~dead sea~

February 8th, 2007

My mother’s older sister told me a story of my mother secretly eating her sister’s box of chocolate, but not simply gobbling it down–rather poking the bottom of each one to see what would come out, and then putting some back.

This is not quiet how I felt today in the tub reading Mary Ruefle’s new book of poems Indeed I Was Pleased with the World. I didn’t put any back, instead each page was gobbled, some half-digested. Somehow I want to read them all like a word glutton. Or given the layers of death in life these days, maybe a comfort glutton.

Reading Virginia Woolf is the same way, not so the New Yorker, so there you go.
I have a fat stack on the bed table, Portrait of the Artist (never read it), a book on the Wall of Death, the new Tin House (with the regrettable bathing suit cover), To the Lighthouse.

I need nothing pointy for the sake of pointy, no tyranny of cleverness, just plain spoken truth, even if it’s just truth for today, this cup of tea.

Could be a little drafty around here for a while, my apologies.
I am not at all pleased with the world, though in these sorrowful days (what is worse, sorrow, or the anticipation of it? please cast your votes…) it has opened me somehow, and in moments fills me with a new shade of wonder.

I will leave you with a bit of Ruefle poem called Sermonette–there are so many but somehow this one speaks to me tonight, about the loss of the young, violently questioning, demanding self.


The woman who said
to dig into the whiteness
to find the ultimate illusion
is dead.
I didn’t know her
but you know the moment when women
become girls–we shared that single
cell. The life of the soul is
a funny, funny thing, it’s a wonder
we don’t all roll ourselves into scrolls
go into the Qumrun Caves
and wait it out in clay.

It took twelve jurors 20 minutes
to determine the truth.
Boys just stumble upon it.
But she spent her life living there.

Sweet Dreams~

3 Responses to “~dead sea~”

  1. Habib says:

    The anticipation of sorrow is worse. At least sorrow has substance, your heart on the surface of dark water. Anticipation is a ghost with no end or beginning, even the thrills feel hollow.

  2. J says:

    sorrow is worse than anticipation of sorrow. that’s my vote.

  3. J says:

    but also — can we learn about your mother from her sampling all the chocolates? or was that a too long ago version of her do?

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