One morning I'll wake up and you'll be beside me:
snoring, hair a mess, sprawled on my side of the bed, hogging the covers.
I'll rub my eyes and glance at the clock...
then realize it's the weekend
and neither of us has anywhere to be.
Pulling back some blankets
I'll wrap my arm around your chest,
interlace my leg with yours,
and sleep for another hour.
Finally getting up, I'll look out the window
and watch raindrops slipping down the glass
as I turn on the coffeemaker
and pull two black mugs from the dishwasher.
More cream in yours, more sugar in mine
(though walking back to wake you
I'll forget which is which).
Selfishly I'll gently shake you out of sleep,
you'll squint your eyes at me
and curl up with your head in my lap.
The coffee will get cold
but we'll be plenty warm without it.
You'll Make for a Perfect Rainy Weekend
On Finding a Turtle Shell in Daniel Boone National Forest
This one got tired
of lugging his fortress
wherever he went,
was done with duck and cover
at every explosion
through rustling leaves
of fox and dog and skunk.
Said au revoir to the ritual
of pulling himself together. . .
I imagine him waiting
for the cover of darkness
to let down his hinged drawbridge.
He wanted, after so many
protracted years of caution,
to dance naked and nimble
as a flame under the moon—
even if dancing just once
was all that the teeth
of the forest would allow.
Goodness Precedes Greatness
Don't underestimate what I'm about to say. The following editorial by Jon Foreman of Switchfoot is one of the most powerful things I've read. I want to write like this. More than that, I want to live it.
"Goodness Precedes Greatness: A Call For New Heroes In Troubled Times" by Jon Foreman
These days I have a hard time writing a song that feels bright or hopeful. The unemployment rate is edging up even further and spending is down. Foreclosures are way up and stocks are down. Our headlines are full of war, natural disaster, and corruption. So I go looking for songs of hope and stories that remind me of the incredible privilege of living another day. I suppose I'm looking for a hero of sorts. Someone who rises above the situation and does something incredible.
Remember the guy who threw himself on top of the passenger who had suffered a seizure in the New York Subway? As the train was approaching he jumps down onto the tracks and risks his life to save the life of a complete stranger whose convulsions had thrown him into the path of an oncoming train. Incredible. Have you seen Team Hoyt, the dad who pushes his disabled son through all the marathons? They've even done the Iron Man competitions together as father and son, which makes me tear up. Or the story of Mother Teresa, a woman who gave her life to the less fortunate day after day after day. These are the stories that I want to sing about. These are stories of hope.
Such sacrifice, such patience and such goodness is rare and rightly called heroic. But these are not the heroes of our times. Wesley Autrey is not a household name and neither is Team Hoyt. If you want to know the heroes of our society, follow the money, look at the posters on the wall. We pay them seven digit salaries, we put their songs on our playlists, and follow them on Twitter. These are the heroes we emulate.
Let's face it. Mother Teresa doesn't look that good in a negligee. And Team Hoyt won't sell beer commercials to the networks. But when the ball players and the supermodels end up in rehab, we end up asking esoteric questions about what makes a hero. In the movies the good looking actor who gets the girl is easy to point to. But after he gets the girl, then the house, and then a few kids and then a divorce and then another girl. Then what? After all of the special effects are gone, we're left with an aging mortal who looks a bit awkward on the talk shows. Perhaps we've set our goals too low. Or perhaps we've got it backwards.
I would like to suggest that the best parts of our human nature can be seen in sacrifice or surrender. A mother sacrificing her time for her child, a teacher devoting her afternoons to help students off-the-clock. These are truly our most incredible moments as a species: moments of unmerited kindness. Goodness. Virtue. Nobility. Grace. Morality. These are the truly remarkable moments. Perhaps our current economic climate of debt needs a fresh perspective on worth and value. Maybe our monetary crisis indicates a broader loss of perspective.
We live in the land of plenty, the land of milk and honey, where the lottery of birth has given us the advantage of education, of wealth, and of opportunity. Ammon Hennessy puts it this way, "You came into the world armed to the teeth with... the weapons of privilege." A trip south of the border can be an incredible reminder. We are living in the land of entitlement, one of the wealthiest nations in the history of mankind. And yet, money cannot buy us the true wealth of happiness, or peace, or of a deeper form of a meaningful life.
Perhaps the current climate of uncertainty would be the appropriate time to ask the question: what are we aiming for? Our technological achievements as a species are impressive. Our cities, our advancements in flight and our iPhones are all fairly remarkable. But there is nothing heroic about my cell phone. There is nothing sacrificial about it. Where is the song that's worth singing? What is our measure of success? Renown psychiatrist Viktor E. Frankl says that "success, like happiness, cannot be pursued; it must ensue, and it only does so as the unintended side effect of one's personal dedication to a cause greater than oneself or as a byproduct of one's surrender to a person other than oneself."
Maybe the fix is not the money. Maybe two and a half hours in a theatre isn't enough time for a hero to be born. Maybe it takes a lifetime- a lifetime like John M. Perkins. John Perkins is a man who devoted his life to those around him in simple and profound ways. He was quick to forgive, quick to utilize resources to help those in need. He has been a tireless civil rights worker who has endured beatings, harassments, and even prison for what he believes. With the help of his wife, Vera Mae, and a few others, he founded a health center, leadership development program, thrift store, low-income housing development and training center in his hometown of Mendenhall, Mississippi. His is a story of reconciliation, of forgiveness, of patience. He endured the suffering, holding on to a cause greater than himself.
John Perkins has is a song I want to sing. A song of a great man, the story of a legend. How do you replicate this goodness? Do you monetize it? Do you subsidize it? No. It's bigger than Washington, it's bigger than Wall Street. And it looks better than Hollywood. His is the story of a hero, a song of hope. His is a story that reminds me of a goodness beneath the system. Though Perkins was a devout Christian, he was quick to point out that this goodness is bigger than stale religion. Mr. Perkins once said that "many congregations do nothing but outsource justice." John Perkins said it right- you can't outsource justice. You can't farm out goodness to someone else. Your life is yours alone. Those decisions are yours to make.
I am the system. You are the system. We, the system of the United States, in order to form a more perfect union, choose goodness. Yes, the system is flawed. Yes, the church is flawed. Yes, Wall Street and Hollywood Boulevard are all fatally flawed. Yes, there will always be those who take the easy way out. But that ain't your game. Your choice is yours alone. Goodness precedes greatness. Maybe the mother will always have more power than the atomic bomb. Maybe under the skin there is a song of hope and meaning waiting to break free. Or maybe not. It's our story. You and I decide with our actions. It can be as small as simple courtesy. Or get involved in your hometown. Find out what thelocal food bank looks like. Look up the local Habitat for Humanity. What is the world you want? You choose it with every breath.
In our current climate of fear and debt I am reminded of what I hold most valuable in this life: the human souls closest to me. We need each other. Human beings will always be the most valuable natural resource on the planet. The human story is still unfolding. We are telling it as we speak. The human song is still weaving its way towards a chorus, through the suffering, through the fear. We need each other. We need heroes. Let your life be a beautiful song. We need hope. Tell a good story with the way you live. What is the world you want?
(Original link)
How I Write, or Manage Not To
Got some news. I've been published!
6S is a blog that challenges writers to see what they can write in six sentences. They announced a contest in January for writers to send in six sentences defining love. The idea rolled around in my head for weeks, and I didn't think of something until the day of the deadline. So late at night, I wrote my paragraph and sent it in, not sure if it would be accepted since it was an hour or so past the deadline.
Well I made it in! Now, there are two sides to this news. The positives are that it's always a good thing to be published, and when the video scrolls through the list of authors, my name happens to be second out of 60+ authors. That may not mean anything, but it still makes me happy. But the negatives are that I'm pretty sure anyone who submitted was published. I'm pretty sure 6S does this in hopes that those included will purchase the book, helping to fund their operation. All that would be fine—if I were happy with my submission. I'm not. It's a good idea, but wasn't executed well. The sentences don't flow so it's choppy, and I think it's a little cliche.
I'm going to show it to a few writing friends whose opinions I trust. Maybe if it isn't too horrible I'll post it later.
The same week, the 6S network e-mailed this short piece of advise to subscribers, and I'm trying to focus on learning lessons from even the bad writing that does happen and not letting it discourage me.
"How I Write, or Manage Not To" by Kate Cone
There is a story about Hemingway: a reporter asks him, "If it hurts so much to write, why do you do it?" Hemingway: "Because it hurts more not to."
I am working on establishing and maintaining a daily writing "practice," like my daily meditation practice. It took me decades to finally get the latter, so why not segue from meditation into writing? I am trying, and it's getting easier the more I do it. Julia Cameron, creator of The Artists' Way, says to give yourself permission to write badly, just write. That helps. When I sit down to write now, I acknowledge that it may be crap, but I have to start somewhere. And speaking of crap, Anne Lamott in her inspiring and gut-bustingly funny book about writing Bird by Bird, espouses writing "the shitty first draft." Crappy and shitty. I think I can DO that.
With the passing of J.D. Salinger, I continue to think, "It's now or never." Or, "If not now, when?" When Dr. Seuss died in the nineties, I was in a writer's group. I said to my friend, "Why bother. Fame and money don't make you immune from death. We'll all die eventually." But that brings me back to what Hemingway said. Whether we are famous or not, bestselling authors or authors who just squeak by financially, "it hurts more not to." Writing is a calling, and if I honor that by writing those detective novels I've been working on for twenty years, I'll be happier, crappy or not.
Now... who dunnit?
KATE CONE is a writer, cook, mom and Buddhist. This piece was originally posted in The 6S Social Network on January 28, 2010.
Tooth Painter
As a person who has had an unheard amount of uncomfortable dental work done, this gives me a bit of perspective. If the patient in this poem is an open gallery when she smiles, then I am the New York Met! Speaking of which, I start an eight-month Invisalign program in a week or two. It's a clear retainer that I wear constantly. They give me new trays every couple of weeks that over time realign my teeth. It's not going to be enjoyable, but I'm going to focus on the computer-generated demo I saw. The end result will be worth it all.
"Tooth Painter" by Lucille Lang Day
He was tall, lean, serious
about his profession,
said it disturbed him
to see mismatched teeth.
Squinting, he asked me
to turn toward the light
as he held an unglazed crown
by my upper incisors.
With a small brush he applied
yellow, gray, pink, violet
and green from a palette of glazes,
then fired it at sixteen hundred
degrees. We went outside
to check the final color,
and he was pleased. Today
the dentist put it in my mouth,
and no one could ever guess
my secret: there’s no one quite
like me, and I can prove it
by the unique shade of
the ivory sculptures attached
to bony sockets in my jaw.
A gallery opens when I smile.
Even the forgery gleams.
Advice to Young Writers
Dedicated to Hannah:
No matter where you end up, no matter what degree is after your name, no matter what job you land. I know that you will always be the epitome of this poem, forever discovering little details that change how the rest of us see life that make it fresh and beautiful in a way we would have never seen.
"Advice to Young Writers" by Ron Padgett
One of the things I've repeated to writing
students is that they should write when they don't
feel like writing, just sit down and start,
and when it doesn't go very well, to press on then,
to get to that one thing you'd otherwise
never find. What I forgot to mention was
that this is just a writing technique, that
you could also be out mowing the lawn, where,
if you bring your mind to it, you'll also eventually
come to something unexpected ("The robin he
hunts and pecks"), or watching the FARM NEWS
on which a large man is referring to the "Greater
Massachussetts area." It's alright, students, not
to write. Do whatever you want. As long as you find
that unexpected something, or even if you don't.
Dive
It's long, but trust me. So worth it. Best thing I've read in a long time. Thanks Hannah!
"Dive" by Andrea Gibson
i often repeat myself
and the second time's a lie
i love you
i love you
see what i mean i don't
...and i do
and i'm not talking about a girl i might be kissing on
i'm talking about this world i'm blissing on
and hating
at the exact same time
see life---doesn't rhyme
it's bullets...and wind chimes
it's lynchings...and birthday parties
it's the rope that ties the noose
and the rope that hangs the backyard swing
it's a boy about to take his life
and with the knife to his wrist
he's thinking of only two things
his father's fist
and his mother's kiss
and he can't stop crying
it's wanting tonight to speak
the most honest poem i've ever spoken in my life
not knowing if that poem should bring you closer
to living or dying
drowning of flying
cause life doesn't rhyme
last night i prayed myself to sleep
woke this morning
to find god's obituary scrolled in tears on my sheets
then walked outside to hear my neighbor
erasing ten thousand years of hard labor
with a single note of his violin
and the sound of the traffic rang like a hymn
as the holiest leaf of autumn fell from a plastic tree limb
beautiful ---and ugly
like right now
i'm needing nothing more than for you to hug me
and if you do
i'm gonna scream like a caged bird
see...life doesn't rhyme
sometimes love is a vulgar word
sometimes hate calls itself peace on the nightly news
i've heard saints preaching truths
that would have burned me at the stake
i've heard poets tellin lies that made me believe in heaven
sometimes i imagine hitler at seven years old
a paint brush in his hand at school
thinkin what color should i paint my soul
sometimes i remember myself
with track marks on my tongue
from shooting up convictions
that would have hung innocent men from trees
have you ever seen a mother falling to her knees
the day her son dies in a war she voted for
can you imagine how many gay teen-age lives were saved
the day matthew shepherd died
could there have been anything louder
than the noise inside his father's head
when he begged the jury
please don't take the lives of the men
who turned my son's skull to powder
and i know nothing would make my family prouder
than giving up everything i believe in
still nothing keeps me believing
like the sound of my mother breathing
life doesn't rhyme
it's tasting your rapist's breath
on the neck of a woman who loves you more
than anyone has loved you before
then feeling holy as jesus
beneath the hands of a one night stand
who's calling somebody else's name
it's you never feelin more greedy
than when you're handing out dollars to the needy
it's my not eating meat for the last seven years
then seeing the kindest eyes i've ever seen in my life
on the face of a man with a branding iron in his hand
and a beat down baby calf wailing at his feet
it's choking on your beliefs
it's your worst sin saving your fucking life
it's the devil's knife carving holes into you soul
so angels will have a place to make their way inside
life doesn't rhyme
still life is poetry --- not math
all the world's a stage
but the stage is a meditation mat
you tilt your head back
you breathe
when your heart is broken you plant seeds in the cracks
and you pray for rain
and you teach your sons and daughters
there are sharks in the water
but the only way to survive
is to breathe deep
and dive
The Pain of Change
No words can convey how much I needed to hear this:
"All changes, even the most longed for, have their melancholy; for what we leave behind us is a part of ourselves; we must die to one life before we can enter another." — Anatole France (French Poet)
Soon after, I ran into this poem excerpt. Though it wasn't written by me, it is for you from me, dear friends. You to whom I am extremely close and you whom, from a distance, I see hurting everyday.
from "Saint Francis and the Sow" - Galway Kinnell
The bud
Stands for all things,
Even for those things that don’t flower,
For everything flowers, from within, of self-blessing;
Though sometimes it is necessary
To reteach a thing its loveliness,
To put a hand on the brow
Of the flower,
And retell it in words and in touch,
It is lovely
Until it flowers again from within, of self-blessing.
It's tough, and sometimes the pain is immeasurable. But be brave and hope.
(Source)
Turned Around
First set is my favorite. The message was sent to Frank Warren of PostSecret, which he forwarded to the PS community:
May God bless you with discomfort
At easy answers, half-truths and superficial relationships
So that you may live deep within your heart
May God bless you with anger
At injustice, oppression and exploitation of people
So that you may work for justice, freedom and peace
May God bless you with tears
To shed for those who suffer pain, rejection, hunger and war
So that you may reach out your hand to comfort them and
To turn their pain into joy
May God bless you with foolishness
To believe that you can make a difference in the world
So that you can do what others claim cannot be done
To bring justice and kindness to all our children and the poor
This is the Real Tao
I found this poem years ago and came across it in a Word file while searching for something to read for open mic:
“This is the Real Tao” by Bob Engel
Anyone unwilling to settle for ready-made philosophy
must learn to stitch together something suitable
from the scraps life hands us--
and so:
if the bolts aren't rusty
and the wood doesn't split
and the plastic bags provided contain all the right parts,
then I
must balance
that with the times when
I go to the hardware store twice
and return twice
with the wrong bracket, the too-long bolt.
When I hit the nail on the head,
I recall the day it was my thumb
and account the sweet thunk of steel biting wood
to comfort my old injury
and do this without dimming the pleasure of today,
a day when things go unaccountably right.
The Way of Love
I'm struggling with religion. I feel like I'm fine spiritually, but I've had a hard time finding much positive in church or vespers anymore. Much of it seems like a show, my ears pick up nothing but clichés I've heard for years, and I see so much more hatred and judgement than love and understanding. But beyond all these (and a few more), maybe it's me. I'm fully willing to admit that. So because religion only presents as a negative at the moment, and I have quite enough negative in my life, I'm putting it on hold for now.
When I was home for Thanksgiving, my mom asked me to say something before the meal from a devotional or the Bible or whatever. Hesitant, I accepted. And avoiding clichés being a main concern, I pulled out my parent's The Message Bible. Not sure what would be appropriate, I flipped to 1 Corinthians 13. If church was in line more with this chapter, I might be in a pew across the block right now. This is what I read for Thanksgiving:
1 Corinthians 13 — The Way of Love
Love never gives up.
Love cares more for others than for self.
Love doesn't want what it doesn't have.
Love doesn't strut,
Doesn't have a swelled head,
Doesn't force itself on others,
Isn't always "me first,"
Doesn't fly off the handle,
Doesn't keep score of the sins of others,
Doesn't revel when others grovel,
Takes pleasure in the flowering of truth,
Puts up with anything,
Trusts God always,
Always looks for the best,
Never looks back,
But keeps going to the end.
Love never dies. Inspired speech will be over some day; praying in tongues will end; understanding will reach its limit. We know only a portion of the truth, and what we say about God is always incomplete. But when the Complete arrives, our incompletes will be canceled.
When I was an infant at my mother's breast, I gurgled and cooed like any infant. When I grew up, I left those infant ways for good.
We don't yet see things clearly. We're squinting in a fog, peering through a mist. But it won't be long before the weather clears and the sun shines bright! We'll see it all then, see it all as clearly as God sees us, knowing him directly just as he knows us!
But for right now, until that completeness, we have three things to do to lead us toward that consummation: Trust steadily in God, hope unswervingly, love extravagantly. And the best of the three is love.
Everybody
One of the most important techniques poetry has taught me is the power of conciseness. And if there's any poem that shows that off, it's this one. I was blown away.
"Everybody" by Marie Sheppard
I stood at a bus corner
one afternoon, waiting
for the #2. An old
guy stood waiting too.
I stared at him. He
caught my stare, grinned,
gap-toothed. Will you
sign my coat? he said.
Held out a pen. He wore
a dirty canvas coat that
had signatures all over
it, hundreds, maybe
thousands.
I’m trying
to get everybody, he
said.
I signed. On a
little space on a pocket.
Sometimes I remember:
I am one of everybody.
Stairs
Seated in sweat pants and old shoes
looking up the wooden, ratty staircase
from a spot on a jagged concrete slab,
I wonder if anyone is inside the apartment,
listening as the wind occasionally stirs the chimes.
It'd feel more homeless if it wasn't for a dorm room,
storing more things than one person should own.
But is it really that different
when I walk the stairs to sixth floor
knowing that no one is expecting me at the top?
Hell House
As I folded laundry, I started listening to the "This American Life" podcast from Oct. 25, "Devil on My Shoulder." In the first act of the show, the filmmaker of the documentary "Hell House" talks about what he saw while filming.
"Inside the Hell House, tour guides dressed as demons take visitors from room to room to view depictions of school massacres, date rape, AIDS-related deaths, fatal drunk driving crashes, and botched abortions. Hell Houses have now spread to hundreds of churches worldwide. With full access to the behind-the-scenes action, HELL HOUSE follows the process from the first script meeting until the last of the 10,000 visitors passes through the Hell House doors. The movie gives a verite window into the whole process of creating this over-the-top sermon, while showing an intimate portrait of the people who fervently believe its message."
Flying at Night
Last night, I finished "Flying at Night" by Ted Kooser, his poems from 1965-1985. I feel in love with Kooser two summers ago when I picked up "Delights and Shadows" in the local section at Barnes. Last semester I researched him for a paper and our paths have crossed several times. He teaches at the University of Nebraska - Lincoln, and I plan to see if I could take a class from him or a poetry class in general.
All through the night, the leaky faucet
searches the stillness of the house
with its radar blip: who is awake?
Who lies out there as full of worry
as a pan in the sink? Cheer up,
cheer up, the little faucet calls,
someone will help you through your life.
The Grandfather Cap
Sometimes I think that as he aged,
this cap, with the stain in its brim
like a range of dark mountains,
became the horizon to him.
He never felt right with it off.
Boarding House
The blind man draws his curtains for the night
and goes to bed, leaving a burning light
above the bathroom mirror. Through the wall,
he hears the deaf man walking down the hall
in his squeaky shoes to see if there's a light
under the blind man's door, and all is right.
The Goldfish Floats to the Top of His Life
The goldfish floats to the top of his life
and turns over, a shaving from somebody's hobby.
So it is that men die at the whims of great companies,
their neckties pulling them speechless into machines,
their wives finding them slumped in the shower,
their hearts blown open like boiler doors.
In the night, again and again these men float
to the tops of their dreams to drift back
to their desks in the morning. If you ask them,
they all would prefer to have died in their sleep.
At Midnight
Somewhere in the night,
a dog is barking,
starlight like beads of dew
along his tight chain.
No one is there
beyond the dark garden,
nothing to bark at
except, perhaps, the thoughts
of some old man
sending his memories
out for a midnight walk,
a rich cape
woven of many loves
swept recklessly
about his shoulders.
At Nightfall
In feathers the color of dusk, a swallow,
up under the shadowy eaves of the barn,
weaves now, with skillful beak and chitter,
one bright white feather into her nest
to guide her flight home in the darkness.
It has taken a hundred thousand years
for a bird to learn this one trick with a feather,
a simple thing. And the world is alive
with such innocent progress. But to what
safe place shall any of us return
in the smoky nightfall,
when we in our madness have put the torch
to the hope in ever nest and feather?
The Sigh
You lie in your bed and sigh,
and the springs deep in the mattress
sing out with the same low note,
mocking your sadness. It's hard—
not the mattress, but life.
Life is hard. All along
you thought you could trust in
your own bed, your own sorrow.
You thought you were sleeping alone.
College Priorities
Once I was busy like you
(and, arguably, still am).
But when I realized
that four years
soon will seem four months,
you instantly were more important
than tests and free time and responsibilities
that walks and dinners and movies
will easily trump later.
My GPA is a low average,
and my bank account empties
into coffee mugs and gas tanks.
Some may called it life mismanaged;
but memories will be my success.
The Vanishings
One day it will vanish,
how you felt when you were overwhelmed
by her, soaping each other in the shower,
or when you heard the news
of his death, there in the T-Bone diner
on Queens Boulevard amid the shouts
of short-order cooks, Armenian, oblivious.
One day one thing and then a dear other
will blur and though they won't be lost
they won't mean as much,
that motorcycle ride on the dirt road
to the deserted beach near Cadiz,
the Guardia mistaking you for a drug-runner,
his machine gun in your belly—
already history now, merely your history,
which means everything to you.
You strain to bring back
your mother's face and full body
before her illness, the arc and tenor
of family dinners, the mysteries
of radio, and Charlie Collins,
eight years old, inviting you
to his house to see the largest turd
that had ever come from him, unflushed.
One day there'll be almost nothing
except what you've written down,
then only what you've written down well,
then little of that.
The march on Washington in '68
where you hoped to change the world
and meet beautiful, sensitive women
is choreography now, cops on horses,
everyone backing off, stepping forward.
The exam you stole and put back unseen
has become one of your stories,
overtold, tainted with charm.
All of it, anyway, will go the way of icebergs
come summer, the small chunks floating
in the Adriatic until they're only water,
pure, and someone taking sad pride
that he can swim in it, numbly.
For you, though, loss, almost painless,
that Senior Prom at the Latin Quarter—
Count Basie and Sarah Vaughan, and you
just interested in your date's cleavage
and staying out all night at Jones Beach,
the small dune fires fueled by driftwood.
You can't remember a riff or a song,
and your date's a woman now, married,
has had sex as you have
some few thousand times, good sex
and forgettable sex, even boring sex,
oh you never could have imagined
back then with the waves crashing
what the body could erase.
It's vanishing as you speak, the soul-grit,
the story-fodder,
everything you retrieve is your past,
everything you let go
goes to memory's out-box, open on all sides,
in cahoots with thin air.
The jobs you didn't get vanish like scabs.
Her good-bye, causing the phone to slip
from your hand, doesn't hurt anymore,
too much doesn't hurt anymore,
not even that hint of your father, ghost-thumping
on your roof in Spain, hurts anymore.
You understand and therefore hate
because you hate the passivity of understanding
that your worst rage and finest
private gesture will flatten and collapse
into history, become invisible
like defeats inside houses. Then something happens
(it is happening) which won't vanish fast enough,
your voice fails, chokes to silence;
hurt (how could you have forgotten?) hurts.
Every other truth in the world, out of respect,
slides over, makes room for its superior.
Unwritten Rules of Respect
At first it was humorous. My friends and I were probably the oldest ones there that weren’t chaperons. We were admitted an hour before the show, pulled out our Chinese takeout (had no idea it was possible for P.F. Chang’s to be subpar), and stood at the front right of the stage.
Teenies and an occasional parent kept packing in as the first performer took stage. By the time the second opening act began, there was no personal space left. I felt like someone was going to turn around and slap me, threatening to have me arrested for violating a minor.
Enter “Blondie,” a barely 18-year-old and her three friends. At first they were on our right. Then they made a human chain and began pushing their way in front of my friend, Claudia, and me. Three feet from the stage to them apparently equates to the nosebleed section.
They weren’t nice about it, and that’s what bothered me most. They didn’t seem to notice that one of the reasons we had strategized our position was for my shorter-than-average amiga. I said, “You realize that now my friend won’t be able to see.”
“I paid the same amount she did,” Blondie responded with a shrug.
Her friends, a bit more thoughtful, convinced Blondie to let Claudia in front of them. Except now this group of rude girls separated us, exactly how one hopes to spend a three-hour concert.
I let it go with a roll of my eyes and tried to enjoy The Scene Aesthetic. And then Blondie starts dancing—and pushing. Hard. Complete with an occasional elbow jab to the girl beside her who was preventing her from becoming one with the stage. She wasn’t going to get away with this. I stepped sideways between her and the girl, giving the victim a sympathetic, apologetic look.
“Stop pushing. You’re being extremely inconsiderate,” I had to yell at Blondie over the music.
“It wasn’t me!” she countered. “I was standing still, I swear.”
This marks the first and only time I’ve wanted to slug a girl. I heard a girl a couple feet away suggest pouring water down her back. No one wanted her there. She kept “discreetly” forcing herself against me hoping to get through. Even her friends started to realize this wasn’t the best idea after one particularly powerful push that almost toppled a handful of people like dominoes.
“I’m really sorry,” one of the friends rather quietly said after we regained our balance. Blondie’s head snapped around towards her friend, shock on her face. She pushed, but this time in the other direction, towards the exit.
I looked around and there were satisfied grins on the faces of everyone around me. But I knew she would be back. And sure enough, towards the end of the set I could see her blond braid working its way back to the spot she abandoned. I had since given my spot to a couple shorter girls behind me and couldn’t really do anything but fume when she began, yet again, pushing.
Eventually she got what she wanted: a very front stage spot where she stood happily jamming out to the main performance. Unfortunately, cheaters often prosper.
The concert was still enjoyable, but didn’t meet my expectations. I couldn’t decide how much of it was Blondie’s fault. Claudia and I decided, after several minutes of perplexed discussion, that this was our most adventurous concert. We hung out backstage, got autographs, danced to the background music with the other band members (except Adam Young, the Owl City lead who we really were hoping to see).
Of course we talked a lot about Blondie and this idea of innate respect, or lack thereof. Some of us know what this means, while others either don’t know or ignore these unspoken social courtesies. Things like not touching or getting too close to art work in a gallery (or audibly criticizing the work when the artist or even other viewers are present). Keeping conversation to a minimum when in church, if not out of respect for God then for those who would be distracted or offended. Playing music over speakers or being loud in a coffee shop where others are trying to concentrate.
It comes to this. You aren’t the only one in this world. As children, we hadn’t yet developed the ability to see life from someone else’s side. But now we have. And if we don’t analyze the way our actions affect others, we’re going to end up a big jerk that no one likes at a concert.
Back Alley
When looking closely
at a place you know well,
you question:
Did these bricks
always look so weathered?
Do those palates
move from beside that dumpster?
Don't these steps
ever get wet from rain?
Did they spell
"Shipping & Receiving" right?
Yup, they did.
