My Memory Palace

My Memory Palace
The ancients found remembering was simple
if they built in memory a place to stash
each name or fact. I have no need
of this old tactic. The building rose itself,
no mere mnemonic, without my effort
or my will, needing no intention on my part
to make it stand, secluded, a palace
or a prison on a street not quite the one I knew.

For years, I wore the windows watching out,
aspiring to the world beyond this
faded square of sky, though
sometimes it might hint at nascent
drama: coiled green hose a lurking
mamba. And there, the borders
of a country yet to be discovered:
the spot I scratched into the wallpaper
beside my bed, hoping if I made it
big enough I could climb in, like
the children in the books I read,
entering another world.


The clothes hang still, waiting forever
to be worn. And there, my mother’s vanity,
where I would sit and gaze into the glass
trying on her earrings and her pearls, her
broad-shouldered jackets, inspecting
photographs of relatives I’d never meet,

all this spreads before me, each room
multiplied in memory, a sheaf of dining rooms;
the living room in all its incarnations.
Here, the French provincial sideboard, gift
of a wealthy relative, rules the room;
and now, eclipsed--an avalanche of envelopes
encroaches. And now the roaches
and the rats, the bags of trash I helped to clear away.

No people walk these rooms; no conversations
can be heard. Harsh words and gentle ones
do not endure. Only the doors and windows
where I walk in dream and reverie
fan out like drafts, an intricate origami I could
never fathom. Now that these walls
are someone else’s legacy, I can never leave.

Ultimate Nightmare

A couple of nights ago, I had one of those awful anxiety dreams. This time, I dreamed my mother came back to life. I found her sitting in the car, waiting for me to take her somewhere. She didn't remember anything (naturally), and was in better shape physically and probably mentally than when she died.
I didn't know what to do, since as far as social security went, she was dead, and I had spent the money earmarked for her care after my dad died. I was so worried about what to do that it overwhelmed me, though I was glad to have her back. I just didn't know what to do with her.

Witholding the Poem

I am tempted to put up that new poem today, but I am holding onto it a few days more, till I am sure it is ready for prime time.
I'm going to go get bureaus today, or at least to order that they be delivered to the house when the floors are ready. Today the downstairs is being acid-washed. Tomorrow it will be sealed, I think, or the guys will start tearing out the carpet and upstairs flooring. Maybe they will do the sealing last, painting themselves out the door? I don't know.

A Slow Business

The work on our house, at least the work originally planned, should be finished before next weekend. Then we can buy and move in the furniture, but we won't be ready to move in yet because there is so much from the old place to move and so much to do there to ready it for the final inspection.
I harbor no illusions. There is no way we are going to get back our security deposit, particularly because it is not true, I have learned, that carpets in a rental unit must be replaced every 10 years and that the place must be painted regularly. We will end up having to finance that because without a doubt, this place is not in good shape.
Of course, the fact that the landlady would not maintain it doesn't help. It is, after all, mostly her responsibility to do so.

Poem at Last

Finally, after a protracted dry period, I am working on a fairly lengthy poem inspired by an article in the New York Times Magazine last Sunday about Memory Palaces and how to remember the unmemorable as well as the memorable.
It wasn't one of those poems that came half completed into my mind, as sometimes happens because my helpful muse shoves a bag into my hand with the all the pieces ready to go, ever motherly. No. This time, because I had spurned her so long, I had to search for it, dig a little in the hard earth of words that didn't want to be formed.
It isn't finished yet, and I'll resist the impulse to put it up anyway, probably not for long.
Today I slept late and spent a leisurely hour or two writing the lines that, almost like the place they memorialize, etched themselves into my mind all night long, between the dreams.

Friday

Friday is one of my favorite days. Certainly this must be because it is a non-teaching day, a day I can go to yoga class, grade papers, catch up on all the work and life I have had to put aside during the week, and perhaps even go to synagogue in the evening if I am not too exhausted from doing the rest of the things I put off all week. Today I have an appointment at the house, and will see the progress on the lighting fixtures, the shower door, etc. that will make it seem as if we are somewhat closer to moving in.
Meanwhile, the bed has arrived at the store, though we cannot have it delivered till the floor is done, some time in the middle of this coming week. Then, next weekend, I can get the furniture. This is what I have been looking forward to since the beginning!
I have no idea what I will find, and that is the fun part.
Today I will also go to Borders' closing. It is too bad the store is shutting down, though there are plenty more branches in the area, but I will reap what I can from this occasion. I have been wanting to buy Claire Dederer's yoga memoir, Poser, and if I find it congenial, perhaps will contact her publisher with a query about my yoga manuscript. But I hope that Nina feels well enough soon to finish the book's illustrations, so I have something genuine to show them.
More papers come in on Monday, and drafts on Tuesday.

Third Part of Interview is up

Marly has posted the third and final (I think) part of the interview with me on her blog. Please go and have a look at it, if only to check out her blog in general!