[Image: “Gripped,” by user s2ublack (Stewart Black) on Flickr. Used under a Creative Commons license.]
From whiskey river:
Necessities
1
A map of the world. Not the one in the atlas,
but the one in our heads, the one we keep coloring in.
With the blue thread of the river by which we grew up.
The green smear of the woods we first made love in.
The yellow city we thought was our future.
The red highways not traveled, the green ones
with their missed exits, the black side roads
which took us where we had not meant to go.
The high peaks, recorded by relatives,
though we prefer certain unmarked elevations,
the private alps no one knows we have climbed.
The careful boundaries we draw and erase.
And always, around the edges,
the opaque wash of blue, concealing
the drop-off they have stepped into before us,
singly, mapless, not looking back.2
The illusion of progress. Imagine our lives without it:
tape measures rolled back, yardsticks chopped off.
Wheels turning but going nowhere.
Paintings flat, with no vanishing point.
The plots of all novels circular;
page numbers reversing themselves past the middle.
The mountaintop no longer a goal,
merely the point between ascent and descent.
All streets looping back on themselves;
life as a beckoning road an absurd idea.
Our children refusing to grow out of their childhoods;
the years refusing to drag themselves
toward the new century.
And hope, the puppy that bounds ahead,
no longer a household animal.3
Answers to questions, an endless supply.
New ones that startle, old ones that reassure us.
All of them wrong perhaps, but for the moment
solutions, like kisses or surgery.
Rising inflections countered by level voices,
words beginning with w hushed
by declarative sentences. The small, bold sphere
of the period chasing after the hook,
the doubter that walks on water
and treads air and refuses to go away.4
Evidence that we matter. The crash of the plane
which, at the last moment, we did not take.
The involuntary turn of the head,
which caused the bullet to miss us.
The obscene caller who wakes us at midnight
to the smell of gas. The moon’s
full blessing when we fell in love,
its black mood when it was all over.
Confirm us, we say to the world,
with your weather, your gifts, your warnings,
your ringing telephones, your long, bleak silences.5
Even now, the old things first things,
which taught us language. Things of day and of night.
Irrational lightning, fickle clouds, the incorruptible moon.
Fire as revolution, grass as the heir
to all revolutions. Snow
as the alphabet of the dead, subtle, undeciphered.
The river as what we wish it to be.
Trees in their humanness, animals in their otherness.
Summits. Chasms. Clearings.
And stars, which gave us the word distance,
so we could name our deepest sadness.
(Lisel Mueller [source])
…and:
The brain appears to possess a special area which we might call poetic memory and which records everything that charms or touches us, that makes our lives beautiful.
(Milan Kundera [source])
Not from whiskey river:
Nightingale
When our daughter was a baby,
she’d sometimes cry and cry,raw-throated nightingale heavy
on evening’s shoulders,no solace in the rocking lullaby,
warm milk, blue velvet blanket,nor in the whispered words,
the quiet shush we’d loosewhile pacing back and forth
across the wooden floors.Until one night, by chance,
we needed diapers,and my wife, as tired
as I and needing, if not rest,at least another’s voice to sooth
the small disquiet in her chest,lifted Morgan from the crib,
bundled her against the cold,and together we walked out beneath
the stars that pulsedagainst the winter’s crisp
and piled into the car.And halfway to the store,
heater blowing warm against our feet,we noticed the muffled
wind that faintly buffeted the glass,the slapping, even rhythm
of the concrete seams we crossed,and the silence—but for heavy breathing
coming from the car seat in the back.
(Tony Morris [source])
…and:
Say It
Say that it is the continuous life
you desire, that one day might stretch into
the next without a seam, without seeming
to move one minute away from the past
or that in passing through whatever comesyou keep coming to the faces you love,
never leaving them entirely behind.Say that it is simply a wish to waste
time forever, lingering with the friends
you’ve gathered together, a gradual
illumination traveling the spine,
eyes brimming with the moment that is now.Say that it is the impulse of the soul
to endure forever. Say it again.
(Joyce Sutphen [source])
…and:
We geezers carry about a bulging directory of dead husbands or wives, children, parents, lovers, brothers and sisters, dentists and shrinks, office sidekicks, summer neighbors, classmates, and bosses, all once entirely familiar to us and seen as part of the safe landscape of the day. It’s no wonder we’re a bit bent. The surprise, for me, is that the accruing weight of these departures doesn’t bury us, and that even the pain of an almost unbearable loss gives way quite quickly to something more distant but still stubbornly gleaming. The dead have departed, but gestures and glances and tones of voice of theirs, even scraps of clothing — that pale-yellow Saks scarf — reappear unexpectedly, along with accompanying touches of sweetness or irritation.
Our dead are almost beyond counting and we want to herd them along, pen them up somewhere in order to keep them straight. I like to think of mine as fellow-voyagers crowded aboard the Île de France (the idea is swiped from “Outward Bound”)*…
[…enumerates many names…]
These names are best kept in mind rather than boxed and put away somewhere. Old letters are engrossing but feel historic in numbers, photo albums delightful but with a glum after-kick like a chocolate caramel. Home movies are killers: Zeke, a long-gone Lab, alive again, rushing from right to left with a tennis ball in his mouth; my sister Nancy, stunning at seventeen, smoking a lipstick-stained cigarette aboard Astrid, with the breeze stirring her tied-up brown hair; my mother laughing and ducking out of the picture again, waving her hands in front of her face in embarrassment — she’s about thirty-five. Me sitting cross-legged under a Ping-Pong table, at eleven. Take us away.
My list of names is banal but astounding, and it’s barely a fraction, the ones that slip into view in the first minute or two. Anyone over sixty knows this; my list is only longer. I don’t go there often, but, once I start, the battalion of the dead is on duty, alertly waiting. Why do they sustain me so, cheer me up, remind me of life? I don’t understand this. Why am I not endlessly grieving?
(Roger Angell [source])
____________________
* I don’t know the meaning of the conjoined phrases Île de France and Outward Bound (even in quotation marks — a book? movie?); neither appears elsewhere in Roger Angell’s essay, and I haven’t (yet) found them together on the Web…
…except as the title on a single page of Scientific American, volume 137, issue 4 (October 1927). The page seems to be one of those grouped under the heading “Camera Shots of Scientific Events,” and depicts five photographs of the cruise ship called the Île de France, at the time “the world’s sixth largest vessel.” You can see the page for yourself, here (240KB PDF).
Edit to add, a few minutes later: Outward Bound, as it happens, was indeed a 1930 film most of whose action takes place on a cruise ship (although the Île de France is not named in it). From Wikipedia:
Henry and Ann (Douglas Fairbanks Jr. and Helen Chandler), a pair of young lovers, are planning to commit suicide and are worried about what will happen to their dog when they are gone. The scene then changes to a disparate group of passengers who find themselves aboard a darkened, fog-enshrouded crewless boat, sailing to an unknown destination…
In time, the passengers slowly realize what is going on: they are all dead. They will be judged during the course of the voyage and go either to Heaven or to Hell.
Whew. I just hate leaving unsolved an obviously solvable mystery!
(As for the Île de France itself, you can read about its demise here — in yet another Hollywood film, 1960’s The Last Voyage.)
Froog says
That mention-in-passing of The Last Voyage unleashed a flood of nostalgia for me – as I suspect it would for many Englishmen of my vintage.
I loved that film, but I’m not sure that I ever saw it all the way through.
Allow me to explain. During my chlidhood, BBC1 used to devote its entire Saturday afternoon to a live sports magazine show called ‘Grandstand’, which was largely given over to horse racing (which bored me to tears when I was a kid, although I have developed some appreciation of it – or rather of the gambling that revolves around it – in adult life), while also including long segments devoted to other sporting events of the day, particularly – it seemed to me – gymnastics and rugby, in which I also had zero interest. Saturday afternoon was supposed to be my principal timeslot during the week for getting my homework done, so this didn’t much matter to me anyway. But every once in a while, torrential rains or bitter frosts, or technical problems with the outside broadcast vans at the venues, or some serendipitous combination of these would compel The Beeb to cancel its entire afternoon of sports coverage at short notice. And whenever this happened, during the early 70s, at least, they always reached for The Last Voyage to plug the gap in the schedule. And I’d come down about 4pm after finishing my homework and find that I had yet again missed the set-up for this thrilling disaster movie about a stricken ocean liner. Fate, you mock me!
John says
I love this sort of memory.
At first, I thought it odd that they might most frequently (close to or actually always use the same title over and over. Guess it makes sense, though, doesn’t it?
(a) Schedule: the film’s running time, as released, is (per Wikipedia) 91 minutes. Very easy to fill a scheduled (say) two-hour broadcast bloc with that, plus some interruptions. (I know the BBC doesn’t carry advertisements — didn’t, anyhow (these days, anything is possible) — but maybe there are other sorts of breaks, public-service announcements and so on.) And it’s probably easy to trim a minute out of any 90-minute film, or compress the screening time ever so slightly, to make it exactly 90 minutes long.
You could probably also acquire a single film’s license for N showings much more cheaply than one-time broadcast rights for N films.
(b) Once it had been shown a few times, broadcast staff wouldn’t require much if any retraining, and would have the routine down pat.
(Etc.)
While preparing this reply I discovered an interesting resource which you might be interested in: the BBC Genome project: apparently complete broadcast schedules for all (?!?) BBC programming, both radio and TV, for any given date. I hear a rabbit hole calling…
John says
P.S. You can find an interesting — long, comprehensive, and largely admiring — review of The Last Voyage at a Web site called “And You Call Yourself a Scientist.” Apparently, the filmmakers became interested in the Île de France in part because it was scheduled to be scrapped: thus, not only would it be obviously a real honest-to-gods ship, as opposed to a stage set, but also they needn’t worry overmuch about damage to the ship during filming.