My tiny chalkboard poems continue and, apparently, are
appreciated by many who read them on social media, as these readers are telling
me. I am glad. In addition to sudden chalkboard revisions as I write, I
experience ongoing changes in interpretation. I wrote “Last Days” in my back
yard, on the patio, gazing in wonder at the beauty of everything around me, and
feeling eternity somehow. Inside me was the scary realization that I/we might
be living our last days on earth…but, if so, at least they would be remarkably
beautiful. And the world could go on without us.
Last Days
Yes, it might be
one of the last days
so breezy and bright,
so beautiful and clear.
The first version ended with two sentence fragments and had
three periods. It felt breezier and brighter, therefore,
but lacked eternity. Now it is one long sentence, like life. Eternity remains
only in the title and at a line break. These may simply be the last days of
sheer beauty before rain (needed!) or terrible heat (coming today). Or…these
may indeed be my/our last days on earth.
I suspect I’m under the influence of Station Eleven, by Emily St. John Mandel, published in 2014 but
terribly pertinent to now, as it’s about the world after a flu pandemic has
drastically reduced population and wiped out civilization as we knew it. No grocery stores now, gasoline has expired, no electricity, no phones, no computers.
People are making do in settlements here and there. And there’s a Traveling
Symphony for entertainment, because, and this is a quotation from Star Trek: Voyager, “survival is insufficient.” This book was gripping and oddly hopeful! And it led me to her
new one, The Glass Hotel, which I
have to read in a hurry and return as it’s a “7-Day” new book, but time is
askew at the library (as elsewhere) due to quarantining of books and materials
for seven days upon their return.
I’m also reading Seed
to Harvest, a collection of four short novels by Octavia E. Butler. She was
a science fiction writer who died young, and people had been telling me about
her work, so I read Fledgling, her
vampire novel, which turned out to be her last. When Seed to Harvest came in to the library, I happened to be the one
who “processed” it for library use, realizing I would now wait and let our
regular patrons read it while it was a “new” book, and I’d get it later. Later
is now!
Today is Juneteenth (which cannot be descecrated by a
president who had never heard of it till he made it “famous.” Oh, my God. See
why it feels like our last days?) Last year, Juneteenth was the theme of a
script I wrote for an annual event sponsored by the local history museum. I
knew it would be as soon as I learned the date of the event, June 19. You can’t
hold an event on Juneteenth and not honor it. This year’s event, with its own
theme, is not happening, due to the virus, and is postponed till 2021. Its
title and theme will still be “Hindsight is 20/20,” which sort of breaks my
heart.
I’m glad I happen to be reading a black author as well as
a white author on June 19. But, you know, I’m not sure I like white people
telling me what books on racism or anti-racism I should be reading. Yes, I want
to learn, and, yes, I like book recommendations, but I want to learn about
black experience by listening to black people, and reading their words. Is this
an example of “white fragility”? I don’t know yet, as I haven’t read White Fragility, which is written by a
white woman. Eventually, probably, I will.
For now, I’m reading (and writing) what comes to hand and
what comes to heart in these precious, ongoing, even sometimes interminable last days, where every day is a Random
Coinciday, and some days are Cranky Doodle Days.
2 comments:
I'm glad to find out about your blog, Kathleen, and will add it to my feed reader. I also like your short chalkboard poems!
Thank you, Beth!
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