Arc of the Poet, Part 7: Home Stretch

Nearly a year after our spectacular wedding, May of 1993 found me, Beth and pretty much everyone else in our family continuously thinking about my brother, his daily perseverance in recovering from his July ’91 diving accident, and his successful return to a more normal lifestyle. By then, he and his girlfriend had their own place, on my dad and step-mom’s farm and within earshot of their home. From every angle, Scott was making us all very proud, and showing the kind of resounding inner strength we all hope to have when faced with unimaginable adversity.

At one point right after the accident, my mom wondered aloud if we would ever be happy again. Illinois has always provided a powerful attraction for me around my birthday in May, and I was especially thankful while driving there on May 6, 1993, that I was feeling real joy. You can find a poem I wrote back in 1988 about those annual treks to my native homeland here.

The reputation of my mom’s mom — known as Granny Bea or Aunt Bea to most, Mrs. Ridings to everyone else — reached far and wide from the beautiful spot she and my grandfather had settled in long before. Called Terrapin Ridge and located near Greenville, the rural area feels a lot more like their own ancestral Tennessee homeland than Illinois. Until she passed away in 2001, those woods surrounding their home were enchanted by Granny Bea’s warmth, charm and grace. Even now, when we return to the area, we are pulled that direction… but it was different when she was there awaiting us in her legendary kitchen: friends and family-members all made bee-lines there every chance we got, and nothing could deter us from those visits.

Scott and I were also very tight with my dad’s mom, whom he had dubbed “Bam” at an early age. She also was always very happy to see and feed us, and we both loved her dearly. She had remarried and moved to nearby Keyesport, and helping get Scott there and to Granny Bea’s place were at the top of my May ’93 trip’s agenda. It took a lot of hands, and the usual oversized dose of determination from Scott, but those experiences came together colorfully, and they meant a lot to each of us, and to many others who weren’t there but who heard about our visits through various grapevines.

After making that journey where I spent so much time with my bro, and then returning home, I was ready to face even my most ambitious challenges with renewed energy. I reviewed and polished all my creative writing, and after systematically assessing my media targets and their preferences in cross-reference with my stockpile, I printed lots of papers out and sent them flying to the four corners of the world, and all points in between. My inner artist also attempted to creatively channel my brother in the following experimental essay. It appears here for the first time, even though I began sending it to literary media outlets almost as soon as it was finished.

I can only sit in this chair beside this window right now and contemplate the form my body’s taken. How do I love thee? As the foggy numb day meanders through the moist panes; as the bird-shape stirs effortlessly outside. I’ve been paralyzed for two years now. I love thee as the guy inside a window, hidden from your awareness.

My paralysis is really the last thing I ever try to think about, which explains why I’m dwelling on it now.

One second of television is all it takes. In that fast flash I am put in my place — pitted in my sensational existence. It’s a shell often heavier than I can carry. It’s a bear trap clamped onto my ass — even my soul! For two years I’ve thought about how to get out of it. Today I realize that maybe I never will — or, at least, that I’m currently powerless against it, and this field of vision has not so far illuminated many suitable prospects.

If you’re an adventurer, imagine with me any one second of television. Focus in on one taut muscle, or one well-trimmed mustache. Journey one slow, moveable olfactory feast along exquisite, lightly sweet neck-silk… one horse-drawn ride across the spraying surf….

Please let me clarify something: I’m not bitter, I’m just writing. I don’t want to make you suffer, I simply must grab what light I can find around the world — your light, for example — with my summoned strength. If even as vaguely as a distant wind caressing your cheek, inside I need to feel I have something to share. And, for me to have any chance of really touching you, you have to understand.

I’m just putting this here in case you’re interested, because I’ve been a hell of a guy, all in all, and I’m still here! I can still sweep you off your feet. After all, you are talking to a star athlete and the pride of a good family. I deserve your attention.

God, I’m still here. Joseph Conrad wrote that we live as we dream: alone. Outside my room, in the halls, on the streets, in each of my parents’ homes, in a few bars, in a couple of offices, there are people that help, and I wouldn’t want them to take this wrong, but I am alone. You are alone. Occasionally we’re together; always we’re alone. These words offer hope, just as my brain still races despite the frozen sea south of the neckline.

I used to dive, as in off of a diving-board. Not professionally or anything. You should’ve seen me! From this watery reflection arise my most profound memories. Swimming around with my cousins with our masks and snorkels, picking up pennies from the bottom of a pool. In those blue underwater mental filings, I age in mask and snorkel. Beaten up in many surfs off many beaches, I once and finally addressed fear and stroked out bravely beyond the waves. I found something unbelievable out there. I can see it now: blue, purple, red, green…. On coral formations you can discover it for yourself. You’re part of the food chain. It’s very humbling and it’s real.

I had given up on ever finding a buried treasure, but on a reef, I clearly realized my place, weighed my capabilities and bet everything on my ability to survive. It worked. Some treasure, huh? It’s yours.

Outer space? It’s an ocean that includes each of us. I’ve learned all about it. Outer space offers me a TV sticking out of a wall, up where I can see it from my bed, my planter, my wheat field. This, for the time being, is me. This and the people that walk through that door, shining or scuffing, as the case may be, the slick linoleum.

This shall not last. I will walk again. Denial? Really, between friends, what do you know about it? Do you realize that you’re part of the food chain, friend? Well, I do. Tears run down my window, as the day heats up outside. I’ll be here, ignoring the endless fingers in my face.

Please, in all your activities, be careful. It doesn’t really take much to find yourself inside this glass. The world has millions of false trails. Listen inside yourself for your pulse — it’s certainly there — sounding an unmistakable alarm which tells you, no matter where you are, your life’s only beginning.

Keep reading. Breeze toward something new now. Meanwhile, rest assured that the words I’ve poured you here can be better trusted than most you’ll find. Your life is in your hands; proceed with caution.

My life, I cannot love you better.