Dreams: For the past four nights, I have dreamed of making a friend. In the first— and best—of these dreams, a woman I had been dream-friends with for a dream-lifetime succumbed to a mysterious illness. Together, before she died, we did all the things she wanted to do one last time. She wanted to eat rocky road ice cream at an ice cream parlor, swing on a swing, travel to Seoul to sample the cuisine, and ride a tandem bike. She wanted, also, to own a dog, but I cautioned her against this decision. The dog would live long after she passed away, and who would care for it? “You’re good with dogs,” she told me as we flew home from Seoul, gas masks dangling due to a harmless technical malfunction. I flicked the mask in front of me and reminded her that no one is “good with dogs.” I reminded her that it takes years of hard work and dedication to train a dog, and that any dogs she had seen me with were just such well-trained animals, and that this had created in her mind an illusion: that I was somehow gifted with animals. She wasn’t giving the dogs enough credit. As I spoke she looked at me with a pained but patient expression on her sick face. She supped at the oxygen mask, defying the flight attendants. I recognized at last that I was wasting the pittance of time that remained to her on my trademark pedantic logic. While technically accurate, it benefitted no one. In my dream I dreamed of a life turned over to art and mystery. And then we got her a medium sized dog, one that, like us, was old. Someone had already done the hard work. It was trained. It did not make a mess on the floor or chomp its leash or our fingers. My dream-friend, Sandra, grew frightened of her impending death. I took her to a playground and pushed her on the swing until her backlit face disappeared into the sky. The medium-sized yellow dog never barked. It sat next to my foot and yawned.
Sometimes, now that I live in California, people will tell me about my aura. It’s always people that I barely know. When I was walking through the neighborhood this morning, a woman told me that I was not centered. She said it would be easy to find my center. At the end of the leash she was holding was one of those small white dogs with yellowed fur around its eyes. The kind with fur that looks like a very old rug. I ran away. It was socially acceptable to run away because I was wearing athletic clothing and running shoes. Another time, a woman told me that she could tell by holding someone’s hand whether the aura was clear. I did not offer her my hand. It’s anybody’s guess whether my aura is clear. When I got home from walking and running I spilled kale juice all over the floor. While I was cleaning it up I wondered what was going on. And then I remembered that I was not centered, and cleaning up the kale juice seemed like no big deal by comparison.
Dream: I am on a field trip to the top of some monument in Paris. Whatever monument it is doesn’t make any sense, because it’s surrounded by extremely tall skyscrapers that all look like the Chrysler building, which is not in Paris. To get a better picture of the urban scenery, I have to stand on the ledge. A dizzying sensation overwhelms me, and in my own dream I look at myself and assure me that it’s fine to be afraid of heights and that I don’t have to go up high anymore if I don’t want to. I go downstairs to the restaurant and eat green beans and drink water and beer. This is one of the best dreams I’ve ever had.
Yesterday the Poetry Foundation shared my poem “Listening to Townes Van Zandt” on its Facebook page. Some people are having a thrilling argument in the comments about whether Townes Van Zandt was a minor artist.
My next poem will be called “Listening to The Beatles” or “Listening to Taylor Swift” or “Listening to Major Artists.” I have not decided yet.
Dream: I am driving through a Pennsylvania forest, at night, in a red car. The radio will not turn on so I accelerate in hopes of generating enough noise from the engine and the wind resistance to distract me from my own thoughts, which are primarily about loss and baking. Before long, my passenger, who is wearing a baseball glove, has had enough of my driving. He exits through the window. As I watch him go, I grow distracted and accelerate even more. I look forward in time to see that I am about to collide with the parking garage. It’s too late to stop. I wake up before I can be trapped, permanently, in the parking garage.
“On the whole,” he wrote, “it was not so impressive a scene as I might have expected. If I had found one body cast upon the beach in some lonely place, it would have affected me more. I sympathized rather with the winds and waves, as if to toss and mangle these poor human bodies was the order of the day. If this was the law of Nature, why waste any time in awe or pity?” This impassive witness also had stern words for those who, undone by the tragedy, could no longer enjoy strolling along the beach. Surely, he admonished, “its beauty was enhanced by wrecks like this, and it acquired thus a rarer and sublimer beauty still.”
Who was this cold-eyed man who saw in loss of life only aesthetic gain, who identified not with the drowned or the bereaved but with the storm? This was Henry David Thoreau
I read something this week that I thought was pretty lazy. It’s called “Pond Scum” by Kathryn Schulz in the New Yorker. It is a spectacular list of reasons about why Thoreau was not, in a word, worthwhile. The author does a good job of pointing out a lot of information about Thoreau’s thoughts and his way of expressing himself by quoting his writing, at first, but the essay quickly devolves into less of an essay and more of a defensive position, such as the kind a very large army fighting a smaller army might take upon a hill. There is no real reason, other than vanity, to put a phalanx on the hill.
In general, I do not agree with the tack of surrounding the entire life’s work of an author and firing weapons at it. If you ask me in five years I may have changed my mind; I have not read all the authors of the past to see just how bad-to-the-bone they were. I can’t say. In any event, that is what this person has done in her essay. Here is one of the stranger excerpts:
Thoreau went to Walden, he tells us, “to learn what are the gross necessaries of life”: whatever is so essential to survival “that few, if any, whether from savageness, or poverty, or philosophy, ever attempt to do without it.” Put differently, he wanted to try what we would today call subsistence living, a condition attractive chiefly to those not obliged to endure it. It attracted Thoreau because he “wanted to live deep and suck out all the marrow of life, to live so sturdily and Spartan-like as to put to rout all that was not life.” Tucked into that sentence is a strange distinction; apparently, some of the things we experience while alive count as life while others do not. In “Walden,” Thoreau made it his business to distinguish between them.
I do believe that most people I know, and I will cautiously include myself here, make distinctions and distinguish between them when it comes to what counts as life, whether consciously or not. I also believe that people have thoughts, and write them down, for purposes other than to please other people who may someday write for The New Yorker. I have carried out experiments in hunger and abstinence. I have pushed my body to extreme physical limits. I have been, unwisely, vegan. I have camped far from a shower. I have gone without styling my hair for years at a time. I have, also, chosen thrilling hobbies that make me feel more alive. I have watched dozens of episodes of Forensic Files on Netflix in the dark of night when I am alone. I have eaten large slices of cake. All of these things, Spartan or not, give me joy and make me feel alert. When my friends go skydiving, or SCUBA diving, I don’t choose to join them. They are making it their business to map out and tentatively define the parameters of life that make them happy. I could not be more delighted for them. As they go whipping through the air with their hair and cheeks flapping strangely or sinking heavily to the depths of the sea with their mouths wrapped around large plastic implements, they are either sucking out the marrow of life or transplanting it with some other, more vivid, marrow. When they describe these adventures to me, I will not warn them that they are making distinctions. I will just listen.
While calling Thoreau’s morality “myopic,” the author herself has drawn so uncomfortably close to the outline of his proscriptions and musings that she, herself, may now need to put on a strong pair of glasses when she looks away. “I cannot idolize anyone who opposes coffee ,” she says, while going on to call into question Thoreau’s asceticism part and parcel, as if to try and temper one extreme with a tincture of hedonism to which we might all grudgingly and guiltily relate. This is a truly strange and malformed position to take. When I read Jane Eyre, for instance, I don’t tend to stop and say “I cannot idolize anyone who puts his wife in confinement in an isolated wing of a large house.” I tend to say “oh my” very quietly and go on reading. When I read, in general, I do not stop and think about which parts of what I’m reading are good and bad. There is one exception: essays about Henry David Thoreau’s legacy in the canon.
It appears, then, that Schulz has made the grand mistake of taking either insult or offense to the mind of another person. This is clear because, in the wake of her slew of examples that pinpoint the incorrect ways in which Thoreau’s principles are counted as American, she allows her depiction of his work and her suppositions about his beliefs to veer completely away from curiosity and examination and well into the auspices of the Not In My Mental Backyard organization. It is this new American tradition—not the traditions of duality and harmony with nature and individualism that Schulz dislikes— that I do not particularly care for, the one that makes me stop reading and say “I don’t agree” – the art of passing judgment on every last unit of an author’s work with the wave of one’s modern, social index finger. If this approach is to be taken seriously much longer, we will soon have to give new and young writers a test before they are allowed to continue with even their most unambitious projects. We will have to do away with writing done by people who might like to discuss living simply or quietly lest their recommendations make us uncomfortable in the morning when our donuts and coffee are firmly in hand or at night when we are drinking quartinos of wine and looking at pictures of our friends online. We will have to stop ourselves from reading most things that are not perfect.
It might do us some good to advocate a style of reading and writing that is slightly more permissive of things that are interesting. (I would go so far as to say that Thoreau (the writer, not the person) is “interesting.”) Here is what Schulz says at one point:
This comprehensive arrogance is captured in one of Thoreau’s most famous lines: “The mass of men lead lives of quiet desperation.” It is a mystery to me how a claim so simultaneously insufferable and absurd ever entered the canon of popular quotations.
I do not believe her when she says that. It is not a mystery to see how an astute observation that clearly draws on varied experience from within and without (she argues against this, saying that Thoreau never experienced anything to do with people) and uses crisp syntax to express its amazing point has entered the canon of popular quotations. Whether Thoreau intended it as such or not, it is a sentence that makes its reader reflect. Why must we excoriate an author for having made people reflect on themselves, whether in agreement with him or not?
A better approach — one that doesn’t imply that a writer must painstakingly take every possible reader and stance into account before beginning to put his or her words on paper, must do social good in the world, and ought to finish only one perfect book per lifetime — could be to discuss things with a conscience ever so slightly less subject to outside influence.
I’ve been watching a lot of baseball. It’s the postseason. Four teams are competing for the chance to become the team in the thrilling World Series Parade. The four teams in the postseason are good teams. But the announcers are bad. Sometimes I watch the game on mute because I do not want to listen to them, which makes the game more boring, because then my family and I cannot hear the screams of the crowd.
If I were a baseball announcer, I would not be the color commentator, or the analyst, or the insider, or the “former.” I would not be Harold Reynolds or Bob Costas. I would be Jon Miller and I would stick to the play by play.
Dream: I’m standing on a beach in a fish pond in Molokai. The tide is out. A child’s slipper floats by. Twenty years go by. I notice I have no fish in my pond. The tide is in. The tide is out. I see I have forgotten to open the sluice gate after all this time. All the fish that are fat and lazy are past the lava rock wall. They cannot fit through the gate. It is too late to catch them now.
I don’t know anything about men because I’m not a man, but I do know a lot about songs, because I listen to them. These are the songs that men like
- “Ventura Highway” (men’s favorite lyric: alligator lizards in the air)
- “Roundabout” (men’s choice: your silhouette will charge the view)
- “Roxanne” (men’s pick: I won’t share you with another boy)
- “Creep” (man’s word: feather)
- “Hot in Herre” (best line for men to sing: I gotta friend with a pole in the basement, what?)
- “My City Was Gone” (man’s #1 choice: Rush Limbaugh)
- “Paranoid” (male lyric: Oh yeah)
- “Orion” (honorable mention: RIAA)
Dream: I’m sitting on a boulder with Rock Hudson and we’re eating tomato sandwiches. I intend to call him Boulder Hudson, before I wake up.
Here’s a new strategy I’m trying out for submissions to all the literary magazines out there. After I finish writing some new things relatively quickly, I pick the piece that seems the least terrible and pair it with a couple of older things (things that have been rewritten a lot, and that have withstood scrutiny long enough without getting deleted that I’m pretty sure they’re okay or even good). Now I take this mismatched handful of things and turn it into a submission as if the new thing belonged with the old thing. What’s happening is that the new pieces are overwhelmingly being accepted alone or, sometimes, with one of the old pieces. This either proves that
- literary magazines are unpredictable,
- my writing is improving,
- my ability to appraise my writing is improving, or
- things written quickly and assuredly are better than things that have been endlessly worked over.
Dream: It’s 5am in the suburbs outside Baltimore. My friend and I are putting things—clothes, clocks, tupperware—into suitcases. We live in a tent city, but our suitcases are brand new, shiny, and expensive. Just when my friend is about to put his arm around me, several children from the tent city arrive with toothbrushes, asking us for help. The morning is ruined. I wake up before I can be trapped in the tent city parking garage.