Following this noise My wife chews on a crunchy cookie as she breathes through her nose next to me. Our child turns a page in her journal and sniffs on the futon in the studio, headphones playing music we cannot hear. Our two friends —brothers— on the couch and in the child’s borrowed bed, both snore softly. Traffic in the six lanes out front swishes and shushes in the rain and occasionally clump-umps on a loose manhole cover. The washing machine and a jet overhead in the night scream descendingly in a soft duet. Our new neighbors, still settling in, move about upstairs, unsettling nothing, while I lie here about it all on such a quiet night. Keepin' the "Po" in NaPoWriMo....
Not the first time I am reading a poem and realize, some lines into it, that I have been thinking of The Man in the High Castle, which I have just been watching, and I have not absorbed anything at all of the last four lines of the poem—like when you’re driving home and can’t remember the last four turns, the last few streets that you have driven on—and then I come back to the poem for a few lines but then I am taken by the idea of writing a poem about this experience and its analogy to driving a regular route and not remembering how one got somewhere, and again I realize that I have not been paying attention to the poem though I have still been reading it and I am struck by the thought that not only can my body—my hands, arms, legs and head—be made to do something that I am apparently barely aware of, but that one part of my mind can also apparently be made to do one thing (read a poem, for instance) that I am also barely aware of and cannot remember doing very well while another part of my mind is thinking about writing about this experience and yet another, third part has realized that these two things are happening and then, rather suddenly the charade is over, the wizard runs and hides. I don’t know precisely where I am and I’m not entirely certain any more just where I reside or if I remember the way and I put down the book, go to the keyboard and write this poem about reading (while also not reading) that other poem and here I am again, not knowing how I got home. Keepin' the "Po" in NaPoWriMo....
(because I am, as ever, running behind...) (this one is for Natalie--a continuation of a conversation that I think we have been having for quite a while now... that I am very glad we are still having...) As ever I am afraid (always) that I am never (ever) as (un) self-aware as I think I am (not) or ever was (not).
“In taking the everyday details of life for granted, we fail to appreciate the extraordinary fact that we are conscious at all.”
“That could almost be cited as the definition of a poet: someone who notices and is enormously taken by things that somebody else would walk by.”