I’ve tag-teamed Yesenin with Off to the Side to try and get a sense of time and while
it’s there it’s also not there. I can faintly see you a father of two at thirty-five who
couldn’t earn a living. You wanted to buy your daughter a bike for her birthday. You
wanted good cuts of beef instead of hamburger. You wanted wine that wasn’t ordinary.
Want want want while also being wed to the muse who doesn’t care about any of that
just the work work work. Your struggle was real, huh? Trust me, the struggle is real.
As a husband of one at fifty-seven who still scraps for a living, I want to redo my
wife’s kitchen. I want to take a slow road trip to Bass’ Yaak. I want want want some
wine that isn’t ordinary. Yet as I work toward that and more, the muse is perched on
my deck in a short dress drawing up her thighs howling Now don’t you forget about me.
The Lord is my shepherd I shall not want. But God I want it all, as Alice Munro wrote:
[…]what I wanted was every last thing, every layer of speech and thought,
stroke of light on bark or walls, every smell, pothole, pain, crack, delusion,
held still and held together—radiant, everlasting.
Yes, every last thing. You soldiered on earning and working and eventually the muse
led your horsey self to water—actually exquisite wines—which you were more than
pleased to drink. It took some time, but at thirty-five you had days to scrap and fail
and learn and live. Here at fifty-seven the time feels thinner, the muse more coy. Or
maybe I have time and what I’m feeling is simply our culture’s fond fingering of youth
- the annual lists of 30 under 30, or 40 under 40, the writing workshop panels filled
with peach fuzzed faces who may have hogtied the muse but not suffered the want.
The pain. The cracks. Held still. Held together. Radiant. Everlasting. Every last thing.