3/31/09

Fugue #87


Ten minutes into an hour-long midterm, and her bluebook is empty. She tries to scribble some notes, an outline, inside the front cover, but she’s drawing a total blank.

Ana hates Flaubert. But he does describe light beautifully, detailing its effects at different times, on different people and places. Like, "And the light streamed through the late afternoon window, flickering motes of dust." She couldn’t remember, was it Emma who sat in that light, thinking? Good line, anyway.

But the question didn’t ask about Flaubert’s approach to light and what that all meant, symbolically. (How light can change moods or suggest emotions. How light can alter perceptions and illuminate memories. Direct and buoyant, indirect and subdued. Stippled dappled obstructed clear airy. Open shade and closed shade.) It asked about Emma’s fantasies - how they motivate her, whether they’re realistic. And the juxtaposition of her internal fancy/folly with the external style, or realism, of the novel. Ana’s got nothing. She writes for a few pages, just to get something down, and walks her bluebook to the front of the room.

On the bottom of the last page, where no one will see it (why look at the last page if the previous ones are blank), in block letters: Fuck.

Fugue #86


When Ana cries, she can't stop.

The tears come and keep coming - flowing not from her eyes, but from somewhere you can't see. Somewhere deeper, a font of sadness in her middle.

If you asked her why, she might say (as soon as her sobs had quieted to halting breaths):

I don't know why I'm crying. I don't know why. I feel empty, hollow, hollowed out - like there's a pit in my gut where I'm missing something. Something. An absence, a lack.

A lack of what?

I don't know. I just feel open inside, where I shouldn't, where something should be.

That fortune, again?

Yeah, maybe. I just didn't imagine that I would feel so...disconnected from who I was and disappointed in who I have become. At this age. Not that I’m a bad person, I’m not. I just expected more.

Who doesn’t?

Fugue #85


Sealed with a kiss. At least that’s what the envelope said. Pale blue like a cartoon tear, its corners softened and round with age. The front had faded - left in a sunny window, maybe - but you could see the letter "G" in ballpoint, legible not neat. And on the back, in the same handwriting, "SWAK."

- He had this in pocket. I figured it was from you.
- Yeah, it was. It is. Did you read it?
- No.
- You can, Paul. I don’t mind.
- No thanks. I think Gene might, and anyway I don’t want to. This note was something between you and him. It should stay that way.

On the porch swing next to Paul, rocking back and forth in silence, Emily tries to imagine which note Gene would have carried with him. She doesn’t remember this note, or any of them. There were probably hundreds, and all the details of her teenage life that seemed so important to share with him then have blurred to a flat gray.

The stationery was a Christmas present from her weird aunt, who advised her to "leave a record of her life in love." So, when she met Gene, she decided to write him a note every night, after her homework was done. She would sit cross-legged on her bed, pull a yearbook across her lap, open the drawer in her bedside table, and pull out a sheet of paper and an envelope.

- Can I see it?
- Ok. I mean, if you’re ok to see it.

Fugue #84


The scream at the beginning of the Replacements’ "Bastards of Young" should be more convincing. With a title like that, it should give you goosebumps. It should make the hair on the back of your neck stand up. It should be a call to arms, a rallying cry, a blistering primal roar at the elders who abandoned us. More Roger Daltrey, less...well, less Westerburg.

And in that way, it's perfect. A croak, a swallowed cry. Not the voice of a voiceless generation, raging against machines (that would come later), but the voice of a generation that can barely be bothered to use its voice. What difference does it make? None, that's what, and I don't begin to understand it.

But it's not "it" that young Paul can't understand. That's a different song, something more populist. Instead, it's, "I don't begin to understand...them." He he mumbles the last word, and "them" is almost more "yeah." I don't begin to understand. Why not end there? The one's we'll die to please, are they the referents? I don't understand them, either.

Then again, bastards don’t visit graves much. But they do seek approval from those who don’t want or deserve their love.

Fugue #83


Western Iowa. Predawn fall chill invading the car, silence except for the wheels' metronome over the highway's tar strips. Marbell is wide-awake and driving. Zed is sleepy-eyed, watching the first light melt over the horizon and pour slowly across the farms and farmhouses littering these hills.

A moment: It lasts maybe ten minutes. They’re quiet except for their breathing, which begins to fog the windshield. A yawning smile from Zed:
- Good morning. Where are we?
- Just past Des Moines.
- Let’s stop for coffee soon. Next exit?
- 20 minutes or so.
- Ok.

Quiet again. Mortality, sunrise: This is the day we unconsciously hoped would come yesterday, as daylight’s foreground retreated into night’s dark background. And as that dark recedes from this light, background becoming foreground again, the entire scene is bathed in a hopeful rose-orange glow.

We called it tomorrow then, and now it’s today.

Fugue #82


Gene looks at Emily.

He’s on the floor, and she’s on the floor, of her bedroom. They’re studying, and listening to Echo and the Bunnymen.

- You done with English?
- Yeah, I read that in study hall.
- What did you think of that Robert Frost stuff? Did that make sense to you?

It’s uncharacteristic that he would ask her about school.

- Kinda
- I don’t get it.
- What part?
- All of it.
- Well...I think the point is at the end. He talks about the difference between scholars (or scientists) and artists. Both seek knowledge, but scientists get it by applying logic to what they see. The scientific method, remember that? Artists - he’s talking about poets, specifically - get knowledge by stumbling upon it. The don’t use the scientific method - they don’t stick to rules, but instead they let stuff stick to them.
- Huh. But what about this: "The figure is the same for love." He says that twice, so it must be important. What figure? The figure a poem makes? I don’t get it. And is that an accurate description of love?

Maybe, she thinks. Delight for sure, and I’ll know about wisdom if he breaks my heart.

Fugue #81


Ana and Paul stroll through Indian art. The Hindu painting - women twisting and writhing and riding on each other, reaching higher and higher - is more authoritative than suggestive. They talk about nothing - what they’re seeing, what they like and dislike seeing, what they did at work, what the weekend holds - becoming more than friends without saying so.

They pass through a door and move into a smaller space, half a continent away. To Japan. Edo Period prints. A docent is talking to a group of fidgety high schoolers:

"A circle has 360 degrees. Walk around an object - there you go, 360. Now if you were going to depict that object, draw it or paint it, or even take a picture of it, how would you do it? Press the button? Ha, ok, yeah. I mean, where would you place yourself in relation to the object? Where would you stand? Would you find the most picturesque spot? That would probably work, right? You'd be faithful to the object in the sense that you'd be showing it in the way most people are accustomed to seeing it.

But what about people accustomed to seeing it from the other side? And when the object is something really big - like a mountain, there isn't just the other side, there are many other sides. The problem becomes how many people? How many views?

Katsushika Hokusai decided on 36. One for every ten degrees, even though he didn't walk the degrees off using a protractor. Here are a few of them. Look at the differences in perspective - and distances. In some, Fujisan is in the foreground, the central charater, so to speak. In others, it’s background, a more liminal character.

Now we'll go upstairs and see how Claude Monet approached the same perceptional problem."

Fugue #80


She sits on her bed, her homework - books, notebooks piled to her left, her bedside table to her right. She reaches into it, into the drawer and pulls out a sheet of blue stationery and a matching envelope. She drags a yearbook out from under her bed to write on, clicks her pen once, stares across her room at the stereo’s lights. She writes:

Hey!!!

It’s almost midnight, and here I am again - without you, but with you, too. Here on his page.

I can’t believe you asked me about English. You never do that. My answer was pretty laim, but I thought about it after you left, and here’s what I really think.

The essay is called "The figure a poem makes." And he says twice that the figure is the same for love. So...poem: poet::love:lover. Poets create poems like lovers create love. And everything flows from there.

He talks a lot at first about sound and then wildness. I think (could be wrong here), sound means meter or rhythm or whatever, and wildness means subject. They work together. I really like what he says about sound. I’m extrapolating here: The sound of a poem is like the sound of a voice - unique, recognizable, comforting (if it’s someone you love). And the figure a poem makes is the same for love. A momentary stay against confusion, which finds its own name as it goes.

I have so much to tell you, Gene. I don’t know if you know that, or if you know how I feel. I think you do, and then I don’t. It’s all good, and I’ll tell you sometime soon.

Good night, sweet dreams - XOXO,

Em

Fugue #79


Marbell’s weird winter beard would have fit in here better several generations ago, but it’s still not that strange. The bar is called Sportsman’s, and there are deer heads and antlers on the walls to provide a visual aid for new patrons wondering what sport the men prefer. He and Zed have been here for a few hours already. They’re playing pool with some guys from the packing plant, who finished their dayturn shifts at 3.

- So what did you say you do again, Neil?
- I teach English.
- Like high school?
- No, college, actually. At Columbia University in New York.
- New York. That’s big time.
- Ha, I don’t know about big time. It’s a big city, sure.
- I bet anybody who teaches college in New York City knows what they’re talking about.
- That’s not really true.

Marbell motions to the waitress and orders another round of beers. His new friend Andy continues:
- So, English like grammar? Composition?
- No, more like literature.
- What kind?
- Mostly stuff written since World War II.
- Steven King?

Hahaha. Zed has the balls racked. His face is flushed, and his hair is rumpled. The night is still young.

Fugue #78


The decision to go feels like you’re almost there.

Paul didn’t take much convincing. Well, any convincing. That night he was into the wine, ha, and into long speeches about time and place and context - mix tapes, even. Ana saw her chance and jumped.

She was excited, and anxious: To be on the road with him, to visit schools, to see her mom and step-dad in L.A. And hopefully lower the stress by bringing this new boy.

(On the telephone with her mother last night:
- So who is this new boy?
- Somebody who lives in my neighborhood.
- What’s his name?
- Paul.
- Paul? Hmmm...
- What? What’s wrong with that name, Mom?
- Nothing. Where’s he from, originally?
- I don’t know.
- You don’t know?!)

They had worked out the ground rules for the radio last night. Driver’s choice - and the driver changes every two hours. One passenger veto every six hours, and they planned to do twelve hours every day. Crossing the Brooklyn Bridge, Ana wondered if they could they get all the way to Chicago today.