Marie Howe and Poetry - Slice of Life

One of my favorite poets, Marie Howe, was anthologized again this week. I remember the first time I read her poems. I was wrapped up into boots and a heavy coat, sitting on the floor of the University of Utah library. I raced through all of her books and it was like my heart cracked open. Walking back to the apartment I lived in alone, watching snow falling on top of more snow, I couldn't shake that feeling of someone having read my memory. There are a lot of poets that I like, but I think Howe's poetry is more personal for me. It hits closer to home.

The poem below was the one that was anthologized this week in The Penguin Anthology of 20th-Century American Poetry. It's a sort of letter poem and Johnny is Howe's brother who died from AIDS in 1989. She said about his death, "you think, 'My life is changed so utterly I don't know how to live it anymore.' And then you find a way." I can attest to that. Anyhow, here's the poem:

What the Living Do

Johnny, the kitchen sink has been clogged for days, some utensil probably fell down there.
And the Drano won't work but smells dangerous, and the crusty dishes have piled up

waiting for the plumber I still haven't called. This is the everyday we spoke of.
It's winter again: the sky's a deep, headstrong blue, and the sunlight pours through

the open living-room windows because the heat's on too high in here and I can't turn it off.
For weeks now, driving, or dropping a bag of groceries in the street, the bag breaking,

I've been thinking: This is what the living do. And yesterday, hurrying along those
wobbly bricks in the Cambridge sidewalk, spilling my coffee down my wrist and sleeve,

I thought it again, and again later, when buying a hairbrush: This is it.
Parking. Slamming the car door shut in the cold. What you called that yearning.

What you finally gave up. We want the spring to come and the winter to pass. We want
whoever to call or not call, a letter, a kiss — we want more and more and then more of it.

But there are moments, walking, when I catch a glimpse of myself in the window glass,
say, the window of the corner video store, and I'm gripped by a cherishing so deep

for my own blowing hair, chapped face, and unbuttoned coat that I'm speechless:
I am living. I remember you.



Here's another one of her poems that I like.

The Gate
By Marie Howe
I had no idea that the gate I would step through
to finally enter this world

would be the space my brother's body made. He was
a little taller than me: a young man

but grown, himself by then,
done at twenty-eight, having folded every sheet,

rinsed every glass he would ever rinse under the cold
and running water.

This is what you have been waiting for, he used to say to me.
And I'd say, What?

And he'd say, This—holding up my cheese and mustard sandwich.
And I'd say, What?

And he'd say, This, sort of looking around.






Every time that I read her poems I feel like I'm back in the library. Enveloped in quiet, I sit remembering and reading, the two actions happening simultaneously. It's like reaching back and grabbing my memory. It's hard to write about because it's that part of the reading experience I never talk about. The really personal part.


Anyways, I'm glad about the news. Marie Howe definitely deserves to be included in the Penguin Anthology.

I'm not sure this is really a slice of life, but there it is.

Ruminations on Life and DFW

It's just past ten at night and I'm sitting here studying as usual. I figured I would write my slice of life early this week so that it's out of the way.

When I get stressed I do one of two things: I either work until I'm so exhausted I can't think or I retreat into a soft bubble of denial. For example, yesterday I spent 7 hours cleaning and running errands and doing homework. Overall, it was a very productive day. However, this morning when I woke up stressed about the mounds of homework I needed to tackle, I just wanted to snuggle deeper into bed. Eventually, I started working, but I still felt unmotivated all day.
I wish there was a magic motivation button that anyone could push and then they'd be motivated to do whatever they needed to. Perhaps that would be too easy though. I think part of the thrill of accomplishing something is actually having pushed yourself to do something worthwhile. I know that I definitely feel a sense of satisfaction after having spent time with my knuckles to the grindstone. It reminds me of what Malcom Gladwell writes in one of his books, something about how the really great people in history who have accomplished amazing things, have done so because they spent 10,000 hours or more on that thing. I wonder if there is anything in life that I've spent 10,000 hours on. If there's one thing that I've strengthened my belief in over the past three years, it's dedication. I think there's something poetically beautiful and intensely powerful about consistency. The type of consistency that involves waking up everyday and doing the same thing, even on days when it's difficult or you feel stuck or unmotivated. I appreciate that sort of stability in people more so than almost anything else.

I've been reading this book, The Pale King by David Foster Wallace and in it he writes:

"Gentlemen, here is the truth: Enduring tedium over real time in a confined space is what real courage is. Such endurance is, as it happens, the distillate of what is, today, in this world neither I nor you have made, heroism. Heroism. [...] The truth is that the heroism of your childhood entertainments was not true valor. It was theater. [...] ...actual heroism receives no ovation, entertains no one. No one queues up to see it. No one is interested." p. 227

and this...


"True heroism is minutes, hours, weeks, year upon year of the quiet, precise, judicious exercise of probity and care--with no one there to see or cheer." p. 228

I believe in that. I think that the strongest evidence of sincere attention and dedication is just that, "quiet, precise, judicious exercise of probity and care." I think this holds true for all types of things ranging from work or school to relationships of all sorts. Which makes me think of another Wallace quote (can you tell he's one of my favorites):

"The really important kind of freedom involves attention and awareness and discipline, and being able truly to care about other people and to sacrifice for them over and over in myriad petty, unsexy ways every day. That is real freedom. That is being educated, and understanding how to think."

I agree. I believe that the only real freedom we have is to choose whether we'll live life consciously or unconsciously. Either doing things because they're part of the rat race, or doing them because we're focused in on doing some real, intentional, heavy thinking and feeling and experiencing. I think the latter is what makes life worth living. And beyond that, everything else is like selling your soul away to Jersey Shore.


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If you're interested in more DFW, here's an address he gave at Kenyon College that is simply put, stunning and transformative:
http://moreintelligentlife.com/story/david-foster-wallace-in-his-own-words

This I Believe

This morning I stood out on my deck which was still wet from the night's rainstorm, and I did what I do every morning. First I got ready, filled my backpack with day's supplies, and then I fed my two dogs, Max and Teddy. A small blare of music played in the background while I gathered my things and then headed out for another day at school. I believe in the power of consistency.
Perhaps some people might see an average day as unimportant, but I see it as notable because I am defined by my habitual actions. In my opinion, true courage and heroism is dedicating yourself to something so completely that you're willing to work on it day after day. There is something to be said for

Regressing - Slice of Life

When you think you've moved past the mistakes you made in kindergarten, think again.
This morning I rushed to the bus stop a little later than normal. As I pulled into the parking lot, I gulped down another spoonful of strawberry-mango yogurt and jogged to the stop. When I was about 50 ft. away, the bus I usually ride came barreling past me. I picked up speed and tossed my half-eaten yogurt into the trash. I barely made it up the steps of the bus before the driver took off again. I scanned my bus pass and sat in the first available spot. Then I pulled my book out to read (today it was A Streetcar Named Desire, which I'm reading for the second time for my American Drama class). Blanche and Stella took over my thoughts while the bus rumbled through the streets and onto the interstate. Or so I thought. After about ten minutes of reading the bus lurched to a stop so forcefully that I had to tear my eyes from Streetcar and look up to grab the bags falling off my lap. OH NO! NO, NO, NO! How did I end up in front of Hobby Lobby instead of on the interstate? My heart failed for a moment. I stuttered to the guy sitting next to me, "is this the northbound?" To which he glanced at my face for less than a second before replying, "yep, get on the wrong bus?" I turned red and grabbed my things and whispered a quick, "uh huh," before I scampered off the bus.
I stood there for a moment perplexed, feeling like I had regressed 19 years. See, this same scenario almost occurred in kindergarten when I purposefully ignored the bus driver while she reminded us which bus we should take home. I did this because I thought it was dumb. Of course I'll remember which bus to take, I remember thinking. Why is she telling us this? Does she think we're idiots? Yeah, well, I wish I had listened when, after school, I ran frantically from bus to bus looking for the right one, calling my sister's name. Eventually, I realized that on the way home my sister would not be riding with me because kindergarten was only half a day. She was still in class, oblivious to my mounting dread at being stuck alone in front of the school. Luckily that time, a teacher helped me find the right bus and I made it home safely.
This traumatizing memory played through my head while I stood stupefied at the bus stop. How had I managed to become even better at getting lost at the age of twenty-two than I was at five? After a couple of minutes I drag myself towards the doors of Hobby Lobby and called Shaun. "Can you come get me?" I asked. Then for the next ten minutes I walked around the store aimlessly, caressing folds of ugly fabric and walking through aisle after aisle of tiny, wicker baskets. (What do people even use those for?) Within a matter of minutes, Shaun saved me and gave me a ride back to my car. I hopped in my car and drove to school, forever promising myself to look more carefully at which bus I try to hop on.

just write

Sometimes, laughing can feel like looking at chaos from a distance. Each peal of your voice pushes the grief further into the past and you can breath easier. The laughter releases you from complex emotion and pulls you into the amber of the present moment. Suddenly things become clear and simple. Like the autumn sun filtering through the trees. You lean your head back and just let go. The September air slips into the sound and you realize for the first time that things will be okay. For a moment you let the laughter hang there, and it feels like healing.

Slice of Life - Walking the Dogs

Walking the dogs inevitably begins with two tangled leashes and me crouching on the floor trying to reroute the tangled mess through 8 furry, excited legs. After a lot of jumping around from the dogs and a lot of exasperated commands from me, we make it out the door. First we circle the block. The little boy on the tricycle always follows us, never talking except to ask questions about the dogs. I think he just likes to watch them wiggle their tails and explore the neighborhood. We pass by perfectly manicured lawns and some haphazard ones as well. The sounds of kids playing and squealing echo from house to house. Most of the families are young because we live in a starter community. It’s not shabby, but it’s also not fancy. It’s mostly safe, except for that one time in the sixth grade when my neighborhood friend had 14 police cars outside of her house because they had a meth lab. Like I said, it’s not fancy. Things have calmed down now and most of the neighbors look at the meth house as an isolated situation. Now, the community is mostly populated with young LDS families and a few people who have lived there forever (the ones who started the neighborhood). My mom and I aren’t either of those. We’re the anomaly you might say. We’ve lived here for over a decade, but it doesn’t seem like that long. Initially, we moved here so that we could live in a house with a yard. We never moved into a nicer community because my Mom’s a public school teacher and most of the money she makes that doesn’t go to bills, goes to the hundreds of books we own and our adorable dogs, who by this time in the walk, are wrapped around my ankles.
When we finally make it back around the block, the dogs have calmed down a little and have stopped running in circles excitedly. Instead, their noses are pressed to the ground. Teddy snaps a fallen leaf into his mouth and crunches it a bit and then spits it back out on the next neighbor’s lawn. Max strains at the leash because has seen the white cat that lies in the gutter waiting to nearly be attacked by the dogs before it runs away. Every day the dogs and the white cat almost have an altercation, but at the last moment I manage to restrain their excited, inquisitive bodies while the cat darts to the middle of the street and lies down. I have no idea how that cat is still alive.
After the second time around the block we head down the street. We pass by the house of my favorite Sunday school teacher and the house that always has seasonal decorations galore. I feel grateful to live in a safe neighborhood with lots of open space and clean streets. The dogs keep their noses close to the ground and sniff audibly. Dogs that are penned in backyards down the street start to bark and whine as we pass. Teddy and Max just wag their tails and walk/run down the street. Teddy has grown so much since we got him 3 months ago that he’s now bigger than Max and together they weigh over half of my body weight. This means that as we’re walking I have to lean back a little bit and use my entire body weight to keep them from pulling me over. Shaun and I tried to train them to walk like the well behaved dogs on the televised dog shows, but that lasted for about two walks.
As we head home, Teddy and Max bite at a few more leaves and sniff various discarded toys on people’s lawns. They lap up some gutter water (gross!), and they consistently weave back and forth, switching sides. Finally we make it home and go in through the side gate. Immediately they return to a state of hyperactivity because they’re back home with their toys and things they think are toys, but are not. I pick up the pieces of firewood they have pulled across the lawn during the day. The wood has all the bark chewed off and the remnants are strewn across the lawn. Why they like the taste of wood I will never know, but every time we start a fire in the pit, one of them sneaks up behind us and grabs a log to drag away. Now they seem to have claimed the whole pile of wood. I leap up the steps and they quickly pad behind me and wait at the door while I grab their bowls. We finish off the walk with dinner for them and several giant laps of water. Teddy dribbles across the floor and paws at my foot, but I ignore it and sit down to do homework. Play time is over.

Picture: Teddy (left), Max (right).

My Name

My name flip-flops around. It can be bent and plied into so many forms. Camille. Cami. Cam. Cams. Millie. Each of these names represent me. You can even alter my name to sound like similar things. Like the time in second grade when my classmates called me Camel for a month.
Camille is the name of many male, French artists. I'm not sure how I feel about the gender swap that occurs somewhere over the Atlantic. It's cool from an objective point of view, but I don't really like sharing my name with the opposite sex. Girl names should look and sound like girl names and the same goes for boy names.
My name also sounds different depending on the language you speak. The double ll turns into a y sound and the e turns into an a sound when you say it in Spanish so that my name sounds more like Camiya. Sometimes people alter my name to revert to the more common, Camilla, which has more frill. Depending on my mood I might just adopt Camilla for a while. It sounds more elegant, more refined. Camille is like a pair of old sneakers, comfortable, but not very dignified.
Another way in which my name can transform in front of your eyes, or in your ears, rather, is if you tack on something to the end. My sister and I have special names that we use for each other in this way. She calls me Cami-Sue and I call her Jenny-Lou. Sometimes this breaks down into just Sue and Lou or Soodle and Loodle. My name is like a piece of gum, ripping apart and remolding into new forms with every bite.