A toast to Tex - at peace

Last week, I had to put Tex to sleep. He now has his freedom in a place not bound by bodies and all things physical. I miss him terribly and I wanted to reminisce a bit about him:

Tex was in a pet store near Dallas, Texas (hence his name!) I bought him on April 28, 1992. The day before I flew standby on American Airlines to Dallas (first class, back when a hot breakfast was served enroute) for a flight attendant interview. At that time in my life I was a travel consultant and thought I wanted to be a flight attendant, or at least interview for one. After the interviews that day, I stayed the night and flew back the next morning. I had some free time in the morning and took the hotel shuttle bus to the nearby mall. I wanted an orange kitten and hadn't been able to find one yet. There was a pet store in the mall, and I met Tex and his brother. The woman owner put me in a room with them (she knows how to sell!) and of course it was love at first sight. I told her I'd keep him if I could fly back with him, so I called the airline and they said yes, I could bring him on board. So, we boxed him up in his cardboard carry on and I had him with me in the cabin under the seat. He was very good, and settled down once we were in the air. Then he had to come home and meet Cleo - my other 6 month old kitten. But he stood his ground and with one swap on Cleo's face with his claws they had their pecking order established.

Tex was fond of chasing rubber balls - he played 'fetch' and would return them (when he wanted to). He also knew his name and would come when called. He slept with me on the bed, and has been there for me since before I was married and longer than most relationships. He survived a hyperthyroid, a stroke - where he miracously recovered after three days when I didn't think he was going to make it - and then high blood pressure, and finally, blindness. He taught me patience - and to never give up. He loved unconditionally. Tex, I will remember you. I still have his photo as my computer screen saver at work. Sometimes people and animals are connected in special ways, I know that is true with Tex. He was 15.

It was hard for me to put him to sleep but the vet was very nice and I had the support of a close friend to drive me around since my car was in the shop. Sometimes I think my car went out on purpose that week because I needed the support of others that I wouldn't have seeked out on my own. We buried him in his backyard near the trees where he will be at peace. Afterwards, we went out to eat and had a toast to Tex - remembering the good times he brought me, along with the other cats in our lives.

(I wish I could scan his kitten photo in here, but alas I don't have a color scanner).

I still have Cleo - she is mellowing out a bit and is more affectionate. She is usually very jealous but I think she misses Tex too.

Teaching me to see

This is what a cat sees - a lot of blues and greens, and grays.

Tex, my 15 year old kitty - is blind as of last week.

I'm trying to figure out what to learn from all this. He has a hyper thyroid (for a couple of years at least), and some high blood pressure which probably caused the loss of vision. He is managing okay - better than I thought he would. He's on another one of his many lives, overcoming obstacles, living in the moment. He dreams a lot - moving and twitching - and then wakes up. What is it like to wake up to darkness? He knows his way around the apartment - he has that memorized. He's learned how to jump up on the couch and the bed - amazing. He's on a new diet for kidney regulation, along with saline injections because he was dehydrated. He still has his thyroid medication. All of this is worth it, hopefully. I'm not going to go to any extra-ordinary measures to save him, I'll let him decide how active he wants to be. These first few days have been hard on me - taking him to the vet when my car also broke down posed a challenge and a friend has been very generous in getting us where we needed to go. I'm wishing my other vet would have been more pro-active in telling me what to do to get some of this under control earlier, now it is too late.

I think about the morning rituals I have - opening the blinds, the curtains, how life must be so different without sight. It's made me pay attention to everything. Tex is aware of sounds and smells, his whiskers tell him where he needs to go, he seldom 'bumps' into anything. I know he's gradually adjusting. I don't think he's in pain unless his eye is bothering him. His one eye is worse than the other, he may have to have it taken out but it's too early to tell. The vet tells me about cats with no eyes who get along fine. The eyes are the window to the soul. It's hard to relate to others without the eyes looking back at you. Now they are a cloudy stare, his pupils are dialated and stay that way.

I'm not ready to give up on him yet. It seems like everyone says, 'he's old, he's not going to last much longer.' True. But cats are there to talk to; it will be lonely without him. I'm the type of person who needs a cat around the house. (Cleo, by the way, my other cat, is the same age and has hardly been sick a day in her life and is doing just fine) Tex may be blind but he is teaching me to see.

A good website on cat vision is: http://videoforcats.com/catvision.htm

Abstraction

Abstraction

The MIA at night

(Minneapolis Institute of Arts)

Fri, Oct 5th

My friend Maggie and I went to the MIA to see the O'Keeffe exhibit "Circling Around Abstraction." A small exhibit of her work. This was significant for us - the last time we went to an O'Keeffe opening together was back in 1994 also at the MIA for the "O'Keeffe/Stieglitz" exhibit. We had lost touch as friends for about six or seven years and just this year got back in touch. Some things are like that. Circling.

You can see more on the O'Keeffe exhibit at http://www.artsmia.org/circling-around-abstraction

You can see my version of red flowers in the photo at left.

I noted some of Georgia O'Keeffe's observations throughout the exhibit:

"nothing is less real than realism"


The abstraction is often the most definite form for the intangible thing in myself that I can only clarify in paint

The blue that will always be there as it is afar

after man's desctruction is finished.

I decided that I wasn't going to spend my life doing what had already been done. (1976)


Notan - the Japanese word for dark/light
There is no word in English to express the idea contained in the phrase dark-light.
Arthur W Dow, "Composition," (Doubleday, 1914)

Shoes

Liam Rector Memorial Service
St. Mark's Church in the Bowery, 131 E 10th Street , New York , NY
Saturday, Sept 22, 2007 - 3 pm


The first thing that struck me was the shoes. Liam's shoes, 8 to 10 pairs, maybe, all across the steps of the altar, lit with candles. Would they catch on fire? He was there in that spooky presence of his, but not there. Some of us half-expected him to come in to say this was a cruel joke, but of course it wasn't.

After being forced to wait until 15 minutes before the service to get in, the ushers finally relented. Why they did this I don't know, maybe they were lighting candles. It was raining lightly, there was a bit of a downpour earlier in the day. In line I talked to several classmates and instructors.
Friends and family spoke:

Tree - "It wasn't depression. It wasn't a whim." Liam lived life in quality versus quantity. Poetry was "the third thing" between them. They were married 16 years. The last night of his life he donned a tuxedo with a polo shirt, they had a nice dinner, he asked her to dance. Did she know he was planning this? She didn't say. She seemed composed. I'm wondering how she will be a few months from now.

Virginia Rector - Liam's daughter from another marriage, age 23. She also looked composed and read from a prepared script. She says she never got to say goodbye. She quoted a line Liam always said (and that I remember from Bennington as well) "Life's not fair."

Tree and Liam were married in Donald Hall's backyard, before Jane Kenyon was sick. Black ties and red sneakers.

Donald Hall spoke, sitting in a chair instead of the podium. He couldn't read anything prepared, he just talked, he sounded upset. He and Liam wrote letters back and forth via mail. Three of them came after his death. Movies, clothes, shoes. One time Liam made a list for Donald of "85 suggestions of the duties of Poet Laureate."

Jerry Winestone - Liam lived his life his way. (Did suicide give him control? Probably.)

Ed Ochester was stuck in the Pittsburgh airport. I found out later there was a bomb threat and the whole airport was closed down. Some kid with a circuit board around his neck as an art statement?


Bob Shacochis - Bob, thank you for being honest. No sentiment from you, as usual. You are angry he left us, we are all angry and you put it out there to admit what everyone else was avoiding. You wrote a letter to Tree. You always were one of my favorite Bennington instructors, because you have a sarcastic, skeptical, witty view of life, and don't take shit from anyone. And you're not taking it from Liam now, either. Liam had the song "Mashed Potatoes" playing on his computer at his desk when he shot himself. Was that a hint for the poem "Gravy" by Raymond Carver? You talked to Tree about this. A clue left behind. I have trouble believing that Liam would 'stage' something to leave clues as to the motive behind his death, besides his suicide note. I don't know him well enough for that.


The poem "Gravy" was published in the New Yorker three weeks after Raymond Carver's death at 50 in 1988. I see the similarities here, I don't know what Liam thought of Carver but I'm sure he was an influence. Liam survived his 20% chance to live in the battle for colon cancer and added a few more years. That is, until he decided life wasn't worth living due to more health-related issues.


Gravy

by Raymond Carver



No other word will do. For that's what it was.

Gravy.

Gravy, these past ten years.

Alive, sober, working, loving, and

being loved by a good woman.

Eleven years

ago he was told he had six months to live

at the rate he was going. And he was going

nowhere but down. So he changed his ways

somehow. He quit drinking! And the rest?

After that it was all gravy, every minute

of it, up to and including when he was told about,

well, some things that were breaking down and

building up inside his head. "Don't weep for me,"

he said to his friends. "I'm a lucky man.

I've had ten years longer than I or anyone

expected. Pure Gravy. And don't forget it."



Sven Birkets - also addressed the anger. "Friends don't do this." I agree. No goodbyes, no warnings. Sven mentioned James Dickey's poem "Lord let me die, but not die out." I was enamored with Dickey's poetry as an undergraduate student, the way he wrote about nature and memory. Sven, you will carry us on as acting director of the life of letters.

Others spoke. Jill McKorkle, Amyl Hempel, Tom Sleigh, Linda Gregg, Martha Cooley, Jason Shinder, Elizabeth Wray, Matthew Graham, Victoria Clausi, Lucie Brock-Broido, David Fenza. Two hours later, Askold Melnyczuk showed a group of slides on St. Mark's white wall on the altar. Above the shoes. Titled "American Prodigal #6". Liam's baby and childhood photos, his wife, daughter, with Tree. The full frontal nudity shot thrown in for good measure. Liam's birth name was Ron, he changed it to Liam.

David Broza performed "In Snow" (Liam's poem and music by David) on guitar, and sang. A fitting ending.


Afterwards, the church lights stayed dark, we got up, talked, moved to the outside patio area with water (no drinks, no toasting). A Bennington reunion, in a bit, this sad occasion that has brought us here. St. Mark's had a balcony and it reminded me a bit of Tishman, except Sven and Liam weren't in the balcony like the old men in the muppets. Some went to nearby bars. I walked back the few blocks to my hotel (the Carlton Arms) to pick up my bag and head to Penn Station for the train to New Haven , Connecticut to meet another friend and fellow alum.


It had stopped raining. I touched the Buddha at the Carlton Arms entryway for what - luck? wishes? Left a penny for my thoughts - like everyone else.



I decided to bring along Donna Tartt's novel, "The Secret History" to read while on the planes and trains. I finished it the day after I returned to Minneapolis . Tartt models the fictional college of Hampden after Bennington College with references to the Commons, the dorms and other Bennington landmarks. It is a murder mystery, a close knit group of six sequestered undergraduate students studying Greek philosophy. It was a fitting time to read the book, one I had always meant to read but was put on the back burner due to other projects. "We don't like to admit it," said Julian (the Greek instructor in the novel), "but the idea of losing control is one that fascinates controlled people such as ourselves more than almost anything. All truly civilized people - the ancients no less than us -- have civilized themselves through the willful repression of the old, animal self. Are we, in this room, really very different from the Greeks or the Romans? Obsessed with duty, piety, loyalty, sacrifice? All those things which are to modern tastes so chilling?"

No longer a mystery. Those shoes - others will fill them but no one else will walk in them.

Into the Vortex - post-death sentimentia

In Memory- Liam Rector
1949 - August 15, 2007

Photo: Liam Rector (left) and Ed Ochester, June 2007, Bennington College campus. (photo credit: Woody Lewis)

Liam, you died on my classmates' birthday. We all remember where we were when we read the email - at work - what? how? why? It was health, you shot yourself. Almost two weeks ago. I write while things are still fresh, while death isn't dead yet, your email address can't be deleted from my address book - not quite yet.

I sat with Liam and Ed Ochester at graduation dinner in January and we were talking about suicide. Liam said when he was 17 he thought of killing himself and then decided to live the next year with no regrets and it was the best year of his life so far and then he turned 18 and decided not to kill himself. We jokingly talked about how to kill yourself and not leave a mess, i.e. jump off a bridge or something. He said it would be horrible to kill yourself in a hotel room and have the maid find you there, all that stress on her. It sounds horrible to talk about this now, we were in a mood that wasn't down, just being honest but I didn't take it as a sign that he was thinking about it. I knew he battled depression but he seemed to be doing better with his book out, and he asked me about the program a lot and looking back I think he was seeking more self-assurance than usual. He seemed to look at all of us sitting up there at graduation with long looks that I just felt something going on in him but it didn't make sense and now it is making sense. I just knew him a short while, I only really got to know him a little when he was my instructor. I started to know him as a friend, a mentor. He handed out CD compilations of his favorite songs each term - the "sentimentia" collection. He played the Glengary Glen Ross damn DVD - which I absolutely LOVE - to "Always be Closing" - his "see you in a minute" letters, his wry wit. I'm angry. I'm sad.

The need to speak.

Liam talked about this as he read my poetry manuscript on cassette tape which was included with the first packet. He did this for each one of his students. Entire manuscripts in his voice, the best line editing I could have had, off the page, which is where it starts. Liam Fed Ex'd my packets back every time, always almost late, but always on time. That moment of anticipation every month, to see what he might say in our letter back and forth. I play the first tape, my ms first draft and he says: " listen for each poem's need to speak. Rilke talked a great deal about the need to speak in a given poem and if you listen for that need to speak, that motive, that source, that animating scene of instruction, propulsion, what brings it to speech, what brings it to the page, if you listen very carefully as a reader, as a listener, you'll hear in that your own need to listen and any consequent reader's need to listen. I'm reading it as a stranger in a bookstore, who comes at it the first time. So, how to listen: with your bullshit detector, any false words, false line, false image, false stanza, anything that doesn't contribute directly to the presentation. As you go through what of these poems you're going to in fact use in your manuscript, the ones that sound strongest, the ones that sound weakest, and the ones that are having conversations with each other….their need to be juxtaposed, or revised, or alchemized towards each other. The semester is a meditation upon the book - this manuscript - you're thinking what begins, what middles and what ends this book, this ms, this thesis that I'm putting together. Listen to the point of utter boredom and distraction listen to it as a reader it has its own independent life, approach it as a reader, put it together as a writer, with the arc of communion with the reader, that sacred creature that we're going to be considering the entire semester. Read one thing after another, without commentary….. "

Liam loved convertibles and I have a convertible too, I wish I would have had a chance to ride in his when he was still doing that with his students. He wrote me on cream colored stationery with his name and address imprinted at the top; you don't see that around much anymore - "The Mark Twain" - his apartment/hotel. He took the time to respond, with three or four or more pages, that life of letters we all came here for. I remember him calling me to tell me I'd been admitted into the program - that personal phone call everyone gets, a message and waiting a whole day for him to get back to me, and not really knowing what the hell I was getting into in this program but I knew it didn't matter, I'd figure it out somehow.

I look at the reading list for my 4th term and remember I still haven't read Thomas Hardy's "Jude the Obscure" - one of Liam's favorites along with Hart Crane. It's sitting on my bookshelf now. The DVD of the BBC series is shipped from Netflix and I have watched three of the many episodes, how can I stand the fall from the dreams, the controversial ending?

I am pushed by this act to start living my own reckless life again. "We are sending you off as a woman of letters, as a player, as a person who does not only apply for jobs but creates them. As both a poet (which means maker) and as a producer." Liam did a fantastic job of creating this program. The vortex - what the hell was he talking about at orientation? I wanted practical details, he jumped into a fantasy that I didn't understand - not yet, anyway. He wrote on the board:

Vortex - an indestructible node or cluster.

Thinking about it now, that describes Liam. He sucked me in to the center of the program, it is all or nothing at Bennington and he pulled out of me poems I never knew I had, by saying very little.

As I connect with my classmates and instructors and fellow writers we feel that weird Bennington solidarity. We are together, yet apart, all of us scattered until we come together again. We want to be together to grieve, yet we are apart. Liam's memorial is in New York, a sense of closure, but mostly so we can go on, reminisce and see what will happen along with the rest of the Bennington family….Ed, I will smoke a cigar with you, Liam, this drink is for you, fellow classmates, instructors, friends. I miss him terribly. Cheers.

The End of the World.......

The Remarkable Objectivity of Your Old Friends

by Liam Rector

We did right by your death and went out,
Right away, to a public place to drink,
To be with each other, to face it.


We called other friends—the ones
Your mother hadn't called—and told them
What you had decided, and some said


What you did was right; it was the thing
You wanted and we'd just have to live
With that, that your life had been one


Long misery and they could see why you
Had chosen that, no matter what any of us
Thought about it, and anyway, one said,


Most of us abandoned each other a long
Time ago and we'd have to face that
If we had any hope of getting it right.

From American Prodigal by Liam Rector, published by Story Line Press. Copyright © 1994 by Liam Rector. Reprinted by permission of the author and Story Line Press.

More on Liam: http://www.bennington.edu/news_prfp_070822rector.asp

Poems: http://www.poets.org/poet.php/prmPID/379

bridges are for jumping off not falling

Stone Arch bridge from Mill City Museum observation deck, taken 5.26.07. The 35W Bridge (not seen in this photo, it's to the right) collapsed in Minneapolis on 8.1.07

Bridges are for jumping off not falling
by Jules Nyquist


a sestina falls
what would be those six words?
bridge
collapse
last
breath
last
phone call

e mail text are you okay?
canoes are in the river, helping
media descends on this little city
fucking politicians all out of town anyway
leave us alone, driving down university avenue in dinkytown for a haircut
I forget
the bridge, the traffic
bridges are for suicides
for John Berryman on Washington Avenue
or the girl who was released from the hospital ward long enough to get her keys
water her plants she says, pick up a few things instead she
locked her door, slid the keys under it and jumped off a bridge

I only have a 6th floor balcony
over the rail, who would find me dead on the pavement
in the courtyard?
who would they call you? who would they call?
you called me right away
that is a good sign

hundreds of bridges, thousands in a lifetime to go under
over and constantly do I notice the river? yes I crossed it six times this weekend
in the last two days is it only a paper suicide?
glad we didn't know anyone, but yes I do, almost

a co-worker matters
I dream of skyscrapers flooding
cars floating up to the 16th floor
and you were there almost under
telling me about it when you touch me
I ask you to say how you feel
you stopped at the coffeehouse and the cop
had cement dust on his shoes

it's all the same day

Yesterday I went to the MIA (Mpls Inst of Art) and realized it's the 40th anniversary of the Summer of Love, 1967 in Haight-Ashbury. How can it be 40 years already?

Janis Joplin has always been an inspiration.....I was only 8 years old in 1970 when she died. I've sometimes wished I was born 10 years earlier. It was strange listening to her music in a museum with headphones instead of at home or on the street.
What did I do when I was 27?

You only have one day....

"It's all the same fucking day, man........"

Yes, it is, Janis, yes it is.