On

When I'm about to leave the house and music is playing, particularly ravishing music--Bach, Dawn Upshaw, Chet Baker--I do not turn off the radio. I take my keys, my camera, and wallet, and with my cell phone clipped to my waistband go out the door and down the driveway, pleased with myself as if I had done something remarkable. I don't leave the radio on for security, unlike a friend who used to leave his radio on to frighten away thieves.

The other day as I walked away from my house to the sound of "Night in Tunisia," I thought about leaving things on, not just the radio. All the books I've loved are still on, still playing. The volume is turned down but will increase if I open the book and read. The paintings that turned me on are still on. The ink still seems fresh on the letters my mother wrote to me: "Dearest Miriam, I want to tell you I can enjoy life again. My vital signs are good."

A few blocks away, the Buddhist monks have made a sand painting. On October 21 they will perform "The ceremony of dissolution." They will destroy the painting. I can't be like them. I want things to go on.

Indoors

It's rainy and raw. The yews drip. The sparrows at the feeder are drenched and sodden. Everything is a yellowed-over gray. I need a walk so I will walk in the house. I light a candle and put on my striped paw-gloves, which I found in the pocket of my winter coat. I must have washed them last spring: they smell fresh. Gloves on, red scarf wrapped twice around my neck, insulated in sweaters, fleece pants and long underwear, I should warm up.

I'm lucky to have rooms to move in. Even if I were back in one of the dismal, small, cold furnished rooms I once lived in, I'd find a way to move. I fall into a fast rhythm: kitchen, through the dining room, down the hall, into the living room, and back again, and again. The "Jazz Spectrum" is on the radio and I hear what sounds like a mellow throaty voice. I put my head close to the radio. A bass or a guitar? I'm not sure. When I call the station, I learn it's Steve Gilmore playing bass. His bass is a mouth, a throat, lungs, breath.

I've warmed up and can stretch--hamstrings, quads, arms, back. Hamstrings are the tightest but they let go.

Now I've got a pot of rice cooking on the stove. Rice and beans for lunch and then time to write while the last of the storm knocks down leaves. They're on the grass: copper, yellow, red.

Make-up

Make-up has surprising value. It can raise my spirits. This morning I woke feeling low. I don't know why but I could speculate. A few days ago I saw old friends. Four of the nine people in the room had survived cancer, and one was facing a serious operation on his heart. We ate and drank and told stories. No one mentioned illness. To survive cancer is a good thing, but later I began to brood about the human condition, a dispiriting thing to do.

"If dying were a good thing, the gods would be mortal," Sappho wrote. I thought of her wry poem as I put on my make-up. As soon as I stroked "Charcoal" tint into my eyebrows I felt better, and even better when I lined my upper lids, put on Dr. Hauschka's "Translucent Make-up 02 and Alba Botanica Terra Tints lipstick. Dr. Hauschka is expensive, pricey enough to make a security attendant gasp when she saw the price label as she searched my carry-on bag; the lipstick is only a few dollars.

Why should putting on make-up raise my spirits? Maybe because it has a narrative shape: first this, then that. It's a little like writing and walking. Make-up improves my appearance, but not much.

After I was made-up for the day--a character, so to speak--I lit a candle, ran a wash, listened to the opening few minutes of the Episcopal service broadcast from Memorial Chapel at Harvard, which always begins with this hymn.

O God, our help in ages past,
our hope for years to come,
our shelter from the stormy blast,
and our eternal home:

Under the shadow of thy throne,
thy saints have dwelt secure;
sufficient is thine arm alone,
and our defense is sure.

Before the hills in order stood,
or earth received her frame,
from everlasting thou art God,
to endless years the same.

A thousand ages in thy sight
are like an evening gone;
short as the watch that ends the night
before the rising sun.

Time, like an ever-rolling stream,
bears all its sons away;
they fly, forgotten, as a dream
dies at the opening day.

O God, our help in ages past,
our hope for years to come,
be thou our guide while troubles last,

and our eternal home!

When the hymn was done, I went out for a walk. Everyone I saw seemed brave. They were out in the sunshine, not in bed with the covers pulled over their heads.

Metaphor: Melissa Stein

I was thinking more about my imaginary course, "Description," when it occurred to me that metaphor was one of the most potent forms of description. In Melissa Stein's super-sensitive poem, "Hinges," the title word is remarkably described.

Hinges

You opened the door. Forced it back

on its hinges, drove in the thin wedge, saying

"I may need to enter at a moment's notice."

But don't you know that metal has memory, alive

the way rising dough resists a probing finger,

or trodden grass springs up against the foot's imprint.

Even flesh that retains the rare bloom of a bruise

soon lets it go. You keep these iron plates apart

so long they rust apart, flaking

into the slightest breeze, and still,

they remember what it means to rest

against each other, folded like wings.

(Bellevue Literary Review, fall 2009.)

The whole poem is metaphor--the struggle between an intruder and the "hinges," which seem human, virginal, once hidden and secret, angelical.

Dinner with MacBook

Our friend S. came for dinner on Sunday, and while we drank beer and ate almonds, J. showed him--on his MacBook--scenes from the great Russian film version of King Lear directed by Grigori Kozintsev with a score by Shostakovich. I myself did not watch, not even for a minute. Lear is too heartbreaking in English. Can you imagine what the Russians do with it? Break your heart and devour it.

We went to the table and ate penne with basil and roasted tomatoes. Our plates steamed; we ate slowly. I mentioned I had seen Peter Lorre's first film in America, "Mad Love." "Lorre had that eyebrow thing," I said, raising my eyebrows, twitching them. "But not as pronounced as in later films." Lorre is wonderfully creepy as the mad Dr. Orlac, who sews fresh hands, cut from an executed knife-thrower, onto the wrists of a concert pianist whose hands were crushed in a train wreck. S. told us there was a reference to Dr. Orlac in Malcolm Lowry's "Under the Volcano." I googled; up came the poster, which the hero of the novel sees in one of his drunken rambles.

We ate cauliflower and potatoes with scallions, olive oil, and spinach, the vegetables from Wilson farms, herby and pungent. I said I had been reading the recent biography of Flannery O'Connor. J. tried to find her on youtube, without success. She and the chicken she had supposedly trained to walk backward had been filmed by Pathe news when O'Connor was a child. I took the computer, googled away and in seconds found an audio of O'Connor giving a talk about the grotesque in fiction. It was eerie to hear her thick southern accent and sweet voice. A candle shed its wavering light; the windows were dark. She went on talking:

Whenever I'm asked why Southern writers particularly have a penchant for writing about freaks, I say it is because we are still able to recognize one. To be able to recognize a freak, you have to have some conception of the whole man, and in the South the general conception of man is still, in the main, theological. That is a large statement, and it is dangerous to make it, for almost anything you say about Southern belief can be denied in the next breath with equal propriety. But approaching the subject from the standpoint of the writer, I think it is safe to say that while the South is hardly Christ-centered, it is most certainly Christ-haunted.

We listened to the end. I shut down the computer and we ate mango sorbet and shortbread. J. sang:

Mammy's little baby loves short'nin', short'nin',

Mammy's little baby loves short'nin' bread.

Three little chillun lying in bed,

Two of them sick, the other 'most dead.

Call for the doctor, the doctor said,

"Feed them chillun on shortnin' bread.

We were a little hysterical. The MacBook was a robot-like helper, our fourth guest. The great god Google had given us too much, and J. sounded like the black characters in Spike Lee's film "Bamboozled," who act like players in a minstrel show--grotesques!

Here is a photo of the study in which Flannery O'Connor wrote her great stories.

Making Things Up

On Friday afternoon, I had two visitors, young girls. A. began playing with my exercise ball and then she and her sister S. began transforming it into a character. First they made a boy with a checkered hat and big feet. S. drew his face on an old towel, which we stuffed into the hat. I helped by searching the house for a shirt, gloves, shoes, the hat, a tie, a scarf. S. named him Chuck. A. did not like the name but did not put up a fight.

We stripped off the clothes and made another character, the one you see here. To turn Chuck into a girl, S. gave her eyelashes, fuller lips, and a beauty mark at the corner of her mouth. Her hair is a fuzzy scarf. We agreed our character liked to eat.

She still had no name. A. and S. argued about the name. A. chose "Jessica"; S. wanted "Tilly." "She's a Tilly," she said. A. did not agree. "Look at her," S. said. "Jessica does not fit her character." We were in the realm of fiction and fairy tale, where the name should fit the character. In real life our names often do not fit us. Our character was fat, untidy, goodnatured. No Jessica or Miranda or Annabel or Marilyn. A. turned her back on the chubby, jowly creature she had helped make, and insisted we call her "Jessica." She liked the name, but it had nothing to do with our fat creature. We compromised. S. said: "We'll call her T.J."

After they left, I took T.J. apart. (She's still "Tilly" to me.) Back in their original places in my closet and dresser drawers, the clothes have no memory of their excursion.

Stripping Down

A few blocks away, workers are stripping a house as if they were stripping a sofa to be reupholstered. They've ripped off the siding, exposing these wide boards, which have been hidden since the nineteenth century, when the house was built. Inside they smash plaster, which gives off clouds of white powder as it falls into the dumpster. They tear out ceiling fans, stoves, cabinets, white metal medicine chests with big globe lights. The workers wear masks. I watch from across the street.

If we were stripped down, we could not be rebuilt. We'd be soul-less, lifeless. Have you seen those flayed, embalmed bodies on exhibit in museums? They are processed: "A human specimen is first preserved according to standard mortuary science. The specimen is then dissected to show whatever it is that someone wants to display. Once dissected, the specimen is immersed in acetone, which eliminates all body water. The specimen is then placed in a large bath of silicone, or polymer, and sealed in a vacuum chamber" (Boston Museum of Science website). Ghastly! I saw the exhibit in the Boston Science Museum. Lifeless. Macabre.

The house is full of life. The more the workers strip away the more beautiful the house appears. It's girdled in granite, which has blackened from the steam engine trains that used to speed by, and an iron fence, which I hope they will restore.