Poem: A Supermarket in California

What thoughts I have of you tonight, Walt Whitman, for I walked down the
streets under the trees with a headache self-conscious looking at the full moon.

In my hungry fatigue, and shopping for images, I went into the neon fruit
supermarket, dreaming of your enumerations!
What peaches and what penumbras! Whole families shopping at night! Aisles
full of husbands! Wives in the avocados, babies in the tomatoes! --- and you,
Garcia Lorca, what were you doing down by the watermelons?
I saw you, Walt Whitman, childless, lonely old grubber, poking among the
meats in the refrigerator and eyeing the grocery boys.
I heard you asking questions of each: Who killed the pork chops? What price
bananas? Are you my Angel?
I wandered in and out of the brilliant stacks of cans following you, and
followed in my imagination by the store detective.
We strode down the open corridors together in our solitary fancy tasting
artichokes, possessing every frozen delicacy, and never passing the cashier.
Where are we going, Walt Whitman? The doors close in an hour. Which way does
your beard point tonight?
(I touch your book and dream of our odyssey in the supermarket and feel
absurd.)
Will we walk all night through solitary streets? The trees add shade to
shade, lights out in the houses, we'll both be lonely.
Will we stroll dreaming of the lost America of love past blue automobiles in
driveways, home to our silent cottage?
Ah, dear father, graybeard, lonely old courage-teacher, what America did you
have when Charon quit poling his ferry and you got out on a smoking bank and
stood watching the boat disappear on the black waters of Lethe?

Allen Ginsberg

Posted by: East Side Professor on 3/13/2010 at 8:06 AM | Comments (0) | Permalink

Boys

Yesterday at the library, Noah ushered me over to a height chart. It stopped at 5 feet. I am guessing Noah is 5'3" or 5' 4" He is ten, but almost eleven. He picked out a book and waiting in a comfy chair for me to finish picking out cat books for Adam. I am so glad that Noah is a reader, although when he was Adam's age he didn't like to read either. I wonder if I can get Noah to talk to his brother and encourage him to read. I was a reluctant reader until we moved to the middle of nowhere. Andrew reads more now than ever, but still not much for pleasure reading.

I wonder if it is something in boys, how they have to keep moving or they will die, or worse: fall asleep, or it is just something else that I haven't tried yet. I think it is getting them to read that is the challenge, not the actual reading part -- that goes just fine. I want them to want to read. I suppose that is like wanting Andrew to want to clean -- it is probably never going to happen.

Posted by: East Side Professor on 3/12/2010 at 4:10 PM | Comments (2) | Permalink

On the East Side

I lay in bed. The mattress is warm beneath me. I am trying to be quiet. I am trying to let my sister sleep. She lies in the bed to the west of me; I am on the east side. I want to know why she always gets the west side? I have leaned over and turned my bed to 8. My grandmother worries that it will start on fire or I will get too hot. She has come in this room an hour before and set my bed on four. I have followed her in and when she asks me what we should set my bed at tonight, I am sure she has asked out of kindness, yet it doesn’t really matter what I answer… she will set it lower than I want anyway. We settle on half way between five and six. The room is fairly dark. My head is on the same wall that the window is. The window is in the middle of room, in between two single beds. There is a thin white curtain keeping out the dark. There are also drapes on the window, they match the bedspreads. They are yellow, with thin twigs. The drapes are tied back with thick gold chords that hang down. I reach out my hand to play with the tassels and feel the silkiness of the chord. Trica doesn’t want to talk; she “just wants to go to sleep.” I am quiet while I play with the tassel. I can hear my parents in the other room. I can hear them laughing about something someone said once. I am safe here. I am warm. I fight sleep, and for a while I stare into darkness. If I close my eyes I will sleep, and I am just not quite ready yet.

In the morning I wake up to the sounds of footsteps in the hallway, I hear the bathroom door close, I hear water running. I lay there and look around the room. There is a dresser at the end of my sister’s bed, and closet without a door. Grandma keeps some decorations in there, but mostly the closet is empty. When it’s Easter she keeps yellow and pink peeps in the top drawer of the dresser. My sister is still sleeping, so I turn over and face the wall. I am glad I have woken up so early. I like looking at the twigs in the bed spread. I think I could spend hours looking at those sticks. They cross over each other; I trace my finger along the maze of twigs. I look for shapes the twigs make. I know they are twigs, but they are all the same size, and they are not connected to any branches, and there certainly aren’t trees, but where did the twigs come from if there aren’t any trees?

Someone enters our room to wake us up; I don’t remember who but I am sure I ask if I can sleep on the west side next time. I am sure it is so much better than the east side
 

Posted by: East Side Professor on 3/09/2010 at 8:00 PM | Comments (1) | Permalink

My Old Room Was...

My old room was yellow. Yet it was only yellow on two walls. Was that a thing they used to do? Paint two walls the same color in a four wall room? Was it the opposite two or the adjacent two? I don't remember. My sister and i shared a room until I was in second grade. We shared a bed, and I don't ever remember minding. I think it was she who decided she needed space. I remember crawling into bed with her and cuddling up close to her; she was warm. I would imagine my frozen feet would be enough to wake her up, but I don't remember if she ever did.
One year fabric balloons were the "in" thing to put on your wall. We saw them at a craft sale and the price seemed a bit much. I think my mother thought she could make them for less, but she didn't/doesn't sew. I don't recall if she had someone else sew them, but eventually they hung in our room.

There was some re-arranging going on in my room with beds and dressers, I remember doors being propped up against the dresser I needed to get in for clothing -- I remember this because I had to maneuver around the wood, I scraped up against it, and when I lifted my shirt I saw what I thought was a bite. When I showed it to my mom, she investigated whether I had more of them -- I did. I had chicken pox for the second time in my life. I was in the first grade and I stayed home for a eleven days. I remember asking to go back to school and the answer I received was "we'll see."

Carolyn and I used to spend hours playing Barbie's in my room. We would pile all the clothes in the middle and take turns choosing our outfits. We didn't have much for stories with our Barbie’s. Often our Barbie’s would get off from work and go "out." They may have gone out to dinner or to play tennis. When I had my Barbie and the Rocker they would sing -- I suppose the theme of my Barbie would dictate what we played. I really liked playing in the water with my Barbie’s but we could only do that during the summer, and we had to go outside to do that.
I wonder if these memories are why I have continued to paint rooms yellow?
 

Posted by: East Side Professor on 3/07/2010 at 7:45 PM | Comments (1) | Permalink

I am not!

On Tuesday I left for the cities with some students. I left the house fairly spotless as we were showing it to a realtor. I got home late evening on Wednesday. I looked around and thought -- what a mess. I was in no mood to clean. I was tired from driving for 12 hours, and I didn't feel well. I wanted supper and my bed. I took off my glasses around 9:30 and fell asleep with the television on.

Waking up the next morning, the clutter had multiplied. Children asked for chocolate milk, we were out. Upon filling the dog dishes with food, Andrew announced we we out. It seemed like everyone just waited around -- mom will do it, she will take care of us, she will cook, and clean, and make sure we are where we need to be, when we need to be there. I specfically asked Andrew, "I do not feel well, please help." He said he would take care of me... I sat on the couch for a while, and then Noah came and I was the only one to help him, so I got up. I did not sit back down again. Andrew said he would make supper, but couldn't find the recipe so I got up and made us some supper so we wouldn't have to go hungry. The dishes hadn't been done for two days -- Andrew swore there were only six the nightbefore where now forty had grown out of the counter. I want to yell, I am not your maid, I am your mother, I am not your secretary, I am your wife, I am not the enemy but if you don't want to help me, then I don't want to be your friend -- friends help each other when asked, and no one is helping me. I am tempted to get a hotel and take care of myself, because obviously I am the only person who can do anything! 

But I am too tired, yet probably more than anything I am stubborn enough to out wait them.  Game on.

Posted by: East Side Professor on 3/05/2010 at 10:42 AM | Comments (3) | Permalink