January 2010 Archives

I’m not sure how old I was when I encountered my mom’s tattery paperback copy of Nine Stories by J.D. Salinger. It may have even been my dad’s which would make me pre-five. I still have it, 35+ years later. Inside the front cover is penciled in large spidery block letters:

W R I T E N B Y H A N N A H

I wrote that.

Here’s one of my favorite stories in that collection. Warning: it’s incredibly sad. Rereading it I see where my love for crushing pathos and rapid fire dialogue comes from. Salinger’s last published story was in 1965. A lifetime ago. Why would he do that.

A Perfect Day for Bananafish

Whatever you call the force that send you messages (I call it God, some people call it “the universe” or “inner wisdom” etc), that thing has been screaming at me lately.

Here’s some stuff it’s sent me. The first is a question for Seth Godin on the blog The Art of Non-Conformity. I like it because it applies to me, and to anyone who wasn’t taught what Seth is advising we teach our children. So, if I didn’t learn those things as a child, I need to learn them now, as an adult.

Seth- What’s your best advice for raising a free artist from birth? (Seth’s answer:) Teach your children. Well. Reward them for a C if the C was earned with good intent and high curiosity. Ask them hard questions all afternoon and at dinner. Turn off TV. Teach dangerous science tricks. Inquire at all times. Kids need to learn two things: 1. solve interesting problems and 2. lead That’s it!

The second is from the most awkward Philosopher/Sage of Our Time, Conan O’Brien. Here’s the quote heard round the world. He was addressing it to young people, but, like the advice above, if it’s not something I learned as a young person, it’s time to learn it now:

All I ask of you is one thing: please don’t be cynical. I hate cynicism — it’s my least favorite quality and it doesn’t lead anywhere. Nobody in life gets exactly what they thought they were going to get. But if you work really hard and you’re kind, amazing things will happen.

Montessori precocious

As happens in January, I'm on some weird self-improvement kick. I mean creative and mental self-improvement, as I regard my new exercising as something critical to my survival, and not a version of self-improvement at all. 

I mentioned previously that I would be writing about food/veganism stuff here. But I don't know that I will. For one, I'm loving all this poetry. For two, I now have a super cool new blog on which to talk and talk and talk about all issues vegan-related. 

Flowers Never Bend With The Rainfall

7

Has any one supposed it lucky to be born?
I hasten to inform him or her it is just as lucky to die, and I know it.

I pass death with the dying and birth with the new-wash'd babe, and
am not contain'd between my hat and boots,
And peruse manifold objects, no two alike and every one good,
The earth good and the stars good, and their adjuncts all good.

I am not an earth nor an adjunct of an earth,
I am the mate and companion of people, all just as immortal and
fathomless as myself,
(They do not know how immortal, but I know.)

Every kind for itself and its own, for me mine male and female,
For me those that have been boys and that love women,
For me the man that is proud and feels how it stings to be slighted,
For me the sweet-heart and the old maid, for me mothers and the
mothers of mothers,
For me lips that have smiled, eyes that have shed tears,
For me children and the begetters of children.

Undrape! you are not guilty to me, nor stale nor discarded,
I see through the broadcloth and gingham whether or no,
And am around, tenacious, acquisitive, tireless, and cannot be shaken away.

6

A child said What is the grass? fetching it to me with full hands;
How could I answer the child? I do not know what it is any more than he.

I guess it must be the flag of my disposition, out of hopeful green
stuff woven.

Or I guess it is the handkerchief of the Lord,
A scented gift and remembrancer designedly dropt,
Bearing the owner's name someway in the corners, that we may see
and remark, and say Whose?

Or I guess the grass is itself a child, the produced babe of the vegetation.

Or I guess it is a uniform hieroglyphic,
And it means, Sprouting alike in broad zones and narrow zones,
Growing among black folks as among white,
Kanuck, Tuckahoe, Congressman, Cuff, I give them the same, I
receive them the same.

And now it seems to me the beautiful uncut hair of graves.

Tenderly will I use you curling grass,
It may be you transpire from the breasts of young men,
It may be if I had known them I would have loved them,
It may be you are from old people, or from offspring taken soon out
of their mothers' laps,
And here you are the mothers' laps.

This grass is very dark to be from the white heads of old mothers,
Darker than the colorless beards of old men,
Dark to come from under the faint red roofs of mouths.

O I perceive after all so many uttering tongues,
And I perceive they do not come from the roofs of mouths for nothing.

I wish I could translate the hints about the dead young men and women,
And the hints about old men and mothers, and the offspring taken
soon out of their laps.

What do you think has become of the young and old men?
And what do you think has become of the women and children?

They are alive and well somewhere,
The smallest sprout shows there is really no death,
And if ever there was it led forward life, and does not wait at the
end to arrest it,
And ceas'd the moment life appear'd.

All goes onward and outward, nothing collapses,
And to die is different from what any one supposed, and luckier.

Sleeping
Originally uploaded by misshannahbee

Someone I follow on twitter got some flak for his avatar of his face. It reminded me of how outraged I get at that particular injustice. When B & I were very first talking (before we even met in person) he would get really mad at people walking past his window. If I recall correctly, he lived in an apartment up against a hill, so people walking on the path outside could look "down" into his window. We had some discussions about how he kept his blinds tightly shut at all times because he didn't like people looking in at him. To which I replied, "who cares?"

Who cares what people think or feel when they look at us? Do we owe the world some platonic ideal of beauty inside and outside of our own homes? I guess the heyday of "hot or not" is over because no one really talks about that anymore, but the virulent judging never ends. May I please wear leggings even though I'm fat? Can my belly stick out? Is that okay with you? If I'm a size zero, must I hide my shoulder blades or my thin wrists so as not to scare the children? Why don't you think of the children before you venture out into the world with your uncombed hair and your stained t-shirt?

I am allowed my space in the world. And I am allowed my looks in the world. I am allowed these things by virtue of my existence. By my innate right to be. And I will not feel shame about it.

So if I ruin your day with my hideousness then I consider that a day well spent.

5

I believe in you my soul, the other I am must not abase itself to you,
And you must not be abased to the other.

Loafe with me on the grass, loose the stop from your throat,
Not words, not music or rhyme I want, not custom or lecture, not
even the best,
Only the lull I like, the hum of your valved voice.

I mind how once we lay such a transparent summer morning,
How you settled your head athwart my hips and gently turn'd over upon me,
And parted the shirt from my bosom-bone, and plunged your tongue
to my bare-stript heart,
And reach'd till you felt my beard, and reach'd till you held my feet.

Swiftly arose and spread around me the peace and knowledge that pass
all the argument of the earth,
And I know that the hand of God is the promise of my own,
And I know that the spirit of God is the brother of my own,
And that all the men ever born are also my brothers, and the women
my sisters and lovers,
And that a kelson of the creation is love,
And limitless are leaves stiff or drooping in the fields,
And brown ants in the little wells beneath them,
And mossy scabs of the worm fence, heap'd stones, elder, mullein and
poke-weed.

4

Trippers and askers surround me,
People I meet, the effect upon me of my early life or the ward and
city I live in, or the nation,
The latest dates, discoveries, inventions, societies, authors old and new,
My dinner, dress, associates, looks, compliments, dues,
The real or fancied indifference of some man or woman I love,
The sickness of one of my folks or of myself, or ill-doing or loss
or lack of money, or depressions or exaltations,
Battles, the horrors of fratricidal war, the fever of doubtful news,
the fitful events;
These come to me days and nights and go from me again,
But they are not the Me myself.

Apart from the pulling and hauling stands what I am,
Stands amused, complacent, compassionating, idle, unitary,
Looks down, is erect, or bends an arm on an impalpable certain rest,
Looking with side-curved head curious what will come next,
Both in and out of the game and watching and wondering at it.

Backward I see in my own days where I sweated through fog with
linguists and contenders,
I have no mockings or arguments, I witness and wait.

This New Year is dedicated (after my B) to my good friend Rick. Stryker, you know who you are. We rang in this new year with the White Stripes because we were watching the documentary called "It Might Get Loud" where Jack White and The Edge and Jimmy Page all got together in one day. But it wasn't enough to just watch the movie, we had to pause it and come out to listen to the music. And it brought to mind my friend Rick, who I only know because of his immense bravery, and his affection for the White Stripes.