I wrote this in the spring of 1997. I was hormonal -- that's my only explanation -- and an inconsolable, disagreeable mess. The Cray and I were hiking in the Organ Mountains that preside over town. Even in the midst of my tantrum, we decided to drop our pants and just stand around for a little bit. Somehow, the feel of the open air on my undercarriage made me feel a little better. Then I went home and wrote this. Take note of the third stanza. That's the one that had me in stitches. I'll explain after.
Of Water and Wind
Thought of the wind like water today:
a swirling flow
pooling in valleys,
funneling through canyons.
Not blowing to satisfy nominal expectations
like gravity or some other force,
but an ocean:
a constantly changing
ebb of imagination pushed aside
by rocks and other hard things.
It is undertow: not caught up in itself,
but taking in its path;
not disappointed by this side of the rock
or wondering about the other.
Inside: gentle color,
and unseen lethal force,
the more obvious bearing jags and razors
still not caring one way or the other, but moving
aside and going where it can.
The earth fidgets in its restlessness:
at first a breathy quiver,
and then both explode
into a tsunami of tears and gasps
mixing two that should never have been assigned
separately in the first place
Until, in a spitting foam rage,
they punish and mold land to their liking
to remain so for as long as Hs and Os desire.
The oceans
of water and wind
can always go back to their gentle moves,
but the land must remain until the others decide
to blow off the dust of old carvings for a new path.
They continue to needle and thwart each other;
each change making for new shapes and flows
that are still worth looking at
and noticing
and listing
under beautiful things.
I think it's interesting that my efforts to recover my writer's voice has resulted in multiple returns to pieces I wrote the first time The Cray and I were together as undergrads in Las Cruces. Maybe I should take a moment to state for the record that I don't necessarily think my writing is spectacular, just that I did it regularly and that's what I'm trying to recover. Cases in point:
"Breathy Quiver." This is my go-to porn star name. No, not for myself. But in conversation, when I needed a fictional porn star name, that's the one I'd go with. Okay, I don't know how to explain why I led such an existence that everyday conversation would require a go-to porn star name, but what are ya gonna do? But clearly, even in a fit of rage and despair, I will still crack jokes to myself and/or reference porn. Also, I'm almost 100% certain I didn't do this deliberately when I wrote it, but I'm amused by the vaguely pornographic imagery in that stanza too. Oy vey.
The other little nugget in there is the "punish and mold" line. Sometime around 2000, I found myself on the losing end (the stupid end) of an argument with The Cray about, of all things, Monica Lewinsky. Rather than simply ceding the point, I flew into yet another inexplicable rage. (Seriously, I don't know why he still talks to me.) Let's just say that the incident ended with me standing on the futon in our basement room in Seattle and tearfully accusing him of seeking out younger women (he's 6-1/2 years older than me) so he could "shape and mold" them. Even I couldn't keep a straight face through that one. And let me tell you, he still loves dropping that line on me when I'm acting a-fool.
A final note before I run off to school: in creating the "porn" label for this post, I realize that means that on some level, I anticipate future posts in which I reference porn -- at least enough to warrant a whole label for it. Of the eight people whom I've notified about the existence of this blog, my parents aren't among them. Jess, this means this is officially an F-bomb-friendly zone.
Bombs away!
