Sunday, July 02, 2006

The Story of Our Lives


I don't know.

I would hold out my hands to you, cupped, spilling golden nectar through my fingers, begging you to drink. I would. If you were here now I'd grab you by the hand and take you out to the junction of Highway 46 and Highway 101, to a low bridge over a creek where thousands upon thousands of starlings nest and near dusk I'd push you into the tall weeds by the creek and have you close your eyes as they burst out into the darkening sky to feast on gnats and mosquitos and the thrill in your blood would show in the pulse at the side of your neck and in the color that rushed to your face and in your breathing and in your voice as you cried out into the murmur of those unfolding wings and the cutting of the cooling air and you would know something then about the way of love, of the weight of your own bones on the crust on the earth.

I am a bitter ruin. I am a cornered, dying man. I'll go downstream like a cherry blossom. I'll give what I've got to you.

Once again, the world has got me utterly undone.


Don't mistake this overblown, narcissictic rambling for anything approaching meaning. I know what the limits are. I'm not trying to push them. I just get overwhelmed at times.

This beauty.

This terror.

One and the same.


One and the same.


If there has been a happier man than me I'd like to meet him. I guess Whitman would beat me there, no question, really. And by happy I mean what exactly. Who's to say. The laundry list of those I've disappointed would spill out from here to Schenectedy. However you spell it. But in my heart beats a stone furnace. Throwing off heat and sparks. Warming the void with its small and ephemeral love.

When I get this silly I am a little bit ashamed.


There's a seriousness that can be overstated. I'd like to think that Hemmingway and Jack Gilbert didn't (or don't, in Gilbert's case) take themselves as seriously as they seem to have done. One of the difficulties of manhood, of being a male man, is in answering that question for yourself in an acceptable manner. I think the best men know that they may need to put everything on the line for what may appear to be a trivial matter, and that they may need to walk away from what seems to be the most important thing of all, and that those two positions are not in conflict but instead are manifestations of the same imperative.

I'll leave that to you to name.


What's easiest is that you must let love act through you. No matter the cost. Okay, not easiest. But, perhaps, most clear.

That and rushing into the void with arms and eyes and mouth wide open.

Undone with love for this world.


Okay, to all my friends:

I have missed you very badly. I have also loved you badly I fear. Now that the sun has gone down and the stars are blazing above our heads, I would like very much to join you all by the fire and lean against you and listen to the stories of where you have been.

It would be a balm to my soul.



Anonymous Anonymous said...

oh scott, scott, welcome home. somebody get this man a beer, one of those from down at the bottom of the cooler.

laying it on the line for what appear to be little things, yet walking away from some of the larger ones. i have experienced this so damn close it took my breath away and left me shivering. and i'm so relieved i'm not the only one who went there, or felt that stupid, or wanted to do it all over again.

love, jim

3:55 PM  
Blogger LKD said...

Your immaculate kitchen poem is quite wonderful.

Your wife's haircut is beautiful. As beautiful as that glorious garden.

Whenever I need a respite from work, I go to those photos. I look in the birdhouse holes. I stare at the Buddha's hands. And I feel okay again.

Good to see you back here in this space, sir.

I'll write a poem for you, for your return. (writing it already in my head and this comment....)

4:29 PM  
Anonymous Anonymous said...

great new pic, btw. van gogh had his crows in a cornfield; you've got yours swept up in a hurricane. might not say a lot about crows, but looks like scott's bible to me.

6:27 AM  
Anonymous Anonymous said...

make that a PAGE from scott's bible.

6:29 AM  
Blogger Dee Temple said...

this is a bobbing balloon in the distant waters~your words. Such tender Authenticity about your human experience. it offers me someone to lOOk to. to say to myself; "See ? this exists." ( i loved the beg. the BEST)

KNOW that you have shown me an angle of maleness that I needed to see / hear rite NOW.

In Rage + In Calm, Delia

11:41 AM  
Blogger Lisa Cohen said...

I have been to a place where fireflies rise from our longing and our imagination. Where my ten year old son slips his still-child hand in mine when he sees something beautiful. A shaft of sunlight, a sleeping cat, a penny, tails side up. I have been to the place where my older son answers me in a man's voice, but still laughs with unselfconscious delight when we hear the approaching parallax of the ice cream truck's song. When the dog greets me by the door, tennis ball in her mouth and a hopeful tail helicoptering. Where my husband lifts my hair and cools my neck with kisses.

There is nowhere I would rather be.

4:33 PM  

Post a Comment

<< Home