wopate

Free, And Not So

In Uncategorized on 26 July 2016 at 17:54

Hoping for more and wishing for less
When I didn’t care was when I did best
I’m desperate to run, I’m desperate to leave
If I lose it all, at least I’ll be free

It’s clear you think that I’m inferior
Whatever helps you sleep at night
Whatever helps you keep it tight

I’ll certainly miss the rain here. It may drench the already-soupy air further but I love it. Obviously, I wouldn’t want to be here if it rained too much. That wasn’t a concern when I lived on the Gulf Coast as a youth. My parents worried about hurricanes and such. I was a kid. We were excited and happy to get a few days off from school (this was before they started requiring “make-up days”).

That freedom isn’t quite available anymore.

Nowadays, I have to worry about it. I have to remember we’re living in a bowl that’s flooded more than once and been destroyed by water more than once. (Also by fire, but that’s beside this point.)

I have to think about how we get ourselves (and in “ourselves” I include George, Jeff, Carl and Mel) and our valued belongings out of town without a vehicle. My current plan is to bail early. Is it in the Gulf of Mexico? Is it predicted to even brush New Orléans? The Mississippi River is maybe 15-20 blocks away, if that. We out.

It’s not something fun to think about because it’s not something that seems fun, especially if your worst fears do, in fact, make landfall. But, beyond naming the local natural disasters, I certainly didn’t give considerable thought to their possible impact on our lives.

How often do we consider the large disasters that regularly cause destruction in our chosen relocation destination? Weather – the normal, day-to-day highs and lows – may be worried over. Regularly occurring natural disasters, however, are given much less thought. Hurricanes and tornadoes and floods and mudslides and polar vortices and more. These are present in mind only when we, or someone else causes us to, call it to mind.

But when, except in retrospect in the aftermath, do we focus so intently on life’s possible disasters?

Entries are much more difficult to write now. Maybe they’ll start flowing more easily after some time and practice.

 

Will life get ahead of me?

In Uncategorized on 25 July 2016 at 18:03

All these times will change
I can’t turn away
Planes are heading home
When old friends are gone

I thought that after I left Austin I’d be able to write about it. The Ruta Maya years. Before Austin began becoming San Francisco in industry and (relative to the local cost-of-living) rent prices.

I followed the rule that one can’t write about a city without leaving it.* That writing hasn’t occurred yet. Partly because I haven’t focused on it the way I need to if I plan to actually produce something someday. The other part being I haven’t pushed it. And I’m too old to believe inspiration will strike – can wait until death for that to happen. It would be nice, though.

Dane, my old Air Force brat friend from Keesler AFB in Biloxi, messaged me on Facebook last night to note how negative I seem to be and check on me. He wanted to make sure I wasn’t planning to “off” myself.

I’m not, for the record.

Poetry & Words

In Uncategorized on 25 July 2016 at 11:14

The poet feels the dull memory of other knowledge of the tongue and can’t reproduce it. She has to use the words there are for such things as have names — language is the fallen medium, built of worn material — but what she wants from an act of reference exceeds what any amalgam of communicable content can actually do. She wants to make moonlight felt, not speak again the name of the moon. Actual terms, whatever their number and glamour, are always too few and too many, always wrong. Poems become the tokens of unrealized desire. Poetry is the name for what poems never became.

. . .

Poetry, then, implies a vexed ground where profound ambitions are joined to inadequate means of realization. This, in capsule form, accounts for both the persistent aura and disappointment of the art.

Brandon Kreitler, “Like a Poem: On Ben Lerner’s The Hatred of Poetry,” Los Angeles Review of Books, 22 July 2016.