The remodel began last week
and all is tarps and chaos, splinters and dust
unanswered emails and dinner out.
In hundred degree weather the strawberries wilt
next to sprinkler lines I only just realized were cut.
In the early dusk I was bitten by a wasp
my feet up on the Adirondack chair’s footrest
on the the patio farthest from the house, a refuge from the heat.
It begins again tomorrow
I am pleased. After all this, it’s begun.
Sometimes I feel like I don’t write enough, and then I look at what I’ve written, and I wonder how I could think that.
In front of the World Trade Center memorial
a father takes a picture
of his wife and child
I’m always surprised by how calm & peaceful the West Village is at night. I don’t remember it that way – I remember crowds and cheerful shouting and lines at restaurant doors and the smell and lighter-flash of cigarettes everywhere. And yet here it is, Tuesday nine or ten PM east coast time… and this is a photo of a street, with no one on it, and just a distant glare of lights from a taxicab a few blocks away.
Or to put it another way: every time I walk through the West Village at night, I feel more as if the end of the world already happened, and no one noticed, and now it’s the aftermath.
It’s not that things are totally deserted; they’re not. It’s not that the area’s unsafe; as far as I can tell, it’s not. There are small groups of people, twos and threes walking peacefully home, holding each others’ hands or the leash of a small cheerful dog. Fragments of overheard conversations are things like, “but I’m romancing you!” and, “she’s thirty-five, man? What are you doing?!” (which sounds unreasonable until I add that the two guys having this conversation were, in my estimation, themselves only twenty-two or twenty-three years old). A tall college-aged woman in a long t-shirt style dress and a sturdy-looking man about the same age played some version of tag-plus-hide-and-seek down the empty streets, ducking in and out of doorways and laughing at each other. A skinny man in a hat and a worn but still stand-out suit played a viola on a streetcorner, its case open in front of him as a hopeful target for donations. He played well as far as I could tell, and unlike many street musicians, used no backup speaker. I gave him a little money, and he asked if there was a song I’d like to hear.
The bakery was closing as I walked past, the staff inside wiping down counters and slinging on backpacks. A few restaurants had cozy yellow lights in the windows and a few people seated at tables, talking quietly.
There were a lot of empty stores and a lot of construction of new stores (why build new stores if the existing ones stand empty? I don’t know.). Some of the streets were torn up; some of the streets were blocked off.
It was in many ways a lovely place. It was in many ways a lovely walk. But mostly… it was quiet.
And I missed the deadline. Contributing factors include:
- Timezones – if you’re planning to submit poetry to a magazine in the UK, well, May 29 there doesn’t end at the same time there as it does here
- Weather – it was really really nice outside and so I read a book in a chair in the sun rather than cleaning up piece #3 that I wanted to submit
- Friends – had dinner with friends rather than cleaning up piece #3 that I wanted to submit
- House – did useful stuff re: planning the remodel rather than … yeah, that.
I did learn some things though, namely:
- Clearly, submitting these pieces to this issue wasn’t my P0 (ie, highest priority) – I had plenty of things I could have chosen not to do, that I did, and therefore I didn’t do the writing. As my mother says my grandmother said, you do what you want to.
- I can write really fast when I think I’m on deadline. When I finally did clean up piece #3, on a plane just a few minutes before what I thought was on time… wow, that was fast. And the results are pretty good. I’m happy with how it came out.
- I also found another poem inside a longer piece I’d written years ago. That was cool.
So. I didn’t make the deadline, I didn’t send things off to this particular thing, but … I did stuff. It’s stuff I’m pretty happy with. Okay.
I’m pulling together 3 poems, a bio, and a cover letter to submit to a magazine I like to read. I’m down to 5 poems, one of which needs massive editing and is really more of a prose-poem than a pure poem but might be incredibly funny when I finish it. Fun of writing vs lure of procrastinating vs difficulty of choosing. Two of the poems are similar in tone and structure; are they a tone and structure that this magazine will find compelling? They’re a little more dense in construction than most of what it publishes. On the other hand, I think they’re good. And they fit the theme. But then… maybe better odds of success if I submit three things with more variety. Three things to submit is not very many! How to choose, how to choose?