Reading

For years I have followed, in an abstracted sort of way, the poetry of Louise Gluck, taking it for granted, a fixture of American poetry. I did not thrill to it, as I did Kunitz's work, but I admired it, as one admires, but does not particularly favor, a well-crafted landscape hanging in the museum. But this evening, despite the perpetual sense I have these days of hurtling around without thinking from one task to another, without getting things done, despite R's return from Augusta, and the desire to sit down quietly in our new house together, I went to her reading, which I had anticipated for some months, thinking that because I had never heard her read, I ought to.
I am very glad I went. Aside from slams, which I don't attend, one does not think of poetry being a performance art, but the best of it really is. The poem read in the poet's own voice, whatever sort of voice that is, is really an entirely different animal than the poem on the page or read by some actor, however good the actor is and however well s/he knows the poem. But this reading put an altogether different shine on each of these well-polished gems from her collection In the Village. And I loved that she answered questions in a serious way and therefore got serious questions out of her audience, not the usual, "Where do you get your ideas for poems?" asked by earnest, pencil-gripping undergraduates, taking notes for their workshops.
I will definitely read her poems more carefully and thoughtfully in the future, will seek out her words in whatever form. I bought her essays, so I anticipate spending some time with her yet. As for spending time with her actually, since parking on the UCI campus is so expensive, I couldn't afford to; in order to avoid a ticket, I had to make like Cinderella and flee, though there were plenty of interesting people to talk to. I'm just glad I went.

Trying to Channel the Cat

My blog title has announced for some time that "Shadow Knows." Now I am trying to channel the cat, write a poem for her, through her. It isn't easy. What does she know? How would she say it? She wouldn't, clearly, having no time for the likes of letters, except perhaps to sniff the keyboard, scornfully, to ask why I would much rather spend hours caressing these keys than her soft, well-tended fur.

Much of a Muchness

Now that I have a house, I wish I had a break to spend some time on it. But I suppose there's plenty of time for that. It seems as though I am always distracted. Some good time for deep attention to reading, writing, or whatever.
The poltergeists have taken another turn. It is 6 AM. I am up here on the computer, and all of a sudden the cat started meowing frantically, and the tv came on by itself. I often listen to the radio on the television (cable). Now it is playing.

Keeping It Clean

Yesterday afternoon, the electrician, Dan, took me to Orange to buy a wooden file cabinet from a young guy who was left with lots of assorted things after his father's sudden death. The burden of dealing with this estate hung heavy on the guy, who couldn't have been more than 19. So he sold it to me for a good price, and I brought it home. A solid, heavy piece of wood, which I will soon fill with teaching files and poems.
Meanwhile, I remember to wipe up behind me, and today I will get cleaning pads for my Swiffer, so I can clean the floors every week, at least, especially since the cat puked on the laminate yesterday.
So far so good. I am doing okay keeping up with detritus, and it has not yet gotten the better of me. But there is lots more to unpack. Things can threaten to overwhelm me any moment. I just need to keep that feeling at bay, or I will give up.

Mysterious Force

Though we know better how to control electricity than the people in 18th-19th century Europe did, it is still essentially a mysterious force linked somehow with life. In the past, mesmerists linked it with the soul, and perhaps, in some ways, they were not far wrong.
The goings on in this house, with lights coming on in the middle of the night and remotes meant for one room will suddenly work not on their intended devices but on a light upstairs, on an altogether different circuit, almost convince me of the existence of spirits, electrical will-o-the-wisps, illuminating the rooms at their whim.
Yet if this is a haunted house, it is not one with a malign spirit. I feel comfortable drifting off to sleep in the half-light shed by the street lights or downstairs on the sofa. I feel preternaturally at-home here, like nowhere I have ever lived, including and especially my parents' home in Philadelphia, where I grew up.
The cats too recognize the benign spirits of this house, and spend their days taking possession of all of its nooks and niches. They are playful and happy, though Whistler, my formerly fat Snowshoe/Siamese, threatens to make the leap from the study to the first floor, one that scares me for him.
I will have to find my camera and get a cable so I can post those promised pictures.

So many boxes

There are still tons of boxes out in the garage and in the third bedroom that Jeremy will claim when he moves in this summer. I'd like to start opening them, but I don't know what to do with a lot of the stuff I find. Richard is developing systems for deciding which books will go inside and which in the garage. I will wait till he returns to begin opening books. The other boxes, for the office,require a filing cabinet I don't have yet.

A New Life

I am not used to living in a community. As a child in Philadelphia, I was surrounded by a hostile group that verbally and physically attacked me and my parents from the time I was very small.
I will never forget being a child of 5 or 6 walking down the block, where the neighbors sat on the steps on summer evenings staring down at me and my mother as we walked down the block from the bakery or the library. They would yell insults, and sometimes the children, taking a cue from their parents, would throw things at me.
The person to the immediate right of us claimed that several inches of our yard(a tiny postage stamp affair) belonged to her, and she would place an overflowing trash can full of smelly garbage under our window in the summer. Since we had no air conditioner, we had to keep the window open or risk suffocation.
Now that we have bought a house, we are blessed for the first time with the most wonderful group of neighbors I could imagine! They are helpful and kind, and seem to be sincere. For example, a couple of nights ago, the neighbor helped me bring in a new nightstand for beside my bed from the furniture consignment store. He carried it upstairs, and I forgot to close the garage door. The cat didn't turn up after that for supper, and didn't answer my calls. I looked in the closets and outside. She has never been out in her life, so I was worried.
I told some of my neighbors, many of whom I had never met before, and they began combing the neighborhood looking for her, calling and poking into the bushes. It turned out she was hiding in the closet, afraid that someone she didn't know had come into her domain. But I was so touched by the helpfulness of my new neighbors! I hope I can overcome my customary aloofness, born of all the hostility I have experienced in the past, and be as good a neighbor to them as these people are to me.