field notes; week of october 15, 2018
two hundred and thirty-three.
perhaps grief was nothing but disbelief. the first snow fell and melted. and the second snow. after that, there was no reason to keep counting. the neighbors put up christmas lights, blue and white icicles under the eaves, orange and red bulbs outlining the evergreens, a deer pulling a sleigh in one front yard, wide-winged angels trumpeting in another. the world was not new and offered little evidence that it would ever be new again. perhaps grief was the recognition of having run out of illusions.
-- yiyun li, when we were happy we had other names, 2018
i read an old diary last night, october to december, and i wanted so badly to reach back through time, to warn the person on the page. but then, they were seeing the future, too; they calculated the risks, and they chose to continue to try. maybe it was always hopeless, the radiance of the reward so bright that the contours of the risk disappeared in light. i listened to “i’ll believe in anything.” i thought of him each time.
i remember, in the most perilous moments, asking myself, “do you want to stop?” each time, my answer was the same: no. when i talk to myself now, i ask the question in reverse: “should you have stopped?” even now, with the bruises fresh and green, no. because if grief is the recognition of having run out of illusions, then reality — memory of touch, breath, bravery — is the only antidote.
two hundred and thirty-four.
when painting was, in her words, “the opposite of death” -- when a woman gave up everything to be a painter, and made a fair exchange.
-- claudia roth pierpont, the canvas ceiling, 2018
i don’t paint, but i write, and i agree: creation is the opposite of death. i’m not really alive unless i am creating, and that’s always what’s kept me here, really. the simple desire to leave behind as many bright remnants as possible.
two hundred and thirty-five.
i mean, that’s ridiculous. who lives a hundred years? so i never believed it. if they have a party for me at a hundred, then i’ll be a hundred. i’m not objecting. but i’m not going to stay that way. after all, the year keeps going, and i’ll keep going along with it, and next year’s going to be a hundred and one, and then a hundred and two, and pretty soon i’ll be a hundred and five, and then what are they going to do with me? they’ll put me on a fence post and say, “look at that lovely lady, she lived a hundred and five years and nobody knows why, so we’re trying to figure out why. what’s the point in living all that long if you can’t live it? and i don’t think i’ve been living it. i’m just existing. and when the time goes by and i say, “yeah, another year passed, and i’m a hundred and two, a hundred and three, a hundred and four, and then what? what number do i have to reach before something changes? do i have to go to a hundred and ten, and then be something else? or what? what’s it all for? that’s the question i’m asking, and i can’t get any answers.
-- eleanore, quoted in the comforting fictions of dementia care by larissa macfarquhar, 2018
these are the words of a one-hundred-year-old woman, eleanore, who lives in a facility for dementia patients in ohio. i am a 25-year-old with a nice, healthy pink brain, and i read her words and felt ashamed of all the times i settled for existence instead of life.
two hundred and thirty-six.
wandering, as both a life style and a philosophy, can be as lonesome as it is liberating. if you never stay long enough to plant your feet for a fight, you will never know the catharsis and relief of forgiveness.
-- amanda petrusich, the weight, 2018
there is no better feeling on this gay earth than having an old friend call you up after years of estrangement and hearing them say, “listen,” say, “i’ve been thinking about the way i behaved, and i’m so sorry, i never should have done that.” i’ve torched more than a few bridges in my day, but now, i’m far more keen on rebuilding. i want to make everything live.
two hundred and thirty-seven.
m: if after the poem i am still an object, then we’ll know that, won’t we? i hope then, you’ll talk to me, and i promise i’ll make sense of you.
s: the answer to the question posed in your poem is always yes -- the eternal yes that poets sing about, the yes of the poet’s immortality.
-- max rivko and sarah ruhl, letters from max: a book of friendship, 2018
max rivko was a 25-year-old poet who died two years ago of cancer. he was diagnosed at 16, and he flew through the next nine years of his life with every pore open, and he left no shortage of bright remnants for us.
as always, feel free to send a reply. i always love to hear from you guys. my cat is lying at my feet and diligently licking her paws. she’s now moved on to licking the bedspread, which i don’t like her to do, because she might accidentally pull out a thread and swallow it, which will surely kill her. i keep stamping my foot softly next to her, waiting for her to get the hint. ah, okay, now she’s moved on to licking her butt. crisis averted.