Wednesday, January 20, 2010

Thaddeus was reading his poetry. It was really quite preposterous.

“O, down the river of woe and pearls
I close my wandering eye--
This from a man with a purpose,
A porpoise full of me.
Whilst pivoting and thrashing
I can’t say why for that which I am here
To present--present--presently
A polished horizon in my hand!”

This went on for awhile. Thoroughly were many listeners confused. Walter concentrated. He listened like a man poring over a love letter, looking for clues. Jessi watched him and listened, ravenously curious to know what was going on in his mind.
Harlow listened gravely. She let the lilting torrent of his oratory wash through her ears like bathwater. She had long ago found her niche in the enjoyment of her friends’ art, that by relishing an entirely different effect than the one intended, she was not responsible for the content; as a bonus, it seemed, she was often heralded for her creative interpretations. Thad never questioned her comprehension of his wordplay, and even held her up as a model of one who understood him. And maybe she did understand him best because she did not try to; she simply let him be his odd self, found what she did understand about him and praised him for that, genuinely and without judgment, and she truly found pleasure in his work.
As he concluded his performance and stepped off with feather-like grace, Harlow applauded politely and turned to the table.

“That might be one of my favorites,” she offered as a starting point. “I was so taken by how much I felt my attention--oh, I don’t know, wander away, and I started to think about other things, but those p sounds came at such sharp…random times, they were like traffic cones, or rocks in rapids. They kept my mind on course.”
“Taken,” mused Walter, “that’s a good word.”
“What did you think?” Jessi asked him.
He waited patiently for himself to begin speaking. “I felt as though I were in another dimension,” he said finally, surprising everyone with his first emotionally invested remark yet. “One where words became their meaning. It makes me sad to revert to regular language.”
Jessi paused, trying to jump to a different plane of interpretation without faltering.

“That’s really interesting,” agreed Harlow, but not too readily. “I think I agree.”
They quieted as the next performer took the stage and Thad began his long return across the room, stopping frequently by fellow pedants and poets.
“But can a whole poem be…kept on track by p sounds?” Jessi blurted out to the table, sounding petulant. She had been trying for a more eloquent challenge. More gently: “I had trouble taking it in--I mean, the water imagery was so fragmented, and if the p sounds were the rocks, then…”
“Mmm,” responded Walter, now engaged; he seemed to have found himself at last. “That’s interesting. I wonder the same thing. But maybe the answer must be yes, because in fact, the whole poem was kept on course by p sounds, and that is why the words themselves became like water, and to assign them their conventional meaning might be a mistake. Also…‘taking it in’…yes, with respect, I think the intention is to change the way you listen, almost as if there were a ‘right’ and ‘wrong’ way to listen--you see, instead of you taking the poem in, which you have demonstrated is very difficult, if not impossible, I think he wants the poem to take you. Which it can only do if you let go of your preconceptions of language.”
“But couldn’t any…”
“Yes,” said Harlow excitedly--
--Jessi’s mind was moving sluggishly, maddeningly sluggishly, too maddening to answer cleverly; if only she could argue that point expertly, or expand on it even marginally insightfully, but the red and black of the stage and curtain swam in her vision and the room seemed too black and complex and too heavy to wade through--
(A woman was on stage using an Etch-a-Sketch to write words she would not say aloud)
Walter seemed concerned, and moved his hands for the first time tonight, he moved them onto Jessi’s, shocking her back to attention, “Do you see what I mean? That is why I thought it was so good. Of course, that is subjective.”
Recognizing a merciful second chance: “That makes sense. No, I think you’re right. I mean--”
Again her voice failed her and her mind seemed uninterested in providing her with quick, droll remarks designed to allure. Left to her own devices she resorted to her usual reticence; yes, now she had Walter fumbling for words:
He sighed: then, “But it was strange. I was listening but I kept thinking about that painting of a woman, the one above the door, who seems to be dissolving into her surroundings--”
My painting? With horror she realized he had read it backwards--no, she had painted it backward--no, there were two ways to look at it and she had failed to notice one--how many more were there, for any of her paintings, that she had never seen?--
“What about it?” she asked calmly, twisting her hand so that their touching was more deliberate; whether he meant to hold her hands or not, there it was
Distracting, or calling attention?
Walter slowed, his fingers responded favorably to her movement and he looked down and to the side in deep thought; “I can’t say…”
Knowing full well it was the alcohol muddling her mind she abruptly rose and made her way to the bar. Behind her, Harlow moved closer and said something subtle to Walter; Thad was not back yet; Jessi would see him first.
She ordered another drink and a second time opened herself up to the room, leaning back on the bar, to establish herself as alone/independent, priding herself in her juxtaposition with the women who huddled in toward each other and tried to hide when unaccompanied. She felt a continuing shock, the after effect of Walter’s sudden physical assertion; excited but ashamed of her mental lapse, she could return the energy physically but now she must prove herself mentally before she could feel attracted to him, and oh, how she wanted to feel attracted to him--
Returning to the table she ignored Harlow’s passive attempt to stay next to Walter and edged her way back in to her original seat. “Are you going up tonight, my dear?” has asked her, indicating the stage.
“Oh no, I’m not a poet,” she replied, and unexpectedly, “I only perform for myself.”
Showing his intrigue (thus giving her the upper hand), “Mm?”

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