Was this taken out of a file or down from a shelf or off a long wall upon which with grace it had hung some time?
Brilliant. Can only in first, fast-paced reading, suggest one point for your possible further reflection Mark... "It's men who make death cruel." Is it only men, never women? I offer such a point for reflection only because (a) in my book women are, no way, some 'second sex' (b) in my experience women's capacity for cruelty is neither more or less than men's.
I'm, consequence of having noticed a trend, at least one perceived by me - maybe yet minor yet definitely building, towards what some 'What Nexters' - replying as being, as yet, as comfortable in framing responses as poetry in place of prose.
"Oh, yes, Norman!" I said with a thin smile. "It has been a while, hasn't it?"
"So! What's the story?"
"Oh, you know. One thing and another."
"We moved over to Brightholme last year. Needed a bigger place."
"That must be nice for you." I was about to ask how his awful wife was, but I couldn't for the life of me remember her name. "Brightholme, eh?"
"Four kids now. All boys. Fills up a house for you. But we've got six bedrooms and I had one of them turned into a Games Room."
"Table tennis?"
That stopped him for a second, at least. Only a second. "A couple of big hi-def screens with ultra-fast Nvidia chips down below with some AI whipped in. Less than that, you'll get nowhere with boys these days."
So much for our shared love of table tennis at high school. I wouldn't want his kind of computer gaming rig, even if I could afford it. And I couldn't say he was wrong about kids. Jenny and I didn't need a big place. There was something about miscarriages that depressed the hell out of a woman. And even a man.
"So! What are you up to?"
"You mean jobwise?" Of course he did.
"I changed companies and moved up. You shouldn't stick around, in my view. Keep moving. Where was it you were back when we saw each other last?"
"Oh, I haven't changed libraries." Do I tell him I'm assistant chief librarian now? Why bother?
Norman chuckled. "Well, it's not up to me to give you advice, but think about moving on and up, huh?"
"I promise you I'll treasure that up in my breast, Norman. If you'll just keep this in mind: next time you see me coming, cross over to the other side of the street."
I walked on before the look on his face made me burst out laughing.
There are past acquaintances I need to remember to offer this advice to. (And that sentence is for everyone who ever advised me to stop ending my sentences with a preposition.🙃
The narrator's home and work world, in particular his empathy for his wife, just came through as I wrote, faced with the oaf boasting his full quiver. Yes, a condensed story.
My father told me never to marry an accountant, 'Sure, they'll bring home the pork but they'll bore you to floods. Don't turn-up here brain-dead and tear-stained in 12 months.'
I took his advice, rejected Eric Colman, cute, sweet-natured, and a terrific counter. I took up with the Viking, more handsome than cute, and known around campus for his swift-tongued ripostes and love of Proust. He love-bombed me all summer and we walked through a carpet of copper and gold to marry at the university chapel.
My dad thought the Viking was great, 'Never be a moment of dull with that guy.'
There wasn't. Still I was home before Christmas, grey, black and various shades of blue.
Mom said, 'We'll call the cops.'
Dad went for his hunting rifle: Dad was old school. But the Viking had taken off, sailed back to Minnesota.
The bruises faded, and the bruises faded. I would hang around the coffee shops with my old friends. I bumped into Eric Colman, okay the conversation wasn't scintillating, but the sweet-nature seemed more attractive now. The next year was low-key and gentle, just what I needed. Eric asked me again.
Back at home, Dad said, 'If you want my advice.'
I was silent, spoke with trenched brow, eyes narrowed to razors, flattened nose, lips pursed tight, a chin that hibernated.
As a child I had no one to talk with, no one to hear my hurts or happys. I once asked a school teacher if I could live with her. She said No. If she had asked Why, what would I have told her?
As an adult I discovered that I could pay someone to talk to me. Well, I really mean listen to me. But again a therapist doesn’t really give advice. I had to get a 2nd one, then a 3rd. You see I lied to each one to get the attention I needed and wanted. Someone to hear my story and to offer an alternative ending. I wanted someone to provide bigger lies, a more preposterous narrative. I had three stories going and it was a challenge to keep each narrative on track and to hear the trickle of “What do you think is the best solution?”
Finally my favorite therapist, Sara, gave me advice and I followed it. She told me to cut it out and to live the live I wanted to live. Then Sara fired me.
And that ended that story. I left her in tears, her tears. I told her to get a better hair-cut, something that framed her face , that would magnify her beautiful green eyes.
One of the reasons I almost became a therapist is the same reason I finally didn't. I knew I would not be able to resist being far too giving of very specific advice.
But I'm happy to say, as an adult, I am de facto therapist to many friends and to sisters, who openly ask "What should I do?" And over the years, I have ironically learned to say: "I don't know" -- especially when I realize they just really wanted to be listened to.
I love how you saved your advice for this end, and it was so unexpected and funny.
(I was fired by a therapist once, who called me on my drinking, which I wasn't ready to give up.)
You can only see what is coming at you, but you can only know what is already behind you.
You will be encouraged to see yourself as an individual. Like so much of what you will be taught, this is not entirely correct. You are actually an amalgamation of countless smaller bits and a small bit of a much larger whole.
You will find that you are always toggling between a desire for permanence and a sense of profound relief that change is constant.
These are just three of the many challenges you’ll be facing out there.
My best friend, Jessica had just given me the side-eye that meant: “Let’s get out of here and away from that mangy she-hag.” She jerked her head toward her grandmother.
“Hey!” Granny hissed and grabbed my arm. “What’s up with your sister, anyway?”
She pointed out the front window at Becca, playing in the sandbox with the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles who were rescuing a screaming Barbie.
“Huh?” I answered, looking at my sister. “Looks like she’s playing.”
“She’s talkin’ to herself!” Granny insisted. “Look at her!”
Mom always told me to be polite to my elders, so I tried to explain.
“She has imaginary friends.”
We watched as Becca invited her friend, Jelly, one of her favorite invisible friends, to play in the sandbox with her. “You take Leo, and I’ll take Raph,” she told him.
Granny’s face was pinched, her eyes narrowed and nostrils flared as she declared: “You need to play with her more! That’s unhealthy!”
“But my parents–”
“You go right out there and play with her. Now!” Granny insisted.
Jessica reluctantly followed me outside to the sandbox. As soon as we sat down, Becca left the sandbox. Took Jelly over to Jessica’s playhouse instead.
But I wondered: was there something wrong with Becca?
Granny would have been apoplectic if she could have seen Becca performing for an imaginary audience on the upper level of our backyard. Becca could strut her stuff, and did so, her body wriggling its way through dance moves that would have wowed the judges on America’s Got Talent. She might have even made Simon Cowell cry. Alas, she was a decade and some change too early.
But her storytelling–all those stories about her imaginary friends? Another whole level.
I did play with my sister; I still do.
I’m her agent, now.
Last week, she called me from her book signing at the Indy bookstore in our home town.
“Hey, remember Jessica’s grandmother?” She asked.
“Granny? Of course. Awful woman!” I told her.
“Well, maybe not so awful, Sis. She bought copies of my books,” Becca answered.
“You’re kidding.”
“Nope. Asked me to sign them.” Becca gave an evil chuckle.
“What did you do?” I asked.
“Made her wait while I drew a little sandbox and a character in each one of them.”
“All 5 books?”
“Yup. And signed them–’To Granny, from Jelly and all my friends.’”
I was paid plenty to dispense advice, opinion letters about the legal status of a corporation or how to comply with the SEC rules for securities disclosure. When I wrote “to our knowledge, there are no violations of law,” I’d hedged because, after all, who knows what had been covered up and how would you prove it? Don’t ask/don’t tell. Confine your due diligence to the corporate secretary’s minutes, which if they had been written as I advised, would say everything was in order. No problems here. We were all in love.
Don’t question those hotel charges when no one was on a business trip. What about the workers with guns in their glove compartments? Or the college tuition for the boss’s kids paid from the capital improvements fund? The five-year-old on the employee roster? The half-built warehouse listed as complete, full of equipment, ready to go?
Don’t look too hard. What are violations anyway? Is a defalcation a violation? How long could I spin out defining terms? And come to that, what is knowledge?
When I began to ponder the nature of knowledge, I knew it was time to go teach kindergarten, where knowledge was confined to the wisdom of Pete the Cat.
My advice to you is never use email to break up with a woman. Honestly, that was not expected – the email, not the break up. I knew on that third date I was over-eager to hold your hand. Honestly your hands are one of your nicest features. Your reluctance to hold mine tipped me off. What the heck, I knew we were headed for the wastebin and that forced me to go for the gold – your strong, handsome hands.
The email was a shock. You typed something about having been with me on four dates and we didn’t work out. You said, after four dates you weren’t interested. I remember only three dates: two coffee dates, a walk along the rocky shore when I reached for your hand, and heck I don’t remember a fourth. Maybe you confused me with someone else?
I don’t know why I wrote you back. I think I said . . . you are a shit. So, while we are standing here in this line waiting for coffee, I’m advising you not to send an email or any social media. Just walk away like a man with beautiful hands.
Two comments. First, I love the poem by Louise Erdrich. Having just read her short story in this weeks the New Yorker, I was disappointed and as I love this writer so much I was glad to be reacquainted with what I love about her. So thanks for that. Thing 2: I like you have a night before you get married story. My husband to be spent the night throwing up not because he was ill, but because he was scared. I called my best friend in New York and asked her if I should go ahead with it and she told me she thought I should. I can’t tell you if that was good advice or bad advice but we have been married for 45 years.
I have more night-before the wedding stories. And wedding day stories! Forty-five years is a great run. I’m in Year 16 with husband number two, hoping to have many more years.
I've done all the Edrich stuff, time and time over, Mary.
I've, more accurately we've, just landed in Morbihan, left all the stuff to go rot on awhile further.
The point of view, looking back up the same Meridian, save that we are an hour further into light filled night, is both subtly and superbly different.
"Tell me what to do now!"
If ever request, whipped into being by dint of passing rhetorical demand, was spurious surely this is me, Prodder, writing in response to you, Prompter, Mary? And as provocatively genial a Prompter as I have ever had the delightful joy of sustaining occasional correspondence with.
Great post Mary. I'm more inclined, perforce of irritating eyesight perturbations, to read than respond on the fast fly just lately. Read, reflect... perhaps write on the inward washes and the outgoing swashes of each diurnal's rising and ebbing tides of creativity.
Always happy to know you are among us, whether you post or not! Love that where you are now is superbly different than before. Can we ask for more than that? Well yes of course we can, but I’ll take superbly different any day of the week over same old same old.
Yes, I almost never get to complete my prompt comment for several days, and it gets a bit buried, so this time I thought I'd look through a great many poems in my archive to see if there was one that had some words of advice, that I could post on Monday. And when I read those last two lines, I just said, Bingo! I was quite happy that a poem I thought was pretty strong would get a second life. (I archive all my poetry on a blog for posterity, but its readership is quite modest.)
I certainly agree with the principle that women are capable of cruelty, but it's pretty well accepted that "man" or "men" refers to both sexes when speaking of "mankind" in general. But "It's men who make death cruel" is the only way for the sentiment to fit rhythmically into the poem. I wouldn't screw that up ("Because men and women make death cruel?") out of a politically correct need to make sure the reader knows that I know women can also be cruel. And frankly, there's not much comparison between the two. If I made a list of the 100 most renowned torturers of all time, (I'm talking about a direct practitioner of torture) I doubt there'd be one women on the list. And a comparison of which parent beats the other or the children? Again, wildly disproportionate. So when it comes to cruelty, I'm very comfortable pointing the finger at one sex over the other, even if technically, a women is capable of the same degree of cruelty as a man. {One of my screenplays takes place partially in Ravensbruck- chillingly true) and conversely men are capable of the same degree of tenderness and kindness we see far more of from women, especially mothers.
Your poem is quite a tale of imaginatively unexpected turns that follow from a decision to take those justly famed words of Dylan Thomas to heart with intent:
Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
I note, prompted to re-read Thomas' poem both by reading your poem and by your further comment, that Dylan's 20 lines make mention only of men - wise men, good men, wild men, grave men, father - which is fine but also suggestive of it only being the right of men rather than women to rage, rage, rage on against the dying of the light.
Amazing really that The Wicked Witch of the West made it into Oz, that The Ice Queen imposed her wicked wintery will on Narnia and that Cruella de Vil was cast as the big wicked persecutor of all 101 of those delightfully cuddlesome canine characters.
Thanks for giving us your poem Mark and giving me good cause to pause and reflect further.
Thank you, Rob, I appreciate your kind words and observations. For the record, I still find the prospect of death unacceptable, (as do most of us,) but I think more so because as a long-term survivor of HIV, the conviction was strong that I had fulfilled my quota in fear and loss, and I resented that Death doesn't care a whit. If anything, it's telling me that I unexpectedly got decades more of life, so I should shut up and be grateful. I try to listen.
Watching your current activities in the world, Mark, it seems like you've taken a different approach. Rather than shutting up, you're turning gratitude for decades more of life into trying to make things better for others. Which might be considered good advice and is, at least, worth a "thank you."
By coincidence, I just finished reading Ehrenreich's Living With a Wild God. Lots of you probably read this book long ago. I was slow - took me over 10 years to find it and I'm so glad that I finally did.
Do not pick up the phone, it’s a death trap, a suicide rap. That’s what he told himself every morning. He knew in his bones that the moment he checked his phone, his soul would start to leak out through his thumbs. So he kept his hands to himself and made breakfast like it was 1983: toast, eggs, radio on, no notifications.
The phone continued to glow and wiggle. “Don’t do it” he whispered to himself as he eyed the screen.
“Just checking the weather,” he lied, aloud. Some time later...he knew what three celebrities had for breakfast, which medieval king had the worst gout, and that the ocean was on fire again. His left eye twitched. His coffee was cold. Somewhere, far away, a bird was singing, out of pity.
“I told you,” he groaned to himself, “I warned you.” The advice, old and wise and useless, echoed in his head like a song stuck in the wrong key: do not pick up the phone—it’s a death trap, a suicide rap. And he, as always, agreed. Until tomorrow.
Parting Words
All epiphanies are not alike.
Some are quiet,
some are loud,
some whisper over time;
some evolve,
from self-love,
some turn upon a dime.
Others are less revelation
than determination.
In that very vein,
I’d like to announce,
I made up my mind
not too long ago
that when it comes to dying,
hell no, I will not go.
The fear of shrugging off
this mortal coil
had simply been too taxing.
It pecked at me incessantly,
stopped me from relaxing.
I had no choice but to decide
I will not die
I will not die.
After this assertion,
my infectious laugh returned,
my psyche unburdened.
I intended to enjoy
the spring in my step
for many years more,
but then one night last winter –
quite some time before
I ever thought he’d visit --
Death came knocking at my door.
Somehow I knew
the trick to buying time
was to not take his hand
as he extended it.
Instead I read my tome
in the form of this poem,
urging his recusal
on the grounds of my refusal.
I braced myself for mockery
but he smiled philosophically.
“I rarely take requests,
but this one I’ll consider.
As you no doubt suspect,
this is no small ask.
Immortality entails
undertaking certain tasks.”
I will skip the explanation
of our negotiation.
Suffice to say,
when offered his position,
I did not resist temptation.
He handed me his scythe,
and then removed his cloak.
I should have known
it would fit me bespoke.
The power drained from him
and filled me to the brim.
I doubt I’ll ever see
as much relief as he
showed in his eyes just then.
For he would be my first
to usher from this earth.
“Advice?” I asked.
“Perhaps an epitaph?”
He pondered for a moment
then offered up these words:
“Do your work with kindness.
It’s men who make death cruel.”
What a great read!
Love it! It held me to the end.
Was this taken out of a file or down from a shelf or off a long wall upon which with grace it had hung some time?
Brilliant. Can only in first, fast-paced reading, suggest one point for your possible further reflection Mark... "It's men who make death cruel." Is it only men, never women? I offer such a point for reflection only because (a) in my book women are, no way, some 'second sex' (b) in my experience women's capacity for cruelty is neither more or less than men's.
Rob scroll down through the all the comments to find Mark’s response to you.
I'm, consequence of having noticed a trend, at least one perceived by me - maybe yet minor yet definitely building, towards what some 'What Nexters' - replying as being, as yet, as comfortable in framing responses as poetry in place of prose.
I love your Death character! Such a great piece.
oh so clever. Love the rhyme.
"Hey! Long time no see!"
My heart sank.
"Oh, yes, Norman!" I said with a thin smile. "It has been a while, hasn't it?"
"So! What's the story?"
"Oh, you know. One thing and another."
"We moved over to Brightholme last year. Needed a bigger place."
"That must be nice for you." I was about to ask how his awful wife was, but I couldn't for the life of me remember her name. "Brightholme, eh?"
"Four kids now. All boys. Fills up a house for you. But we've got six bedrooms and I had one of them turned into a Games Room."
"Table tennis?"
That stopped him for a second, at least. Only a second. "A couple of big hi-def screens with ultra-fast Nvidia chips down below with some AI whipped in. Less than that, you'll get nowhere with boys these days."
So much for our shared love of table tennis at high school. I wouldn't want his kind of computer gaming rig, even if I could afford it. And I couldn't say he was wrong about kids. Jenny and I didn't need a big place. There was something about miscarriages that depressed the hell out of a woman. And even a man.
"So! What are you up to?"
"You mean jobwise?" Of course he did.
"I changed companies and moved up. You shouldn't stick around, in my view. Keep moving. Where was it you were back when we saw each other last?"
"Oh, I haven't changed libraries." Do I tell him I'm assistant chief librarian now? Why bother?
Norman chuckled. "Well, it's not up to me to give you advice, but think about moving on and up, huh?"
"I promise you I'll treasure that up in my breast, Norman. If you'll just keep this in mind: next time you see me coming, cross over to the other side of the street."
I walked on before the look on his face made me burst out laughing.
Oh the jerk acquaintance with unasked for advice. Unfortunately, I fear that’s often me. (I’m trying to be better!)
Mary, if I see you walking down the street I'll be sure to ask for your advice :)
So if I see you walking down the street, I'd better cross to the other side. Even if your advice is good, it's too late for it now.
There are past acquaintances I need to remember to offer this advice to. (And that sentence is for everyone who ever advised me to stop ending my sentences with a preposition.🙃
"There was something about miscarriages that depressed the hell out of a woman." was that line in a story that was another entire story.
The narrator's home and work world, in particular his empathy for his wife, just came through as I wrote, faced with the oaf boasting his full quiver. Yes, a condensed story.
I burst out laughing with the narrator. Great story!
Excellent ending!
My father told me never to marry an accountant, 'Sure, they'll bring home the pork but they'll bore you to floods. Don't turn-up here brain-dead and tear-stained in 12 months.'
I took his advice, rejected Eric Colman, cute, sweet-natured, and a terrific counter. I took up with the Viking, more handsome than cute, and known around campus for his swift-tongued ripostes and love of Proust. He love-bombed me all summer and we walked through a carpet of copper and gold to marry at the university chapel.
My dad thought the Viking was great, 'Never be a moment of dull with that guy.'
There wasn't. Still I was home before Christmas, grey, black and various shades of blue.
Mom said, 'We'll call the cops.'
Dad went for his hunting rifle: Dad was old school. But the Viking had taken off, sailed back to Minnesota.
The bruises faded, and the bruises faded. I would hang around the coffee shops with my old friends. I bumped into Eric Colman, okay the conversation wasn't scintillating, but the sweet-nature seemed more attractive now. The next year was low-key and gentle, just what I needed. Eric asked me again.
Back at home, Dad said, 'If you want my advice.'
I was silent, spoke with trenched brow, eyes narrowed to razors, flattened nose, lips pursed tight, a chin that hibernated.
Mom went upstairs, came back down with the rifle.
Another great ending! Love this
Thanks, Mary. It was a great prompt and I loved the Jamaica Kincaid story, a new one for me.
But he was a terrific counter!
"The bruises faded, and the bruises faded." Great line.
Thanks, Janet
Love it! The ending is perfect.
Thanks, Sherri. Glad you liked the ending.
you had me at “ they'll bore you to floods”
Thank you, Mark
Love the chin that hibernated! And that Mum! Well done.
Thanks, Angela
Uh oh! I like the ending - upending where I thought you were headed!
second this
Thanks, Karen.
As a child I had no one to talk with, no one to hear my hurts or happys. I once asked a school teacher if I could live with her. She said No. If she had asked Why, what would I have told her?
As an adult I discovered that I could pay someone to talk to me. Well, I really mean listen to me. But again a therapist doesn’t really give advice. I had to get a 2nd one, then a 3rd. You see I lied to each one to get the attention I needed and wanted. Someone to hear my story and to offer an alternative ending. I wanted someone to provide bigger lies, a more preposterous narrative. I had three stories going and it was a challenge to keep each narrative on track and to hear the trickle of “What do you think is the best solution?”
Finally my favorite therapist, Sara, gave me advice and I followed it. She told me to cut it out and to live the live I wanted to live. Then Sara fired me.
And that ended that story. I left her in tears, her tears. I told her to get a better hair-cut, something that framed her face , that would magnify her beautiful green eyes.
One of the reasons I almost became a therapist is the same reason I finally didn't. I knew I would not be able to resist being far too giving of very specific advice.
But I'm happy to say, as an adult, I am de facto therapist to many friends and to sisters, who openly ask "What should I do?" And over the years, I have ironically learned to say: "I don't know" -- especially when I realize they just really wanted to be listened to.
I love how you saved your advice for this end, and it was so unexpected and funny.
(I was fired by a therapist once, who called me on my drinking, which I wasn't ready to give up.)
What an ending! Love it
Ruth, such a fun turn around at the end where you are giving HER advice. I’m unclear about the speakers motivation, but perhaps that’s the point.
This has a “Strange Case of Jane O” vibe, where everything feels turned inside out. I love the unexpected simplicity of the ending! Well done!
You can only see what is coming at you, but you can only know what is already behind you.
You will be encouraged to see yourself as an individual. Like so much of what you will be taught, this is not entirely correct. You are actually an amalgamation of countless smaller bits and a small bit of a much larger whole.
You will find that you are always toggling between a desire for permanence and a sense of profound relief that change is constant.
These are just three of the many challenges you’ll be facing out there.
Love me a list of truisms. Especially that last line
Love the line "Like so much of what you will be taught, this is not entirely correct." . That could begin a whole new story
My best friend, Jessica had just given me the side-eye that meant: “Let’s get out of here and away from that mangy she-hag.” She jerked her head toward her grandmother.
“Hey!” Granny hissed and grabbed my arm. “What’s up with your sister, anyway?”
She pointed out the front window at Becca, playing in the sandbox with the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles who were rescuing a screaming Barbie.
“Huh?” I answered, looking at my sister. “Looks like she’s playing.”
“She’s talkin’ to herself!” Granny insisted. “Look at her!”
Mom always told me to be polite to my elders, so I tried to explain.
“She has imaginary friends.”
We watched as Becca invited her friend, Jelly, one of her favorite invisible friends, to play in the sandbox with her. “You take Leo, and I’ll take Raph,” she told him.
Granny’s face was pinched, her eyes narrowed and nostrils flared as she declared: “You need to play with her more! That’s unhealthy!”
“But my parents–”
“You go right out there and play with her. Now!” Granny insisted.
Jessica reluctantly followed me outside to the sandbox. As soon as we sat down, Becca left the sandbox. Took Jelly over to Jessica’s playhouse instead.
But I wondered: was there something wrong with Becca?
Granny would have been apoplectic if she could have seen Becca performing for an imaginary audience on the upper level of our backyard. Becca could strut her stuff, and did so, her body wriggling its way through dance moves that would have wowed the judges on America’s Got Talent. She might have even made Simon Cowell cry. Alas, she was a decade and some change too early.
But her storytelling–all those stories about her imaginary friends? Another whole level.
I did play with my sister; I still do.
I’m her agent, now.
Last week, she called me from her book signing at the Indy bookstore in our home town.
“Hey, remember Jessica’s grandmother?” She asked.
“Granny? Of course. Awful woman!” I told her.
“Well, maybe not so awful, Sis. She bought copies of my books,” Becca answered.
“You’re kidding.”
“Nope. Asked me to sign them.” Becca gave an evil chuckle.
“What did you do?” I asked.
“Made her wait while I drew a little sandbox and a character in each one of them.”
“All 5 books?”
“Yup. And signed them–’To Granny, from Jelly and all my friends.’”
Nice ending!
Thank you, Mary.
Sweet revenge of the creative child!
I am addicted to the pain of watching you
Smoke cigarettes. The top stays
Tight on my nagging until it gets
Too hot. I hover over you from
The guest bathroom window
When you step out the porch door
For the fifth time today
“Greg,” I yell, in a voice that whimpers
Down like a diving paper plane.
There’s a pause and I ask you
How does Chinese food sound?
I don’t really care
About lo mein or leftovers
“Your father…”
I know, mom, you always say.
“Loved the dumplings.”
It kills me to see you
Just like your father.
(I guess this is more about worn out advice, but it's about this guy I know who smokes even after his father passed from lung cancer.)
Nice pacing in this one. Love that diving plane
It's lovely and sad, not worn out.
thank you :)
I was paid plenty to dispense advice, opinion letters about the legal status of a corporation or how to comply with the SEC rules for securities disclosure. When I wrote “to our knowledge, there are no violations of law,” I’d hedged because, after all, who knows what had been covered up and how would you prove it? Don’t ask/don’t tell. Confine your due diligence to the corporate secretary’s minutes, which if they had been written as I advised, would say everything was in order. No problems here. We were all in love.
Don’t question those hotel charges when no one was on a business trip. What about the workers with guns in their glove compartments? Or the college tuition for the boss’s kids paid from the capital improvements fund? The five-year-old on the employee roster? The half-built warehouse listed as complete, full of equipment, ready to go?
Don’t look too hard. What are violations anyway? Is a defalcation a violation? How long could I spin out defining terms? And come to that, what is knowledge?
When I began to ponder the nature of knowledge, I knew it was time to go teach kindergarten, where knowledge was confined to the wisdom of Pete the Cat.
"No problems here. We were all in love." I think I worked there.
“To our knowledge.” Wow. “What are violations anyway?” So glad your protagonist got out of there
25 years. But making up for lost time now as a writer.
Oh that five year old! And I think someone should write a book—The Wisdom of Pete the Cat—a long overdue follow up to the Tao of Pooh! (Love this!)
My advice to you is never use email to break up with a woman. Honestly, that was not expected – the email, not the break up. I knew on that third date I was over-eager to hold your hand. Honestly your hands are one of your nicest features. Your reluctance to hold mine tipped me off. What the heck, I knew we were headed for the wastebin and that forced me to go for the gold – your strong, handsome hands.
The email was a shock. You typed something about having been with me on four dates and we didn’t work out. You said, after four dates you weren’t interested. I remember only three dates: two coffee dates, a walk along the rocky shore when I reached for your hand, and heck I don’t remember a fourth. Maybe you confused me with someone else?
I don’t know why I wrote you back. I think I said . . . you are a shit. So, while we are standing here in this line waiting for coffee, I’m advising you not to send an email or any social media. Just walk away like a man with beautiful hands.
Good advice!
good advice that, I suspect, may be hard for many to follow.
Two comments. First, I love the poem by Louise Erdrich. Having just read her short story in this weeks the New Yorker, I was disappointed and as I love this writer so much I was glad to be reacquainted with what I love about her. So thanks for that. Thing 2: I like you have a night before you get married story. My husband to be spent the night throwing up not because he was ill, but because he was scared. I called my best friend in New York and asked her if I should go ahead with it and she told me she thought I should. I can’t tell you if that was good advice or bad advice but we have been married for 45 years.
I have more night-before the wedding stories. And wedding day stories! Forty-five years is a great run. I’m in Year 16 with husband number two, hoping to have many more years.
I've done all the Edrich stuff, time and time over, Mary.
I've, more accurately we've, just landed in Morbihan, left all the stuff to go rot on awhile further.
The point of view, looking back up the same Meridian, save that we are an hour further into light filled night, is both subtly and superbly different.
"Tell me what to do now!"
If ever request, whipped into being by dint of passing rhetorical demand, was spurious surely this is me, Prodder, writing in response to you, Prompter, Mary? And as provocatively genial a Prompter as I have ever had the delightful joy of sustaining occasional correspondence with.
Great post Mary. I'm more inclined, perforce of irritating eyesight perturbations, to read than respond on the fast fly just lately. Read, reflect... perhaps write on the inward washes and the outgoing swashes of each diurnal's rising and ebbing tides of creativity.
What links!
Always happy to know you are among us, whether you post or not! Love that where you are now is superbly different than before. Can we ask for more than that? Well yes of course we can, but I’ll take superbly different any day of the week over same old same old.
What!?"$_)* Oh, it's just Rob, a usual.
Yes, I almost never get to complete my prompt comment for several days, and it gets a bit buried, so this time I thought I'd look through a great many poems in my archive to see if there was one that had some words of advice, that I could post on Monday. And when I read those last two lines, I just said, Bingo! I was quite happy that a poem I thought was pretty strong would get a second life. (I archive all my poetry on a blog for posterity, but its readership is quite modest.)
I certainly agree with the principle that women are capable of cruelty, but it's pretty well accepted that "man" or "men" refers to both sexes when speaking of "mankind" in general. But "It's men who make death cruel" is the only way for the sentiment to fit rhythmically into the poem. I wouldn't screw that up ("Because men and women make death cruel?") out of a politically correct need to make sure the reader knows that I know women can also be cruel. And frankly, there's not much comparison between the two. If I made a list of the 100 most renowned torturers of all time, (I'm talking about a direct practitioner of torture) I doubt there'd be one women on the list. And a comparison of which parent beats the other or the children? Again, wildly disproportionate. So when it comes to cruelty, I'm very comfortable pointing the finger at one sex over the other, even if technically, a women is capable of the same degree of cruelty as a man. {One of my screenplays takes place partially in Ravensbruck- chillingly true) and conversely men are capable of the same degree of tenderness and kindness we see far more of from women, especially mothers.
Your poem is quite a tale of imaginatively unexpected turns that follow from a decision to take those justly famed words of Dylan Thomas to heart with intent:
Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
I note, prompted to re-read Thomas' poem both by reading your poem and by your further comment, that Dylan's 20 lines make mention only of men - wise men, good men, wild men, grave men, father - which is fine but also suggestive of it only being the right of men rather than women to rage, rage, rage on against the dying of the light.
Amazing really that The Wicked Witch of the West made it into Oz, that The Ice Queen imposed her wicked wintery will on Narnia and that Cruella de Vil was cast as the big wicked persecutor of all 101 of those delightfully cuddlesome canine characters.
Thanks for giving us your poem Mark and giving me good cause to pause and reflect further.
Thank you, Rob, I appreciate your kind words and observations. For the record, I still find the prospect of death unacceptable, (as do most of us,) but I think more so because as a long-term survivor of HIV, the conviction was strong that I had fulfilled my quota in fear and loss, and I resented that Death doesn't care a whit. If anything, it's telling me that I unexpectedly got decades more of life, so I should shut up and be grateful. I try to listen.
The last sentence in one of my novels is “I closed my eyes and listened.”
This comment pleases me.
Amen.
Watching your current activities in the world, Mark, it seems like you've taken a different approach. Rather than shutting up, you're turning gratitude for decades more of life into trying to make things better for others. Which might be considered good advice and is, at least, worth a "thank you."
Thanks Mary!
By coincidence, I just finished reading Ehrenreich's Living With a Wild God. Lots of you probably read this book long ago. I was slow - took me over 10 years to find it and I'm so glad that I finally did.
I’ve not read it! Will now.
Oh, my goodness - mixed up Erdrich with Ehrenreich. Well, it's Monday morning . . . .
it's always Monday someplace
There was a heated conversation around the fire.
We heard. The kids heard.
But we did not say a word.
In the night, I awoke and
knew what to say,
what our daughter needed to hear.
Want to have coffee? I asked.
She nodded, then the little guy got sick.
And while she was tending him,
I came to accept that
the things I wanted to share
Would not happen on my timeframe.
Not because I was uncomfortable.
But because I was given the opportunity
To share information, not advice,
and to do it with love.
I don't need to fix her, I need to let go.
Information is helpful, only when it is
Both given and received freely.
I trust that she will know what she needs
to know when she is ready.
It's not up to me.
But maybe, just maybe,
Now that the little guy is feeling better,
We can have coffee.
to know what I know. Or not.
Lovely.
Yes. Oh Yes.
Do not pick up the phone, it’s a death trap, a suicide rap. That’s what he told himself every morning. He knew in his bones that the moment he checked his phone, his soul would start to leak out through his thumbs. So he kept his hands to himself and made breakfast like it was 1983: toast, eggs, radio on, no notifications.
The phone continued to glow and wiggle. “Don’t do it” he whispered to himself as he eyed the screen.
“Just checking the weather,” he lied, aloud. Some time later...he knew what three celebrities had for breakfast, which medieval king had the worst gout, and that the ocean was on fire again. His left eye twitched. His coffee was cold. Somewhere, far away, a bird was singing, out of pity.
“I told you,” he groaned to himself, “I warned you.” The advice, old and wise and useless, echoed in his head like a song stuck in the wrong key: do not pick up the phone—it’s a death trap, a suicide rap. And he, as always, agreed. Until tomorrow.
I never can resist a Springsteen lyric. Thanks for the earworm...
so much useless information in our brains (not that song lyrics are useless, but how many songs can fit in the head of a man?)
In the midst of upheaval there's hardly an evil
That stings like advice unsolicit;
But now that she's gone, of my mother's sharp tongue:
I find I've come rather to miss it.