It has been six years since I was operated on for large B cell lymphoma and I survived that cancer. I am grateful to Dr. Lawrence Kaplan, a brilliant oncologist with the University of California, San Francisco, for his efforts in keeping me alive. I underwent surgery for a massive tumor in my chest and intense chemotherapy. I still have CLL (chronic lymphocytic leukemia) but it is in remission and I am currently cancer free. In fact, although it has taken the full six years to get where I am now, cancer feels far away and not anywhere involved in the “now” of my life. Before cancer, I had pursued careers in teaching at every level, including college level, and started a creative writing department at John F. Kennedy University. That was before I decided that I needed more money than a teaching profession would provide and changed course into a career path of computer technologies and entrepreneurism. But I still kept writing, and finished a novel, too. I was engaged in promoting my book and was chairman of the board of a computer software company. When cancer struck, all of that life disappeared. I had a really busy life at that point that was dramatically altered by cancer. I did not know what the future held. But my life was saved.
From now to Thanksgiving this year I am going to post a series of seven gratitudes because I am trying to come to some kind of clarity about this particular span of my life in which, in fact, everything is okay. Everything is good. I’m healthy and happy and I am able to enjoy the amazing good fortune of my life. I have been reading about people who have suffered from blindness—Homer, John Milton, Jorge Luis Borges, Galileo Galiliei—and the different responses they made in dealing with their affliction. They were all amazing people and how they dealt with their problems has been inspiring and instructive, Borges in particular. One thing I took away from his essay, “Blindness,” I want to relate here because it is particularly relevant to my gratitudes.
Referring to Rudolf Steiner, Borges relates in his essay, “He said that when something ends, we must think that something begins. His advice is salutary, but the execution is difficult, because we only know what we have lost, not what we will gain. We have a very precise image—an image at times shameless—of what we have lost, but we are ignorant of what may follow or replace it.”
After a while you learn the subtle difference
Between holding a hand and chaining a soul,
And you learn that love doesn’t mean leaning
And company doesn’t mean security.
And you begin to learn that kisses aren’t contracts
And presents aren’t promises,
And you begin to accept your defeats
With your head up and your eyes open
With the grace of a woman, not the grief of a child,
And you learn to build all your roads on today
Because tomorrow’s ground is too uncertain for plans
And futures have a way of falling down in mid-flight.
After a while you learn…
That even sunshine burns if you get too much.
So you plant your garden and decorate your own soul,
Instead of waiting for someone to bring you flowers.
And you learn that you really can endure…
That you really are strong
And you really do have worth…
And you learn and learn…
With every goodbye you learn.
Recently, I was asked by my brother why I was interested in Buddhism. After stumbling around for a while, I decided I needed to come up with an “elevator speech” explaining my interest. Actually, I have come up with two: one for the first floor and one for the fifth floor.
First floor elevator speech: Buddhism is a way of letting go of my attachment to the self I used to be.
Fifth floor elevator speech: Buddhism is about ending suffering and finding peace. I have recently learned from Buddhism that concerning oneself with the past leads to depression and that worrying about the future leads to anxiety. In fact, I am in good health, sleep well, and enjoying life to the fullest. I am living in, what Buddhism refers to as, “being here now.” I am no longer the person I once was. I have suffered terrific losses, but I have also come to an understanding that much of what I thought of as my “life story” was illusory. I am not any one thing or any one story. I am not my past. I am not my future. I am alive in the present moment and that brings me peace.
This was a poem published in San Diego Poetry Annual 2014-15, a tribute to my second (ex)wife, who passed away last year after a long bout with cancer. After watching the docudrama, Mr. Turner (an exploration of the last quarter century of the life of the great, if eccentric, British painter J.M.W. Turner), I have been thinking about what it means to be an artist and about the business of art and the human ways of seeing the world. Maggie, like Turner, had the drive to create and was unimpressed with what the human world had to say about her (though, like Turner’s, her work was well-received). She painted what she saw. Her irrepressible spirit enabled her, through her painting, to rise above a difficult childhood, and in the end made her into a talented painter of high integrity.
Portrait of an Artist
for Maggie (1945-2014)
In grade school she won every race
and never faced the boys
who laughed. Embarrassed,
harassed she taped her breasts flat,
didn’t want to be a girl,
just wanted to run
and never look back.
Her father alone
in a Palo Alto bar,
her mother at home,
silent in failure with
vodka, tonic, and cigarettes.
Left with her paints
she changed her life
with color, particularly blue.
She painted their new TV blue,
then to her dad’s dismay,
painted his new car blue too.
Too blue, too blue,
all the car’s mahogany,
Twenty-two, in art school,
her parents divorced,
she set a new course,
left the boyfriend who beat her up
and moved in with me.
Pregnant, she decided life was big,
bigger than her best expectations.
Then every small thing became big.
She painted big, she painted
a giant orange pig,
hung it over our living room couch.
After the baby
she started to drink,
had the affair,
stopped getting out of bed,
painted our living room
After work one evening I found her
sipping, tipsy, sorry
watching bright blue morning glories
close up for the night.
But how I like to think of her
is sitting before her canvas
white shirt, face, hands
all covered with paint,
fighting herself to create:
a woman on the beach,
flat white space for a face,
a woman in a wild field of foxtails,
straining to face backwards,
a woman with long tubular arms,
blue business suit, no hands,
a woman, sideways, huge with child,
in a blue bathing suit, trying to stand
without any feet.
Not too long ago, I posted a poem called “Esse Est Percipi” in this blog (It’s on the “Poems” page and a piece of the post “Thanksgiving Thoughts”). It is a poem about how I am coping with my vision loss. It turns out that it is really about how my brain is coping with vision loss. Just yesterday, I learned that what I am experiencing happens to about one-third of patients losing their vision. It is called Charles Bonnet Syndrome. A precursor to Darwin, Bonnet was an 18th century philosopher/naturalist who diagnosed the condition in his own grandfather. Below is what I discovered in an article by Alan Wells at damninteresting.com about CBS. It is a fascinating “phantom limb”-like response to vision loss:
“Consider that each human eye normally receives data at a rate of about 8.75 megabits per second, a bandwidth which is significantly greater than most high-speed Internet connections. The visual cortex is the most massive system in the human brain, and it is packed with pathways which manipulate the rush of visual data before handing it over to the conscious mind. When disease begins to kink this firehose of information, a legion of neurons are left standing idle.”
Which means the brain compensates for the lack of visual data by creating it—a visual hallucination that appears very real but that I consciously know is not there. As you can see from my poem, “I am trying to make friends with what I see.” I also just learned that the course of Charles Bonnet Syndrome is between twelve and eighteen months. What started out as nausea and disorientation began to be less alarming and (occasionally) be amusing. It feels like my brain has gone too far and is providing illusions that flow through me in a dream-like sequence, sometimes common, sometimes comforting, sometimes still a little alarming. It has become experiential and now it may, just as quickly, be gone.
How much, I wonder, does the brain normally supply that is not part of what is objectively perceived? I read, in my research, that the brain fills in the blind spot of the optic nerve. How much more does it create?
“Human perception is patently imperfect, so even a normal brain must fabricate a fair amount of data to provide a complete sense of our surroundings. We humans are lucky that we have these fancy brains to chew up the fibrous chunks of reality and regurgitate it into a nice, mushy paste which our conscious minds can digest. But whenever one of us notices something that doesn’t exist, or fails to notice something that does exist, our personal version of the world is nudged a little bit further from reality. It makes one wonder how much of reality we all have in common, and how much is all in our minds.”
Which raises a more interesting question about consciousness and bias and the story we tell ourselves about who we are.
In a way, we poets are our own audience. From Birmingham to Berkeley to Burma we discover one another, a common ground established between the pages of our books or online presence, a sharing that goes beyond the language of understanding of one another. For me, poetry is closer to the sense of smell than it is to the art of discourse. It is more a way of feeling with someone than talking to someone; a way of reclaiming a shared inner sense of the world.
It works like this: poetry is a kind of thinking that gets where it wants to go only by heading in the opposite direction. For example, by concentrating on not telling the truth. The reason there is nothing as useless as yesterday’s news is that it has successfully fulfilled its function. The news, once told, is no longer. For me, even as I am the poet writing my own poem, if I understand it too soon, I ruin it for myself. Poetry succeeds by putting on a mask in order to see itself, by glancing sidelong, by sneaking up on the subject matter, by surprise, by music, by sleight of hand, by illusion, by verbal magic!
For the writer as well as the reader, poetry operates through:
- A state of suspended cynicism.
- An unsystematic derangement of the senses.
- A willingness to see parts as wholes.
- To invest oneself in pieces of things, or places, or people, and to raise that investment to the level of vision, of how it might be seen, a personal vision.
The Art of Poetry
Once more, buddy, your last ride
has left you behind and nothing can be done.
You want someone to come, a silver angel,
to seize your hair and lift you from the earth.
But the weight of your two feet
presses against the ground. No one comes
to save you. It’s too cold to stand still
and too dark to run.
Once more, buddy, you write
to save yourself. Here’s the barn.
Here the horses are warm. Here, on a dark
night, between towns, between meals,
simply the heat of other animals is enough.
- Avoid linear, sentence syntax. Shift frame of reference whenever possible. Try to create the illusion of seeing things from many angles at once, in a compressed time and space.
- Alliterate as a response to the absence of run-ons, then use run-ons.
- Work images into the poem as though they were part of an apparently flat statement. Make the image work as a surprise:
the way time sits in your mouth
like cold sunshine and doors
wink open around you.
- Use concealed rhymes, rhyming end words in the middle of the next line, asynchronous rhymes. Use the anticipated and unexpected rhyme. Make it accountable to the ear, not the rhyme.
- Maintain an honest narrative thread that is resolved somewhere in the poem. There should always be something at stake in the poem that is resolved by the end. There should occur a feeling of something completed by the end of the poem, of closure.
- Never worry about what’s being said until after it’s been said. As Richard Hugo once said, “Those who worry about morality probably ought to.”
Everyone is an artist, he said,
inside. Inside there is someone
very, very old, someone only
an ancestor would recognize,
someone sheltered in a doorway
singing songs in a dew dropping cold,
singing songs we always seem to know
as if we’d heard the words long, long ago.
should be built to let in light
yet not destroy what’s inside them.
Gail and I were invited to attend an elder circle in Bolinas, California. The agenda was open—we could talk about anything that came to mind. We thought it was a gathering of people in their 60s and 70s and the discussions were going to range from end-of-life issues to what was going on in the current culture. We drove down with two friends—Bing and Eleanor from Point Reyes—to Bolinas, to a ranch we understood was dedicated to fostering new ways of living, farming, and community outreach. We arrived at the tail-end of a two-or three-day conference. The conference was for young people to discuss land use, urban issues, and community organizing. There were chairs arranged in a circle around a large fire pit that was already going nicely in the gathering dusk, the smell of the salt-sea air surrounding us, and owls hooting nearby. A young fox wandered over, intrigued at the circle of us, and then wandered on by. We all looked over at him and he looked at us and then he passed on.
We began by going around the circle to introduce ourselves and share statements of gratitude. James, the leader of the group, made it clear that everybody’s opinions were important and everybody’s thoughts were welcome and he invited everyone to participate. Just then, the youth organizational meeting finished its last session and they joined us around the fire. And before anybody else could speak, one of the younger members from that group shared his statement of gratitude. The smoke from the fire swirled and washed over us as he began talking, as dusk slowly sifted its way towards darkness. He said his name was Daniel. Daniel had a friend—whose name was also Daniel—that he had met in Costa Rica at another youth organizational meeting. And he had just heard recently that his friend Daniel had killed himself. For his turn, he said he was grateful for his friend, grateful for having known him. They were both activists trying to combat climate change, trying to organize people to bring awareness to the youth of the world about the issues and dangers of climate change. He said that it’s really difficult to be a young person in today’s world because it feels as if there is no future, there is no way or path forward, all of our avenues are blocked. It is very, very difficult to be young in today’s world, he repeated. He paused and looked down and everybody went silent waiting for him to continue.
He took a deep breath and looked back up around the circle. “My question to the elder group is: what advice do you have to give to us, to those of us who are wanting to help make the necessary changes for a better world, but feel hopeless about how to go forward?”
It seemed as if he was looking at each one of us individually. We all studied him in return, sitting a little dejectedly in the circle, holding his hands in his lap. Daniel’s question hung in the air. The fire crackled in the long silence. Everybody digested Daniel’s concern in his or her own thoughts.
After a long pause, James spoke up conversationally. “You know, I’m just an old dude. I can only tell you what this old dude thinks. I’m over 70 and I’ll tell you what I have learned about the future. The truth from my point of view is: I don’t know any answers. I don’t know what the future holds. I don’t know any answers for any of our problems. It’s important to me to say this out loud: I don’t know and I don’t believe anybody else knows. We are making it up as we go along. We all are living in a dream that we confuse with some hard and fast reality, but making it up gives us an advantage. Once you realize that everybody is making it up, that we are all living in a dream, you now have the power (since you are making it up) to reframe the issues, so that future doesn’t begin and end with fear. Our culture is driven by fear-mongering, fear mongers, people who want you to be afraid. They want you to fear what’s coming—whether it’s assassins or terrorism or even just political disagreements—everybody’s just making it up. It’s a propaganda issue. It’s an advertising issue. It’s a political issue. When people are afraid, they are easier motivate and to control. This is just the opinion of one old dude telling you that. But by realizing that we can choose to make up this dream of reality to suit our own needs, all of us, we can reframe it so that there is a way to understand future choices with compassion and love. There is a way to see it differently than the way the media would have us see it. We are all one. We are all part of this Earth. We are all one nation. We are all facing it, the life on this planet. This planet is our home. This place is what we are made of. We are part of it. We fit into an ecosystem. What we need to learn to do, with love and compassion, is learn to live within the ecosystem that we have found ourselves in and make something of it that’s worth having. We can join together, all of us, recognizing we are all one generation. We can go forward because there is strength knowing all of us can literally lean on each other. We are one nation, we are one species, we are one life form living with other life forms. We are all in this together.”
“There was a time,” he said, “when I was an infant, when there were only two or three billion of us on the planet. Now we are seven billion and growing. We need to learn to adjust to what’s out there, what we have in store. The key here is to know that we don’t know. No one knows. We can reframe the issue. We can build an understanding, from the bottom up, through the power of this one generation, this last generation. Regardless of how old you are, how old we are, we are in this together and we have the power. We have the power to see for ourselves how to live and how not to be afraid and how not to fear what we have in store. We have to learn to share with each other the eco-space that we have, that has been given to us.”
In response to James’s soliloquy about the thoughts of “one old dude,” Daniel said it occurred to him that, had his friend Daniel been able to find elder group to turn to, he might have found a way to live and not to die.
The smoke from the fire drifted over the circle and it occurred to me what a valuable time this has been, this simple gathering of elders and young people sitting in a circle, talking to each other, really talking to each other, and how valuable such a thing can be.
It’s important to reiterate that the key to understanding how to reframe an issue comes from the strength of knowing that we don’t know the answer. As we old dudes say, “No one knows.” The future is undetermined. Once we realize that, if we could join together and dream together with warmth and compassion, we can reframe the issues that determine the future. We can recognize what’s happening to the planet. We can go forward with an understanding of what can be done in our lifetime and how to take a stand to make a difference. Another note to take into consideration: this was just one element of the elder circle gathering. There were many ranging discussions: sustain-ably growing your own food while living in an urban environment; conservation; how to support a community that gathers strength organizing itself, empowering individuals to take charge of their lives. Rather than becoming victims of a society that is currently trying to rule by fear, we can avoid these outcomes by recognizing what we can do as people who gather their power from each other.
- Why I write: I write to discover myself. Who I am. That irreducible sense of myself that follows me wherever I go. When one is called upon to find something that expresses a reality beyond the pedestrian. I write to discover realities by opening myself and becoming willing to take away the censor that controls what can be said and what can’t be said.
- Why I read: I read poetry to enter into an intimate conversation with a fellow human being who has worked with the craft of poetry and is willing to try and perfect a linguistic structure that allows us to enter into his/her shared reality. An example of what I’m talking about is this poem by Gerard Manley Hopkins:
Spring and Fall
To a young child
Margaret, are you grieving
Over Goldengrove unleaving?
Leaves, like the things of man, you
With your fresh thoughts care for, can you?
Ah! as the heart grows older
It will come to such sights colder
By and by, nor spare a sigh
Though worlds of wanwood leafmeal lie;
And yet you will weep know why.
Now no matter, child, the name:
Sorrow’s springs are the same.
Nor mouth had, no nor mind, expressed
What heart heard of, ghost guessed:
It is the blight man was born for,
It is Margaret you mourn for.
- What does William Carlos Williams mean by the quote, “It is difficult/to get the news from poems/yet men die miserably every day/for lack of what is found there?” Richard Hugo once told me, “You don’t have to know what a poem means, all you have to know is that poet knows what it means and that his meaning is a shared experience.”
- It strikes me that what Williams means is something similar to what Hugo is talking about—this shared experience that can be captured with words. In Galway Kinnell’s obituary, it is stated thusly: “Through it all, he held that it was the job of poets to bear witness. ‘To me,’ he said, ‘poetry is somebody standing up, so to speak, and saying, with as little concealment as possible, what it is for him or her to be on earth at this moment.’”
- Adyashanti, a Buddhist monk, recently expressed the opinion that poetry attempts to articulate the irreducible quality of things. The thing is just the thing, not in anything said about it. There are no things. Everything is a process. Words can both reveal and conceal. Whenever you call it one thing, you’ve eliminated other things. Don’t walk in someone’s mind with dirty feet. The thing you take away from a poem did not come from the words themselves.
In a recent discussion with my friend, Ron Roizen, we talked (like most of Americans have in recent days) about the release of the Senate CIA Torture Report at “black sites” and particularly Guantanamo Bay. Ron had this to say, which he said I could share with readers of my blog:
“The CIA torture story is of course a national disgrace. I feel ashamed of myself, personally, for doing nothing – no letter to the editor, no call to a congressman, no self-imposed fasting, even – while these abuses were going on. I remember as a kid watching “Victory at Sea” and other WWII newsreel-type films, and always thinking, deep down somewhere in my young soul, how proud I was that we did not engage in atrocities the way our enemies did. I was naïve of course, but that feeling stuck – and later on generated part of the shame and guilt I felt over Abu Ghraib and other news that leaked out about obscene conduct done in our name and ostensibly in our behalf. Incidentally, it was particularly annoying to me that a Berkeley law professor, John Yoo, was one of the legal architects of “enhanced interrogation.” Apparently, moreover, he’s still supportive of that dark enterprise (see here). The only bright spot in all this is of course that a probing and candid report was done and that people from as far apart on the political spectrum as Feinstein and McCain are decrying the CIA’s actions. Still, it astonishes and deeply unsettles me that my countrymen were capable of this disgraceful program of acts.”
I don’t need to add the moral outrage that Ron feels and expresses so eloquently. I think everyone agrees that the acts committed fit the definition of torture. I don’t think that is a debatable point. But I do have some points to add about what is also reprehensible–and that is the CIA’s attempt at spin.
As a nation, we have had a lot of changing attitudes about war. In WWII, the heroes came home to kiss the girls in Times Square. By Vietnam, gritty images appeared in Life Magazine of comrades shot in the head or girls running down roads, clothes burned away by napalm. These were the last drafted troops. Now, an Army of volunteers and contractors supports the nation and it is important to remember how drastically our propaganda has evolved, while policies stay the same.
After the Second World War, the American populace was understandably furious about the propaganda campaigns utilized by the Germans to influence the public support of their military ideologies. But then we adopted some of their techniques in our own foreign policy.
|26 July 1947||National Security Act of 1947, signed by President Truman, creates the Central Intelligence Agency (CIA). The Act also forms the National Security Council, the Office of Secretary of Defense, and the US Air Force.|
|18 September 1947||CIA formally comes into existence, replacing CIG (Central Intelligence Group—January, 1946).|
|17 December 1947||National Security Council authorizes CIA to perform covert action.|
“What is Covert Action?
According to National Security Act Sec. 503 (e), covert action is, “An activity or activities of the United States Government to influence political, economic, or military conditions abroad, where it is intended that the role of the United States Government will not be apparent or acknowledged publicly.” Proper covert actions are undertaken because policymakers—not the intelligence agencies—believe that secret means are the best way to achieve a desired end or a specific policy goal.
Covert action encompasses a broad spectrum of activities, but may include:
- Propaganda: Intelligence agencies covertly disseminate specific information to advance foreign policy goals. United States law prohibits, however, the use of intelligence agencies to influence domestic media and opinion.
- Political/Economic Action: Intelligence agencies covertly influence the political or economic workings of a foreign nation.
- Paramilitary Operations: Intelligence agencies covertly train and equip personnel to attack an adversary or to conduct intelligence operations. These operations normally do not involve the use of uniformed military personnel as combatants.
- Lethal Action: During times of war or armed conflict, the U.S. may need to use covert lethal force against enemies who pose a threat. The U.S. formally banned the use of political assassinations in 1976.
One distinction between covert action and other overt activities, such as traditional diplomatic or military operations, is that U.S. officials could plausibly deny involvement in the activity. This “plausible deniability,” however, is predicated upon the covert action remaining secret.
- Example: American involvement in the 1961 Bay of Pigs operation could not be kept secret once the results became public, so President Kennedy publicly admitted responsibility afterwards at a White House press conference.”
The leaders of the CIG and the CIA were military men—Lt. Colonels and the like. And then, according to Stephen Kinzer’s The Brothers, then-President Eisenhower appointed a civilian, Allen Dulles (brother to Secretary of State Stephen Foster Dulles), as the head of the Agency. The CIA began to adopt the same propaganda techniques employed by the Third Reich to influence the American public’s view of foreign policy decisions that did not comport with domestic business concerns, in clear conflict of the National Security Act. Since the era of Eisenhower, the CIA has been engaging in propaganda campaigns like what we are experiencing with the push-back to the release of the Senate Torture Report. This is not an anomaly, but a systematic training. The good news is that Senate report has brought the issue to the public forefront and the people are beginning to speak up. However, I firmly believe that the public cannot understand the charter of the CIA without some of the background outlined in Kinzer’s illuminating case studies. The push-back from those in government to the Senate Report is just an illustration of how deeply that this philosophy is entrenched in the governmental policy and how the CIA has been using propaganda campaigns to further goals for decades.
It is important not to get lost in the minutiae of “What happened?” and “When did it happen?” to realize the political implications of the history of who we are as a country. If we do not allow room for moral outrage about behaviors that we find reprehensible, we will doom ourselves. We should not allow the sound bites of the propaganda machine to overwhelm us.
I wrote the following words in a letter to my family and friends about this time last year:
“[Due to complications with my vision] I have stopped driving and I have stopped playing tennis. My mobility is limited and my activities are limited and, furthermore, all my activities are now somewhat circumscribed. What do I mean by that? Well, for example, it is harder for me to read the expression on people’s faces, which is a major clue in conversation, which leads to awkwardness and confusion on my part. And embarrassment. Then, all my insecurities rise to the surface and I am not as confident that I know how to proceed in any given circumstance.”
While they are still true, I have also been embracing a new way of perceiving the world. I recently made a trip to my oncologist and discovered that my cancer is in remission and I am essentially cancer-free. This information meant more to me than I imagined. I began to realize that the future had opened up again, that I had closed down my sense of future expectations. I wrote recently that once the foundational lies that support our personality are exposed, what one is left with is emptiness. Let me elaborate. I have come to an understanding that much of what I thought of as my “life story” was illusory. A made-up story of who I am. I am not any one thing or any one story. I am not my past. I am not my future. I am alive in the present moment. So, if the story of one’s life is an illusion— in some cases, a delusion— what remains is a made-up story that can be looked at, appreciated, for what it is. Changed. Accepted or rejected. But the trick is to let it be what it is: the understanding of a life story appreciated as a story worth telling.
Sam Harris, in his book Waking Up, talks about being able to both be a part of the story as well as the witness of the story. Being the witness of one’s own life. It’s a challenging concept, but I think of an earlier philosopher telling us that the unexamined life is not worth living and I think he had something in mind very similar to what Sam Harris is talking about. To see and accept what is about your life has been, for me, the first step in being able to reconcile my understanding that cancer and Parkinson’s and glaucoma are realities that I have learned to live with—my limitations, though not welcome and occasionally depressing, are not defining.
As for my current state of health, I like to tell this story of the monk, who was chased out of the forest by a tiger. He ran to a cliff and scurried over, down a vine to get away, only to discover another tiger at the foot of the cliff trying to get at him from below. Then, looking around, he noticed a rat, poking its head out of a crevasse, had begun to chew on his vine. Then, looking off to his right, he realized there were some wild strawberries within reach. And they were so delicious. As for me, I am enjoying the strawberries, I have nothing to complain about. What is behind me and in front of me is just that: behind me or in front of me. They are not here.
ESSE EST PERCIPI
To be is to be perceived.
— Bishop George Berkeley
- REMOVING THE BANDAGES
A canopy of white guy-wires
sweeps skyward as we cross the new Bay Bridge
into San Francisco.
I cannot see the Ferry Plaza,
the Transamerica Pyramid,
gray Embarcadero monoliths
reflecting stark afternoon light.
I listen to the rhythmic thrum of tires.
Instead of the cityscape, my brain creates
leafless winter trees
rising over open meadows
floating past the car window
highway to Tuscaloosa,
Alabama winter-green grass going brown.
I know this image is all wrong.
But the grass sways with the motion of the car.
- RETURNING HOME
Winding up the two-lane road
past the California landscape:
manzanita, bay, live oak and evergreen.
I remember leafy shadows, evening light
but I see the tall red brick tenements
stretching up 14th Street, NYC,
Lower East Side, 1970,
as far as my eye can see.
Where do they come from?
The buildings waver, remain following me
around the curve, over the creek.
As we drive on, the mirage
disappears in oncoming headlights.
I am learning to make friends with what I see.
Not what’s there.
- LETTING GO
“Take a look at this photograph.”
The page of the album turns
in a crisp November light,
colors swirling: red-brown, rose, white, grey.
No form, no shape.
“Isn’t she beautiful?”
“What am looking at?” I ask.
“Nate and Kelsey, at the altar,”
and the grey becomes my son’s suit
the rose-red a bridesmaid’s dress
and the sun gleams clear
through the redwood canopy.