When I made the decision to move from Chicago, my residence of eleven years, to my parents’ farm in rural, southwestern Minnesota for an undefined period of time, anchoring was not my main goal. I wasn’t anticipating a revival in spirit, a broadened understanding of love, a fullness of opportunity, an infatuation with the horizontal expanse. I was expecting a few months of quality time with my parents, some time to develop my pottery skills, and space to think about the next thing.
Of the lessons learned in these seven weeks, including awareness and space, my latest is the role of scarcity in rural life. Out here on the prairie, the sky is everything–it’s all horizon. To quote Naomi Shihab Nye, “There is a therapy in fields.… ...continue reading
I could not sleep in the hotel next to steppes.
The star of hope revealed the midnight
I heard sounds behind the wall.
I knocked on the wall for the first time.
Someone said: Be a dreamer!
I knocked on the wall for the second time.
The gentle voice said: Be a red romantic!
I knocked on the yellow wall for the third time.
The mysterious door opened in the wall.
And the blue Erl-king appeared.
He was romantic and dreamy – a gentleman
I spoke to him.
As a bird, the Erl-king took me on wings,
so that i could look at different walls.
The first wall, black, was the Berlin Wall.
I saw the ghosts of people who fell here.
They were drunken of the poetry of hope.… ...continue reading
We didn’t need to portion out blame back then,
…..there was always enough to go around.
But whether I failed to park out of your way,
…..or you weren’t able to muster enough care–
tired of looking back as you sought to move ahead–
…..the morning was torn by that horrible sound
of metal bodies coupling, forms contorting
…..as they collided in our driveway.
It was another slow motion accident
…..we had arranged, though not enough damage
to involve the insurance company.
…..We’d pull out the dents ourselves, replace the lights.
And the scene of the accident would soon
…..be smoothed over, once we called in someone
to drop off a load of gravel: there were plenty
…..of ruts and depressions anyway, and now
too many chips and splinters of plastic
…..… ...continue reading
The first work of Sheila Heti’s that I read was her book How Should a Person Be?, a novel about being an artist—or, more specifically, a novel about being a woman and an artist, and how those two things inform and sometimes resist one another. The book was extremely polarizing; some reviewers found it riveting in its experimentation, while others found its content indulgent and its lack of form irritating. I was enamored by it, as Heti has an extraordinary ability to capture the convergence of creativity and self-doubt while voicing thoughts most people believe are unsayable.
Like How Should a Person Be?, Heti’s latest novel, Motherhood, isn’t for everyone. For people who turn to books primarily for their plots, this is not the one (or the writer) for you.… ...continue reading
Everyone likes to think they have a great sob story, but few of us do.
Can you imagine the look in a mother’s eyes as they glaze over when her daughter says to her, heart pounding out of her chest, “Mom, Dad hits me. Can you make him stop?”
Can you imagine how painful silence can be?
What if that girl grows up? What kinds of partners does she end up with? Can you imagine pouring your soul out to a man about how your daddy would come into your room at night and do unspeakable things to you, only to hear from him a few weeks down the line, “You know, I should be hitting you. But because I love you, I won’t.” Or if that same man begins to sense you gaining some courage and pulling away, so he makes up an elaborate story about a former girlfriend of his who died in a car accident?… ...continue reading
In her dream
she dips her fingers,
languid, in the river
that flows, liquid silver,
by the window
of the fourth floor
without entering the decorative
wrought iron that adorns
the sky.
She understands,
the ineffable,
the improbable and the inexplicable
nature of this moment
and she smiles, mischievous smile,
at the radiant people
who lazily pass
armed with oars
and bathing suits
striped by the sun.
With delight
she contemplates the lucky
parade, joyful multitude
and she remembers
another encounter
with friends
on a train with broken
floorboards
through which wild
flowers exploded jubilant.
And, upon waking,
she discovers
Rome painted
by the daily beauty
of bread and circus.
– Amy Nocton… ...continue reading