Wednesday, February 26, 2014
It snowed in New York City that Saturday. It snowed heroically. Some flakes were so large they seemed like rafts floating waywardly down. The snow didn’t stop. It continued hour after hour.
This was the great advantage of it snowing on a Saturday or Sunday. People never emerged that early in New York on the weekend. It wouldn’t last long, though. I had to get out if I wanted to have it mostly to myself. I walked outside from my apartment building in Greenwich Village. It was still early enough. The sidewalk and even the cobblestones were puffy white versions of themselves. Everything was doubled. There were only a few people trudging along in the dawnish drunken swirl here and there. I walked around the corner to West Fourth Street. When most people think of snow, they probably have a Robert Frost-like image of easy wind and downy flakes in the woods. I think of West Fourth Street. In just a brief length, between Seventh Avenue and West Twelfth Street in Greenwich Village. It passes by lovely, ancient brownstones and crosses some of the city’s most memorable streets: Bank, Charles, Perry, West 11th. It’s quiet. It’s fairly narrow. Trees line both its sides. It’s heaven in the snow.
I walked along, my footsteps muffled, my progress slowed, my legs breaking trail. Just a few cars had gone by leaving perfect parallel trenches. It was so quiet. I could smell the snow. I could almost hear it. The parked cars had thick white blankets covering them.
As I walked, I looked into huge brownstone windows to see life stirring inside. Some windows had curtains, some did not. I saw a woman in her robe pass by one window inside. A cat stared at me from the windowsill inside, its eyes following my every move. I could feel its warm comfort. I crossed a street. I was tempted to turn off and follow it. Every street was tempting. The snow that was stacked on the grates and plants and sconces went the very brim, waiting for that one addition of snow that would force it to tumble. But that hadn’t happened yet. Everything was soft white perfection. I didn’t want Vermont. I didn’t want Robert Frost. I wanted this. I wanted New York.
Sunday, February 23, 2014
As we all know, books can change lives. This is a case in point. When I found Women in Vietnam: The Oral History, edited by Ron Steinman, that's exactly what happened. I'd read quite a few books about Vietnam—the war of my generation—but I hadn't read a thing about the women who served there, most particularly the nurses. I stayed up half the night reading the testimonies of the nurses Steinman interviewed who served in Vietnam. All the nurses' stories are stories of courage, but one nurse's story struck me especially deeply: Judy Hartline Elbring's.
Elbring volunteered to go toVietnam in 1967. (All nurses in Vietnam were volunteers.) She might have been shocked by what she encountered, but, as she told Steinman, "There wasn't time to be scared. There wasn't time to worry about anything except the immediate job at hand."
Then she saw what it was really like.:
"To see a kid who's not that much younger than I am. He's my brother's age, and some of them are younger. They're eighteen and nineteen years old, and they're kids and they're skinny and they've been in the jungle too long and they haven't eaten well and the bones in their face show, and their uniforms are dirty and they smell bad, and now they're going to die.
"I remember after we were through work and had done all we needed to do, there would always be a few of them that were behind a curtain in the area where we used to keep them. I would go back there with them, and I would pet them until they died because, I was like their mother, their sister, their girlfriend. I would stay with them until they died, because too many of them died alone, and that's not right. That's just not right."
|Judy Hartline Elbring|
So some of you mothers who lost sons in Vietnam, know that it might be that Judy Hartline Elbring was there with your boy, easing him into his dying, helping him in his hour of being taken away, so that he didn't make that journey alone.
She came home. She wore her uniform, and she was vilified. So she stopped wearing it. "There was no one to talk to about this." Nevertheless, she went back for a second tour. Her brother, a marine, was going to Vietnam, and she wanted to be there in case he was wounded. He was, and she was able, because of her rank as a captain and simply because of her will, to be airlifted to his base and to take care of him.
She came home again. Then, the ensuing years. "I was just a nurse. I did my duty as I needed to do my duty. But what I didn't get was that I hadn't been welcomed home, and if that's important to me, it's got to be important for other women too. I had no idea this was still affecting me. I had no idea that not saying anything could carry this long a toll on me, on anyone. The part that scares me is, how many women are sitting on their anger, are sitting on their sadness?"
She ends her account with the picture in her mind of boy who died, a boy for whom she could do nothing. "He stays with me. I don't know why he stays with me, but he does. He comes back in my dreams. They're helpless dreams in a way. They're all the things I can't do anything about. I would love to be somebody's good dream. Oh God, wouldn't that be wonderful? I'd be very proud to be somebody's good dream."
I was so haunted by her qualities, I went and found her on the web. She lives in California, and she and her husband run an organization called Life Partners that helps couples with their relationships. I sent her a fan letter. She replied with a handwritten letter thanking me. So I had more than I ever could wish for: a letter from my new hero. I’m sure, through the years, she’s been more than one young wounded soldier's good dream.
|Vietnam Women's Memorial|
Thursday, February 13, 2014
It's a surprising thing to find yourself, or something you've written, as a source for part of a famous dead poet’s biography. Especially a famous dead poet with an exotic, volcanic life. I’m speaking of Arthur Rimbaud (1854-1891). I wrote an essay for a magazine about Rimbaud's time late in his life as a coffee trader in Ethiopia, about how he got there, unlikely as that was. I was thinking about writing something else about Rimbaud, so I promptly went to everyone’s convenient source of choice, Wikipedia. Lo and behold, there it is, citation number 64, a reference to the article I'd written thirteen years ago and nearly forgotten.
It made me think of how strange it is the places we end up in our lives. Here was this enfant terrible, possessed of extraordinary poetic powers, who ended up in a small house in Harar, in what is now eastern Ethiopia, having abandoned poetry forever some fifteen years earlier, counting his money, forever concerned that local merchants were cheating him out of a few pennies, or whatever currency they used.
But that’s not the way it began.
He sprang full blown as a poet from a small city in northern France. He was writing lasting poems by the age of sixteen. Arthur Rimbaud was a poet whose life was like one of those Roman candles that goes astray and sweeps erratically across the sky with the possibility of crashing into a house or a person or you. Everything about his life was dramatic, self-destructive and extreme.
He wrote incendiary, sometimes gorgeous, sometimes fearlessly sexual and often frustratingly complex poetry in the remarkably brief period he wrote poetry. Which is to say, from the age of sixteen to the age of nineteen or twenty. His most famous poems are "The Drunken Boat" and "A Season in Hell." Nothing had ever been seen like this in French poetry before, even from Baudelaire. After the age of twenty or so, Rimbaud stopped writing altogether. No one knows why. The rest of his life, he was a wanderer. He went in search of something he could never find, because it wasn't there. He looked for it in Paris, in Indonesia, in London, in Cyprus, in Yemen. And, finally, in Ethiopia.
|Rimbaud by Picasso|
Some artists love Rimbaud because his chaotic, fiery life gives them reassurance for their own. Or what they would like their own to be. (I am a passenger on that ship.) And Rimbaud's life was as chaotic as any self-destructive American artist's has even been, if not more so. Typical is the affair he had with the (married) poet Paul Verlaine that ended with Verlaine, in a rage, shooting Rimbaud in the wrist. As Allen Ginsberg said, "Rimbaud seems to be a complete turn-on catalyst to every poet in small town isolated, or big megapolis, staring at the city lights over the roof." What that means to me is: don't let those small town minds stop you from becoming the comet that you are. So you destroy a few things, or lives, along the way. You're an artist. Yes, an artist! A pass for crashing through life!
|Rimbaud in Ethiopia|
The last years of his life Rimbaud spent exporting coffee from Ethiopia—an astonishingly able linguist, he learned the language quickly—and smuggling guns. All he cared about was money. In those later years, someone realized who he was (Rimbaud had become famous in Paris without knowing it) and asked him about his poetry. "Disgusting!" Rimbaud replied.
One of his last letters, written to his sister from a hospital in Marseilles, where he was soon to die at the age of thirty-seven, says, "Our life is a misery, an endless misery. Why do we exist?" I can’t imagine myself saying that. But, then I couldn’t imagine my life unfolding the way it has, either.
Tuesday, February 11, 2014
Ezra, Ezra, what was going on in your skull when you made those anti-American broadcasts in fascist Italy during World War II? Heaven only knows. So many despicable things you said.
But before all that, back in England, early part of the twentieth century, you got T.S. Eliot's "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock" published, when no one else could. You got James Joyce's A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man serialized. You even served as W.B. Yeats' secretary for a while when Yeats' eyesight was failing. In 1921, you moved to Paris and continued helping people. Hemingway, for one. And, once again, T.S. Eliot. Eliot sent you the manuscript of "The Waste Land," and you, Ezra Pound, cut and moved, decried and suggested. Eliot has always acknowledged your contribution. He said,"I should like to think that the manuscript, with its suppressed passages, had disappeared irrecoverably; yet, on the other hand, I should wish the blue pencilling on it to be preserved as irrefutable evidence of Pound's critical genius." Eliot dedicated the poem to you.
|Example of Ezra Pound's editing of "The Waste Land." They found the manuscript.|
You helped a lot of artists significantly at critical junctures in their careers. I think it's safe to say that you helped shape the literary landscape of the twentieth century.
This is the kind of writer I want to be. Yes, certainly, remembered (if at all) for my books. But also for trying to help younger writers. Even older writers. Anyone who deserves to have his or her work recognized. I can't begin to have your influence, Ezra. Who could? I probably don't have any influence at all. (I know writers who do have influence who won't raise a hand. God not preserve them.) It's not that I'm aiming for. It's the spirit of what you did. Of knowing how hard it is to make any sort of dent in the arts, much less make a living. Of being someone who believes in the younger, or older, artist.
We should all have someone who believes in us. Sometimes, it's the only thing that keeps us going.
Tuesday, February 4, 2014
Because I'm not married, one of the things I'm going to miss as I grow old is wearing identical windbreakers with my wife.
I use to scoff at that. Seeing some snowbirds dressed in exactly the same style and color windbreakers. WTF? I mean, isn't a couple two individuals? You wear different coats, hats, scarves, shoes all your married life. Then all of a sudden, you turn seventy-five, and you're Mr. and Mrs. I'll-have-what-she's-wearing. It just seems silly. It's not like you're in the army, or in a marching band, where you're all dressed alike for a reason.
You see them in grocery stores, in department stores, in movie lobbies. They have a sort of code, a verbal shorthand that they have created over thirty or forty years of marriage to navigate the routine of the ordinary. Sometimes they communicate with a glance. The windbreaker couples. Ha!
I began to have a vision. And that vision was my world shrinking. That vision was the world I used to move about in freely and participate in no longer had a place for me. That vision was that I will be squeezed out of that world and not allowed reentry. The new world I will occupy will be some kind of compound. And I will feel vulnerable in that world.
If I were married, I would want that world to know that there are two of us. We are coming at you, a team. It would be a sort of evolutionary defense: You look at us, and, because of the single color, we blend and seem bigger and stronger than we really are, like the big "eyes" on a moth's spread wings making it look like a fearsome creature. Think before you try to do us harm.
I can't say for sure why older couples start wearing the exact same jackets. It might be a much simpler reason. They do, though. We've all seen it. But I can say this. I won't be wearing an identical windbreaker with anyone. I'll be alone in my windbreaker. And I would give a lot to look silly.