the universe has
a sense of humor —
zelkova!
/ / /
15 May 2022
Pittsfield MA
Category: Massachusetts
The idea of living in the present moment is central to Buddhist practice, which I’ve been trying my hand at for more than two decades. As I’ve come to understand it, the basic concept is that the past has passed and the future is unknowable, so the only time with which we can interact is this moment right now. And right now. And … you get it.
The instruction to remain centered in the present is one of my favorite parts of Buddhist philosophy. It’s also remarkably difficult to do, at least for me. No matter how much the present might be demanding my attention, I still find myself caught up in memories and daydreams, returning to past successes and failures, and turning over future visions in my mind.
Poetry can be an aid to present-minded living, serving as it does — or at least as it can — as a textual photograph of a moment. This is supposed to be one of the main methods of creating haiku, for example, though I find even in that form I am often mired in the past. The more I deviate from the nature-word-plus-present-description method of haiku, the more likely it is that my tiny poems will contain sharply pointed thorns of memory.
I overheard one of my coworkers this morning talking about an “on this day” post they’d received on Facebook and how it had dredged up difficult memories. I’m glad to not be on Facebook, because I have too many memories I’d prefer to avoid. And yet, when left to its own devices, the Zuckerberg in my skull is all too happy to pull up some scene I’d sooner escape.
Perhaps one problem, if that’s the word, is that my current life is — or seems — very small. I work in an office during the day. After work I retreat to the 32 square feet of my van, which is where I spend most of my non-work time. This might be an excuse, but I feel like these circumstances don’t lend themselves to the kind of noticing so fundamental to poetry. So instead of seeing things in the world around me, I mine the shafts in my brain for the ore I need to write.
That last paragraph does feel like an excuse now that I read it again. Noticing can happen in any circumstances, and the present moment is the present moment, no matter what it contains. Maybe this whole essay can serve as a call to action for my own writing (I accidentally typed “righting” — a useful accident?); a reminder to pay closer attention to what might seem mundane or confined. I guess we’ll all find out together whether I heed that call in the weeks and months ahead.
Leave a Comment
In about 1977, my mom bought me a bag of popcorn from this cart, and then we walked into England Brothers department store, in front of which it was parked. There was an escalator, and as my mom and I went up it I was eating fresh popcorn from my bag. Near the top of the escalator I lost my balance and tumbled all the way to the bottom, popcorn flying everywhere.
From that day onward, I could never eat popcorn without feeling nauseous. I tried many times. My family loved popcorn and made it frequently. I tried when I’d go to the movies with friends. Every single time, I’d take a handful and immediately start feeling sick. That lasted until my early 40s, when I ate some popcorn with no ill effects. I can still eat it today, though I spent so many years avoiding it that I usually forget it exists until I go to a movie.
I took the photo above during my lunch break today. I’m not sure if this is the exact same cart or a replica, but it sure looks the same as the one in my memory. I’m also not sure if this cart is still open for business. There was nobody in it today, but perhaps it’s only open on certain days or at certain times. England Brothers, where my grandmother worked for years, was razed during Pittsfield’s urban renewal.
Leave a Commentlong cold day
my best decision:
sweatpants
/ / /
7 May 2022
Pittsfield MA
This Poem Has A Puzzle In It
Ask anyone and they’ll tell you I
underachieved in high school and
then kept that streak going
on into adulthood.
Down and out in the Berkshires,
I’m slowly figuring out the map,
determining my location;
above me a sky full of new
constellations, stars I’ve never seen
telling a new mythology.
/ / /
29 April 2022
Pittsfield MA
(NaPoWriMo Day 29)
Leave a CommentFree Chips And Salsa
Maybe, just maybe,
there is a corner that can be turned.
A light rain dances on the roof of the van.
Slow jams uncurl from my headphones.
A lone candle flickers in a cup holder.
This parking lot is the end of one road.
This parking lot is the start of another.
All Mexican restaurants should offer
free chips and salsa.
/ / /
26 April 2022
Pittsfield MA
(NaPoWriMo Day 26)
Routine
Today, I’ve decided, I won’t turn on the van.
I’ll start and end here in this parking lot.
First order of business: meditation.
The monkey toyed with, I move on to
a rearrangement of my tiny living space.
As a man with few passengers, I will use
the passenger seat for storage,
freeing up more space to swing my arms
in the main compartment.
I rarely swing my arms, but it’s best to be ready.
Then it’s on to the hand-cramping task
of copying many dozen haiku into a notebook.
I shake out my fingers, finish a book,
listen to Miguel Cabrera’s 3000th hit,
crank up the Grateful Dead.
Forty-eight years into whatever this is,
I’ve still figured out very little.
I’ve started over again, alone, with nothing.
For now I’ll lie back and listen to “Peggy-O.”
Later I’ll get a bite to eat from the grocery store.
Then on into another night, another morning.
/ / /
23 April 2022
Pittsfield MA
(NaPoWriMo Day 23)
a Little Brown Bird
explores the trash
under the bushes
/ / /
23 April 2022
Pittsfield MA
Proof Of Life
The condensation on the windows is proof of life
for passersby who might try to see past the curtain
or the blacked-out covers into the interior
of my not-exactly-a-home on wheels.
I’m sitting upright, my bottom half in a sleeping bag,
my top half shrouded in a wool blanket,
meditating because it seems like the right thing to do.
There’s an insistent bird in the leafless tree
outside the rear window of the van, its song
one I would have been able to name just a few years ago.
That knowledge, like so much I used to contain,
has passed through the bone safe of my skull
into the poorly designed container of the world.
In more than twenty years of meditation
I have rarely quieted the dancing monkey
who jumps from one sparking synapse to the next
with a shrill laugh.
I keep at it because I don’t have a control group,
so no comparison can be made.
A text from my sister: “Peace and stability are just ahead.”
She is not, as far as I know, clairvoyant,
but I’d rather believe her than lend credence to myself.
The bell dings and I use the remote starter
to turn on the van I’m sitting in.
It’s easier than crawling up front.
Soon the heat will kick in and I’ll do the crossword
and the bird will keep singing or else it won’t.
/ / /
20 April 2022
Pittsfield MA
(NaPoWriMo Day 20)
Leave a Commentput on my work clothes
in a bathroom stall
keep repeating “long game”
/ / /
20 April 2022
Pittsfield MA