In my last blog, I talked about how I’m not that interested in the environment, at least not enough to volunteer or take any kind of real initiative. And I’m just being honest here. I can’t lie. When I signed up for this class I secretly hoped I could turn the idea of “nature” into something else, something that I like. In the first class we talked about the definition of nature and I felt like it could be as broad as anyone wanted it to be, that we didn’t have to write like Thoreau or Frost. I wanted to subscribe to the Pattiann Rogers definition of nature, that it could really be anything. I thought I could get away with writing a bunch of blue-collar, labor poetry and say that’s part of my nature, so it fits. But I have since changed my mind.
First of all, visiting my spot has come to mean something so much more important to me than I thought it would. Most of the time I brought my daughter with me and I have loved every minute of watching her enjoy the animals. She’s learning and having fun at the same time. The funny thing is, I feel like I’ve been learning too.
This class was my first foray into writing creative non-fiction. I’ve learned that it’s something I want to do more of. I know I need a lot more practice, but I feel like I have a much better understanding now of the fundamentals. Mix exposition with reflection and scene. Don’t just tell the reader where you’ve been. Instead, bring them with you. Show them where you’ve been. Help them feel what you feel. Be active and dynamic, not anecdotal. These are things that I didn’t realize before, make good writing. Sure, for the first draft it’s fine to just get something down. But when you’re writing for an audience, use these tools of craft to move your reader. Help them appreciate the work you do. Don’t just expect them too.
And the idea of writing about nature and the environment doesn’t mean you have to write like Thoreau or Edward Abbey. Nature can be your frame. The place where you begin so you can get to what’s deeper inside. I’ve decided that every time I write something what I’m doing is searching for epiphany.
As far as environmental issues go, I still haven’t talked myself into being more active. But not doing something, doesn’t mean I lack appreciation. It just means I haven’t gotten there yet. I know that my writing is better when I get out and experience the environment. I think right now that’s enough for me. I’ll use it to become better at what I do. Hopefully, with time and practice, I’ll be able to give something back. I’ll keep writing until I do. Thank you, Sheryl, for a great class.
Monday, April 26, 2010
Windthrow
It’s around noon on Saturday. The game preserve is booming with people and the birds are going nuts over the enormous amount of bread scattered around the pond. Kids are running amuck in the sun, having a blast. But I’m not interested in that today. I’ve turned around. My back is to the pond and I’m looking at the tree line.
You are with your mom, down the street at a playground in South Park. You love the slides and the swings, almost as much as you love the ducks and the peacock named Kevin. The two of you will be stopping by shortly. I’m looking forward to it. But right now I’m watching a dead tree live.
It’s a small oak and it has seen better days. It has fallen and can’t get up (bad joke there). And only about twenty feet away, an even smaller evergreen has recently been broken in half. Mushrooms have started to grow on the downed trees. There are homes being built in there, a small city. I wonder how many animals have taken up beneath the rotting wood, no doubt hundreds and thousands of insects, probably a snake or two, maybe a muskrat burrowed in underneath.
From the other side of the windthrow (the downed trees), a whitetail deer is looking straight at me. She’s eating and watching at the same time, her ears and tail flickering. From behind, a mallard takes off and flies over the doe’s head straight toward me, but veers off and dives into the pond.
You and Mom pull up in the car. You jump out and run toward me. “Daddy, daddy!” Those words are music. The best kind. “Whatcha doing, Daddy?” I tell you that I’m looking at the dead tree over there. You say, “the dead tree over there?” like you understand what I’m talking about but you don’t understand why I’m talking about it, or why I’m doing it. And I think that’s a good question. Why am I staring at a dead tree? What’s the point? I begin to realize something. I guess, for now, at this point in my evolution as a writer, the tree is a frame, a ledge, something I can use to jump from, to get into what I really want to say. So what is it that I really want to say? I think about it for a some time while you walk the Preserve with Mom. The deer has since disappeared and I’ve forgotten what I hoped to find in the windthrown trees.
So I pack up my bag and I walk to the other side of the pond where you’re telling Mom about the ducks, or just showing Mom that ducks exist. You point and say, ”look, Mommy, ducks,” as though we don’t know that they’re ducks. But what else is there? I don’t think I know any more about ducks than you do. So I stare at them for a while. I stare at you still pointing to them and telling us what they are. I stare at Mom who smiles every time you tell her. And I smile too. We’ll be back here, I say to myself. We’ll be back here, often.
You are with your mom, down the street at a playground in South Park. You love the slides and the swings, almost as much as you love the ducks and the peacock named Kevin. The two of you will be stopping by shortly. I’m looking forward to it. But right now I’m watching a dead tree live.
It’s a small oak and it has seen better days. It has fallen and can’t get up (bad joke there). And only about twenty feet away, an even smaller evergreen has recently been broken in half. Mushrooms have started to grow on the downed trees. There are homes being built in there, a small city. I wonder how many animals have taken up beneath the rotting wood, no doubt hundreds and thousands of insects, probably a snake or two, maybe a muskrat burrowed in underneath.
From the other side of the windthrow (the downed trees), a whitetail deer is looking straight at me. She’s eating and watching at the same time, her ears and tail flickering. From behind, a mallard takes off and flies over the doe’s head straight toward me, but veers off and dives into the pond.
You and Mom pull up in the car. You jump out and run toward me. “Daddy, daddy!” Those words are music. The best kind. “Whatcha doing, Daddy?” I tell you that I’m looking at the dead tree over there. You say, “the dead tree over there?” like you understand what I’m talking about but you don’t understand why I’m talking about it, or why I’m doing it. And I think that’s a good question. Why am I staring at a dead tree? What’s the point? I begin to realize something. I guess, for now, at this point in my evolution as a writer, the tree is a frame, a ledge, something I can use to jump from, to get into what I really want to say. So what is it that I really want to say? I think about it for a some time while you walk the Preserve with Mom. The deer has since disappeared and I’ve forgotten what I hoped to find in the windthrown trees.
So I pack up my bag and I walk to the other side of the pond where you’re telling Mom about the ducks, or just showing Mom that ducks exist. You point and say, ”look, Mommy, ducks,” as though we don’t know that they’re ducks. But what else is there? I don’t think I know any more about ducks than you do. So I stare at them for a while. I stare at you still pointing to them and telling us what they are. I stare at Mom who smiles every time you tell her. And I smile too. We’ll be back here, I say to myself. We’ll be back here, often.
Pittsburgh and the Environment
Admittedly, I’m not an environmentalist. To be honest, I’m not too concerned with environmental issues, or not as concerned as I should be. I do understand the importance and I appreciate a healthy environment, especially now that I have a daughter, but I just don’t have the time. I know, likely excuse. But it’s true. I don’t have the time to do the things I really want to do, let alone things that I’m not terribly interested in.
The point here is that I have no idea what kind of environmental issues face the city of Pittsburgh. However, I know the internet does. So I hopped on and did some Googling and came across a site called The Pittsburgh Green Story. The site can be found here: http://www.pittsburghgreenstory.org/html/index.html. In general, this website sheds light on the reshaping of Pittsburgh from a smokestacked industrial powerhouse to one of America’s most livable cities.
One aspect of the site that I found very interesting is a section called ‘Story Ideas.’ The editors offer a list of compelling environmental issues surrounding Pittsburgh that could be tackled by ambitious writers. I’ll share a few that I struck me. Apparently, heavy precipitation, including rainfall and melting snow, can cause the sewage level to rise to such a degree that it overflows into the rivers. I can’t imagine the thought of canoeing the Allegheny and finding myself paddling through a pool of human waste. I’d say that’s a story that needs written. Another idea that I think would make a great essay, particularly in light of the recent mining disasters, is the effect abandoned mine drainage has on our local waterways. Toxic material from area mines that have since discontinued use can be the cause of building corrosion and threatens plant and animal life. Along the same lines, many abandoned mines have been filled in, but storm drainage can cause “blow outs,” which could potentially release additional toxic material into the rivers.
Another environmental problem, a little less scary than the previous two, and of much more interest to the Pennsylvania sportsman (maybe), is the overpopulation of deer and turkey. There are areas of Pittsburgh that are crowded with whitetail deer. In fact, there’s a herd that lives just down the road from my house. I see one or two deer every week or so, on average. This topic would probably make more of a “nature” essay than an environmental essay, but it’s still fundamental to our class’ discussions.
Despite finding this website quite fascinating, I don’t know that I’ll be taking on any environmental projects any time soon. But one thing is certain, when I take my daughter to the game preserve, I get annoyed when the trash can is overflowing and there’s garbage all over the ground. Ten years ago I wouldn’t have cared a whole lot, but now my tune has changed. She is curious about everything and I hate the idea of her picking up somebody’s fast food leftovers. Environmentalist or not, I’m at least conscious, and maybe that’s the first step.
The point here is that I have no idea what kind of environmental issues face the city of Pittsburgh. However, I know the internet does. So I hopped on and did some Googling and came across a site called The Pittsburgh Green Story. The site can be found here: http://www.pittsburghgreenstory.org/html/index.html. In general, this website sheds light on the reshaping of Pittsburgh from a smokestacked industrial powerhouse to one of America’s most livable cities.
One aspect of the site that I found very interesting is a section called ‘Story Ideas.’ The editors offer a list of compelling environmental issues surrounding Pittsburgh that could be tackled by ambitious writers. I’ll share a few that I struck me. Apparently, heavy precipitation, including rainfall and melting snow, can cause the sewage level to rise to such a degree that it overflows into the rivers. I can’t imagine the thought of canoeing the Allegheny and finding myself paddling through a pool of human waste. I’d say that’s a story that needs written. Another idea that I think would make a great essay, particularly in light of the recent mining disasters, is the effect abandoned mine drainage has on our local waterways. Toxic material from area mines that have since discontinued use can be the cause of building corrosion and threatens plant and animal life. Along the same lines, many abandoned mines have been filled in, but storm drainage can cause “blow outs,” which could potentially release additional toxic material into the rivers.
Another environmental problem, a little less scary than the previous two, and of much more interest to the Pennsylvania sportsman (maybe), is the overpopulation of deer and turkey. There are areas of Pittsburgh that are crowded with whitetail deer. In fact, there’s a herd that lives just down the road from my house. I see one or two deer every week or so, on average. This topic would probably make more of a “nature” essay than an environmental essay, but it’s still fundamental to our class’ discussions.
Despite finding this website quite fascinating, I don’t know that I’ll be taking on any environmental projects any time soon. But one thing is certain, when I take my daughter to the game preserve, I get annoyed when the trash can is overflowing and there’s garbage all over the ground. Ten years ago I wouldn’t have cared a whole lot, but now my tune has changed. She is curious about everything and I hate the idea of her picking up somebody’s fast food leftovers. Environmentalist or not, I’m at least conscious, and maybe that’s the first step.
Jimmy Santiago Bacca
Not sure why, but a Fistful of Dynamite is the phrase that keeps popping into my head when I think of Jimmy Santiago Bacca’s poetry. I realize I’m stealing that from Sergio Leone. I also realize that Clint Eastwood is not Sheryl’s favorite actor. But nevertheless, I keep coming back to it. Maybe because Bacca’s poetry is like something about to explode, like potential energy bottled up in paper and ink. I want to see what happens when it’s released. I want to watch the explosion happen from the margins, letters and numbers flying all over the place.
It could be the lack of articles, the missing prepositions the intentionally left out pronouns, the native tongue that gives it this feeling of energy restrained. Probably the only thing more interesting about Jimmy Santiago Bacca than his poetry is the man himself. “Just do shit,” he said in our roundtable discussion with him before his reading at Chatham. Now that may not be poignant in and of itself, but the advice he gives after that is nothing short of impressive.
Every night that I leave class, on the drive home, I ask myself what poetry is, and why I write it. Occasionally I’ll come up with something good, but by the time I get home I’ve forgotten it already. I like to believe that I’ve thought of something close to the following:
“Get out of your comfort zone. See how people suffer.”
“Just because it’s far away doesn’t mean you can’t be there.”
“Open the lens large and then narrow it down.”
“Have a narrative spine.”
"Believe in the process. Don’t think about results. Think about process.”
“Get out of the ‘write one poem’ frame of mind. If you go to a tree, don’t be so arrogant that you think you know the tree after one poem. Write thirty-eight poems. Then you’ll begin to learn about the tree.”
“What you start, finish. Even if it's crap. Finish the greatest work of crap ever.”
“When I write, I’m telling everyone I love them.”
He’s right. Just because you like something, admire something, even hate something and maybe even spend a little time with it, doesn’t mean you really know it. Take poetry for example. I like to think that at this point I know a little about poetry because I’ve been writing it (or a bastardized version of it) for twenty years now. But I never seem to get the results that I want. I never seem to find the perfect word, the perfect form, the perfect fit. Maybe if I start to write about it I’ll get closer to where I want to be. Maybe if I write thirty-eight poems about poetry, I might actually learn something about it. The same goes for the place I live. I’ve been in Pittsburgh for almost ten years, but I don’t really know it. Thirty-eight poems just might get me closer to my home. It looks like I have some work to do. Thank you, Mr. Bacca. It’s time for me to get started telling people I love them. It's time for me to start working on some of that great crap.
It could be the lack of articles, the missing prepositions the intentionally left out pronouns, the native tongue that gives it this feeling of energy restrained. Probably the only thing more interesting about Jimmy Santiago Bacca than his poetry is the man himself. “Just do shit,” he said in our roundtable discussion with him before his reading at Chatham. Now that may not be poignant in and of itself, but the advice he gives after that is nothing short of impressive.
Every night that I leave class, on the drive home, I ask myself what poetry is, and why I write it. Occasionally I’ll come up with something good, but by the time I get home I’ve forgotten it already. I like to believe that I’ve thought of something close to the following:
“Get out of your comfort zone. See how people suffer.”
“Just because it’s far away doesn’t mean you can’t be there.”
“Open the lens large and then narrow it down.”
“Have a narrative spine.”
"Believe in the process. Don’t think about results. Think about process.”
“Get out of the ‘write one poem’ frame of mind. If you go to a tree, don’t be so arrogant that you think you know the tree after one poem. Write thirty-eight poems. Then you’ll begin to learn about the tree.”
“What you start, finish. Even if it's crap. Finish the greatest work of crap ever.”
“When I write, I’m telling everyone I love them.”
He’s right. Just because you like something, admire something, even hate something and maybe even spend a little time with it, doesn’t mean you really know it. Take poetry for example. I like to think that at this point I know a little about poetry because I’ve been writing it (or a bastardized version of it) for twenty years now. But I never seem to get the results that I want. I never seem to find the perfect word, the perfect form, the perfect fit. Maybe if I start to write about it I’ll get closer to where I want to be. Maybe if I write thirty-eight poems about poetry, I might actually learn something about it. The same goes for the place I live. I’ve been in Pittsburgh for almost ten years, but I don’t really know it. Thirty-eight poems just might get me closer to my home. It looks like I have some work to do. Thank you, Mr. Bacca. It’s time for me to get started telling people I love them. It's time for me to start working on some of that great crap.
Kevin: Place 11
You and Mom are throwing bread to the ducks. You’re still not even as tall as Mom’s waste, not quite half a person yet. You’ve gotten pretty good at throwing bread, though I think at the moment you’re more enamored by the act of throwing than you are interested in whether the ducks get any or not. I can’t feel bad for the ducks though, there’s bread littered all over the Preserve. If they really want some, all they have to do is walk around a little.
The two of you hike up the hillside toward the buffalo pen. Part of the way up is the peacock shelter. You point to it and say something to Mom. A minute later I get a text that says, “She’s asking, ‘where is Kevin, Mommy? Let’s go find Kevin.’” This probably wouldn’t be funny to anyone unless they’d also seen ‘Up’ (a Disney movie where a kid finds a big colorful bird and names her Kevin). I agree, the peacock does look a lot like Kevin. And sounds like Kevin too. We should know. We’ve seen the movie at least a hundred times.
You walk back down the hill. Halfway to the pond you stop to inspect the bread bag in your hands. You look up at Mom and say something with your empty hand palm-side up. Must be a question. I imagine you asking where the swans went, the ones I showed you just a few months earlier. I haven’t seen them for quite some time. I miss them. They were the most unique creatures at the pond. I hope you miss them too. But I’m pretty sure you’re not asking about them. You’re probably asking if you can eat the bread you’re carrying. I only guess that because the next thing you do is pull out a piece and take a big bite. Mom laughs and so do I.
After you’ve eaten and tossed all your bread, Mom decides to take you to the park where you can climb and swing and slide yourself crazy. You stop to say goodbye and I ask if you saw Kevin. You tell me Kevin wants to go outside and I think you’re right. You and Mom head for the car. I stick around to finish writing. As soon as your car pulls away, the peacock trots out of the shelter and into a fenced (roof included) area, a simulated “outside.” He opens his glorious tail feathers. Once again, I don’t have the best words to describe it, nor do I have a poem ready to escape. I am, however, sad that you missed it. I’m also sad that the swans are gone.
In just minutes it starts to rain, but only sprinkle. Maybe that’s why the peacock stopped out, one last stretch before the downpour. I walk over to see him before I leave. When I get to the cage, he’s put his feathers away. Oh well. “See you later, Kevin,” I say. And I walk back down the hill to my truck. It’s time to go watch you slide. I hope it doesn’t continue to rain.
The two of you hike up the hillside toward the buffalo pen. Part of the way up is the peacock shelter. You point to it and say something to Mom. A minute later I get a text that says, “She’s asking, ‘where is Kevin, Mommy? Let’s go find Kevin.’” This probably wouldn’t be funny to anyone unless they’d also seen ‘Up’ (a Disney movie where a kid finds a big colorful bird and names her Kevin). I agree, the peacock does look a lot like Kevin. And sounds like Kevin too. We should know. We’ve seen the movie at least a hundred times.
You walk back down the hill. Halfway to the pond you stop to inspect the bread bag in your hands. You look up at Mom and say something with your empty hand palm-side up. Must be a question. I imagine you asking where the swans went, the ones I showed you just a few months earlier. I haven’t seen them for quite some time. I miss them. They were the most unique creatures at the pond. I hope you miss them too. But I’m pretty sure you’re not asking about them. You’re probably asking if you can eat the bread you’re carrying. I only guess that because the next thing you do is pull out a piece and take a big bite. Mom laughs and so do I.
After you’ve eaten and tossed all your bread, Mom decides to take you to the park where you can climb and swing and slide yourself crazy. You stop to say goodbye and I ask if you saw Kevin. You tell me Kevin wants to go outside and I think you’re right. You and Mom head for the car. I stick around to finish writing. As soon as your car pulls away, the peacock trots out of the shelter and into a fenced (roof included) area, a simulated “outside.” He opens his glorious tail feathers. Once again, I don’t have the best words to describe it, nor do I have a poem ready to escape. I am, however, sad that you missed it. I’m also sad that the swans are gone.
In just minutes it starts to rain, but only sprinkle. Maybe that’s why the peacock stopped out, one last stretch before the downpour. I walk over to see him before I leave. When I get to the cage, he’s put his feathers away. Oh well. “See you later, Kevin,” I say. And I walk back down the hill to my truck. It’s time to go watch you slide. I hope it doesn’t continue to rain.
Sunday, April 25, 2010
Fall: Place 10
It’s the middle of the day at the game preserve. The trees look like they’re on fire. Orange is the dominant color. But there’s red, brown, green and every different shade in between. Autumn, it’s definitely my favorite season. And not just because it’s the beginning of football season.
I like to think that there’s nothing that can’t be accomplished in autumn. It’s all about change. Nature is killing itself and rebuilding again next year. How nice would that be? I also like that it’s the only season with two names, and one is desperate. Fall, we’ve decided to nickname it, like it’s clumsy. Can’t be trusted to stand on its own two feet. What if, instead of working together so beautifully, the seasons battled it out for their turn in the neighborhood? Or maybe they do. Maybe that’s what tornadoes are all about. The warm side of spring looks at the cold side and is like, “dude, it’s my turn, and if you don’t step off I’m going to wreck some shit up here.” And then we end up with trailer parks in shambles and bathtubs in trees.
Back to this notion of nature killing itself. Seriously, what if we could do that? I mean, it’s been almost a year since my last doctor’s appointment. What if I just said, to hell with it, I’m not going back. Instead, I’ll just wither away into the ground and grow my ass back up in a few months. Great time to do it too, with winter right around the corner. Speaking of winter, talk about something that’s clumsy and doesn’t really have any friends. Except skiers I guess. But you know what, if there never was a winter then those people wouldn’t know what they were missing. And if we had the option to kill ourselves right before winter, if you didn’t want to, if you love skiing so much, then stick around. Nobody’s forcing you.
There is an urgency among the animals today at the game preserve. They seem like they’re getting ready to go somewhere, which I suppose some of them are. The mallards are packing their bags, covering the furniture, purchasing travelers’ checks. They’ll be on their way soon to greener pastures, brighter lights, better days. Or maybe just the beach. I can see a duck kicked back in one of those long folding lawn chairs, umbrella overhead, white sunscreen on the end of its beak.
As for me, well I can’t stay here any longer either. I’ve got to go somewhere and paint something (now, if I only knew how to paint). I’ve decided that if Fall can have two names, why not have three. From now on I’m calling it Rise.
I like to think that there’s nothing that can’t be accomplished in autumn. It’s all about change. Nature is killing itself and rebuilding again next year. How nice would that be? I also like that it’s the only season with two names, and one is desperate. Fall, we’ve decided to nickname it, like it’s clumsy. Can’t be trusted to stand on its own two feet. What if, instead of working together so beautifully, the seasons battled it out for their turn in the neighborhood? Or maybe they do. Maybe that’s what tornadoes are all about. The warm side of spring looks at the cold side and is like, “dude, it’s my turn, and if you don’t step off I’m going to wreck some shit up here.” And then we end up with trailer parks in shambles and bathtubs in trees.
Back to this notion of nature killing itself. Seriously, what if we could do that? I mean, it’s been almost a year since my last doctor’s appointment. What if I just said, to hell with it, I’m not going back. Instead, I’ll just wither away into the ground and grow my ass back up in a few months. Great time to do it too, with winter right around the corner. Speaking of winter, talk about something that’s clumsy and doesn’t really have any friends. Except skiers I guess. But you know what, if there never was a winter then those people wouldn’t know what they were missing. And if we had the option to kill ourselves right before winter, if you didn’t want to, if you love skiing so much, then stick around. Nobody’s forcing you.
There is an urgency among the animals today at the game preserve. They seem like they’re getting ready to go somewhere, which I suppose some of them are. The mallards are packing their bags, covering the furniture, purchasing travelers’ checks. They’ll be on their way soon to greener pastures, brighter lights, better days. Or maybe just the beach. I can see a duck kicked back in one of those long folding lawn chairs, umbrella overhead, white sunscreen on the end of its beak.
As for me, well I can’t stay here any longer either. I’ve got to go somewhere and paint something (now, if I only knew how to paint). I’ve decided that if Fall can have two names, why not have three. From now on I’m calling it Rise.
The Great Garbage Patch: Place 9
A swift cold wind blows across the Preserve. I am waiting for the snow. From my bench spot I have a clear view of the pond. In between is a garbage can that always seems to be full. The wind has picked up a Wonderbread bag and a Starbucks cup and is blowing them around in front of me. It reminds me of the Great Garbage Patch, or Pacific Gyre, a Texas-sized island of garbage floating around the Pacific Ocean. I read somewhere once that the earth cannot digest plastic (I like the word digest in this context) and by in large all the plastic that has ever been created is still around. So, of course, everyone thinks the Great Garbage Patch is just a terrible thing. But has anyone considered the merits of it? I mean, if we can’t get rid of plastic, then maybe we should embrace it.
First of all, it might be the best representation of humankind that we could have ever created, and we did it by accident. When the aliens land and try to figure out what we’re about, all they need to do is check out the Garbage Patch. So much of what we use on a daily basis is surely floating around in it. From shampoo bottles and toothbrushes to candy wrappers and condoms, what better way to study a species than through their waste, especially the waste that will never go away. And as far as patches go, it’s got to be number one. It beats the heck out of a pumpkin patch. It’s more utilitarian and colorful. A pumpkin patch is just orange. The Garbage Patch is full of vivid colors and probably some of those plastic Halloween pumpkins that will never rot.
The other important thing to consider about the Patch is its artistic merit. From the sky it’s got to look beautiful, like a giant swirling Pollack. Thos aliens must think we’re incredibly talented. Think of the Patch, which is the size of Texas, as a giant sculpture of everyday objects. Where else are you going to see Coke and Pepsi bottles spooning like lovers on top of a bed made of Styrofoam LCD TV packaging? No where else, my friend, only the Great Garbage Patch.
We could even turn it into an art museum, charge admission, make it a tourist destination. Or we could send people there that we don’t otherwise want around, like insurance companies and politicians. We could make it the new capital of the world. So keep it I say. Besides, we can’t get rid of it anyway, unless we box it up and shoot it out into space. We could send it to the aliens, with a little Christmas card that says, “Thinking of you during the holiday season. Love, Earthlings.” Maybe then they’ll stop secretly probing us. Maybe then we’ll appreciate the Great Garbage Patch.
So I pick up the bread bag and coffee cup. I toss them on top of the already heaping can. There, I’ve done my part. I’ve added to our incredible piece of world art. I guess that makes me an artist. And I’d say an environmentalist too. Ok, I’ll end this before it gets out of control. Besides, it's starting to snow. And I'm cold.
First of all, it might be the best representation of humankind that we could have ever created, and we did it by accident. When the aliens land and try to figure out what we’re about, all they need to do is check out the Garbage Patch. So much of what we use on a daily basis is surely floating around in it. From shampoo bottles and toothbrushes to candy wrappers and condoms, what better way to study a species than through their waste, especially the waste that will never go away. And as far as patches go, it’s got to be number one. It beats the heck out of a pumpkin patch. It’s more utilitarian and colorful. A pumpkin patch is just orange. The Garbage Patch is full of vivid colors and probably some of those plastic Halloween pumpkins that will never rot.
The other important thing to consider about the Patch is its artistic merit. From the sky it’s got to look beautiful, like a giant swirling Pollack. Thos aliens must think we’re incredibly talented. Think of the Patch, which is the size of Texas, as a giant sculpture of everyday objects. Where else are you going to see Coke and Pepsi bottles spooning like lovers on top of a bed made of Styrofoam LCD TV packaging? No where else, my friend, only the Great Garbage Patch.
We could even turn it into an art museum, charge admission, make it a tourist destination. Or we could send people there that we don’t otherwise want around, like insurance companies and politicians. We could make it the new capital of the world. So keep it I say. Besides, we can’t get rid of it anyway, unless we box it up and shoot it out into space. We could send it to the aliens, with a little Christmas card that says, “Thinking of you during the holiday season. Love, Earthlings.” Maybe then they’ll stop secretly probing us. Maybe then we’ll appreciate the Great Garbage Patch.
So I pick up the bread bag and coffee cup. I toss them on top of the already heaping can. There, I’ve done my part. I’ve added to our incredible piece of world art. I guess that makes me an artist. And I’d say an environmentalist too. Ok, I’ll end this before it gets out of control. Besides, it's starting to snow. And I'm cold.
Hesitation: Place 8
It’s a little after noon at the Preserve today. I don’t have any good essay-type ideas so I think I’ll work on a poem today. That’s funny. Run out of ideas? Just write a poem. No ideas necessary. In fact, bring an empty mind, totally void of all ideas. Anyway, here’s a poem inspired by the last line of Tim Seibles ‘Leap.’
Hesitation
It will always be morning.
Except when it’s mid-afternoon
and lunch settles into your stomach
and you’d give anything to kick
your feet up on your desk
and close your eyes
but God wants to see you in Her office.
It’s your annual review
and if you even want a chance
at getting a raise
you’d better be in there on time
God doesn’t like tardiness
especially now that we’ve got Outlook
and reminders pop up on your screen
No more excuses for being late
She said in a staff meeting
so you watch the clock tick
and you consider checking your voicemail
but decide to leave it until
right before close of business,
that way you can ignore it more easily.
When it’s time
you walk to God’s office
There is thunder on the other side
of the office door.
You grab the knob and stop.
It’s beginning to get cold.
You hope it’s not raining inside.
Well, it’s a first draft. This poem isn’t about the game preserve or anything “natural” for that matter, but it’s what I wanted to do when I stopped at the preserve today. The fact is, I find that being here does provide a writer-friendly environment. I think I’ll start coming here more often with the intention of writing poetry. This is the first time I’ve really given it a shot. I’m glad I picked this spot. I think I’ll come back.
Hesitation
It will always be morning.
Except when it’s mid-afternoon
and lunch settles into your stomach
and you’d give anything to kick
your feet up on your desk
and close your eyes
but God wants to see you in Her office.
It’s your annual review
and if you even want a chance
at getting a raise
you’d better be in there on time
God doesn’t like tardiness
especially now that we’ve got Outlook
and reminders pop up on your screen
No more excuses for being late
She said in a staff meeting
so you watch the clock tick
and you consider checking your voicemail
but decide to leave it until
right before close of business,
that way you can ignore it more easily.
When it’s time
you walk to God’s office
There is thunder on the other side
of the office door.
You grab the knob and stop.
It’s beginning to get cold.
You hope it’s not raining inside.
Well, it’s a first draft. This poem isn’t about the game preserve or anything “natural” for that matter, but it’s what I wanted to do when I stopped at the preserve today. The fact is, I find that being here does provide a writer-friendly environment. I think I’ll start coming here more often with the intention of writing poetry. This is the first time I’ve really given it a shot. I’m glad I picked this spot. I think I’ll come back.
Man with a Limp: Place 7
A man with a noticeable limp carries his daughter around the pond. She’s younger than you, not quite walking yet. She’s black, or African-American. Admittedly, I’m still not quite sure what the politically correct thing to say is. And I only mention it because the man is white. There’s absolutely nothing wrong with that, but I am curious what the story is. I would guess there’s an interracial couple in the family. The man looks old enough to be her grandfather. Maybe his son or daughter is married to an African-American.
I haven’t spent much time on the “natural” things at the preserve today, which is to say that I haven’t talked about or even given much consideration to the animals, the ducks, the geese, the buffalo, the peacock, the missing swans. But I’m drawn to the question of the “naturalness” of the man and the little girl. The fact that my attention is drawn to them would make it seem like the pairing is unnatural (and let me say here that I am in no way shape or form against interracial coupling, nor do I believe that it should be viewed as unnatural). The fact is, society (and when I say society in this context I mean the last two thousand years of social shaping, or maybe the last two hundred of American social shaping) has made us believe that there is something unnatural about it.
That said, I earnestly believe, at least among most of the people that I know, that an interracial couple would not be viewed as wrong or unnatural. I feel strongly like the world is moving in that direction. But that’s really just my small world. Tonight I’ll go home and watch the news where a hundred Israelis were killed in a suicide bombing near the Gaza Strip. Are the Palestinians to blame? I wouldn’t have any idea, I couldn’t tell the difference. And I’m just being honest. I don’t hate them because I can’t tell the difference, I just can’t. Sure, I’m ignorant of their cultural differences and their histories. That stuff goes back to the beginning of time. I’m just amazed that an older white man is carrying a little black girl around and aside from noticing it, I actual think it’s cool. I feel like something good has happened somewhere.
Two mallard drakes are squatting next to my bench. They look exactly the same, brown and white bodies, black heads with that turquoise green color around their eyes and white stripes on their tails. A common merganser waddles up next to them. He starts pecking at the mallards. They don’t seem to be bothered. And why should they be? They’re all ducks. They’re the same thing. They just look different.
I haven’t spent much time on the “natural” things at the preserve today, which is to say that I haven’t talked about or even given much consideration to the animals, the ducks, the geese, the buffalo, the peacock, the missing swans. But I’m drawn to the question of the “naturalness” of the man and the little girl. The fact that my attention is drawn to them would make it seem like the pairing is unnatural (and let me say here that I am in no way shape or form against interracial coupling, nor do I believe that it should be viewed as unnatural). The fact is, society (and when I say society in this context I mean the last two thousand years of social shaping, or maybe the last two hundred of American social shaping) has made us believe that there is something unnatural about it.
That said, I earnestly believe, at least among most of the people that I know, that an interracial couple would not be viewed as wrong or unnatural. I feel strongly like the world is moving in that direction. But that’s really just my small world. Tonight I’ll go home and watch the news where a hundred Israelis were killed in a suicide bombing near the Gaza Strip. Are the Palestinians to blame? I wouldn’t have any idea, I couldn’t tell the difference. And I’m just being honest. I don’t hate them because I can’t tell the difference, I just can’t. Sure, I’m ignorant of their cultural differences and their histories. That stuff goes back to the beginning of time. I’m just amazed that an older white man is carrying a little black girl around and aside from noticing it, I actual think it’s cool. I feel like something good has happened somewhere.
Two mallard drakes are squatting next to my bench. They look exactly the same, brown and white bodies, black heads with that turquoise green color around their eyes and white stripes on their tails. A common merganser waddles up next to them. He starts pecking at the mallards. They don’t seem to be bothered. And why should they be? They’re all ducks. They’re the same thing. They just look different.
Dusk: Place 6
It’s dusk at the game preserve. There are only seven other people here at the moment. A mother, grandmother and little boy, probably a year or two older than you, are making their way up the path to the buffalo. The boy is running ahead, until mom calls for him to slow down. He runs back to them, jumping up and down at the same time, excited at the prospect of buffalo, or maybe just the prospect of being alive, and young. He yells something I can’t understand. It sounds like “no” with a bunch of other random words. Then he runs ahead again. He reminds me of you.
There is also a little girl, very close to your age. She falls over when a goose lets out a virtuous honk. But just as quickly she’s right back up, before her mom can get to her. “Look at that duck,” her mom says, “it has eggs in its bum-bum.” I’m not close enough to see, but now I’m curious. Is there really an egg sticking out of that duck’s ass? Does it work like that? The duck is still waddling, so I can’t imagine it’s giving birth at the same time. I remember when mom gave birth to you. I was right there watching the whole death-defying act. Miracle? Sure, you can call it that, I suppose. But if you’ve ever been there, ever seen your child’s head erupting from your wife’s most private of parts, then you know calling it “miracle” is the easy way out. That’s no miracle. It’s sheer strength and will. It’s what football players would call “want to.” In ten years I’ve never seen my wife look so determined. And I have to add here that she didn’t use any painkillers. No needle in the back, no pills, no nothing. By the time we got to the hospital you were on your way out, ready to see the world, ready for a breath of fresh air. And so was your mom.
There is a young couple standing on the bridge railing. They look like one person. One person with four arms folded in front of itself. Part of me hopes they make it. The rest of me knows they won’t. The little boy is running down the hill now. Mom and Grandma are leagues behind. They’ve given up. They’re tired, even too tired to yell. Eggs-in-the-bum Mom and her daughter are gone. I still don’t know what to think about that. Birth on the horizon is the best I can do. We’ll teach you some day. Though I hope it doesn’t come in the form of a duck.
I’m alone now. It’s on the verge of darkness. I won’t lie, it’s a little foreboding. My head darts up at every sound that comes from behind me. It’s just the animals talking. They’re not afraid. This is probably their happiest moment. No people watching their every move. No kids around to hurl bread at their heads or chase them up and down the hillside. Nobody watching them give birth. Nobody watching them live.
There is also a little girl, very close to your age. She falls over when a goose lets out a virtuous honk. But just as quickly she’s right back up, before her mom can get to her. “Look at that duck,” her mom says, “it has eggs in its bum-bum.” I’m not close enough to see, but now I’m curious. Is there really an egg sticking out of that duck’s ass? Does it work like that? The duck is still waddling, so I can’t imagine it’s giving birth at the same time. I remember when mom gave birth to you. I was right there watching the whole death-defying act. Miracle? Sure, you can call it that, I suppose. But if you’ve ever been there, ever seen your child’s head erupting from your wife’s most private of parts, then you know calling it “miracle” is the easy way out. That’s no miracle. It’s sheer strength and will. It’s what football players would call “want to.” In ten years I’ve never seen my wife look so determined. And I have to add here that she didn’t use any painkillers. No needle in the back, no pills, no nothing. By the time we got to the hospital you were on your way out, ready to see the world, ready for a breath of fresh air. And so was your mom.
There is a young couple standing on the bridge railing. They look like one person. One person with four arms folded in front of itself. Part of me hopes they make it. The rest of me knows they won’t. The little boy is running down the hill now. Mom and Grandma are leagues behind. They’ve given up. They’re tired, even too tired to yell. Eggs-in-the-bum Mom and her daughter are gone. I still don’t know what to think about that. Birth on the horizon is the best I can do. We’ll teach you some day. Though I hope it doesn’t come in the form of a duck.
I’m alone now. It’s on the verge of darkness. I won’t lie, it’s a little foreboding. My head darts up at every sound that comes from behind me. It’s just the animals talking. They’re not afraid. This is probably their happiest moment. No people watching their every move. No kids around to hurl bread at their heads or chase them up and down the hillside. Nobody watching them give birth. Nobody watching them live.
Wet: Place 5
Today is wet. It rained earlier and looks like it will again. The sun stopped by for a short time around noon so the bench I’m on is dry enough to sit. The mallards, geese and waterfowl are walking the hillside and diving into the water. The turkeys are flaunting their tail feathers. The buffalo are no where to be found. I guess they prefer to stay dry. I am starting to feel drops and I can see them dotting my laptop screen. This is not the kind of day to be sitting outside, trying to write. It makes me think about how significant conditions and environment are to a writer, at least during the writing process (as I’ve come to call it, thanks to academia). Before grad school I don’t think I had a writing process. Basically I just walked around all day and every once in a while I’d think of something that sounded cool and I’d write it down. Sometimes that turned into a poem, sometimes it didn’t. More often than not it didn’t. But school, if it has taught me anything, has taught me that there should be a process. That the best writing doesn’t come from natural inspiration or “the muse,” that the best writing should be inspiration that is worked at, revised, worked at some more and revised some more. The problem is, I still feel myself questioning that notion all the time. Quite often it feels like I revise stuff into the ground. I think so much about it that I end up making it worse. But I’m being really general here right now. And I need to get back to talking about the game preserve.
The peacock just walked out into the outside pen, his tail feathers are spread out in its great amazing fanned display. He makes the turkeys look like little punks. He’s gathering a crowd. There’s nothing revised about that, unless you consider the peacock harnessed. At that point he looks like a colorful turkey with a longer tail, nothing awe-inspiring. But wow, when that tail spreads. That’s cool. I wish I had better words for it. I suppose I should, if I really want to call myself a writer. And maybe some day I will. Right now, I just have awe. And I think I’ll leave it at that.
I would like to write a poem about the peacock. But I just don’t have something good to start out with. Every time I begin I feel like I’m just writing prose, exposition at that, almost like I’m a nature journalist, not really a poet, or even a creative writer for that matter.
It’s beginning to rain a little harder, the fountain in the pond expecting company. Edward Abbey would have something profound to say that brings the notion of rain, peacocks and writing together. But I’m not Edward Abbey. I’m just a guy who finds rain annoying, peacocks awe-inspiring and writing difficult. Suppose I’ll just keep at it. Something will show up in the process.
The peacock just walked out into the outside pen, his tail feathers are spread out in its great amazing fanned display. He makes the turkeys look like little punks. He’s gathering a crowd. There’s nothing revised about that, unless you consider the peacock harnessed. At that point he looks like a colorful turkey with a longer tail, nothing awe-inspiring. But wow, when that tail spreads. That’s cool. I wish I had better words for it. I suppose I should, if I really want to call myself a writer. And maybe some day I will. Right now, I just have awe. And I think I’ll leave it at that.
I would like to write a poem about the peacock. But I just don’t have something good to start out with. Every time I begin I feel like I’m just writing prose, exposition at that, almost like I’m a nature journalist, not really a poet, or even a creative writer for that matter.
It’s beginning to rain a little harder, the fountain in the pond expecting company. Edward Abbey would have something profound to say that brings the notion of rain, peacocks and writing together. But I’m not Edward Abbey. I’m just a guy who finds rain annoying, peacocks awe-inspiring and writing difficult. Suppose I’ll just keep at it. Something will show up in the process.
The Buffalo: Place 4
There are buffalo on the hillside, penned up so they don’t go roaming around the suburbs, scaring the neighborhood. The kids are less than enchanted, preferring the couple of crazy ducks engaged in some mixed martial duck arts, beak jabbing and wing hooking one another. If one of them learns to kick with those fat little webbed feet, they’d no doubt be the undisputed champion of the game preserve.
Anyway, the buffalo don’t move nearly as much. They just stand there eating grass and sniffing one another. The adults are more impressed than the kids. Probably because the buffalo are more like us, tired. They don’t have a lot to run around for now. Maybe their kids have all grown up. Maybe they’ve been stuck in a dead-end job all their lives. Maybe they’re just lazy. Either way they don’t move. And yes, I’m joking around here, they don’t move because they can’t. They’re stuck inside a chain link fence, which I am sure, if they really wanted to get out they could. Sheer brute force I want to tell them. Just start running. If they really were like us they’d be devising diabolical ways to scale the fence or dig beneath it. Or they would plot their escape the next time the guy with the feed stops by. Or, if it were us we would have figured out a way to get satellite TV pumped into the joint so we wouldn’t miss the Steelers Ravens game on Sunday or the next episode of The Biggest Loser (the buffalo would love that one, though I’m sure they’d prefer the Bills on Sunday).
Not sure why I hadn’t noticed before, but there are turkey jaunting around with the buffalo, grabbed my attention because one of the big beasts actually moved and headed in a turkey’s direction. The turkey, as though he were a little cocky, a little arrogant, spread his tail feathers out in that (word for bird-like) hand-shaped slap-in-the-face look, stopped the hairy giant in his tracks. Guess we know who’s boss around here. Suppose the truth is that the buffalo just don’t care all that much. They don’t need anything more than the smell of one another. And I wonder if we really could be like them. Isn’t that what we really want? When they turn the lights on at the tavern and tell everyone, “you don’t have to go home, but you can’t stay here,” and we’re looking around one last time to find that one set of eyes that lock onto your own. We’re looking for someone to sniff for the night, someone we might want to go on sniffing for a while. Or when we snap the lights off, after the kids have been read to and tucked in and we curl up next to the person we’ve vowed to curl up to every night, could it not be the way they smell that so often keeps us there? Yes, I think it can. So buffalo, brother, keep on sniffing. I’m with you.
But then I see that cocky turkey again and I think, one last time, if buffalo really were like us, that little son of a bitch would be turning on the rotisserie, rubbed, smoke and golden brown, just in time for kick-off.
Anyway, the buffalo don’t move nearly as much. They just stand there eating grass and sniffing one another. The adults are more impressed than the kids. Probably because the buffalo are more like us, tired. They don’t have a lot to run around for now. Maybe their kids have all grown up. Maybe they’ve been stuck in a dead-end job all their lives. Maybe they’re just lazy. Either way they don’t move. And yes, I’m joking around here, they don’t move because they can’t. They’re stuck inside a chain link fence, which I am sure, if they really wanted to get out they could. Sheer brute force I want to tell them. Just start running. If they really were like us they’d be devising diabolical ways to scale the fence or dig beneath it. Or they would plot their escape the next time the guy with the feed stops by. Or, if it were us we would have figured out a way to get satellite TV pumped into the joint so we wouldn’t miss the Steelers Ravens game on Sunday or the next episode of The Biggest Loser (the buffalo would love that one, though I’m sure they’d prefer the Bills on Sunday).
Not sure why I hadn’t noticed before, but there are turkey jaunting around with the buffalo, grabbed my attention because one of the big beasts actually moved and headed in a turkey’s direction. The turkey, as though he were a little cocky, a little arrogant, spread his tail feathers out in that (word for bird-like) hand-shaped slap-in-the-face look, stopped the hairy giant in his tracks. Guess we know who’s boss around here. Suppose the truth is that the buffalo just don’t care all that much. They don’t need anything more than the smell of one another. And I wonder if we really could be like them. Isn’t that what we really want? When they turn the lights on at the tavern and tell everyone, “you don’t have to go home, but you can’t stay here,” and we’re looking around one last time to find that one set of eyes that lock onto your own. We’re looking for someone to sniff for the night, someone we might want to go on sniffing for a while. Or when we snap the lights off, after the kids have been read to and tucked in and we curl up next to the person we’ve vowed to curl up to every night, could it not be the way they smell that so often keeps us there? Yes, I think it can. So buffalo, brother, keep on sniffing. I’m with you.
But then I see that cocky turkey again and I think, one last time, if buffalo really were like us, that little son of a bitch would be turning on the rotisserie, rubbed, smoke and golden brown, just in time for kick-off.
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