With that 10-year-old, I would double down: "At Costco yesterday, thirty masked people dropped dead from carbon monoxide poisoning. Their bodies were piled into the bed of a dump truck and taken off to a mass grave." /// And to those who awaken each morning too afraid to live with fearless gusto, I say... One summer I destroyed a major funk by winning a male stripper competition at the Frenchtown Club, in the final round whipping up a sweat to Roy Orbison's "Pretty Woman," totally naked in front of 50 howling cowgirls. That night, after being paid with five twenty-dollar bills, I realized that a funk is a form of taunting cowardice for which the cure is a subversive and mind-blowing act of courage.
"How do you fight back against your own malaise?" For me, I feel lucky to live in a place (NYC) where protests are always happening. Crowds may be smaller than they were in spring/summer 2020, but people are still marching, and I try to support them with a bit of a musical contribution when I can (bass drum or clarinet, depending on the action). Last night, I went to my first protest of the new year: we marched across the Brooklyn Bridge, then took the subway up to Gracie Mansion and yelled at Eric Adams. It was incredibly cathartic to think that he very likely could hear us. That's my community, I think -- a bunch of people yelling together.
It must’ve taken a great deal of compassion on your part, Chris, standing by and observing in the poetry class that one particular day. I wonder, now, what was said by the children who took part in the discussion on compassion? How did you muster up the compassion to simply listen and let them talk it out? I wonder what colour I would be at my edges, listening-in at the time?
This is my favourite “An Irritable Métis” post to date. I wanna… am gonna…. bookmark this journal entry so that I can revisit.
And thanks for talking about who you see on your walks. This makes me happy. It also makes me angry, because I am envious. I grew up running around in woods and fields, sometimes in sneakers, mostly not. But I've spent the past 34 years in a city, where I could live the rest of my life never touching the earth with my feet, not even through the soles of my shoes, let alone barefoot. There is far more concrete and asphalt here than grass or soil or even wood chips for god's sake. I could make an effort to go to places where there are earth paths, and I do, but these places feel so "managed." And they are, of course. But I take what I can get. The pandemic has made it difficult to travel to wild places, so I soak up what I can from my backyard. Woodpeckers. A black-capped chickadee. So many cardinals. And squirrels and squirrels and squirrels.
It's my dream to see a beaver but I don't think I ever will. I would love to see a fox. So please keep telling us when you see these beauties. I can't speak for others (and I probably should not be telling you what to write about), but even though I'm sad I don't have woods to walk in, it makes me feel better to know they're out there, still filled with secretive residents scurrying around. I wish everyone had access to some quiet (though they aren't really quiet if you're listening, are they?), wild woods to walk in because I think it would not only lift us out of our malaise for a bit, but also make us nicer to each other and to every living thing. Maybe?
Today is the 2nd anniversary of the first identified case of Covid in the US - at the hospital I can see when I walk my dog. I'm in a big funk. I'll be cycling through the memories of today through March 12 when we went into lockdown as the next month and a half go by. A trip to the ocean, a library conference in Nashville, my last meal in a restaurant, a shopping trip where we filled two carts (for two people), and my last day working in-person before the lockdown went into effect.
Yep, it's a funk all right. One thing that has saved me is art. Putting ink and paint to paper has given my an outlet for my frustrations and something to take joy in. I've grown as an artist and gone from fixation on finishing challenges (so 2021) to flowing with my mood into 2022. Letting go of perfectionism and learning to cross and overlap lines and colors. Thank goodness for art, thank goodness for a partner I can laugh and complain with, and thank goodness for our dog who has no pretensions other than claiming he's from Reikjavik. Don't ask.
Chris, I am a friend of Dan Stone teaching on the Navajo reservation in Monument Valley. You showed random and thoughtful kindness by sending field notebooks for my students a couple years ago. I loved "One-Sentence Journal" and have shared it with other English teachers. Thanks for loving words and fellow humans. Too few love either one these days. I'm proud to be a subscriber and looking forward to more wonderful essays like this one.
We lost both of our elder cats in 2020, and they both visit. They each had very distinct walking paths and ways of moving around the house, so we can usually distinguish who's who. Every so often they let us glimpse them from the corners of our eyes.
Whenever I am in a funk I take a long walk with my dog Macduff. It is a little difficult to do since he died 5 years ago, but his spirit is still with me. He was the epitome of unconditional love which is what we all need to relieve funkiness. As I read your comment about you cat, I empathized with you. Those we love may die, but they still live in our hearts. To change the subject, Have you ever heard Helen Mirren recite those memorable lines from Ulysses on the Steven Colbert Show? You can view her on YouTube and much of your funk will disappear. A while ago, someone asked me what is my favorite way to spend a Sunday afternoon. Without a moment’s hesitation I replied, “ a walk in the woods where I can visit with deer, beavers, turkeys, and foxes. “ Your posts are thoughtful and poignant. I love reading them.
Re: departed pets: absolutely. My Gwenhwyfar (tabby, very small, club tail) died several years ago, but a couple of months back I saw her for days at the edges of my vision, and kept feeling her slight weight just where she liked to rest on my shoulder. I couldn't stop talking about her. Something of her was definitely there, call it memory or call it spirit.
Thanks for an insightful look into the transcribing of words. A friend came to lunch and I asked her to read some poems so I could have a chance to edit and found myself wondering what I had thought was good about them. Then she said Lilly just walked across the floor. Lilly was 25 and the best cat when she left 4 years ago.
Trauma therapy talks about rewriting your narrative. I breathe easiest when the story is how the fog glazes the hillsides, the light slips under the redwood boughs, and/ or my banjo finds a melody. Small victories.
Another piece full of wonderful observations and lovely writing. Thanks so much, Chris.
Richard Wagamese is one of my top five authors ever. I’ve read everything he wrote at least twice. The kinship-story-change quote has been my twitter tagline since I signed up. He’s one of those souls I’ll always wish I had been able to meet. Though like you and Puny, I think I’ve caught a glimpse of his spirit once or twice.
I managed to get out of my funk a little by losing myself in the writing world, the hopeful middle-grade fantasy I’m editing. I thought about my cat Charlie a lot last night, in the 3am hour, when I usually wake and can’t get back to sleep. He was a good cat. Like Puny.
With that 10-year-old, I would double down: "At Costco yesterday, thirty masked people dropped dead from carbon monoxide poisoning. Their bodies were piled into the bed of a dump truck and taken off to a mass grave." /// And to those who awaken each morning too afraid to live with fearless gusto, I say... One summer I destroyed a major funk by winning a male stripper competition at the Frenchtown Club, in the final round whipping up a sweat to Roy Orbison's "Pretty Woman," totally naked in front of 50 howling cowgirls. That night, after being paid with five twenty-dollar bills, I realized that a funk is a form of taunting cowardice for which the cure is a subversive and mind-blowing act of courage.
"How do you fight back against your own malaise?" For me, I feel lucky to live in a place (NYC) where protests are always happening. Crowds may be smaller than they were in spring/summer 2020, but people are still marching, and I try to support them with a bit of a musical contribution when I can (bass drum or clarinet, depending on the action). Last night, I went to my first protest of the new year: we marched across the Brooklyn Bridge, then took the subway up to Gracie Mansion and yelled at Eric Adams. It was incredibly cathartic to think that he very likely could hear us. That's my community, I think -- a bunch of people yelling together.
It must’ve taken a great deal of compassion on your part, Chris, standing by and observing in the poetry class that one particular day. I wonder, now, what was said by the children who took part in the discussion on compassion? How did you muster up the compassion to simply listen and let them talk it out? I wonder what colour I would be at my edges, listening-in at the time?
This is my favourite “An Irritable Métis” post to date. I wanna… am gonna…. bookmark this journal entry so that I can revisit.
Thanks as always, for sharing a lovely poem.
And thanks for talking about who you see on your walks. This makes me happy. It also makes me angry, because I am envious. I grew up running around in woods and fields, sometimes in sneakers, mostly not. But I've spent the past 34 years in a city, where I could live the rest of my life never touching the earth with my feet, not even through the soles of my shoes, let alone barefoot. There is far more concrete and asphalt here than grass or soil or even wood chips for god's sake. I could make an effort to go to places where there are earth paths, and I do, but these places feel so "managed." And they are, of course. But I take what I can get. The pandemic has made it difficult to travel to wild places, so I soak up what I can from my backyard. Woodpeckers. A black-capped chickadee. So many cardinals. And squirrels and squirrels and squirrels.
It's my dream to see a beaver but I don't think I ever will. I would love to see a fox. So please keep telling us when you see these beauties. I can't speak for others (and I probably should not be telling you what to write about), but even though I'm sad I don't have woods to walk in, it makes me feel better to know they're out there, still filled with secretive residents scurrying around. I wish everyone had access to some quiet (though they aren't really quiet if you're listening, are they?), wild woods to walk in because I think it would not only lift us out of our malaise for a bit, but also make us nicer to each other and to every living thing. Maybe?
Today is the 2nd anniversary of the first identified case of Covid in the US - at the hospital I can see when I walk my dog. I'm in a big funk. I'll be cycling through the memories of today through March 12 when we went into lockdown as the next month and a half go by. A trip to the ocean, a library conference in Nashville, my last meal in a restaurant, a shopping trip where we filled two carts (for two people), and my last day working in-person before the lockdown went into effect.
Yep, it's a funk all right. One thing that has saved me is art. Putting ink and paint to paper has given my an outlet for my frustrations and something to take joy in. I've grown as an artist and gone from fixation on finishing challenges (so 2021) to flowing with my mood into 2022. Letting go of perfectionism and learning to cross and overlap lines and colors. Thank goodness for art, thank goodness for a partner I can laugh and complain with, and thank goodness for our dog who has no pretensions other than claiming he's from Reikjavik. Don't ask.
Chris, I am a friend of Dan Stone teaching on the Navajo reservation in Monument Valley. You showed random and thoughtful kindness by sending field notebooks for my students a couple years ago. I loved "One-Sentence Journal" and have shared it with other English teachers. Thanks for loving words and fellow humans. Too few love either one these days. I'm proud to be a subscriber and looking forward to more wonderful essays like this one.
Oh lord. All of this. Thank you. I’m going to crawl into a dark corner and weep now.
We lost both of our elder cats in 2020, and they both visit. They each had very distinct walking paths and ways of moving around the house, so we can usually distinguish who's who. Every so often they let us glimpse them from the corners of our eyes.
So nice of Puny to let you know she was there!
Whenever I am in a funk I take a long walk with my dog Macduff. It is a little difficult to do since he died 5 years ago, but his spirit is still with me. He was the epitome of unconditional love which is what we all need to relieve funkiness. As I read your comment about you cat, I empathized with you. Those we love may die, but they still live in our hearts. To change the subject, Have you ever heard Helen Mirren recite those memorable lines from Ulysses on the Steven Colbert Show? You can view her on YouTube and much of your funk will disappear. A while ago, someone asked me what is my favorite way to spend a Sunday afternoon. Without a moment’s hesitation I replied, “ a walk in the woods where I can visit with deer, beavers, turkeys, and foxes. “ Your posts are thoughtful and poignant. I love reading them.
Re: departed pets: absolutely. My Gwenhwyfar (tabby, very small, club tail) died several years ago, but a couple of months back I saw her for days at the edges of my vision, and kept feeling her slight weight just where she liked to rest on my shoulder. I couldn't stop talking about her. Something of her was definitely there, call it memory or call it spirit.
PS I see my old, gone animal friends every so often. Just out of the corner of my eye. I’m glad Puny stopped by.
Thanks for an insightful look into the transcribing of words. A friend came to lunch and I asked her to read some poems so I could have a chance to edit and found myself wondering what I had thought was good about them. Then she said Lilly just walked across the floor. Lilly was 25 and the best cat when she left 4 years ago.
Trauma therapy talks about rewriting your narrative. I breathe easiest when the story is how the fog glazes the hillsides, the light slips under the redwood boughs, and/ or my banjo finds a melody. Small victories.
I love that poem.
*goes to change the bed sheets
Another piece full of wonderful observations and lovely writing. Thanks so much, Chris.
Richard Wagamese is one of my top five authors ever. I’ve read everything he wrote at least twice. The kinship-story-change quote has been my twitter tagline since I signed up. He’s one of those souls I’ll always wish I had been able to meet. Though like you and Puny, I think I’ve caught a glimpse of his spirit once or twice.
I managed to get out of my funk a little by losing myself in the writing world, the hopeful middle-grade fantasy I’m editing. I thought about my cat Charlie a lot last night, in the 3am hour, when I usually wake and can’t get back to sleep. He was a good cat. Like Puny.