Dispatches from Terra Incognita: 1

Or Fragments Deciphering the Great Mysteries of the Universe

Nov 07, 2023

Terra incognita world map (1565), 59'' x 34'' - OldMapster

This from Posthumous Papers of a Living Author, written around 1915 by the eccentric writer Robert Musil, where he mentions the sameness in poetry and fiction that can often occur in just about any century you can think of:

“Has not the poet of the German nation long outlived himself? It certainly looks that way, and strictly speaking, as far back as I can remember, it has always looked that way; the situation has recently only entered a decisive chapter. The age that brought out the pre-fab custom-made shoe, and the tailor made suit to fit all sizes, also appears to want to bring out the pre-fab poet, who is put together out of ready-made inner and outer parts. Almost everywhere today, the made-to-measure poet lives completely cut off from life.”

Sound familiar?

But what is one to do?

Today there are more writers than bedbugs being coughed out by MFA programs, and those writers are expected to follow a certain protocol: be nice, make friends, and be sure to constantly praise the work of others on various platforms, even if you’ve never read their work. If possible, use the word “brilliant” as often as you can.

But shouldn’t literature go against the grain if it has any hope of changing the way one thinks and behaves? Shouldn’t it be a bit subversive even when it’s entertaining, or emotional draining, as in works dealing with recovery?

Not to forget that the real fun of writing is in taking chances and ignoring boundaries.

Yes, it can be reasonably argued that whenever a genre like poetry is being written and read, that’s a good thing. Following that logic: the more poems and stories, the better.

But only if those works are worth reading.

This from Emily Dickinson: “If I read a book and it makes my whole body so cold no fire can warm me, I know that is poetry. If I feel physically as if the top of my head were taken off, I know that is poetry. These are the only way I know it. Is there any other way?”

When was the last time you experienced that feeling when reading a poem, a short story, or an essay?

So many poems, so many stories, so many memoirs, so many . . . Well, you get the idea, and yours truly happily contributes to this abundance, mistakenly believing that, unlike my peers, my work is ennobling and life-changing.

Fortunately, every time I indulge myself in this kind of self-congratulation, I read some Shakespeare, which reminds me that I am a dummy and still have much to learn, and that, in spite of my fellowships and awards, I must be hard on myself until my last breath is taken heavenward by a very confused God-inspired dove-tailed hawk, who just wanted to be left alone and gracefully descend to rip an unsuspecting mouse off the face of the earth.

****

Divine retribution came my way today. Punishment for throwing that spitball at the blackboard in 4^th grade Math class. The spitball I had soaked in water. The one that was the size of a baseball.

The punishment? Denied yet again of a receipt from a gas station pump, reminding me of the endless cosmic conspiracy we call life—the way simple expectations are momentarily raised, then crushed within seconds. How many tears have I shed standing before a gas pump like some holy pilgrim, engulfed in gasoline fumes, while all the Biblical angels and demons look down (or above) at me, laughing at this well-meaning old guy waiting for a paper receipt which never had, and never will have, a chance to reveal itself.

****

A fragment from the Rumanian writer E.M. Cioran:

“I get along quite well with someone only when he is at his lowest point and has neither the desire nor the strength to restore his habitual illusions.” How true! How many inveterate jerks I have known who, when themselves devastated by tragedy, finally become vulnerable and sensitive to the feelings of others. How much easier to love them, that is, until their crisis passes, whereupon they revert back to cheating and lying, even being unkind to small animals and blind grandmothers who just want to cross the street.

****

The stranger in the coffee shop speaking to me about his beautiful wife who’s twenty years younger. He’s about 50 but trying to act younger by wearing an old black ski hat indoors and a pair of red-and-white Vans, whose bottoms will never caress the top of a skateboard. “You’re a lucky guy,” I say, just wanting to eat my croissant. “Yeah, you’d think so, but she has no libido.” “Well,” I say, “she can always fix that,” not having any idea how a woman can “fix” her libido. “Yeah, maybe you’re right,” he says. “But it better happen soon. It’s like waking up to a brand-new Porsche in the driveway, only to find out it has no engine.”

His eyes are bloodshot, and he suddenly looks about 60. I imagine his wife’s libido. It got up early and went to Starbuck’s for a Caramel Snickerdoodle Macchiato, eventually ending up at the art professor’s apartment, or maybe she spent the day with me, after which I decided to track down her husband just to gloat.

Something to chew over, as I finish my croissant and head for the exit, which inexplicably has a red blinking “Entrance” sign flashing over its threshold, suggesting this whole experience never happened.

****

It has become clear to me that in a past life I was Christopher Columbus. Why else would I become indignant when I discovered that October 9, 2023 was called Indigenous People’s Day? All my childhood dreams about wearing Columbus’s hat also suddenly made sense, as did my love of legumes, which were Columbus’s favorite carbohydrates. But, man, his anger. I didn’t want any part of that. And yet you have little choice of who you were in another life or how that knowledge can screw up an otherwise beautiful day.

****

A short comic prose poem on what we might call the Contemporary Art of Courtly Love:

A poem without a title is like a corpse without a head,” she said. Which meant I needed to impress her with more than just my fossil collection. We shared a cigarette. I asked her to take pictures of me in my basement emptying the dehumidifiers. Oh, what a hot, moist summer it was. I was constantly trying get a read on her. Somedays I thought she loved me; others, I’d catch her hiding my self-help manuals, and then my sunglasses, and then . . . Well, you get the picture—a series of elusive events culminating with a splitting headache, and a short walk to the entrance of a cemetery, itself blocked by a sign reading: “Resting Today.”

The above poem is from OBSERVATIONS FROM THE EDGE OF THE ABYSS. A free nicely designed download of the complete manuscript is available on the PLUME literary magazine site: Observations from the Edge of the Abyss

Old Man Still Howling at the Moon

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