A friend sent me this quote to support me in my walking quest.
I eat in silence, I write in silence, I walk in laughter, I ride the radiance
Yesterday, the last day of my CLEANSE, was a tough day where I felt isolated, riding around from meeting to meeting in the pouring, last cold rain of the winter. I felt chilled from not having my usual fueling of hot whatever comes to mind, whenever the spirit moves me, but proud to have motored through the program.
I did feel light and excited and a wee bit changed. As I worked writing or attempting to inveigle others to join projects, hire me to write, or donate to the Haiti benefit, I had a sense of focus layered with exhaustion. I carried all three poems with me and ricocheted from one to the other alighting on the bumpy areas and polishing them
It felt similar to when I run my fingers over my dried pottery creations before I put them into the kiln to be fired, bisqued, for the first time. I run my hands over the surface reading the surface like Braille to find where hidden snags or sharp edges hide. The fire will harden them and turn them into tiny razors, not a plus on a teacup, plate or vase. I want the things I make to be turned over and rubbed, stroked and seen with digits, eyes and felt with mouths and hands.
Memorizing feels like this to me.
I rub my mind first across the poem as a whole. Do I resonate with it?Do I see where the poet is going, what they feel? Even if I am not all the way there, can I stand for the stanza’s time to occupy in the artist’s orbit?
And when I have been co-opted by the text, and gestalt, then I move to feeling with my ears. Can I dance to the rhythm? Is there enough fish- like-leap to keep my busy brain engaged whilst whiling away the time to put it safely into my memory?
I am not necessarily aware of all these things as segregated motions, but from a distance I review my unconscious choice making and say, yes this is what I do.
And so today I am reading and reciting Elizabeth Macklin’s By Daylight as I rake the yard, write my own words and wait for my mid-day meeting. As the month dwindles, the winters fades, and I come close to capturing my third poem.
As a postscript, today would have been my father’s 95th birthday. Many of you knew Wild Billy Boyle so I include a link to the piece I wrote about him after he passed away, called Out Like a Lion.