The voluble ducks of Newburyport

Shortly after Ducks, Newburyport was published, I borrowed it from the library. I don’t know what I was thinking, or if I was thinking: the book is 988 pages long and our library has a three-week loan limit. I don’t know how many pages I read, or if I read any, but at the end of the three weeks I returned the tome and forgot about it.

 

The book came to my attention again at some point last autumn, although I cannot say under what circumstances. If my mind were as unshackled as Lucy Ellmann’s, I could probably write pages and pages of free-flowing thoughts that may or may not have something to do with those circumstances; but a mental chastity belt* is preventing my Middle Age mind from engaging in literary licentiousness. Instead, I can only squeeze out prosaic prose punctuated by periods, commas, and the odd colon and semicolon that I may not be using properly. My analogies may also be faulty. They may not even be analogies.

 

After Ducks, Newburyport came to my attention again under circumstances that shall remain mysterious, I decided to buy the book as a birthday present for myself and to read one page a day. That puts me on course to finish reading page 988 on Saturday, July 6, 2024. 

 

I was jokingly going to write that I would give you the opening line but that would require me to reproduce the full 988 pages, but in fact there is a more traditional narrative, told from the point of view of a mother bear (that’s not the traditional part), within the stream of consciousness. And the first three pages start with that more traditional narrative. So here is the opening line of Ducks, Newburyport: “When you are all sinew, struggle and solitude, your young—being soft, plump, vulnerable—may remind you of prey.”

 

That sentence alone could constitute a piece of flash fiction and if Lucy Ellman were me, she would have stopped there and not bothered writing another 987 pages and I could have finished the book on Friday, October 22, 2021. But in addition to an unshackled mind, Lucy Ellman obviously has the determination or passion or addictive personality or whatever it is that shackles a person to their writing and allows them to produce a novel, even one that is 988 pages long. And I feel like there may be many people with unshackled minds but far fewer who also have had the determination or passion or addictive personality or whatever it is that shackles a person to their writing. And this is why, even if I manage to unshackle my mind, I will never, ever be a novelist. 

*According to historians, there is no evidence chastity belts existed. Perhaps, then, there is hope for my mind, since it is apparently being held under lock and key by a figment of somebody’s (or the collective) imagination, so perhaps I just need to channel that imagination into my writing and ditch the damn punctuation 

Why I enrolled in Style School

For many years I have felt like a schlub, and things have plummeted from that low bar to style hell in a drab hand basket since I started working from home. My morning routine is to don super-comfortable (i.e., baggy) pants and a t-shirt. Those items get dropped onto the floor at night and then I often put on the same bedraggled clothes the next day (although always heeding the advice about clean underwear).

I was embarrassed the other day when someone knocked on my front door. I didn’t want to answer it because I looked so frumpy. Unfortunately, my desk is by a window and my eyes locked onto those of the knocker, so I had little choice but to open the door wearing a pair of pants I use for painting that are covered in blotches of dried paint and spackling and a t-shirt that I don’t use for painting but which had splotches of my lunch on it.

A member of our blogging community whom I would describe as erudite, thoughtful and intrepid recommended Style School. I attended an introductory webinar and, IMHO, OMG the instructor is a bit OTT (LOL). I enrolled despite this acronymonious judgment on my part, because I trusted the non-acrimonious judgment of my erudite, thoughtful and intrepid fellow blogger.

For one of our first assignments, each of us had to ask 15 people to provide three words they would use to describe our essence. I sent an email to let 15 people know I had enrolled in Style School—which felt like quite an admission, as now I have very big and stylish shoes to fill and I don’t think my beloved Crocs will pass muster—and wrote:

In this first week, we’re supposed to ask 15 people—I may have to invent a few fictional ones, as I’m not sure I know that many*—for three words they think describe the essence of who I am. Or the assignment instructions actually state, “the ESSENCE of who I am.” The teacher is prone to excessive use of capitalism (which is apt, as she’s probably accumulating a lot of capital by offering the course). If you have a chance, I would be mighty OBLIGED if you would send three such words to me.

I’m surprised, as you also may be, that “judgmental” didn’t make anyone’s list. What did was surprising and lovely and heart-warming. I highly recommend to people that they pretend they’re in Style School and do this exercise. You will be introduced to a better version of yourself, one who was raised by a loving family that didn’t include pesky siblings and putdowns, in a land where Sunday school and science do not instill a fear of God and gravity and where milk and honey flow freely to all and manifest in perfect bone structure and eyebrows and clothes that are form-fitting but not overly so.

When I am on holidays next week—GIGANTIC smile—I am going to follow the course instructor’s suggestion to return the favour and email those surprising and lovely and heart-warming people with three words that I would use to describe their essence.

Having completed the first week of Style School, I can honestly say that I am no more stylish than I was pre-enrolment. One reason for this could be that I have failed to heed the suggestion to explore my closet in the morning and put on something daring. (I’m not even sure I have anything daring, other than a groovy outfit I wore to a wedding a few years ago that has become overly form-fitting.) Nor am I likely to do so over then next few weeks, because I’m going away for my holidays (another GIGANTIC smile). The trip was actually one of the reasons I signed up for the course: I knew it would give me more time to do the activities in the workbook. Unfortunately, it didn’t occur to me that a) I won’t be anywhere/anywear near my closet, and b) it’s a hiking holiday and I’m packing light to avoid incurring baggage fees. This means I will have a very limited amount of clothes and practically no accessories with which to accessorize my fleece and hiking pants (which feel like they’re on the verge of becoming overly form-fitting).

Even if the course does nothing for my style, I feel like it might make me a better version of myself. After watching this week’s Q&A session, I find myself liking the instructor more and more. I would no longer describe her as OTT but rather, as authentic, passionate and warm.

So HUGE thanks to my erudite, thoughtful and intrepid blogging buddy for recommending Style School.

*It turns out that I do know 15 people

DONE!!!

In May 2018, I bought a kit to knit a dragon for a friend’s 70th birthday. I had only completed two rows by the time we celebrated her birthday in October. (I had actually knit many, many more rows than that, but I had to keep ripping them out. I was trying to learn a technique called magic loop and I obviously wasn’t a very skilled magician.) 

There has been a veritable saga since that time of yarn so tangled all knitting had to be put on hold and dropped stitches and failed stitch pick-ups—perhaps I need to work on my small talk—and tears and ranting and apoplexy, but the project is finally DONE!!! And just in time, as the intended recipient is moving to Winnipeg tomorrow (and turning 73 in October). 

The kit stated that the dragon’s name is Flytton, but I decided that Wabi-Sabi is a better one. It is a Japanese term that incorporates the notion of accepting, and maybe even embracing, imperfection. I first learned of it from the contractors who did my basement—they would invoke wabi sabi whenever something didn’t quite work out as planned.

Meet imperfect-but-DONE!!! Wabi-Sabi. 

Poem?

Early one morning a few weeks ago I took myself and my second cup of coffee of the day to a nearby conservation area. As I sat flipping through my notebook I came across something I had written a long time ago about someone I had briefly dated. It sounded vaguely poem-like and so I tried to turn it into one, although in doing so I realized that I have no idea how one decides where to put line breaks. It was all a shot in the dark and I’m sure I committed more than one poetic homicide. And I no doubt failed to take advantage of the connotative dynamism and aesthetic value of ink abutting blankness.* Hence, “Poem?"

Liminal space

I didn’t believe you when you mentioned in passing that that storefront 

window contains a door that leads to an upstairs apartment 

where people who have no connection to the sale of women

’s undergarments live.

But I believed you when you mentioned in passing that you

were a hoarder who had 16 garbage bags full of who-knows-what

stored under the pool table in your “living” room/in-house landfill. 

And I believed you when you mentioned in passing that you drank 

Starbucks coffee out of disposable cups instead of bringing 

a travel mug to an independent coffee shop.

And I believed you when you mentioned in passing that you lived

with your mother and your sister and her daughter Lily

and maybe living with a collection of relatives is merely

a symptom of the hoarding you previously mentioned in passing 

and therefore should not be counted as a separate

mark against you but I took it as such and by that point you had three

strikes and were out of my little black book.

But a few months ago when I was shopping for a strapless bra to wear 

under a sleeveless dress which isn’t at all a flattering look 

for me but I hoped I could pull it off nevertheless I peered

more closely at that storefront window and by golly

it does contain a door although I don’t know if it led to an upstairs apartment

where people who have no connection to the sale of women

’s undergarments live.

And as I walk today in a literal fog, bare-branched bushes

festooned with doilies spun by spiders and chickadee

warlords demanding tribute before they let me pass

I wonder why I hoard these memories instead of something useful like women

’s undergarments.

* If you’re not taking advantage of the connotative dynamism and aesthetic value of ink abutting blankness afforded by poetic line breaks, you’re not writing the best poetry. In fact, you’re not writing poetry at all. (https://notesofoak.com/discover-literature/poetic-line-breaks-guide/ )

Full moon wishes

Tonight is a December full moon, also known as a Drift Clearing Moon [Oh, how I wish there were some drifts to clear!], Frost Exploding Trees Moon, Moon of the Popping Trees, Hoar Frost Moon, Snow Moon, Winter Maker Moon, and Long Night Moon. Here’s a poem by Hafiz to honour today’s moon, and to wish you all a year of sublime moons--but minimal mooning*--in 2021.

* In the sense of  "behave or move in a listless and aimless manner” (which I seem to do far too much of, and far too little of the other type of mooning).

 

Admit Something

Everyone you see, you say to them,
Love me.
Of course you do not do this out loud;
Otherwise,
Someone would call the cops.
Still though, think about this,
This great pull in us
To connect.
Why not become the one
Who lives with a full moon in each eye
That is always saying,
With that sweet moon language,
What every other eye in this world
Is dying to Hear.

Delight

A handwritten letter from a fellow blogger arrived in my mailbox today. I have subcontracted the execution of five cartwheels of delight to another fellow blogger by the name of Indigo Bunting (as far as I know, she is the only one amongst us who still occasionally falls heels over head).  

Regret

Although my mother subjugated the skein of anarchy into a rotund, submissive sphere--which reminds me, did I ever mention that an ancestor on her side of the family was an aide-de-camp of William the Conquerer?--I am still making little headway with birthing the knitted dragon. Its advanced gestational age is now a source of great shame. 

And so when I came across this three-line poem at the start of a chapter in Lydia Davis’s Essays One: 

i shouldn’t have started these red wool mittens.

they’re done now,

but my life is over.

i made only a few word changes to sum up my despair:

i shouldn’t have started this purple dragon.

it will never be done, 

before my life is over.