Category: book

I’ve had adventures too, rather beautiful adventures. –I came down the railroad cut at twilight. They had been gaining on me all day. My mouth tasted of sweat and black fear. It doesn’t do to let it go too long–You get mixed-up. You begin to think you know what is hunting you down. You begin to think that maybe the only thing which has the power to comfort you is to get caught, to lie helpless and meek before them. You begin to think that the only real escape is to give in, to offer them your life and your soul–because somewhere, in fire and glory, it was arranged that they should have them.
– Kenneth Patchen, from Sleepers Awake

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Months ago, in the days of weekly poetry readings at Last Word Books with a vibrant crowd of local talent (I’ve talked it up plenty in past posts), I read a poem called Café Muse which particularly impressed a local poet named Amy. It’s an ode to the beauty and grace of the café barista, silly romantic and evidently (from the general reaction as I read it) pretty funny. Amy asked me for a copy of the poem, which I got to her some weeks later. I don’t see Amy often, but ran into her two days ago at the Swing Club meeting out at Evergreen. It was just her and Nick and Emily and Sam and I at the meeting, since most students are done out there or extremely busy with last-minute end of the quarter work. Sam, a fabulous musician, played music on the old piano in the room we use as a dance space. Mostly he played his songs (remeniscent of a male Fiona Apple, sort of), but he also played us a couple swing tunes, to which we gratefully danced.

I chatted with Amy a bit. She’d just arrived back from a trip to San Francisco. She took some great photos, which she showed me. We didn’t talk much, since the room greatly proliferated the echoes from the piano and we didn’t want to try and yell over it; but she told me she’d read Café Muse to a few people, in a few places, and everyone had liked it. She mentioned further that she had been invited to the Batdorf and Bronson (a local café) Christmas Party, and had been asked to read it there. I think this is all greatly amusing, as I’ve few aspirations to the greatness of my literary prowess, and no particular pride in the quality of this particular work, particularly. But hey, if people are enjoying it, I think that’s great. I can only imagine that she’s giving me credit (she was very considerate in asking me if it was okay that she was reading this poem to folks); perhaps one day I’ll meet someone for the first time, introduce myself, and they’ll say, “Ahniwa … Ahniwa. Hey, you’re the guy that wrote that Café Muse poem!” Heehee, as if. If anything, it makes me think I need to stop slacking on the creative writing. Which I do, I do.

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My innocent companions, They imagine an earth, a sky; imagine that they are alive; and they die. – Kenneth Patchen

Some time ago, Jason swung through town toting a book of Patchen’s poetry. I skimmed through it, and since then the bastard’s been stuck in my subconscious. If you’re interested, you can read some of his work online: Let Us Have Madness & The Hangman’s Great Hands, The Orange Bears, and Excerpts from Sleepers Awake; and a further list here.

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Florida is out for the holiday. Instead of sun and warmth I’ll marry myself to the rain and the constant thrum-thrum of noises muted in the dripping embrace of the evergreens’ branches. I’ll drive up the rainforest-lined peninsula, watch divers prepare their equipment along the side of the road, digging into the backs of their small pick-ups, and people spread out along the mud flats leading to the water, digging for clams and secret treasures forgotten but subconsciously in their childhood imaginings. I’ll sip a latté or mexican hot chocolate in the Silverwater while I watch raindrops splatter against the fountain across the street, and talk to people I knew when I was seventeen, when I worked for a year before college, trying to find something out about myself and the world. I’ll savor blackberry pie a la mode and remember days of that year I’d forgotten, and I’ll get sentimental but remain content. I’ll dig through the bookstore looking for treasures, wasting happy hours and walking away with either two full bags of books or none at all. I’ll try to skip rocks along the water, walking the beaches slick with mossy rocks and large logs that drifted in one day and have sat for years now, happy playthings of children and perches for lovers to sit and watch the waves. Perhaps I’ll see whales playing in the spray, and turning over rocks I’ll watch small crabs scuttle away to seclusion, annoyed with my human need to disturb things, and I’ll feel momentarily guilty.

Christmas morning will be quiet, but cheerful. Coffee and breakfast and a fire in the pellet stove; warm air blown out loudly by a fan that can be hard to talk over when you’re naturally soft-spoken. A small tree, not overdecorated, hugging the corner of the room, guarding presents neither numerous nor large, but picked out in a genuine spirit of caring.

I’m getting well ahead of myself.

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Had coffee with Alexis last night after dropping Joseph off in the glen. She’d had a rough week, and then a rougher night, and needed some decent company. We smiled across the table at each other, drank our coffee and chatted. When we left, I took her back to her place and we watched about three minutes of cartoons before the TV died. I held her for awhile, trying to imbue her with all the positive energy I could muster so she could sleep without suffering through nightmares. I did my best to be supportive to her, and to be close, without offering more than I could give. As I left her house, tired and stumbling into the cold and wet, some of her warmth lingered, pressed against me like a blanket. I have missed her company, but I don’t want to hold open a wound that will close more easily in my absence. December will be busy, but perhaps afterwards it will be easier for us to hang out more often.