—SOME
PEOPLE SEARCH FOR A FOUNTAIN
…For
better or worse, I consider myself a fiction writer, and a poet. Creative Non-fiction, or essays, have never
had much appeal to me and so I’ve shied away from them. When I do write one, it always feels like my
weakest, most basic writing, as if I can’t make the words sing like they
typically do. The funny thing is, the
last year my non-fiction stuff has gotten the most attention, and most
commentary of almost anything I’ve had published, which is something because I’m
closing in on 1,200 published pieces.
...The
CNF below was very hard to write and was without a doubt the most emotional and
vulnerable thing I’ve ever written (that wasn’t cloaked in fiction).
I’ve
never gotten so many kind notes about a piece in my life. Some of them actually made me weepy. Some said the piece made them weep. And every day there are more notes, more
people sharing the essay. It’s pretty
shocking, and very humbling.
…This
one, too (below), got a fair amount of attention and response. Maybe as one of my best friends told me
lately, I’m meant to be a CNF writer instead.
…I’m
been reading all the headlines lately, but nothing underneath.
…I
wrote about 50 plus pieces last week. They
weren’t all pretty, that’s for sure. But
it felt good. Like tossing some bricks
off my shoulders, then adding a few more.
…It
helps to read great prose, writing that shakes up or subverts languages in ways
that gives you pause. I’ve read so much
of late. It’s helping keep me sane.
Here
are some that will knock you over, or out, all for different reasons:
We
Were Meant To Carry Water—Tina Carlson. Stella Reed, Katherine DiBella Seluja
Secure
Your Own Mask—Shaindel Beers
The
Carrying—Ada Limón
Before
Isadore—Shannon Elizabeth Hardwick
Citizen—Claudia
Rankine
Egypt
From Space—Beckian Fritz Goldberg
Night
Sky With Exit Wounds—Ocean Vuong
…After
nearly a year and a half in hospice, the mother of one of my best friends died
the other day. Like many of us, she had
a complicated relationship with her mom, but the experience gutted her, and
thus it gutted me to know how much she was hurting.
When
I got the news, I wrote this:
What
The Trees Have To Tell Us
for Karen
Let’s
not speak of
dust
or death.
The
trees have so much
more
to tell us.
Like
how you were
formed
of star-shine, gold leaf and,
her,
of course.
Like
how that happenstance
often
left you addled or
asking
the mirror why?
Why her?
Why me?
Why us?
Just
don’t forget the trees,
what
nature knows.
Its
read every story
of
your childhood,
girlhood
and
womanhood,
that
litany of singular triumphs,
those
silent victories you thought
no
one recognized but you.
Silly
girl. The trees noticed!
Could
you not hear them,
clapping
their dewy leaves
at
your first recital?
Did
you not see them,
standing
at attention
when
you walked by?
Swooping
with joy when that
first
boy kissed you?
Shedding
their souls when that
other
boy shattered your heart?
I
promise you,
they
were there.
They
were always there.
And,
of course,
all
that time you also
belonged
to her,
were
made of her,
were
sewn together with the
the
frail and complex parts of her.
She,
the seedling that
burrowed
beneath your breastbone,
sometimes
alarming,
other
times an irritant,
but
always the sapling,
the
bud and breath of life.
So,
let’s take a walk, shall we,
you
and I?
Out
to the woods, the park,
the
mountainside where the
trees
lean and lurch and disburse
their
catacombs of wisdom.
For
once, let’s
hear
what they have to say.
Then,
let’s bury the ash
in
their branches,
watch
the wind set it afloat
until
it settles on other fertile soil
where
another girl
who
looks like you
looks
up with her
arms
and heart
wide
open.
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