Excerpt from a poem in D. Berman's Actual Air, a book I've owned since 1999:
There were long days of bad ideas
when he felt his book was ineffective
like a watercolor of a fire engine
or a statue of the fastest man alive,
when he felt his book was ineffective
like a watercolor of a fire engine
or a statue of the fastest man alive,
and he would go to the window
and watch the fireflies
criss cross wihout insight,
then turning around
sometimes notice his wife Asterisk
lifting dinner to the table.
and watch the fireflies
criss cross wihout insight,
then turning around
sometimes notice his wife Asterisk
lifting dinner to the table.
One night, up considering dead realms,
he heard the sustained woof of a dog.
It drew him up and propelled him outside
to walk cowed under the fierce starlight.
he heard the sustained woof of a dog.
It drew him up and propelled him outside
to walk cowed under the fierce starlight.
Some brief, stray unconnected thoughts:
It is not easy to live a life so deeply; it's not easy to live any kind of life, really.
I processed his death with a grimace, a sigh, and a "well what else would you expecting" shrug. That's part coping mechanism (defense mechanism?), part tragedy fatigue, and part a calloused something or other inside of me which may or may not be a good thing. Perspective can be healthy, but it's worth keeping in mind that distance facilitates that perspective. And distance is a thing that is lonely and cold.
A person in pain who exits this world (and I am aware that there are all kinds of way to exit the world--shove that needle far enough in, and you are no longer here) may no longer be in pain, but that pain is then diffused out among the living to take up residence in their hearts.
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