emblazoned zones and fiery poles
I've been listening to the most recent Bouncing Souls' album far too much recently. It takes me back, back, back, to New Jersey sidewalks and fire drills during ceramics' class. One of the consistent themes is something that I, as an extremely solitary person, mull over quite a bit. Can the city comfort? I've lived in my city now for about six years, and I cannot pinpoint if the comfort comes from the city itself or from seeing someone I know or recognize every single day of my life. I think if anything the comfort of the city, any city, comes from the ability to nod to these individuals and not have to go through the formal facades of greeting. That is one of my favorite things about the downtown area here. I like anonymity. I like pausing randomly to appreciate the lines of buildings and streets intersecting at odd angles. I like zigzagging through sidestreets and back alleys.
A professor once told me that I reminded him of Wallace Stevens. I took this in two separate ways, depending on my mood that day: in one way, what a compliment! I love Wallace Stevens' poetry--in fact, I take lines from one of his poems as part of my personal creed: "Then we, as we beheld her striding there alone, knew that there never was a world for her except the one she sang, and singing, made." His poetry can bring tears to my eyes, there is such sadness and solitude and so much truth of the deficiences I see in myself.
But in the other way, that way where you want others to see yourself as you hope to see yourself, I felt like I had obviously not communicated myself eloquently enough. How could this professor that I respect and admire so much see me as similar to this old man who worked in corporate jobs in office buildings his entire life? The sheer genius and beauty of his words was hidden well beneath the fuddy-duddiness of suits and trenchcoats and attaché cases and concrete walls and grey, grey, grey, grey existence. In college I yearned for a pedestal. I would scowl in the corner, put my hood over my head, and scribble ferociously in notebooks. I would even stick out my tongue when I heard any comment void of kinship to my agenda. Would Wallace Stevens ever be so bold as to stick out his tongue on the 52nd floor in a meeting with the board?
I'd like to connect this with the city. Wallace Stevens was of the city. But he was not of the city in a way that I find comforting, cozy, protective, harsh in loving, but "so full of pain that it makes a kind of singing" (to quote Robert Hass). I want the cities I live in to sing with me. I want the steam rising from sewers to envelope me in all of its putrid, warming glory. But I am of Wallace Stevens. I am of his words, his isolationism, his mundaneness, his suits, his grey grey grey existence. I want the city to rip me from these clutches. Can comfort co-exist with the everyday?
"We are not alone in this city that is our home."
A professor once told me that I reminded him of Wallace Stevens. I took this in two separate ways, depending on my mood that day: in one way, what a compliment! I love Wallace Stevens' poetry--in fact, I take lines from one of his poems as part of my personal creed: "Then we, as we beheld her striding there alone, knew that there never was a world for her except the one she sang, and singing, made." His poetry can bring tears to my eyes, there is such sadness and solitude and so much truth of the deficiences I see in myself.
But in the other way, that way where you want others to see yourself as you hope to see yourself, I felt like I had obviously not communicated myself eloquently enough. How could this professor that I respect and admire so much see me as similar to this old man who worked in corporate jobs in office buildings his entire life? The sheer genius and beauty of his words was hidden well beneath the fuddy-duddiness of suits and trenchcoats and attaché cases and concrete walls and grey, grey, grey, grey existence. In college I yearned for a pedestal. I would scowl in the corner, put my hood over my head, and scribble ferociously in notebooks. I would even stick out my tongue when I heard any comment void of kinship to my agenda. Would Wallace Stevens ever be so bold as to stick out his tongue on the 52nd floor in a meeting with the board?
I'd like to connect this with the city. Wallace Stevens was of the city. But he was not of the city in a way that I find comforting, cozy, protective, harsh in loving, but "so full of pain that it makes a kind of singing" (to quote Robert Hass). I want the cities I live in to sing with me. I want the steam rising from sewers to envelope me in all of its putrid, warming glory. But I am of Wallace Stevens. I am of his words, his isolationism, his mundaneness, his suits, his grey grey grey existence. I want the city to rip me from these clutches. Can comfort co-exist with the everyday?
"We are not alone in this city that is our home."
posted by eekbeat | 8:01 AM
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