Unexpectedly Here
To: ms_allthat@hotmail.com, loveisarose11@hotmail.com, dee_offner@hotmail.com, mystree_1@hotmail.com, lorelis@hotmail.com, decafi@hotmail.com, someone_new1@hotmail.com, RTMW62@cs.com, jae7244@hotmail.com, patty757@aol.com, _denae65@excite.com, charma@leaco.net, ip253406@ip.pt, ladyelan@angelfire.com, themissright@yahoo.com, oklahomalady@excite.com, chantellspring@hotmail.com, jcbinks@msn.com, sierra34@angelfire.com, lighthouse75@hotmail.com, ksotulsa@yahoo.com, darcysmail@yahoo.com, tlfie@groupz.net, poetinmotion@hotmail.com, chart13@excite.com, clavonec@excite.com
Subject: Unexpectedly Here
Date: Sat, 02 Oct 1999 17:10:24 CDT
Nancy didn't show this morning, but the rain did, coming down at a pretty good rate with me there all comfy in the maroon sleeping bag. The plan had been for her to drop by, pick me up, and transport me 17 miles out in the country to help her husband Steve build a deck. But the rain seems to have put the kibosh on that.
How are you all?
A meeting at noon, then coffee with Mike B. @ JavaBreak. Mindy was there, and I'm becoming such a regular she calls out my name when she sees me hobbling in. The old man amidst the blossoming ones. Ahwell.
Mike shivering, the morning quite chilly, and the leaves beginning to turn. The hot strong coffee in the paper cups warming the hands, and good conversation with me mostly listening to others construct the world tomorrow. I've no idea what that will be like, just that it will most likely be here, ready or not.
Poetry is such an incredibly difficult thing. Good poetry, I mean. Lines that cut and sting and sing. Hard, very hard for me to do, so I appreciate it when I can see someone doing it right.
Loveisarose and Brianna continue to improve dramatically. Pushing me now, whereas before I was the one to tell them what was wrong with their stuff. Now I begin to think...damn, wish I'd written that! (But a joy to see them grow!)
Soon I will give you all my snailmail addy so that those of you who care to (hint, hint) can send me a birthday card. I'll be (gasp) 55 on the 16th of this month, and ah needs all the support ah kin git. Smile.
Got some lovely, lovely running shoes (well, walking shoes if we be accurate) from the Angel I've been with longest. Rebecca goes back with me all the way to when I was still with Liz in Arkansas. Your prayers for this very special person as she goes through her tribulations? She truly is an angel.
The leaves are beginning to turn here in Lawrence, a few are yellowing and even fewer turning shades of orange. Special time to ride down the bricked streets, the tires of the mountain bike whirring, legs rhythmically turning, watching the old houses and trees move slowly by. A few of the maples begin to drop their leaves, now, and pumpkins are for sale at the markets. There is a song which is ever so softly singing of winter coming, of birds flying south, of snow to fall, of paths yet untrodden. I look forward to this time.
This sometimes feels like a static time, somehow, yet I know it's dynamic, just that I am so immersed in the details of my life that I cannot always see Life happening. Every now and then, a letter from one of you will jolt me out of my waking slumber and cause me to look about with a sharpness which brings God to life again. There are times when I think the metaphor of resurrection is all about us bringing God back to life by simply *seeing.* And this is a kind of poetry, too, even if it's never written down. Poetry is a way of living, of relating to the world, of being caught up in the magic, the sacred swaying of Life as a dancing partner.
The holidays approach, and they are always so difficult for me. Nancy will be here this year, and I know she will try to include me, so it will not be like last year when I was alone in the loft in Arkansas. There will be people to sit with, hot coffee to drink, dialogue to contribute my two cents to. Life will somehow stumble on.
I am still so fuzzy. My mind does *not* feel sharp, crisp, or otherwise suited to anything requiring magic. It takes time. Perhaps in another week I will be my old self again.
I sat last night in JavaBreak over in the corner and finished up "The Day of the Locust" by Nathaniel West. A lovely miraculous book of such brooding intent it left me breathless. Afterwards, poetry began to come and I whispered it aloud, but there were people around who must have thought I was talking to myself. I was inhibited, so I shut up and let it flow over the edge of my mind. A poetry-fall.
Sometimes I am not quite awake and lines begin to come, images, and I see them, listen to them, feel them shape themselves within my mouth, on my tongue, through my lips and tell myself that, yes, I will remember these. But I never do. Only that they came, visited, left. No forwarding address. I feel like some unfaithful servant, then, and sit glumly in the red nylon folding chair there on the concrete floor of Nancy's garage, smoking the morning into awakening.
The day arranges itself into neat little compartments: coffee @ JavaBreak, the noon meeting (AA), then the jaunt up the hills to the Computer Center where I check hotmail to see who of you has written. Then, a quick reply, a sashay into Poetry Cafe, a bit of conversation in IM, then the retreat outside, always somewhat astonished to find the day fading, the evening airbrushed in those lovely shades of night a-coming. It is over so quickly.
I miss you. I miss hearing from you, miss that intimate contact we have through the magic of email, miss hearing of yr ups and downs. Yr in-betweens.
Tell me all. I am a good listener.
Or so I've been told.
(Your turn)
Luvya's,
Dickens
