“just don’t say anything.”


Sometimes life can feel as busy as a clock. And dreams are no different: fast, busy, ticking like little bombs under our sternums, delighting in the last gasps of us on the track of our over-nights. I received the above postcard this week from poet, Mary Ruefle, not only a genius poet but sweetly enough  a friend. We have begun to write back and forth as people never write anymore — collaged and aged postcards, typewriters, pens and paper.

Years ago, when Mary was in Kalamazoo while teaching at Western, she attended one of my esoteric cocktail parties and the topic that evening — past life readings. Mary sipped red wine from my demitasse cups and was told she had been an 18th century English poet. Our excitement led us to believe John Keats was among us. And it was revealed to me I had died in childbirth hundreds of times (as the mother and the child) as well as my time as a Salem, Massachusetts witch-burner. But I digress.

This postcard was a gut-shot … “Usually the radiant is a small area.” Mary is the master of the erasure … just pick up her erasure, A Little White Shadow. See the excerpt below:


And for some reason, all of this has similar emotions to my dream last night. I recall only bits with no narrative structure.

Bits I remember:

Large 1970s Cadillac, brown; me driving aforementioned Caddy naked; watching an older gentlemen (very Frederick Seidel-ish) cleaning bloody rags in a white sink, then having to clean the sink while glancing back at me longingly and saying: “Just don’t say anything.”

I have a vague recollection of being lost in a place I had never been and I think this is the residue from Don and I discussing our Jamaica trip with our friend, Nan who was married there in December. I have great apprehensions about this beautiful man in my life wanting to literally show me the world.

Beautiful apprehensions … the radiant in a small area.

Published in: on February 20, 2009 at 7:29 pm  Leave a Comment  

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