The song “Fidelity” by Regina Spektor has been on my mind a lot lately.  It’s at once hopeful and sad, with an unusual vocal line; it’s attractive and catchy and a song which almost instantly established its own idiom.  To describe a song as “Fidelity-like” is to describe a repetitive syllabic choral signature:

And it breaks my ha ha-ha-ha ha-ha-ha ha-ha-ha-ha-heart…

What breaks my heart: unfulfilled promise.  I listen to this song, scrutinize the lyrics, and watch the video, and know that there is NO way right now I could produce something that creative.  Creativity seems to me to be something that rested people do, something that rested people can tap into, and right now I’m restless, constantly moving, unsettled, and burning fuel.  Simplicity? gone. Subtlety? Light-years away right now.  I am a video of clouds on 8X. I am a wave-pounded beach. I am Broadway and 42nd.  I am an aspirin factory.  I am half-finished sentences and fingers running and re-running through hair and caught breath and repetitive swallowing. I am the cuckoo clock at midnight, all night.

It’s there, somewhere – that creativity, that spark, that slow, assured simplicity of purpose, that depth, that chamber in which the sounds of shaping (no, that’s not a typo) echo, resonant and pure.  I feel it.  I just can’t access it.  It’s like the bump under the duvet – you can tell something is there, and even what it is, without seeing it.

What do I most miss right now?  Writing.  I’ve had a couple periods in the last few months when the words flowed without effort, like water from the head of a glacier.  I’m sort of in a lull right now.  Not writer’s block – not exactly – more like a brief, maddening detour through sludge, a sort of fog, a disequilibrium.  I find it hard to relax.  I can’t NOT multitask, which is death to the creative impulse (at least mine).

Having said all that, I know that these things are cyclic, and my heart will stop breaking and I’ll start creating again, start writing, with more purpose and more thought and more expressiveness than I seem to be able to muster right now.  It’s just a matter of time.

There should be a word for the circumstance where you wake up, briefly,early in the morning, and then fall back into a deep sleep.  I propose “resleep”.

There should also be a word for the human face that looks attractive when viewed face-on, but is unattractive when viewed in profile.  An asymmetry, of sorts.  I suppose the opposite scenario (attractive in profile; unattractive when viewed face-on) could be covered by the same term.

Agile sympathies spark in the gap between our lips
As words come and go. My finger traces patterns on your arm.
Condensation glows on our limoncellos
In whose reflection we are outsized and impossible.
Now is light and danceable and harmonious;
Next is not a naughty word. Variations of anything-goes
Flit across our knowing, smirking mouths
In between various unnamed breathlessnesses.
We would go where we would
And we’d jump if we could,
Hopscotch across continents,
The hot sands of the Gobi not-quite-burning our soles
Forest snakes and dewdrops as big as marbles surprising us in Tikal
Quick-skipping across Hyde Park, the air weaving violets through your hair
Trancing and melting in a warehouse in Joburg.
Our passport stamps coincidentally marking us together,
Our union sans signatures, our plaisance, our happiness.
Brightly together back in the dim room, glasses clinking,
We drink sweetly, sweetly bedeviled by what-might-yet-be.

I waffle. I try on smiles. Time passes
then I tread the hard minutes away next to the blue lake.
Tomorrow is Heisenbergian.
I can’t know, squinting up at the sky,
That the sun is in the proper place.
I can close my eyes and imagine.
The perspiration of hope lines my brow
and everything feels like it could fall into place
with a gentle nudge, the universe’s hand
tilting the table just so.

Have another, she says, and although
I don’t yet know it, she waffles too,
differently but still just as earnestly,
her orbit a broad spiral circumlocution around mine
like DNA or heliotropes or candy canes.
Her gaze is direct and calm, a doe’s, observant,
but she dances away when the ferns rustle.
Synoptically together, one presumes,
and drawing closer and closer. The sun writes our story
on the wide sky.

come one come all the barker smile-roared
waved us in
enter the hall of love, it’s certain to entertain.
we waffled and glanced skeptically sideways
expecting
trite and trashy, unsubtle mashery

not love but sex, caricature, and hollywood reheats
painted faces
disheveled mattresses
fossilized lizards locked in ashy embraces
scarlet harlots
moon-skinned damsels thrown over the shoulders
of caftan-wearing corsairs carrying cutlasses
distorting mirrors
neon lights
two stuffed hummingbirds hung on silver wires
fluttering and copulating
roaring twenties peephole porn
and a ryan o’neal poster.

that is to say, I tuned it out
thought of every which way to catch glances of you
your profile, your hair, your jawline
attended to every idiosyncrasy
in the hopes of finding one i did not know.
I feared i knew them all – each one already familiar
the way you parted your lips while you read
your shyness during interviews
the way you licked your teeth before speaking
your slow left-handed signature
all secretly mine, or so I thought
or so I wanted

the barker, subdued without a crowd
bade us farewell and asked us to tell our friends!
as we wandered off hand in hand into the dusk.

I set out in my little sloop, on a long journey, aimless
wandering the oceans, looking for a haven, for respite
leaving the press of expectations behind.
Navigation and rope-work were easy to master.
The days repeated themselves, one after the other, predictable
and ultimately awful.  I queried the Fates, sought succor;
asked my destiny.  The fickle trio complied.
One near evening, the gently rolling tides succumbed
to the surprise of the bright Moon’s ascent
and rumbled, buckled,
heaved
the waters quickly breached the gunwales
and soon drew my boat, with me in it,
down the scary deeps.
All was still.  All peaceful.
Then – a glowing light! Rescue?  Rescue from what, I thought;
But there, a sea-nymph, pale violet and beautiful
surrounded by a flashing school of a thousand silver surgeonfish,
approached and spoke to me through touch, through vibration,
through the movements of her eyes and hands. Stay.
Her presence overwhelmed me, caught me breathless,
left me senseless.
Enchanted, I am, thought I; and her shimmering visage betrayed no denial.
I surrendered.
I held out my arms, and she led me, slowly, through the schools,
among the coral-reefs, past vast fields of anemone and urchin
to her home. Her aquiline castles yet hold me;
I seek nothing, having found my haven
aeons below the waves.

I got a note from Kate Gavigan a couple days ago about an upcoming writing class that she’s helping put on, and thought I’d pass it along – you might be interested!  I’m unfortunately too busy, but we’re lucky to live in such a thriving literary community.

The class is based on Julia Cameron’s bestselling book The Artist’s Way, which I have owned and loved forever.

It will be held Monday evenings in Wallingford; the first class is on May 10th and the series runs through August 2nd.  Full details can be found on the Facebook event page for the class, or you can contact Kate via Twitter at @ArtistsWayGirl or via e-mail at kmgavigan at gmail dot com.

From the event page:

The Artist’s Way by Julia Cameron is an international bestseller on the subject of creativity. This book and workshop can be an incredibly useful resource to tap into your creative side, which can benefit you professionally and personally. The class will take students through the 12 chapters with an emphasis on the accompanying chapter exercises.

Keep writing!

The couple erupts over damages.  Twin volcanoes, four fearful eyes,
pointed stabbing fingers on the table, saying, You did this.  You.
Statements documenting the skittering descent,
Debits and credits, a general ledger of hurt.

Sitting sideways in profile, unwilling to hold a gaze, – or unable?
He gets up and refills his coffee, shaking slightly at the rim, drips spilling
out onto the counter.  He looks around for paper towels.  Finding none
he hunches back down in the chair and crosses his arms.

The rest of life passes by unconcernedly.  The sun, in perfectly oblivious dissynchronicity,
casts warm spring-rays through the window, onto the bent papers, onto the cat.
He is reminded of six summers ago, in the cabin, sunlight on the table, beach-sand
crunching beneath bare feet, talk of music and books and film and “what is a gaffer, anyway?”
followed by laughter.  That was ten thousand clouds ago.

On a manic spring day, bright water pooled in a wide defile.
Rivulets of intent and accident, showers of serendipity;
Spray, splashes, sparkling mist and iridescent rainbows merged together.
Passersby stroll past, talking and pointing.  They are idly reflected.
It is a curator a memory an echo a lens a rippling panorama.
Earth and sky joined, vivid, in liquid concupiscence.
The surface passes no judgments; anti-interrogative, passive
And carefree and betraying no interest; but still, waters run deep.
Below, just below, tantalizingly close, transformed scenes
From lives rent and sundered
Bubble once, twice, a third and final gasp.
Dark hues fade and disappear.
The sun shines.   The wind calms.  The glassy waters look at my face
And smile.

A dusty Fort Campbell girl playfully challenged me to a race.
We had no set route, knew of no finish line;
Just the thrill of moving together, faster and faster.
Our steady, deep breathing was the only sound.  Suddenly,
Blossoming spring clouds, sky-towers, rose up and let pour;
From nowhere sprung forth white torrents that exploded through dry gulleys.

Heaving waters submerged us, and pulled us along
Through dim, long-forgotten places, til we emerged,
Breathless, laughing, washed clean, made pure.
Above the wide depression in which we lay, a damp cockerel
Eyed us; mimicked our wide-eyed glee. We climbed out
To the sound of crowing.