My daughter texted me at church to tell me that our water pipes had frozen again. That sent me into a tailspin for about two hours. Turns out the problem was not my water pipes. A main had broken in the neighborhood, and nobody had water. Of course, I started making alternate Book Club plans that proved to be unnecessary. My water started flowing about two hours after I got back from church.
So, the plates are set out. The liquor is on my kitchen table. The chocolate fountain is set up on my stove. In twenty minutes, I'll begin my final preparations, Cutting fruit. Melting chocolate chips. Eating cookies.
Sorry that I'm not being more profound today. A year ago, I was certainly much deeper, but I also had no problems with my water line . . .
January 7, 2016: My Keyhole, Edit the Universe, Kim Addonizio, "Eating Together"
Peering through my keyhole I see within the range of only about thirty percent of the light that comes from the sun; the rest is infrared and some little ultraviolet, perfectly apparent to many animals, but invisible to me. A nightmare network of ganglia, charged and firing without my knowledge, cuts and splices what I do see, editing it for my brain. Donald E. Carr points out that the sense impressions of one-celled animals are not edited for the brain: "This is philosophically interesting in a rather mournful way, since it means that only the simplest animals perceive the universe as it is."
In her reflections on seeing, Annie Dillard laments all that she cannot see, all that her limited vision filters and obscures. Trees filled with red-winged blackbirds. Deer gliding through a copse of trees. A bullfrog the size of a plate dozing in muddy shallows. Somehow, the human mind edits the world, allowing us to view only what we can handle, only what is necessary. To see everything, like a one-celled animal, like God, would be overwhelming. Too much for our feeble brains.
I sometimes lament things I cannot see, too. I have a writer friend whose observations continuously intrigue and confound me. His vision is very different from my own. Where I see a snowy field of frozen cattails, he would probably see the stubbled leg of a fallen giant. I envy his ability to make associations like that.
Peering through my keyhole, I see what I want to see. I try to avoid visions that frighten me. A house that is in serious need of repair. A daughter that is struggling with serious anxiety problems. A job that deadens my joy. A country run by Donald Trump. I make choices every day, try to edit the universe to fit my definition of happiness.
Of course, I'm constantly surprised every day. For example, I planned to finish sending out Christmas presents to distant family and friends today. That was my plan. I was also going to wrap up beginning-of-semester work, as well. Those were the two big things on my to-do list. That was my vision for today.
Instead, I shoveled my sidewalk and driveway early this morning. Went back to bed for a little while. Had lunch with my wife. Picked up my daughter at school. Tonight, I'm going to a basketball game to watch my daughter play in the pep band. I didn't touch the Christmas presents I wanted to mail. I did minimal work for school.
When Dillard talks about peering through her keyhole at Tinker Creek, she's editing, as well. Seeing only what she expects to see. Keeping her world in a certain order. That's what we all do. Every day. Yet, the universe has a way of intruding. Forcing us to see the miraculous or mysterious or frightening.
Poets have a way of widening the keyhole. Seeing things from a one-celled perspective. Dinner with a friend can become something deeper, a communion with loss.
Saint Marty prefers sangria with his dinner.
Eating Together
by: Kim Addonizio
I know my friend is going,
though she still sits there
across from me in the restaurant,
and leans over the table to dip
her bread in the oil on my plate; I know
how thick her hair used to be,
and what it takes for her to discard
her man’s cap partway through our meal,
to look straight at the young waiter
and smile when he asks
how we are liking it. She eats
as though starving—chicken, dolmata,
the buttery flakes of filo—
and what’s killing her
eats, too. I watch her lift
a glistening black olive and peel
the meat from the pit, watch
her fine long fingers, and her face,
puffy from medication. She lowers
her eyes to the food, pretending
not to know what I know. She’s going.
And we go on eating.
And, of course, another poem that is no way as good as anything Kim Addonizio has written, including her grocery list . . .
Hunger
by: Martin Achatz
Her
cry was a knuckle
that
cracked night in two.
I
stumbled to the crib, looked
down
at my five-day-old
daughter. She was cauled
in
blanket, eyes large, nervous
as
a doe mid-January,
nosing
snow for reindeer moss,
welts
of wintergreen berry.
I
had yet to adjust to these
migrations
of diaper, milk, sleep,
milk
again, like arrows of geese
bleating
north, south, north, south,
crossing,
recrossing the continent
of
my home.,
I
reached down, lifted my daughter,
her
limbs tense in my arms,
expectant
mouth pressed against
my
chest, greedy for slugs of milk.
I
held her close, marveled
at
her naked need, how the bee
of
her tongue searched the dark
fields
of my body for pistil,
pollen,
stamen, nectar.
She
scavenged the air
for
food, became more and more
frantic
when the manna of my wife
didn’t
fall from the heavens
into
her open lips.
This
is the first lesson we learn,
to
follow our stomachs, like natal stars,
through
mountain and desert,
dustbowl
and drought,
to
that feeding trough
where
we find the Christ child
sleeping. We shove Him aside,
gorge
ourselves on oats and hay
before
we remember to say grace.
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