Memoirous

 Big Cabin   I’ve been reading poetry from Ron Padgett, his book Big Cabin from Coffee House Press. “Timex Blur”— I was going to complain about how irritating it is to have to change one’s clock twice a year and not understand why, but sunlight just came down and hit the pond and my brain at the same time.   And, borrowing, from another poet, Emily Dickinson, there’s a certain slant of light. It is jarring, that one hour difference. Suddenly I am out at a “time” I’m normally doing something else; the routine is altered. For example, last night after the switch to Standard Time, I rode home in the dark on my bike. Luckily my lights were juiced up. Also—not quite dark—coming down my street with the hazy dim and dark pines over the roadway there was a certain slant of light, a new perspective which stood out in contrast to only a day before. It was always there? Or was I afforded a view brought together by “the switch” and the elements of weather an...

 Big Cabin   I’ve been reading poetry from Ron Padgett, his book Big Cabin from Coffee House Press. “Timex Blur”— I was going to complain about how irritating it is to have to change one’s clock twice a year and not understand why, but sunlight just came down and hit the pond and my brain at the same time.   And, borrowing, from another poet, Emily Dickinson, there’s a certain slant of light. It is jarring, that one hour difference. Suddenly I am out at a “time” I’m normally doing something else; the routine is altered. For example, last night after the switch to Standard Time, I rode home in the dark on my bike. Luckily my lights were juiced up. Also—not quite dark—coming down my street with the hazy dim and dark pines over the roadway there was a certain slant of light, a new perspective which stood out in contrast to only a day before. It was always there? Or was I afforded a view brought together by “the switch” and the elements of weather an...

  You Can’t Have It All But you can have the fig tree and its fat leaves like clown hands gloved with green. You can have the touch of a single eleven-year-old finger on your cheek, waking you at one a.m. to say the hamster is back. You can have the purr of the cat and the soulful look of the black dog, the look that says, If I could I would bite every sorrow until it fled, and when it is August, you can have it August and abundantly so. You can have love, though often it will be mysterious, like the white foam that bubbles up at the top of the bean pot over the red kidneys until you realize foam’s twin is blood. You can have the skin at the center between a man’s legs, so solid, so doll-like. You can have the life of the mind, glowing occasionally in priestly vestments, never admitting pettiness, never stooping to bribe the sullen guard who’ll tell you all roads narrow at the border. You can speak a foreign language, sometimes, and it can mean something. You can ...

Day 4, 45 miles I’d washed out my single pair of underwear the night before and hung up in the tent. That’s what I put on the next day. No microfiber towel to help dry them. Oh, well. I also tried to use the stove at the picnic table after packing up. This time it didn’t even spark or flare. Nada. At least I had an apple and part of my sub. And not too far to ride. I got going quick because of not making oatmeal etc. I was riding by 8:15. Sunday morning. Very serene. Google put me on dirt roads, which I usually hate, but in the a.m. quiet and feeling rested, I was so happy. About 12 miles to Owosso. Sixteen minutes later it starts to mist. At a little country church with Jesus Country music on outside speakers I slip on rain pants while members pull into parking lot. I get invited to Bible study. I tell them I want to get home. The landscape reminds me of an Andrew Wyeth painting: muted golds, reds, and browns. The miles come easy. In Owosso I found a gas station and filled up te...