November 12, 2001
When I was a child I don’t think I spent much time speaking as a child. I was channeling demons or mute. The latter, suddenly, seems appealing again. Except for certain phrases. The man on the bench reiterating to all passers by, “Sit with me, sit with me, sit with me.” Though nobody did. To remain quiet, to approach this next parcel of effort without reporting it. Blithe mute. That is what I think will be helpful. So pardon me if I am recondite but sometimes the telling of a thing makes it worse. The not talking cure; more than brevity, silence.
November 13, 2001
On Sunday I went on a long bike ride on the North Fork determined to exhaust the proliferation of roads that grow around Nassau Point and Southold like a system of blood vessels running perpendicular to the shore of the bay. On Spring Lane parked on the grass verge was a white car with the front and back doors open. In the back a woman of 70 or so was reclining with her feet up on the back seat and her back stretched against the jackknifed front seat. She had a container of food which she held up close to her mouth that she was eating from. Around the car, on the grass, were an odd assortment of items as if she were having a yard sale. One item was one of those baby strollers for jogging with that you see svelte young Manhattan couples heaving along in front of them, there was also a small table and chair. We looked at each other and said hello, I cycled on. Her face had contours of wrinkles running concentrically around an oval face. If I had stopped to befriend her I might have found out more, but it is not in my nature to stop and befriend people even though I often wish it were in my nature. I had spent the morning feeling anti-social. So when I encountered her it was somehow reassuring. How do you grow old? There she was, my perfect old lady. Reclining in a car on a Sunday afternoon eating a frugal picnic. Did she live out of her car? One might have imagined her to have been lonely, abandoned by men, women, children, but I had the distinct impression that she was deeply happy. A rune of solitude announcing to me that this was something for the taking without guilt or misgiving. Twice I passed another woman of a similar age walking on a long straight road. I was bundled up, my face wrapped in a red balaclava, a homage to my mother’s fear of the chilled skull. She would go out with her head bound in odd pieces of cloth and wool for the cold and rain. Every old lady reminds me of my mother, to paraphrase the poet. My mother gave me so much sap and on days like this I see that it is not diminished in me, but I fear that her own sap is being drained. The second old lady said to me on my second pass by her, “I think you were smarter than me.” I did not know if she was referring to my mode of transport (wheels over legs), my garb (warm, perhaps even overdone for the day), or my route. I said, “I’m not so sure about that.” You’re an old lady for godsake, alive , hale and walking the roads on a beautiful fall day, walking alone, what could be smarter than that? At one point a deer crossed my path, a hart. I have always loved the word. The whole afternoon left me with a feeling of the allegorical: wise old ladies, healthy adult male deer, many dead ends with beautiful views of water.
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When I was a child I don’t think I spent much time speaking as a child. I was channeling demons or mute. The latter, suddenly, seems appealing again. Except for certain phrases. The man on the bench reiterating to all passers by, “Sit with me, sit with me, sit with me.” Though nobody did. To remain quiet, to approach this next parcel of effort without reporting it. Blithe mute. That is what I think will be helpful. So pardon me if I am recondite but sometimes the telling of a thing makes it worse. The not talking cure; more than brevity, silence.
November 13, 2001
On Sunday I went on a long bike ride on the North Fork determined to exhaust the proliferation of roads that grow around Nassau Point and Southold like a system of blood vessels running perpendicular to the shore of the bay. On Spring Lane parked on the grass verge was a white car with the front and back doors open. In the back a woman of 70 or so was reclining with her feet up on the back seat and her back stretched against the jackknifed front seat. She had a container of food which she held up close to her mouth that she was eating from. Around the car, on the grass, were an odd assortment of items as if she were having a yard sale. One item was one of those baby strollers for jogging with that you see svelte young Manhattan couples heaving along in front of them, there was also a small table and chair. We looked at each other and said hello, I cycled on. Her face had contours of wrinkles running concentrically around an oval face. If I had stopped to befriend her I might have found out more, but it is not in my nature to stop and befriend people even though I often wish it were in my nature. I had spent the morning feeling anti-social. So when I encountered her it was somehow reassuring. How do you grow old? There she was, my perfect old lady. Reclining in a car on a Sunday afternoon eating a frugal picnic. Did she live out of her car? One might have imagined her to have been lonely, abandoned by men, women, children, but I had the distinct impression that she was deeply happy. A rune of solitude announcing to me that this was something for the taking without guilt or misgiving. Twice I passed another woman of a similar age walking on a long straight road. I was bundled up, my face wrapped in a red balaclava, a homage to my mother’s fear of the chilled skull. She would go out with her head bound in odd pieces of cloth and wool for the cold and rain. Every old lady reminds me of my mother, to paraphrase the poet. My mother gave me so much sap and on days like this I see that it is not diminished in me, but I fear that her own sap is being drained. The second old lady said to me on my second pass by her, “I think you were smarter than me.” I did not know if she was referring to my mode of transport (wheels over legs), my garb (warm, perhaps even overdone for the day), or my route. I said, “I’m not so sure about that.” You’re an old lady for godsake, alive , hale and walking the roads on a beautiful fall day, walking alone, what could be smarter than that? At one point a deer crossed my path, a hart. I have always loved the word. The whole afternoon left me with a feeling of the allegorical: wise old ladies, healthy adult male deer, many dead ends with beautiful views of water.
- rachael 11-13-2001 5:23 am