{"id":11881,"date":"2012-10-05T11:26:53","date_gmt":"2012-10-05T15:26:53","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/?p=11881"},"modified":"2012-10-05T11:26:53","modified_gmt":"2012-10-05T15:26:53","slug":"something-happened-or-threatened-to-or-didnt","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/2012\/10\/something-happened-or-threatened-to-or-didnt\/","title":{"rendered":"Something Happened (or Threatened to (or Didn’t))"},"content":{"rendered":"

\"\"<\/a><\/p>\n

[Image: untitled photograph by David Solomons<\/a>, from his 2009 book (and gallery show)\u00a0<\/em>Happenstance<\/a>.]<\/em><\/p>\n

From\u00a0whiskey river<\/em><\/a>:<\/p>\n

The next suitable person you’re in a light conversation with, stop suddenly in the middle of the conversation and look at the person closely and say, “What’s wrong?” You say it in a concerned way. He’ll say, “What do you mean?” You say, “Something’s wrong. I can tell. What is it?” And he’ll look stunned and say, “How did you know?” He doesn’t realize something’s always<\/em> wrong, with everybody. Often more than one thing. He doesn’t know everybody’s always going around all the time with something wrong and believing they’re exerting great willpower and control to keep other people, for whom they think nothing’s ever wrong, from seeing it.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

(David Foster Wallace [source<\/em><\/a>])<\/p>\n

…and<\/a>:<\/p>\n

Three Times My Life Has Opened<\/strong><\/p>\n

Three times my life has opened.
\nOnce, into darkness and rain.
\nOnce, into what the body carries at all times within it and\u00a0starts
\nto remember each time it enters the act of love.<\/span>
\nOnce, to the fire that holds all.
\nThese three were not different.
\nYou will recognize what I am saying or you will not.<\/p>\n

But outside my window all day a maple has stepped\u00a0from her leaves
\nlike a woman in love with winter, dropping the colored silks.<\/span>
\nNeither are we different in what we know.
\nThere is a door. It opens. Then it is closed. But a slip of\u00a0light
\nstays, like a scrap of unreadable paper left on the floor,<\/span>
\nor the one red leaf the snow releases in March.<\/span><\/p><\/blockquote>\n

(Jane Hirshfield [source<\/em><\/a>])<\/p>\n

<\/p>\n

Not from\u00a0whiskey river<\/em>:<\/p>\n

I never knew what I would find when I opened the doors to inspect my [mouse] traps or looked behind the furniture, stove, or refrigerator. I was afraid I would catch the mice and find them dead in the traps and have to dispose of them. I was afraid that I wouldn’t catch the mice, and that I would have to go through the same repulsive ritual of setting and inspecting the traps night after night and morning after morning for God knows how long. What I dreaded most of all, though, was that I would open a door in the kitchen and find a live mouse crouching in a dark corner that would hesitate only long enough for me to spy it and then come bounding out past me beneath the thick, rolled-up magazine I always gripped in my sweating fist as a weapon, Oh, God, if that ever happened…<\/p>\n

The possibility of finding a live mouse behind every door I opened each morning filled me with nausea and made me tremble. It was not that I was afraid of the mouse itself (I’m not that silly), but if I ever did find one, I knew I would have to do something about it.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

(Joseph Heller [source<\/em><\/a>])<\/p>\n

…and:<\/p>\n

The Escaped Gorilla<\/strong><\/p>\n

When he walked out in the park that early evening
\njust before closing time, he didn’t take
\nthe nearest blonde in one arm and climb a tree
\nto wait for the camera crews. He didn’t savage
\nanyone in uniform, upend cars
\nor beat his chest or scream, and nobody screamed
\nwhen they found him hiding behind the holly hedge
\nby the zoo office where he waited for someone<\/p>\n

to take him by the hand and walk with him
\naround two corners and along a pathway
\nthrough the one door that wasn’t supposed to be open
\nand back to the oblong place with the hard sky
\nwhere all of his unbreakable toys were waiting
\nto be broken, with the wall he could see through,
\nbut not as far as the place he almost remembered,
\nwhich was too far away to be anywhere.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

(David Wagoner [source<\/em><\/a>])<\/p>\n

..and:<\/p>\n

The Leaf Pile<\/strong><\/p>\n

Now here is a typical children’s story
\nthat happens in gorgeous October
\nwhen the mothers are coming
\nin the afternoon, wearing brisk boots
\nand windy skirts to pick up
\nthe little children from the day care center<\/p>\n

Frost in the air
\nthe maples golden and crimson
\nmy son in a leaf pile in the playground dreaming
\nI am late, the playground is almost
\nempty, my husband will kill me<\/p>\n

I gather my son to go home,
\nhe forgets his sweater in the playground and I send him back
\nhe dawdles, he is playing with leaves
\nin his mind, it is already a quarter
\nto six, will you come on I say<\/p>\n

and hurry along the corridor, there are yellow and blue rocket
\npaintings, but I feel bad and ask what did you do today,
\ndo you recognize this story, the way he stands and picks
\nhis nose, move I say, do you want dinner or not
\nI\u2019m going to make a nice dinner, fried chicken
\nI wheedle, so could you please walk a little
\nfaster, okay, I walk a little faster and get upstairs
\nmyself, pivot on boot-heel, nobody there,
\nhe is putting something in his mouth, his sable eyelashes
\ndowncast, and I am swooping down the stairwell screaming<\/p>\n

damn you<\/span>
\nthat’s filthy<\/span>
\nI told you not before dinner<\/span><\/p>\n

We are climbing the stairs
\nand I am crying, my son is not crying
\nI have shaken him, I have pried the sweet from his cheek
\nI have slapped his cheek like a woman slapping a carpet
\nwith all my strength<\/p>\n

mothers are very strong<\/span>
\nhe is too young to do anything about this<\/span>
\nwill not remember he remembers it<\/span><\/p>\n

The mind is a leaf pile where you can bury
\nanything, pain, the image of a woman
\nwho wears a necklace of skulls, a screaming woman
\nyou dig quickly and deposit the pulpy thing
\nyou drop leaves on it and it stays there, that is the story<\/p>\n

that is sticking in my mind as we push
\nthe exit door, and run through the evening wind
\nto my car where I jerk the gearshift and pick
\nup a little speed, going along
\nthis neat suburban avenue full of maples
\nthe mark of my hand a blush on my son’s cheek.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

(Alicia Ostriker [source<\/em><\/a>])<\/p>\n

…and:<\/p>\n

Very few things actually get manufactured these days, because in an infinitely large Universe such as, for instance, the one in which we live, most things one could possibly imagine and a lot of things one would rather not, grow somewhere. (A forest was discovered recently in which most of the trees grew ratchet screwdrivers as fruit. The life cycle of ratchet screwdriver fruit is quite interesting. Once picked it needs a dark dusty drawer in which it can lie undisturbed for years. Then one night it suddenly hatches, discards its outer skin that crumbles into dust, and emerges as a totally unidentifiable little metal object with flanges at both ends and a sort of ridge and a sort of a hole for a screw. This, when found, will get thrown away. No one knows what it is supposed to gain from this. Nature, in her infinite wisdom, is presumably working on it.)<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

(Douglas Adams [source<\/em><\/a>])<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

[Image: untitled photograph by David Solomons, from his 2009 book (and gallery show)\u00a0Happenstance.] From\u00a0whiskey river: The next suitable person you’re in a light conversation with, stop suddenly in the middle of the conversation and look at the person closely and say, “What’s wrong?” You say it in a concerned way. He’ll say, “What do you […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_monsterinsights_skip_tracking":false,"_monsterinsights_sitenote_active":false,"_monsterinsights_sitenote_note":"","_monsterinsights_sitenote_category":0,"_genesis_hide_title":false,"_genesis_hide_breadcrumbs":false,"_genesis_hide_singular_image":false,"_genesis_hide_footer_widgets":false,"_genesis_custom_body_class":"","_genesis_custom_post_class":"","_genesis_layout":"","h5ap_radio_sources":[],"jetpack_post_was_ever_published":false,"_jetpack_newsletter_access":"","_jetpack_dont_email_post_to_subs":false,"_jetpack_newsletter_tier_id":0,"_jetpack_memberships_contains_paywalled_content":false,"_jetpack_memberships_contains_paid_content":false,"activitypub_content_warning":"","activitypub_content_visibility":"","activitypub_max_image_attachments":3,"activitypub_interaction_policy_quote":"anyone","activitypub_status":"","footnotes":"","jetpack_publicize_message":"","jetpack_publicize_feature_enabled":true,"jetpack_social_post_already_shared":false,"jetpack_social_options":{"image_generator_settings":{"template":"highway","default_image_id":0,"font":"","enabled":false},"version":2}},"categories":[183,247,1393,250,5,251],"tags":[270,1081,1689,1809,2166,3215,3216],"class_list":{"0":"post-11881","1":"post","2":"type-post","3":"status-publish","4":"format-standard","6":"category-everyday-life","7":"category-ruminations","8":"category-whiskey-river-runningaftermyhat","9":"category-art","10":"category-06_writing","11":"category-poetry-writing_cat","12":"tag-jane-hirshfield","13":"tag-david-foster-wallace","14":"tag-douglas-adams","15":"tag-joseph-heller","16":"tag-david-wagoner","17":"tag-alice-ostriker","18":"tag-david-solomons","19":"entry"},"jetpack_publicize_connections":[],"jetpack_featured_media_url":"","jetpack_shortlink":"https:\/\/wp.me\/p6kZSG-35D","jetpack_sharing_enabled":true,"jetpack_likes_enabled":true,"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/11881","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=11881"}],"version-history":[{"count":23,"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/11881\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":11904,"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/11881\/revisions\/11904"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=11881"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=11881"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=11881"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}