Why Do I Write?

I found this little essay in one of the piles of papers I am clearing out of my office. It was obviously written soon after my mother's death in 1992.

I am the woman driving erratically down the freeway as she scribbles lines about her mother's death on the backs of checkbook deposit slips. I am the woman dashing into the restroom, ripping down paper towels, and counting iambic pentameter on them with an unsheathed lipstick. And sometimes I stand on a chair in the part-time faculty office, declaiming my latest composition in a loud and resounding voice.

For the past dozen years, I have concentrated on sonnets. I taught the pattern to a literature class once and decided to try it myself, as an alcoholic takes that first drink or a harlot loses her virginity.

I love the contrast of the formal pattern against the intense emotions, a clay-lined basket barely containing its fire. In a sonnet, the form and feeling are in an exciting, escalating competition. It's good sex--and, after all, what worth is a poem if it is not memorable?

I use a personal context for my poems, but strive for a universal meaning. Not for me the idiopathic Plathian psychology, the obscure, gleeful trip to the kitchen to bake my brains with gas. I scream loud and long, in hopes someone will say, "Yes, I hear you, and I know exactly what you mean, and your poem has given me a way to express it."

I write because I am alive, and the dead don't write at all.

Afterwards

When we first moved into our five-and-a-third acres of heavily wooded wilderness, I planned to tame it, to make the grounds charming and accesible, but as the years passed by, I grew to love the land as it was. I'd like to stay here forever but know that one day I will have to move to more appropriate lodgings. Not that my absence will be forever--when I die, my spirit will return to this acreage to wander around in the woods, talk to the rocks and the trees, and keep guard over any children who are drawn to explore the wonderful, beautiful wilderness I love so much.

Two Poems in Reserve

I wasn't going to let myself grow up
But I did
I wasn't going to let myself grow old
But I did
I wasn't going to let myself die
But I will
*
Age
Is a cage
That bars the door
To the child I am
*

Idle Conjecture

Sometimes Fiorella wonders if, like cats, we all are born with nine lives, and that each time we lose one of them, we move into another dimension in which we're still alive. Fio also wonders if sometimes the dimensions get confused...and so do we. Interesting, at least to Fiorella.

Serious Stuff

Fiorella has looked death in the face twice so far, and to save her life, she had to have a pacemaker, then an artifical heart valve, installed in her chest. Her scrapes with eternity made her acutely aware that her visit to earth is limited, and she decided she'd better make good use of every minute of every day remaining.After all, third time is the charm.
*

Pondering Capital Punishment

The Manchester massacre has stirred the tendrils of Fiorella's brain, and she's thinking about fitting puishments. Death, of course, and not one of those painless ones. How about locking the perp into stocks and letting him starve to death? Or stretching him till he breaks on the wrack? Or setting him up for a long, slow hanging? Shouldn't someone who has caused so much pain and sorrow be required to experience some for himself? Personally?

But, Fiorella, you protest--you are a liberal and a Christian. Yes, Fio is slanted left, but she's never been opposed to capitol punishment. Not everyone should have a second chance. In fact, far too many second-chancers murder again. There are some people whom this world is best rid of, and it isn't as if death is the end of the road. Fiorella, as you know, believes in an afterlife in which all will be cleansed and exist in harmony, even the worst of us.

The Ones Who Went Ahead

I often think of the dead,
the ones who gave me life--
my parents, grandparents, ancestors
back to the first beginnings.
I think of those who were
my friends and teachers,
of everyone my life entwined--
and I love them all
and feel their  love
surrouding me
silently




,

The Time to Reap

Every generation has
Its season in the sun
Sharon Kite's husband died
The harvest has begun

Clifford Kite, RIP

Sharon Kite called yesterday to tell me that her husband had died.  I searched for soothing words, but all I could say was that I loved her and that I was weeping with her, which was pretty much evident by the fact that I couldn't get a distinguishable word out.

I first met Sharon in church choir where we were bad girls who talked in the balcony during the sermon. But we were also strong leaders who were elected PTA  presidents. and we were career women with important responsibilities, and we are still the good friends who support each other in times of sorrow.

Bless you, my friend.  Again, all I can say is that I love you, and that I am weeping with you.

Mulling Birth and Death

Fiorella is mulling over one birth certificate and two death certificates this morning.  Cousin Tom's wife was kind enough to send Fio the fruits of her most recent genealogy search, and now Fio knows the dates of her father's oldest brother's birth and death, and even the cause of his death--cholera infantism, whatever that is.  She also knows the date of her paternal grandfather's death, which was labeled as "accidental (caught in wreck of cars in mine)."

Even more interesting is the evolution of her grandfather's given name, which is spelled "Jno" in earlier documents, but becomes "John" later.  The surname also underwent an Americanization--of sorts.

Interesting how the family is now pouring over these documents.  They are our only connection with people we never knew, people who would have been dear to us.

Jigsaw Existentialim

The moment Fiorella realized she was mentally apologizing to a small piece of cardboard which looked like a starfish wearing a red hat for not find it a proper home yet was the moment that she realized she is a jigsaw puzzle nut.

Yes, it's two weeks now, and Fio's become acquainted with all the leftover pieces--and feels empathy for every one of them.  It must be hard to remain on the table when your friends are sitting smugly in their appropriate places--like being the last one chosen for an elementary school kickball team.

But the time will come when the pieces will all be appropriately situated, and when Fio will cease to regard them as individuals, but dump them in a baggie for donation to The Caring Place.  Such is the death and cosmic rebirth of a jigsaw puzzle

Fio, the Killer

Fiorella has traced that guilt she told you about--deep inside herself, she still believes that, when she was a very young child, she killed her grandmother.

She's told you about it before, how, as her grandmother lay dying, Fiorella was told to stay in the large foyer outside the front room.  She remembers staring at the umbrella stand, at the front door, the stairs, and around at the empty room, and she knew her grandmother was in bed in the room off the other side of the front room.

Fio can only guess that, because she was alone, she probably entertained herself by singing.

Someone came through the door--a woman whom Fio, of course, cannot identify--and told her she should be quiet because her grandmother was dying. So when Grandma passed on soon afterwards, Fiorella assumed she had killed her by making noise in the foyer.

Yes, she actually believed she was a murderer, and she kept her horrible secret for forty years--until she finally faced the memory and realized there was no way a child could kill a person by making noise.

Unfortunately, though, the belief is still embedded in Fio's psyche.

But strangely enough, it has helped Fio become a better person than she might have been otherwise.  She knew she had to tread the straight and narrow because she had already committed such a terrible crime, a crime she had escaped rightful punishment for. It also gave an overload of responsibility because she apparently had great power.  Yes, Fiorella is out to save the world.

A final thought.  After looking at the dates, Fiorella told you it was her grandmother who was dying, which occurred when Fiorella was four and a half.  But through the years, she always thought it was her great-grandmother who was dying, which occurred when Fio was two and a half.

Take your choice.

Leicester Cathedral

Fiorella is fascinated by the fact that the remains of England's King Richard III, which were found beneath a parking lot, were recently reburied in Leicester Cathedral--as if it matters where people, even important people, are interred.  Sometime in the future, the cathedral will be demolished by war or terrorists or an alien invasion, and the bones will be lost again.  As will ours, no matter where we are laid to rest.

"Ozymandias," people.  Reread "Ozymandias."

Fio's Enlightenments While Driving

The recent raw weather dug a couple of big potholes in Hwy 29.  Now Fio knows why tires are made of rubber.
*
Do not put off till tomorrow what you can sneak under the wire today.
*
A woman is a perpetual motion machine, or at least Fiorella is.
*
Fio's writing career has taken over not only her life, but the doors of her pantry and kitchen cabinets,

*

Be active, do good, let death unterrupt you, not proceed you.

Second Amendment Right to Get Killed

All of America should be appalled by the situation in which a nine-year-old girl accidentally shot a firearms instructor in the head with an Uzi, which, Fio has been told, is an entirely inappropriate weapon for a nine-year-old.  Arms enthusiasts are--uh--up in arms defending the instructor, of course, but Fiorella is more concerned about the child.

How does a fourth-grader cope with having killed someone?  How will she be treated by other children?  Her family will have to move, perhaps assume another name, and she will need extensive therapy.

Fio hopes her parents will sue the gun range and the NRA and even the estate of the stupid man who, in effect, committed suicide by putting the gun in her nine-year-old  hand.

Way to Go

If you have have to die, Mother did it right. She gave us a couple of months' warning, ran Dad through a few dress rehearsals, and had enough time to get the house in order, including destroying anything she didn't want us to see. 

Fio plans to stick around a while yet, but Mother's type of prompt and gracious exit is certainly preferable to the years of decay that Dad endured.

From the Ridiculous to the Sublime

It's amazing how fast "just one glazed doughnut" becomes a dozen.
*
Fio wants someone to invent windshield wipers that will turn on automatically, then adjust their rhythm to the amount of rain falling on the car window.
*
Maybe people die because they don't want to be old anymore.
*
Once the unthinkable has happened, one realizes it can happen again.
*
The universe is logical, and that logic is God.

The Generation without Grandparents

Women are electing to put off motherhood as long as possible now. Maybe it's part of being the "spoiled generation," the products of child-centered homes in a country of plenty. Maybe it's because women need that extra time to get ahead in the workplace.  Maybe it's because couples don't want to interrupt their lives with midnight diaper changes.

Whatever the situation, the clock is the ticking--the biological clock and the clock of life.  Grandparents can't stick around forever.

Love

When Fiorella was a freshman at UT and getting immersed in college life, her father called one day and said her mother was lying on the bed crying because she hadn't heard from Fio for a while.  From that day on, Fio called Mother every week, usually on Wednesday. And during her mother's last hospital stay for terminal cancer, Fio called her every day, until she said  there was no need to do so "at this time." But she was wrong--"this time" was THE time, and Fiorella still regrets not calling her those last few days.

And she wishes she could do so today.

Life and Death

For the second time, Sonia Dog encountered death.  The first time was a couple of months ago, when we discovered the dead fawn at the entrance to the north driveway.  Fio tried to pull Sonia away, but ended up flat on her back in the gravel while Sonia made a thorough examination of the pitiful little corpse.  But this time, when Fio spotted a newly-dead squirrel in the road--the blood had not yet coagulated--she allowed Sonia to have her way.  Doggie nosed the animal, pushed it around a little, contemplated it, then continued the walk with Mommy. The next time around, she gave the squirrel a cursory nudge and moved on.

But for the rest of the way to the house, she seemed more somber.