as prose poems) in the car today on the way to and from skiing. I
left them here in the journal I was typing in the car so my process is
evident. Maybe.
Saturday, January 31, 2009,11:18 AM we are riding in the car toward
Shane's to drop off Graham and then we are going skiing at Stoney
Creek. I hope we have fun. Sometimes it is fun and sometimes it is
essentially an ordeal. Depends in part on how well I slept (not at
all well) and in part on weather and conditions (16 degrees here and
colder I am sure out there, windy and gusty, snow crusty with some
fresher snow on top.).
Mozart's 10th piano sonata is on, my favorite composer and my
favorite form, cheery and pleasant. Graham is gone now (at Shane's)
and we're headed the back way toward the highway, but it is anything
but sunny and cheery outside--the sky is a dull blank grey.
I was thinking that some of my dream material would be good in novels
(the business, for example, of crawling along the outer edge of an ice
covered ship with hungry black waters below, very treacherous, to
perform some necessary task or retrieve something.
I need to add Keryl and her sister into Frog Haven for the sake of
the Slovenia sequel, but dunno if I'll live long enough to write all
the sequels and novels I've planned when I can't even get this one
done--too many things I want to do!!
I brought water paints to try painting in the car. But then I
dropped the Psion accidentally, picking up all the paraphernalia I'd
piled up to take on our expedition. So I wanted to make sure it still
works, seems to. I also wanted to send off a packet to The Bitter
Oleander because of the new poem I wrote for Paul Roth (might as well
send more than one, but most of my poems are not Paul Rothish.) so I
thought I'd try to construct something, but feel utterly uninspired.
Keith asks, are you still my sweetie? and I answer yes. Are you
still mine? Yes. Yay! We're on the highway now, "We're off," I say,
"Like a Turd of hurtles."
I brought painting stuff, I was going to paint in the car but I think
I will try for a poem.
A woman paints in the car while her husband drives. She paints
peonies, large and white; lays little paint where the petals grow,
paint green and brown leaves soft around the faint lemon and light of
petals. Outside the window, snow falls, lazy in the meadows. It
pelts into the windshield and she paints around the snowdrops, leaving
the paper white for every flake. She paints snow into her husband's
beard and onto the collar of his jacket, paints her knees and the
dashboard, each flake piling on the next until the car is so full of
peonies and snowdrifts that it disappears in the fields and muffles
the rings of searching cell phones.
1st draft, 090131 11:40 AM for Paul Roth.
Her Husband's Aging Beard
A woman paints in the car while her husband drives. She paints
peonies, large and white; lays pale paint for petals, green and brown
in soft spreading splashes for leaves to define the faint lemon and
light of petals. Outside the window, snow falls, lazy in the meadows,
lazy in the bare branches. It pelts the windshield and she paints
around the snowdrops, leaving the paper white for every flake. She
paints snow into her husband's beard and onto the collar of his
jacket, paints her knees and belly and the dashboard of the car, each
flake piling on the next until the car is so full of peonies and
snowdrifts that it disappears in the fields and muffles the rings of
searching cell phones.
090131-1149-1b; 1st draft, 090131 11:40 AM for Paul Roth.
Her Husband's Aging Beard
A woman paints in the car while her husband drives. She paints
peonies, large and white; lays pale paint for petals, green and brown
in soft spreading splashes, leaves to define the faint lemon and light
of blooms. Outside the window, snow falls, lazy in the meadows, lazy
in the bare branches. It pelts the windshield. The woman paints
around the snowdrops, leaving the paper white for every flake. She
paints snow into her husband's beard and onto the collar of his
jacket, paints her knees and belly and the dashboard of the car, each
flake piling on the next until the car is so full of peonies and
snowdrifts that it disappears in the fields and muffles the rings of
searching cell phones.
090131-1155-1c; 1st draft, 090131 11:40 AM for Paul Roth.
A woman stares through the viewfinder of her camera. There is so much
dust on the lens that she thinks she is in the midst of a flock of
birds. The birds are large and heavy, and their wings are so small
they do not look capable of flight. But they pick the woman up and
fly over the blank sky with her. The sky is the color of nothing, the
color of stupidity, but above the clouds, everything flares into gold.
When the birds drop her, she bounces several times on the mattress of
cloud and then sinks into a fog so thick she can swim in it. But so
can the sharks. So many they look like dust spots on a lens. And
hungry.
1st draft, 1-31-09, 12:07 PM 26 mile road, approching Stoney Creek backwoods.
Midas Quilting
A woman stares through the viewfinder of her camera. So much dust
covers her lens that she thinks she is in the midst of a flock of
birds. Though the birds are large and heavy, their wings are so small
they appear incapable of flight. But they pick the woman up and carry
her through the blank sky. The sky is the color of nothing, the color
of stupidity, but above the clouds, everything flares into gold. When
the birds drop her, she bounces several times on the mattress of cloud
and then sinks into a fog so thick she can swim in it. But so can the
sharks. So many sharks approach that they look like dust spots on a
lens. But hungrier.
090131-1215-1b (On Inwood Road almost at the parkinglot!); 1st draft,
1-31-09, 12:07 PM 26 mile road, approching Stoney Creek backwoods.
* * *
A woman skis across a shooting range. Because in the flat light, she
cannot tell where the hills and valleys are, she suddenly slips away
from herself, lunging sometimes forward and sometimes back. The
marksmen fire white guns. Some are dressed as invisible polar bears,
some as snow-covered pines and spruces. White balloons pop here and
there, white champagne corks fly into a white sky. The reports echo
thunderously off the invible hills and snowy trees. The richochets
turn her to Swiss cheese with ketchup. She remembers a classmate
telling her Swiss cheese with ketchup tasted like chicken. Also
rattle snakes and polar bears. The woman who might taste like chicken
leaves a red trail in the snow. Behind her, the world is a little
less flat but crashing like armagheddon.
1st draft upon leaving Stoney creek from cross country skiing--I had
forgotten how horrible the shooting is, all the gunfire from the
shooting range. UGH UGH UGH UGH UGH I HATE IT! ;-(
1st draft 1-31-09 3:21 PM
* £ * £
Midas Mattress
A woman peers through the viewfinder of her camera. Because a
plethora of dust covers her lens, she thinks she is in the midst of a
flock of birds. Though the birds are large and heavy, their tiny
wings appear incapable of flight. But they pick the woman up by the
elbows and carry her through the blank sky. The sky is the color of
nothing, the color of stupidity. Until suddenly ends and begins anew.
Above the mist, everything flares into gold. When the birds drop
her, she bounces several times on the shining mattress of cloud and
then sinks into fog. She swims, one long stroke after another, swims
among the thickness and fog sharks. So many sharks approach that
they look like dust spots on a lens. But hungrier.
090131-1530-1c (On Inwood Road almost at the parking lot!); 1st draft,
1-31-09, 12:07 PM 26 mile road, approching Stoney Creek backwoods.
On Van Dyke and Chicago, headed home from skiing.
$ $ $
A woman skis across a shooting range. Because in the flat light, she
cannot tell where the hills and valleys are, slips she suddenly away
from herself, lunging sometimes forward and sometimes back. The
marksmen fire white guns and disguise themselves as invisible polar
bears and snow-covered pines and spruces. Thousands of white balloons
pop around her and white champagne corks fly into a white sky. The
reports echo thunderously off the invible hills and snowy trees. The
richochets turn her to Swiss cheese with ketchup. She remembers a
classmate 52 years ago telling her Swiss cheese with ketchup tastes
like chicken. He also said rattlesnakes, frog legs and polar bears
taste like chicken. The woman who wonders if she too tastes like
chicken leaves a red trail in the snow. Behind her, the world is a
little less flat but exploding and collapsing in on itself like
Armagheddon.
1st draft upon leaving Stoney creek from cross country skiing--I had
forgotten how horrible the shooting is, all the gunfire from the
shooting range. UGH UGH UGH UGH UGH I HATE IT! ;-(
Draft 1b written on I 94 coming home from skiing
090131-1547-1b; 1st draft 1-31-09 3:21 PM
* £ * £
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