Where to begin? Tree houses, lanterns, midnight walks to the lake, bocce in the dark, Sam Cooke drifting through the woods, waking up to horses sighing, pancakes, newspapers, orange juice, apple picking, croquet, hammocks, tire swings, train rides, and a pack of deer quietly roaming the estate. These are only a few of the things I've embroidered onto my memories from what I thought would be the last warm weekend of October.
In praise of small things:
Sleep, snow, eyelashes, and this song.
My favorite poem (perhaps ever):
There was a great tenderness to the sadness
when I would go there. She knew how much
I loved my wife and that we had no future.
We were like casualties helping each other
as we waited for the end. Now I wonder
if we understood how happy those Danish
afternoons were. Most of the time we did not talk.
Often I took care of the baby while she did
housework. Changing him and making him laugh.
I would say Pittsburgh softly each time before
throwing him up. Whisper Pittsburgh with
my mouth against the tiny ear and throw
him higher. Pittsburgh and happiness high up.
The only way to leave even the smallest trace.
So that all his life her son would feel gladness
unaccountably when anyone spoke of the ruined
city of steel in America. Each time almost
remembering something maybe important that got lost.
"Trying to have something left over" by Jack Gilbert
Françoise Sagan. It should be obvious why I read her books, no? And I'm not even sharing my favorite photographs of her zipping away in her beloved Astor Martin or Jaguar (the mere mention of a Jag XK 140 makes my ears prick up and my mouth water). Any woman who spends her first novel's check on a delicious sports car is more than okay in my book. I should be choosing my words carefully tonight, but instead I am sucking on apricots in my plaid flannel pajamas, listening to All Things Must Pass (this is my jam), trying to decide what I will wear to this and my dear's shipwreck Titanic themed birthday party. I have the weighty choice between dressing as first class or steerage. Hoom hum as those dear Ents say.
Ever since I went to Carnegie Hall to listen to Liszt & Schubert this Friday past, I have been decadently overdressed. At first, I felt sheepish taking off my coat to see everyone in the balcony draped in cotton and blue jeans. During the intermission, I snuck down to the parquet and felt less out of place as elegant men held their hats to their breast and the woman glanced searchingly into the depths of their glasses of champagne. Alas, I had to return to my seat with my bubbly ginger ale in hand and lack of opera glasses in the other. I suppose if I truly wanted to restore old-world elegance to Carnegie's good name, I would have had the forbearance to bring opera glasses or a monocle. Foiled, yet again!
Erasing Edna is sabotage, I say. Here is the beginning of a series of erasure poems from a twenty-five cent pulp novel appropriately titled Bachelor Summer.
Dearest friends,
My heart is oddly at ease (all things considered). It's difficult reminding myself of these things, to put one foot in front of the other, but when I manage to do just that I can't think of anything finer.
Warmly,
M.M.
