Meditations From the Other Room
“I think of myself, standing in a world that is never standing still."
I spent Monday meandering through Robert Frank’s exhibit at the MoMa, captivated by his grainy images that straddle the line between motion and stillness. Amidst portraits of Jack Kerouac and Allen Ginsberg (two of my literary heroes) (with Howl in my bag no less…..) were delicate allusions to Kafka and all poetic currents that have influenced Frank’s work over the years. If I weren’t myself, I wouldn’t have blinked twice. But I felt an impenetrable certainty that I was exactly where I needed to be. I say this because I rarely plan museum visits. They come more feverishly, as if my body suddenly says: Give This To Me And Give It To Me Now.
Like my Monday excursion, this poem isn’t tied to any particular subject. Rather a reaction to circumstance, a fleeting echo of feeling. I like to think it mirrors how often we adopt the role of Observer rather than Participant, while simultaneously hinting at all the ways we crave meaning. “Will the void ever be understood? / Or will you grow to accept the ways / In which you’ve shaped it?”
Sometimes I feel silly for finding metaphors in everything, until I remember it’s my quintessence as a writer. You don’t know this yet, but in my current manuscript there is an essay that explores this very sentiment—where I issue great significance to a leather jacket I found in a thrift store. When I first shared it in my writer’s workshop I was mortified, and perhaps even more so when they loved it. Great, so instead of being Albert Camus or Joan Didion I’m going to be David Sedaris. Why did I care so deeply about being seen as self-deprecating rather than philosophically profound? A can of worms. I also adore David (and Amy) Sedaris.
Something I think about a lot is a quote by British psychoanalyst Donald Winnicott: “It is a joy to be hidden, and a disaster to not be found.” I reflect on how our society is titillated by the idea of never being pinned down, and how this obsession has made authentic connection virtually impossible. We strive to remain Untouchable, evading the raw truths of our Feelings. But as the poem suggests, what is so unsayable that we’d rather devour our skin and bones? I find it tragic really, our capacity to hide so well we never truly encounter what we intimately touch. If we do, we abandon it shortly thereafter.
The weeks float on, easily missed—
A quiet, tasteful heaven of emerald light
Too dangerous to want
The door is open wide enough
For one to slip through,
A room they know better than to enter
But the inner-knowing makes them pulsate,
Lingering silently, heavily perfumed
Sleeping with the ivy beneath the stars
Falling one by one, into their eyes
Bleeding into roots that writhe and burn
Their dancing soles—
Translating chemistry to the dead
Who rise to say:
Temptation Lives On
In the filth of shadowy limitations,
A crucifix from which tender hearts hang
What is so unsayable?
That you’d rather devour skin and bones—
Shaken, not stirred—
Without ever feeling the wiser?
Will the void ever be understood?
Or will you grow to accept the ways
In which you’ve shaped it?
Crying from wild laughter
Into delicate collarbones,
Coating proverbial hours with
Sugar and honey
Making love like a carnal hedonist
In a gallery of muses—
Never quite the same after
What you intimately touch
I know I said I would be Houdini this September but as it turns out, reverse psychology does work!!!! Thank you for reading 💌💌💌💌💌💌💌💌💌💌💌