Before I get to the point of this little article, it must be said that the following paragraphs probably never would have entered my little noggin unless preceded by the necessary segue known as The Day I Saw the Back of My Closet. Folks, I have a walk-in closet. I do. It's little, sho 'nuff, but because of my diminutive frame and presumably what was the frame of the average adult 80 years ago when this house was built, back in the day when the average American wasn't the size of your average mastodon, I am able to physically walk into said closet. If I could show you pictures, I would, but alas, the closet is so small that any photos within would only wind up as close-ups of my appalingly juvenile jewelry collection (what am I, thirteen?) or of my dead dad's Air Force jacket, both of which might render thee depressed for the remainder of the day, trying perhaps to form some kind of connection between the whimsical, teeny bopper jewelry collection and the dead dad, asking yourselves Why God, Why did he have to die before he could encourage this poor young woman into growing the fuck up and buying herself a real pair of earrings that didn't come from Claire's Boutiques at the mall.
Okay, maybe not, but it's something to write about.
My dad didn't know what jewelry was. In fact, if you asked him in his living years, he probably would have said, "JOOL-rah? What's JOOL-rah?", holding a beer in one hand and scratching his testicles with the other. If you asked him now, of course, his answer would sound more like white noise, like, "shhhhhhh", with less of the beer and testicles.
Some of you may be pissed by the last two sentences, thinking to yourselves something along the lines of, "GEEZus woman, have some respect for the dead!" And I have a response for you: I have found that "respect for the dead" often refers less to respect for that individual's individuality and more to a broad romanticizing of that person's influence in our own smarmy little lives, which we're still living, while the dead are blissfully no longer concerned with our affairs, i.e., alcohol and the procurement/enjoyment of such, and the rubbing of genitalia.
How did we degenerate from closet organization to images of the origin of my being? Sheesh. What is wrong with you people.
While I was organizing my closet, I came across a small notebook, one containing beginnings of poems I wrote while mildly intoxicated two summers ago. And later in the evening, once the closet was Finito, I transcribed these poemettes onto my hard drive pending further investigation. Tucked Maddie into bed after a gripping chapter of Junie B. Jones, First Grader (At Last!), then commenced with the beer cracking and "further investigation."
And ya know what I found?
Some of that stuff's actually pretty decent. Needs some revising, some stylistic editing, but the framework is there (hm! maybe I should work on that!), and it got me to remembering David Sedaris' opening statement when Trace and I saw him a little while ago, referring to the James Frey scandal, specifically, the question of how far a memoirist can go in juicing up their story before they cross the line into fiction. And I thought about my own possible future memoir, and how it might be juiced by the romantic lens of nostalgic recollection, the lack of actual verbal or physical contact with the people who might be represented, the unfairness of their inability to contribute to any work in progress, etc., and then thought, Hey! These are poems! There's no fiction/nonfiction in poetry! IT'S POETRY. You're expected to be, you know, poetic (read: grossly romanticizing).
Problem solved!
So, yeah. Now that I've alleviated myself from the pressure of potential forthcoming lawsuits, you should expect that book of poetry in, oh, another ten years or so.
If I spent half as much time writing as I do fantasizing/worrying about/planning for future calamities - hell, if I spent half that time doing anything - I'd probably be a much saner, more productive person. What if the new gas tank straps on my car aren't installed properly and my gas tank drops while I'm going 50 on the Hoan and my car explodes and I hurt other people and there's not enough intestines left even to burn into ashes for one of those souvenir necklaces they sell next to the urn displays at funeral homes and on the internet? Did I pack Maddie enough lunch? SEE? SEE? I SHOULD HAVE RODE THE BUS. Is it "rode" or "ridden"? FUCK!
To be continued...
Posted by stephanie at April 26, 2007 08:08 AM