet. I could feel the sickness in his body,
I'll say that -- the struggle to breathe, nausea. Oh my God, it's a
terrific movie. I'm so glad you told me to see it.

Do call. Sounds as though your lunch was extremely intense. My guess
is that she wants the novel, but also wants you to do more work but
won't commit to a sound, solid contract right this moment? I'm just
guessing.When you're able to talk about it more, I'm here.

I love you lots. More later. Rest. I think I can hear/feel the jet
lag. Love you.

D xxxxxxxxxxooooooooooooooooooo

*****

(from April 6, 2009...)

Hi Honey,

I've been wanting to write a long, coherent, love-filled, chatty email
to you for days. You'll be happy to know I've ordered ALL DeSalvo
books. And thank you so much for the complinent about her being so
Denise Gess. Happy to hear Mark's New Brunswick event went well. I
know. I do so love the Rutgers students, too. I'm just happy for both
of you.

I thought of you through my sore thorat/mouth because I know how much
you hate/fear them. I must say the Magic Mouthwash does work. it numbs
the pain so well I'm afraid I'm going to bite my tongue as it sloshes
around. But all is improving, including my mood and my determination
to get on with the business of writing. I've wasted too much time away
from my work. Enough! I say.

I am pleased to announce that I am now tenured, Associate Professor. Yay!
The way the cancer's been proceeding I have some doubt about my
ability to teach in the fall, but it's too soon to tell. The promo will
give me enough disability salary (2/3 of pay) to keep me at this
income level and make it possible to live/ pay bills/ have insurance.

Paul, I love love love the table! It reminds me of the HO table too
but I believe yours is a better table in terms of square nails, patina
etc. Oh, I can't wait to get out there if you'll still have me in
spring. The gift I have for you and M is truly perfect especially now
that I see the table in the room. If I have to hire a driver to get to
you I will! How much are drivers anyway? I will be going to Chatham for
4th of July so that's something to look forward to. A friend has a
small private plane which makes traveling to Chatham easy, fast and
fun!

I'm so glad you got your contract. I can't thank you enough for
thinking of me for that anthology. You are a tremendous support.
You've no idea how much it means to me.

Send me your addresses again, too. I don't have an excuse for
misplacing mine -- except chemo brain. Send the NYC and Hamptons. I
can't wait for new CDs!!!! You're my musical mentor, you know. My
G-U-R-U.

I assume you saw B. Cooper's essay in Times mag section was it last
week? Loved it. And did you read that piece on the necessity of the
short story in the Business section yesterday? An unlikely place for
the piece but I loved it. I wish I'd reviewed the Cheever bio; I
reviewed the Donaldson book years ago on him and loved it. I think
this one delves deeper?

Okay, honey. More later. I think of you always too and am so glad
you're in my life!

Love to Mark

Love, love
your D always xxxxxooooo


*****

(from May 15, 2009...)

Paul, she looks like a famous actress in this one. I'm so glad I got
to meet and spend time with her and that Austen met her, too. She made
spaghetti for us. With meatballs!

If it's any comfort to you, please know that if your Dad said she
looked peaceful, she really was.

I remember feeling so relieved when I arrived at my Mom's and saw my
Dad, truly peaceful, untortured, rested, nearly beatific. I reached out to kiss his face, held it in my hands, amazed at how finally after so many years of suffering and struggle, he'd been released from that body and I could actually see that he
must have sighed, closed his eyes happily and had no pain. That image,
holding him, helped me feel joy for him.

I just called you and left a message on the 917 number. I wanted to
hear your voice and hear you say everything and anything you have to
say. I think I might have the 713 # on my cell phone. I'll have to
check.

There will be much to do tonight and tomorrow. My brother is coming for
a brother/sister dinner, but you know I'm up late so feel free to call
late if you like.

I don't want to bug you, but I want you to know I'm here for you.

Love,
D xxxxxooooooo

Three Dances (for Denise): Life Flipping Death the Bird

1. from "Dance in America"
in Birds of America
Lorrie Moore

I tell them dance begins when a moment of hurt combines with a moment of boredom. I tell them it's the body's reaching, bringing air to itself. I tell them that it's the heart's triumph, the victory speech of the feet, the refinement of animal lunge and flight, the purest metaphor of tribe and self. It's life flipping death the bird.

I make this stuff up. But then I feel the stray voltage of my rented charisma, hear the jerry-rigged authority in my voice, and I, too, believe. I'm convinced. The troupe dismantled, the choreography commissions dwindling, my body harder to make limber, to make go, I have come here for two weeks--to Pennsylvania Dutch country, as a "Dancer in the Schools." I visit classes, at colleges and elementary schools. spreading Dance's holy word. My head fills with my own yack. What interior life has accrued in me is depleted fast, emptied out my mouth, as I stand before audiences, answering their fearful forbidding German questions about art and my "whorish dances" (the thrusted hip, the sudden bump and grind before an attitude). They ask why everything I make seems so "feministic."

"I think the word is feministical," I say. I've grown tired. I burned down my life for a few good pieces, and now this.

*****

2. from Good Deeds
Denise Gess

Alan screeches out the words, Lucifer dancing, begging for a little affection, a little forgiveness, cavorting on his make-believe stage. And sometimes the wolves are lambs. Sometimes the saints are sinners.

The bass pounds. Alan leaps into the air, lands on his knees and shoots up again. He spins around, spins once, twice and sees me watching. I try to leap out of his vision, but he isn't embarrassed at all. He's grinning, the most unabashed grin I've ever seen. His hand reaches out. He waves me into the room. He's still singing, acting out his fantasy, dancing around me. He tosses me the mike and shouts, "Take it, Daaa-na." With the music swirling around me, spilling into me, I feel Alan's world, a world of dreams in a safe shelter. Bomber pilots, comic heroes, rock stars, costume changes--only costume changes. I am frozen only for the briefest moment before we're stomping and shouting like maniacs, belting out the tune. He moves in close, grabbing my mike, to share it, his wild child's face close to mine. "Now spin," he shouts, choreographing breathlessly.

When Irv comes upstairs, drawn by the sheer pitch of our jumping and wailing, we grab him too and pull him into the room. His mouth is agape, his glasses askew and he swats at us, the full sleeves of his kimono flapping. "Are you both crazy? Let go of me! You're going to give me an attack," he hollers, shoving us away from him. But Alan persists. Exhausted, I slip back against the wall, then into the hallway, watching them. "Spin? You want me to spin?" Irv screams.

Our secrets are safe. Some things don't change. It's my wise, cranky father who's always understood. Irv would say, quoting the Zen master, "'We are saved such as we are.'"

*****

3. Cotton Avenue
Concert Track: Live from Red Rocks, August 30, 1983
Joni Mitchell

Cotton Avenue - Joni Mitchell

Denise Gess Tribute Reading

Tuesday, November 10th, 7:30 PM

City College
NAC 6/316. (The sixth floor of the NAC building between 137th Street and 138th on Amsterdam.)
New York NY

Confirmed readers are J.T. Barbarese, Ron Block, DyAnne DiSalvo, Mark Doty, David Groff, William Lutz, Victoria Redel, and Me.

Denise Weather (Or: Synchronized and Vital)

Sometime around six PM on Friday night, the nurse asked those of us in the hospice lounge to come to Denise's room. We sat around the bed, holding her hands, her arms, her feet. Thunder banged outside, but the light was soft in the room. A Joni CD I'd made for Denise was playing on her brother Joe's laptop. Song for Sharon. Cotton Avenue. Edith and the Kingpin. Then, Good Friends. Not long ago Denise had reminded me that this was "our song" all the way back when it came out in 1984, when we were first friends. She and I agreed that this demo version was sweeter than the finished album version, and all at once it felt like she was talking to me through the song--or at least through the placement of the song. I stared down at my hand on her left foot and breathed.

Good Friends - Joni Mitchell

The next day, it didn't surprise me to hear that Denise had held on for twelve more hours. According to Nancy, her sister-in-law, another thunderstorm moved through in the middle of the night, one of the most intense she'd ever heard.

"You think I'm going?" Nancy said, channeling Denise. "Hah! Just you wait."

Which made the two of us laugh.

Stubborn girl.

Later that night Mark and I went out to the Atlantic Avenue beach in Amagansett. Hurricane Bill was then moving two hundred miles to the east, doing weirdness to the weather. Vibrant things, beautiful. Half sunset, half thunderhead. Nine foot, ten foot waves, plunging toward us in multiple rows. Spouts, sprays. Every so often a rogue wave slopped the beach all the way up to the dune, but the water was warm, and no one seemed to mind. Wet shorts, wet shoes, wet wallet: wasn't that what we wanted, though we might not have even known it? Then Mark and I looked up and saw the most outstanding rainbow we'd ever seen, a prize specimen of a rainbow, the full arc, maybe the ghost of a second one behind. Five colors vibrating before the sky became just a sky again. We stood there, shocked.

Do you think it's possible to write about that rainbow? Mark said, confused.

It would be a challenge, I said. Denise?

Then another wave came up and swept the beach clean.

Denise Gess (July 19, 1952-August 22, 2009)

Email from Denise on my birthday, July 9, 2009...

HAPPY HAPPY BIRTHDAY, CHICKEN!!!!! That's the important thing. YAY!
You're just about the sexiest, most beautiful 50-year-old around, too.

I love your gifts from Mark and the "pornographic" cake.

THe trip to Chatham was lovely, the weather sublime. We were actually
going to have lunch on Block Island but Alan wasn't feeling well to
negotiate what he terms a "tricky airport while under the weather."

The NYC wedding was yesterday. Again, beautiful weather. Ceremony in
the Conservatory garden in Central Park. I kept hoping for a Bill
Cunningham photo op. Reception was at the Ava Lounge on the rooftop of
the Dream Hotel on West 55th. Super lovely.

Today's chemo was the last of this second line treatment; I get more
but different beginning August 10. Hair falling out rapidly, suddenly.
And guess what? Tonight I was eating and the next thing I knew my back
molar lower right tooth just came out!!! The whole thing. No blood no
pain but came out. I called Bob and he said it's a "spontaneous
exfoliation" my body rejecting the tooth. Causes? Radiation late side
effects. chemo, Prednisone. At least there's no pain. But a whole
tooth? Bizarre. Pray nothing else falls out!

Oh, the MRI showed punctate lesions or "holes of light" in the cortex.
I see brain man on Tuesday, but so far he called me from Chicago to
assure me he's not worried and I should not worry either, but Paul
it's official: I have holes in my head. He he.

I loved turning 50. 50 actually felt good to me. Mary' having a fit
about turning 50 so she's concentrating on my birthday instead this
year so she can deny her 50. But I told her it's very freeing and wise
to be 50. One has some heft and if we're smart the sense of humor to
only take half that heft seriously.

I have more to say too, but like you, I have a sponge brain today,
lost a pair glasses yesterday, almost lost another pair today. Kept
thinking of Refuge of The Roads.

Paul, you are the gift of my life. I am so happy you're in the world
and that I get to share it with you! Have a haapy happy birthday. I
love you deeply.

d xxxxxxxxxxxxxoooooooooooooooooooooooo

And, For Me, The Whole of You Has Been Transformed into Feeling

Wherever You Are

Sunflowers on our dining room table earlier this week.

Below, my piece on Wendy Waldman from Michael Montlack's anthology, My Diva. It seems appropriate to put this up today given that the friend I talked about yesterday listened to a lot of Wendy Waldman in the last year.

Off to Philadelphia in the morning.

* * * *

Seeds and Orphans: Wendy Waldman
from the anthology My Diva, edited by Michael Montlack
Paul Lisicky

If I played Wendy Waldman for you for the first time, I wouldn’t be wounded if you didn’t get her right away. I wouldn’t pick a fight if you made a crack about “Seventies California Singer Songwriters” and heard only the indulgences of the genre: the earnestness, the sunny harmonies. You might say, “Where’s the irony?” and I might say back, “What irony?” And I’d be just as likely to point out that she’s not a consistently assured singer, or say she’s written too many songs that don’t bear the stamp of personal signature, as if they’ve been intended for other voices. As for the whole earth mother spirituality thing—Well, where’s the edge?

The truth is that her contribution to songwriting is hard to articulate, and I‘m wondering if that's part of the reason she’s worked, for the better part of the last thirty-five years, on the margins. As far as I know, she’s never dressed in feathers to the Oscars. She’s never cast aspersions, at least publicly, on another female performer, or been voted “Old Lady of the Year” in Rolling Stone. When I look past the heap of frizzed-out hair, the gypsy skirts and bracelets on her early album photos, two things come to mind: sweet, quick-to-laugh. She’s the earthy, smart Jewish girl who might have been your high school best friend; she’d sit across from you in the cafeteria and do her best to cheer you up when some clown called you a fag. But she’d be careful not to take up too much space about it, and she’d certainly leave you alone if you wanted to mope. Someday she’d even ask you to play in her band. Maybe the most noteworthy extra-curricular fact about her is that she was Linda Ronstadt’s opening act at the height of her stadium-era fame. Also, she’s the daughter of Fred Steiner, the film and TV composer best known for writing the theme to the old Perry Mason Show, with its kitschy associations of both testosterone and striptease.

But none of that’s exactly fodder for the journalist. And it probably hasn’t helped that her music is difficult to categorize. There’s been a country Wendy Waldman, a hard rock Wendy Waldman, a symphonic Wendy Waldman. Early in her career she was known as the “West Coast Laura Nyro,” which makes a kind of half-sense: both share a knowledge of American songwriting tradition—whether it be blues or Broadway—and its metaphors. But other than that, Wendy’s her own animal—or many animals. In a song on her first album she’s the daughter of a vaudeville performer, who’s learning the tricks of pleasing the crowd from her old ham of a father. In “The Walkacross” on her most recent, she’s the matriarch of a family running ahead of a flood. Where is the self behind these gestures? Who is Wendy Waldman? But that’s part of what’s engaging about this work: the disappearance into character, into the mask it’s trying on. It would probably be pushing it to say that Waldman knows her queer theory, but I’m sure one of the reasons she matters to me has something to do with her fluidity, her refusal to be any one thing. Why wear one costume when you could be a blues guitarist one minute and a tarted-up girl on the town in the next? How else to keep yourself awake before the mirror?

Of course the modesty of this strategy has come at some cost. Unlike Joni Mitchell, she doesn’t have her “Help Me,” which hammers down the persona: the hunger for attachment alongside the need for sexual freedom. She doesn’t have PJ Harvey’s “Big Exit” with its exuberant pistol waved at anyone in her way. She’s finally more character actor than leading lady, and since her interest in inhabiting multiple voices isn’t the explicit subject of her work (as it is in, say, Dylan—or at least in Todd Haynes’ queering of Dylan), I suspect that her achievement has been hard to see and hear.

What Wendy Waldman excels at is writing wised-up, tender songs. They’re not especially concerned with extremity. They’re not interested in revenge or outcry. Some are bold enough to engage old-school sentiments like hope and joy. In that way they’re closer in spirit to the best songs of the forties, by which I mean a musical landscape that assumes its listener is living in hardship and doesn’t need to be reminded of that every two seconds. (Imagine the old World War II-era standard “I’ll Be Seeing You” in gauzy pants with little bells around the hems.) Not that they offer cheap consolation, but they put a high value on intimacy and contact, as if they believe those things are sustaining. I’m thinking about my favorites from Seeds and Orphans, which have the eerie sense of being addressed to a lover who never was, who might—or might not—be dead. But the moves are subtle, easy to miss if you don’t give them your complete attention. You can pay taxes or scrub vegetables to them and trick yourself into believing they sound like a dozen other songs, but then you’d be missing their little gifts: the leap of melodic line, the unexpected harmonic shift.

Maybe years from now Waldman’s music will get the recognition it deserves. I’m talking about that distinct category of praise we reserve for the neglected or the underdog. I’d like to think that she’ll be held up regularly alongside Joni and Laura, and younger counterparts like Feist and Joan Wasser, but Wendy Waldman proceeds as if reputation and fame are distraction. Occasionally you hear the tug of missed possibility inside her voice, the shock of something huge left behind, but it’s never a whine, or laced with entitlement or self-pity. She might have a better sense of these matters than I do, anyway. In “My Last Thought” on My Time in the Desert, she sings: “Nothing much around here’s going to stand the test of time. / The things we fought and died for will all be left behind.” That insistence on ongoingness, without futurity, without descendents, yet open to experience—doesn’t that sound familiar to what many of us might know about ourselves? She soldiers on. She writes beautiful songs in an era that doesn’t care about beautiful songs.

Wherever You Are - Wendy Waldman

Fruit Tree

This is a post I'm not even sure I can write.

I'll just say that this is a song for a friend, who's been admitted to a hospice. She's being kept comfortable and is out of pain. The news is not good. But that's not what I want to talk about tonight. Instead, the song. Nick Drake. Fruit Tree. I've known this song for at least as long as I've known my friend--which is 26 years. Every time I hear it, it jerks me out of myself. I have to shut the laptop; I have to sit still where I am. I have to stop everything, which is what I think the best songs, poems, stories, etc. can do for us.

Fruit Tree - Nick Drake

Three Parties

Over the weekend we went to as many parties as we'd been to all summer. The social machine turning at an ecstatic pitch before it slows, slows down again.

At Party Number One, in an elegant garden in Sag Harbor, we were handed the strongest Martinis ever. It took us hours to walk off the effects of those Martinis, but before that, we did have a nice time with our friend Tom Healy, who read at Canio's from his excellent first book, What the Right Hand Knows.

At Party Number Two, in an elegant garden in Springs, I sweated completely through the back of my longsleeve, Oxford cloth shirt. Mark and I were sitting on a bench, and during the ceremonial remarks, the wood cracked beneath us with a sound like a gunshot.

No one else appeared to be hot.

At Party Number Three, we met friends on the beach at a place known locally as The Cut. Kids came; Phil and Monica's dog, Penelope, came. We were in shorts, swimsuits. Tiki torches burned. Wine swigged straight from the bottle. The time couldn't have been sweeter. And as the sun went down a bonfire was lit. The megamansions on Dune Road receded, and Bridgehampton looked as it might have looked at an earlier time, a little primeval, darker than night, mysterious.

Where Was I?

If I've been reticent in the commentary-interpretation department, it's only because I've been writing, writing a lot. Thinking. The word muscle wears out after three hours of writing, which is why I've been relying on outside texts. Those say what I want to say better.

I've been writing about my twenties, a time in my life I've never considered in writing. Famous Builder, in fact, skips right over the period between 1980 and 1991 as if the years in between never happened. The revelation is that I don't think I quite happened back then. My body, my brain, and imagination were elsewhere. Or maybe I was simply on hold, waiting for life to start. Maybe that's how everyone experiences their twenties, in retrospect. Maybe that's why I need to revisit it and poke around, see what's there.

It's like chipping away at something hard, like shale.

I only know that those years seem darker, even more alarming, in retrospect. People dying of a disease, not even a fixed name for the disease, or how one gets it. No test, no pills. Homophobia, sexphobia. The terror of it so all-encompassing that rage transforms into cuteness: cute music, clownish fashion. Was anyone inhabiting those times? I'm not one to make pronouncements--it is, after all, also the decade of The Smiths, New Order, Raymond Carver, Amy Hempel's first stories, David Leavitt's first stories--but it's eerie to think about what a few decades will do: the culture's penchant for nostalgia sanitizing, sweetening.

William, It Was Really Nothing - The Smiths

Stop Me If You Think Youve Heard This One Before - The Smiths