Thanks to Fanny C. for recommending a book of poetry: Rebel Angels, 25 Poets of the New Formalism. I’ve been making slow progress, but have stopped and lurched backward to re-read this poem several times. It’s not sophisticated, but it’s stuck.
Julia AlvarezWoman’s Work by Julia Alvarez
Who says a woman’s work isn’t high art? She’d challenge as she scrubbed the bathroom tiles. Keep house as if the address were your heart.
We’d clean the whole upstairs before we’d start downstairs. I’d sigh, hearing my friends outside. Doing her woman’s work was a hard art
to practice when the summer sun would bar the floor I swept till she was satisfied. She kept me prisoner in her housebound heart.
She’d shine the tines of forks, the wheels of carts, cut lacy lattices for all her pies. Her woman’s work was nothing less than art.
And I, her masterpiece since I was smart, was primed, praised, polished, scolded and advised to keep a house much better than my heart.
I did not want to be her counterpart! I struck out. . .but became my mother’s child: a woman working at home on her art, housekeeping paper as if it were her heart.
For my part, didn’t grow up with a Mom who was so fastidious, or LIVED so much through housework. My parents (split home-ish-ness, but consolidating everyone for simplicity’s sake) put an emphasis on us kids doing chores and housekeeping so we would not be totally useless when we left the nest. Seems obvious and common, but how many people/roommates have we known who moved away from home with little or no household skills?
The poem is a manifesto, but my place in life is not summed up in the last stanza, though in time it may be. While sputtering in my writing projects, I see my 8 y/o daughter taking an interest in writing story ideas or phrases in a journal she has, she’s made several observations over the years about seeing me write, and both kids sometimes ask about the state of my writing projects.
I wonder if I’m role modeling for her. If she’ll see my taking spare moments to write as an acceptable norm, a habit for her to build on. If my life is an intermediary step for any greater successes she may have. That’s fine with me. I’d be proud to see it.
Went with the family to watch Hugo, a movie we all enjoyed. Nice to watch a kids film that didn’t feel obliged to make rapid fire jokes with pop cultural references to get an easy laugh of recognition without requiring any wit (HATE that!). Hugo is about art, cinema (ekphrasis alert!), orphans, inspiration. As portrayed in the film, all Parisians have British accents. Good to know! Will British ribbing of the French ever cease? Sascha Baron Cohen does a good job as a demi-villain, too. Oscar nomination for Best Picture seems likely.
Although, for less than a second, during a tumult in a Paris train station, JAMES JOYCE makes an appearance in a café! For this dormant Joycean, a pleasing touch.
On the way back home in the car, the kids insisted on listening to The Book of Mormon soundtrack. I am very proud when they start singing along. I skipped playing the song “Hasa Diga Ebowai” which has lyrics like “Fuck you god, in the ass, mouth, and cunt. Fuck you in the eye.” (with a bouncy melody!). They asked why I skipped it (which they’ve heard before).
My 11 y/o son: “Is it because of the bad words?” I said: “Yes, and it’s because your Mom is in the car and I don’t want to shock her.” That turned into a sarcastic flurry with me asking the kids in the back seat things like: “So, you’re telling me you kids continue to make good decisions about what words to use, and when, and don’t feel the need to say dirty words at every single opportunity?” When the joshing subsided, I STILL did not play the song. In role modeling that authority often involves erratic rules, my children are learning important life lessons.
We DID listen to the song “Man Up”, which has the line “Christ, he manned up.” Son asked what that was about. After a few seconds to compose my thoughts, I summarized the story of Jesus Christ’s passion, the crucifixion, resurrection, and ascension in neutral language in about a minute and a half! Yes, I am bragging about that, have EARNED it, and…
Male baton twirler with the Oregon State University marching band in their halftime show against Oregon November 26. They lost 49-21. It’s a fair guess this baton twirlrer didn’t really give a shit about that.
My baton casts a glamor spell on the throngs stacked all around and above me in the stands. Eyes on me, drawn to my poise and flash as schoolmates waddle with bulk strapped to their trunks. I am unencumbered. I interpret the music. Many watch to thwart me, to hope I drop the baton. I will not let them win. I am here to instill triumph for those who trust in me. I am not asked to show my legs like my more common baton twirling sisters. Just as well as my legshow would incur mass envy. I am slim. I am quick. I can toss and catch on the beat. I am strong. I am fierce. I twirl the baton as a goddamned man. I am a warrior.
Sitting in deep thoughts, realizing I have thought these thoughts before and I rarely realize new deep things I deliberate and determine to go to bed rather than chance the arrival for a rare new thought.
In sustaining joys, jarring absences by death, by geography, by time, by recycling things in mind churn and churn and I resolve to rest to be more adept and acute for the next day of new circumstances and the assurances of familiar uncanny echoes and reliable routines.
Wisdom and time give ballast. In practiced, palliative breaths shivers of memory are expelled through my arms and fingers and absorbed into bone and blood and meat to be borne quietly for guidance and haunting.
Dilemmas become routine, as for everyone. I exhale and go to solid sleep.
The want in your eyes said “Come find me.” There is no practical way in these practical times, but I will try. I said that I would try, in my honest glance back.
The unpurged images of day recede; The Emperor’s drunken soldiery are abed; Night resonance recedes, night walkers’ song After great cathedral gong; A starlit or a moonlit dome disdains All that man is, All mere complexities, The fury and the mire of human veins.
Before me floats an image, man or shade, Shade more than man, more image than a shade; For Hades’ bobbin bound in mummy-cloth May unwind the winding path; A mouth that has no moisture and no breath Breathless mouths may summon; I hail the superhuman; I call it death-in-life and life-in-death.
Miracle, bird or golden handiwork, More miracle than bird or handiwork, Planted on the star-lit golden bough, Can like the cocks of Hades crow, Or, by the moon embittered, scorn aloud In glory of changeless metal Common bird or petal And all complexities of mire or blood.
At midnight on the Emperor’s pavement flit Flames that no faggot feeds, nor steel has lit, Nor storm disturbs, flames begotten of flame, Where blood-begotten spirits come And all complexities of fury leave, Dying into a dance, An agony of trance, An agony of flame that cannot singe a sleeve.
Astraddle on the dolphin’s mire and blood, Spirit after spirit! The smithies break the flood, The golden smithies of the Emperor! Marbles of the dancing floor Break bitter furies of complexity, Those images that yet Fresh images beget, That dolphin-torn, that gong-tormented sea.
– Byzantium, by William Butler Yeats
This is the follow-up poem by Yeats to his Sailing to Byzantium, one of my favorites in my 20s. This poem, written only three years later, is a call-back where the narrator explores the city of legend he aspired to reach in the earlier poem. It makes me realize the aspiration to be a crafted mechanical bird, immortal, singing to lords and ladies of the past, present, or things to come is a way out of the trappings of age and a way into existence of art into posterity, but does not convey the mire, the nature and swamp and meat of life that gives beauty. The poem above seems more sage, an initiate regarding new arrivals. Art as a process of burning and refining. Sensible. Suits an accomplished genius like Yeats. Feels like the only things I have to share are laden messes, to convey the muck and the ooze of it all. I’ve not gained the knack for refinement yet.
While typing this, the itching from a new haircut trickles down my neck through the collar of my t-shirt and sweatshirt. Seeing the amount of silver compared to brown (once natural blonde!) that falls in clumps over the haircut cape while sitting in the chair continues to amuse. The buzzing and tugging and trimming that comes from a woman cutting my hair always feels more intimate than it should be. If there’s not much chit-chat, I tend to tip higher, but I still tip pretty high because in a small way grooming by someone’s hands feels like a moment. The race between my hair turning to silver, and whether I have hair left at all, tends to not amuse. As my hair has waned over the last two decades, I determined to improve my personality to compensate. But, as in so many such resolutions, I’ve let up on THAT a bit. The curmudgeon will out.
As I get to the tasty sludge of a dark hot cocoa at a high end, but not quite aristocratic, chocolateria, three Asian women are having a spirited conversation in a language that is not Japanese nor Chinese. Their pace is quick. Their voices complement each other, and it’s a relief to NOT know enough of their words to eavesdrop. Mild melodic background. Light laughter. I’m tempted to place my smartphone on the small coffee table between them and record their voices for future background noise.
And, like that, I’ve resolved I like Sailing to Byzantium better. The narrator laments, aspires, but is not accomplished enough, it has not yet reached the holy city. November is National Novel Writing Month, and I need to get ramped up on my project.
When set aside and not (one of) you its vibrations go nnzzzzzt like a nightstand alarm. Grrrrr.
What NOW?
When set aside or held, with catching a message volley its vibrations are a purrrrr.
Ah! Huzzah!
Sometimes it feels like a single cord, taut, if I shake my rectangle it makes yours flip.
I curl slightly, dumb happy look (probably), and open my chest and send a throb into the backlit screen.
The pulse makes its way to you. You, also hunched, grin widely, clutch it closer. Whisper type back.
When it’s business I lean back in aversion, make a face, thumb slaps respond.
Busy times it feels tentacled. Ugh. Latching onto hands and chair and lap. If I dropped it (though pricey!) it may skitter under the table shade. Crouching, anxious to pounce again at the next bzzzzzt.
Out and about. *CLICK* I am here. *SEND*
*CHECK* Has anyone? *SCROLL* Where is? *CHECKITY-CHECK* Ah! Have I been there? *COMMENTY-COMMENT*
A nuisance. A boon. Data plans are expensive, but planes and trains cost more.
ASCII and files slung back and forth in digital semaphore.
Amusement aggravation. I am not there I am here.
Life gets less vapid with wants and hopes and jibes filling the air.
Upon my arrival, I can tell from her raspy greeting they had been singing at the studio piano then likely singing a capella instead of being at task for this interminable sitting. The walls seem to pulsate with absorbed melodies and laughter. If I put my fingers on the plaster, would they palpate vibrations?
Her mother started this project with Sargent. An expense, as he is known to be slow. But she wanted her daughter portrayed as she was when engaged. Prima del matrimonio. Who knows what I, as the mid-tier career soldier, might do to diminish her daughter? She will tell my children “Your mother was a great beauty.” with a grand gesture toward the portrait.
I am not a fool. I see an aspect of Elsie coming through. Sargent’s warm regard in wanting her. I lean over his shoulder and note the blush and exaggerated care given to her lips. As I loom he is silent, not from bravery but a worry a tremble in his voice may reveal too much. Famous as he is, he is still vulnerable and must fear a bad report. Yet he knows I will not pounce upon his work. His creation will outlast this room and my review. His desire imbues her portrait and becomes what she exudes for him. I have earned and sustained my higher station, but my victories on the field and maneuvers in this scene may not last as long as this portrait. His strategy is longer.
In her cool appraisal of those who evaluate her, the flush of her cheeks, this portrait is Elizabeth as a maiden. As she stands apart from me now, a laugh still in her stance, has she been girlish with him? I do not think she would be so rude as to bite her lip and act less womanly than she is. That may put him off, too. Knowing her power, and knowing it is accentuated by being not yet attained. She is not flighty here, she is strong. She knows and has lived, much by what we have shared. Her mother is not getting the portrait she wanted. That is gratifying.
And I indulge Elsie. No, too patronizing. I endure from others the whispers, asides, occasional daring remark in my presence that Elsie’s avocation and accomplishments as a concert singer are déclassé.
But it fills her. To see her take savor and draw in the air, bosom rising, delay before her note, knowing she could convey so much in her lilting soprano then drop to a feral resonance. Where will she go? Follow her training? Let the spirit take the moment? She is lost and happy and delirious in the suspension of the world and those fixed on her. We are held in thrall. She is happy. Obliged to perform, but the setting is of her choosing. Let them natter on in parties. She feeds from us. I am among those feeling within her and sustaining her. Admiring her as the room does, coveting my own all the more as others covet her. Then, her decision or spirit assented to, the note selected, force sanctioned, she carries us all along again.
And, my hand will be on the upper side of her hips, John, as her hand is posed off her waist. I will hold her there as she’s straddled over me to fix her in place. And her left hand will be set over mine to pin her even more. She will press on me with the assurance and lovely heft you have conveyed so well, John. And before then the palm of her right hand will tend to my need, wrapped with confidence as on the rim of your sitting chair. Yes, Sargent, those hands are daring and skilled and loving and clever and I know you have made a guess that is so, but I see you do not know from experience. You have posed her hands in speculation. I am amused.
This is a painting of allegation, admiration, want, abundance, poise. Her bosom is a marvel. I have seen our child feed there, and I still have desire and feel relief to take refuge and time there. And she lets me. Her soldier is happy there. And I am happy to make her happy.
“We are obliged to leave soon.” I say glancing at the clock on the wall. Strong chance Sargent’s clock is not accurate. Stronger chance any array of clocks he may have here do not corroborate one another.
Mrs. George Swinton (nee Elizabeth “‘Elsie” Ebsworth) painted by John Singer Sargent
“What time is it?” Elsie says. Her voice evenly modulated. I do not think Sargent would truly do anything untoward. He tantalizes himself. I look at the nearest clock again.
“It’s 22 past six.” Recital at 8. Reception at 9. Would she wear this ensemble? He paints her in white and coppery pearlish taupe. She stands now in royal blue. He is using her expression and proportions. She will not need a change tonight.
After the recital: praise, and flattery, and as she is flush with regard and expression I shall take her home, and we will bid the help good night then gaze upon our infant son asleep in the cradle then adjourn to our chambers. I will pin her down by her left wrist, leaving her right hand and my left to wander as they please, and I shall take her as she is arrayed now. She will see how what she set in motion by my catching her in this scene in the studio and her later scenes this evening will culminate in the light in my eyes fueled from the swells of desire from the crowds of men and envious women channeled and churning through me and she will be well pleased and sleep soundly and it will be a good morning.
All this week, my daughter was scheduled for Zoo Camp. My son didn’t have anything scheduled.
I had to work, and my mom was willing to have him stay for four days.
Got him back Thursday night, and wasn’t sure what to do. Then decided to cut work and spend Friday with just him.
He’s 11, and signs are accruing that puberty encroaches. Height increasing. Closes the door to his room a lot. More guarded about changing his clothes, bathing, growing sense of privacy.
We dropped his sister off at Zoo Camp, then strolled around the Zoo for several hours. I gave him the map and let him navigate. We weren’t in a hurry.
We boarded the Zoo Train (I hadn’t been on for a decade or so) and I noticed dark hairs on his legs. I said (quietly) “You’re growing up. Your leg hairs are darker.” “Not as dark as yours” “You’re getting there, though. It’s good to see you growing up.” He smiled. We talked about growing up and being able to drive, and going to college, and other milestones only 5-7 years away.
See the bag of green candy? Sour Skittles. He was MISERLY with them. I only got four, once he gave me three. A second time, one. He worked on that regular-size bag for about two hours. Hope he holds to that Golden Mean.
From the Zoo we went downtown. I let him pick lunch (noodles), and we went for ice cream. We read for about an hour and a half in the library (Me – reading on an artwork to write about, J – Fellowship of the Ring). Then he wanted to see if there were books on martial arts. I made him ask at the information desk and he was directed to a shelf of them. After about 20 minutes of browsing, he picked one. Checked it out, we were on our way.
Outside of the library, he asked me what sixth, seventh, and eighth grades were like for me. I told him they were tough for almost everybody. Puberty, confusion, frustration, kids getting more concerned about the body changes and new feelings, and not as attuned to the feelings and needs of others. I also mentioned around 6th grade is when my parents divorced. He listened thoughtfully. I told him he would someday go through those body and feeling changes, and I said I hoped he would come to us with any questions. “I will probably come to you, ” he said, “as it’ll be about boy and man changes.”
Took the light rail back to the Zoo, then sat in the cafeteria and read some more. All four of us met there after my daughter’s Zoo Camp was finished.
Throughout the day, he ran his arm around mine and we walked together arm-in-arm. He said “I don’t feel like holding your hand much anymore, but I do feel like doing this.” I nodded, absorbing the moments.
Later at night, he was speaking with his mom about cell phones. One of his friends recently got one. He wants one, too. “Other kids in class have them, too.” My wife asked: “Do you want one for talking with them?” “No, only my friends.” “Don’t you mean the kids in your class?” “No, I’m not friends with EVERYone in my class.”
Then she discovered he was only friends with the boys in his class. She observed: “That will probably change.”
“Yeah.” He guessed around age 13 he would use the phone to talk with girls. Then around 17 he would be old enough to drive, and then use his phone and car to go pick the girls up.
According to Squarespace analytics, a person using Google in India came across this site using the search term “sex feh”. Wonder how much an SEO consultant would have charged for that return. Is that a market worth targeting? Seems grouchy.
Julia AlvarezWoman’s Work
