i am known

this kid came into work the other night and my boss and the young girl i was working with both knew who he was.

he kept going on about how everywhere he goes everyone knows him.

so i am standing there, clueless and say,

if it's any consolation, i don't know who you are.

now you do.

he said.

and all i could think, was, is that it? someone hands you a fist full of change and suddenly they "know" you. but of course, i curbed this bit of musing and went on my way.

in a sense i understand his meaning, though i won't remember him the next time he comes in. his face was unremarkable to me, his demeanor nothing i locked into memory as so many before.

the parking attendant at the poetry workshop.
the banker on the subway.
the old woman holding out her hand.

these people, for better or worse, in whatever shallow way, i've come to know. if by nothing other than the force of their image in my mind. they were real people to me.

this kid was not, he was just another customer, another face in the crowd. another anonymous coffee, which i don't even remember what it was.

but changing jobs for me was tough because there are people who think they know me here. people who in some small way are associated with some aspect of my life, through my husband or daughter, or our various social commitments. but in the true sense of knowing, as i understand it, none of these people, not one single soul, save a handful of poets and two friends know me.

knowing a person is more than just remembering their name, as difficult as that proves to be sometimes for me.

it requires investment on both parts and i would no more tell anyone they know me because they handed me some change, than tell them any number of sensitive things.

but this is incongruous with my chosen field. my given profession, the way i spend my time, is it not?

not really.

i think when people create art, it isn't necessarily for those who are surrounding them. it is certainly nice when some of those folks "get it" but those folks that don't get it aren't the end all of the situation.

we create art because, first of all, we must.

in all these books i'm reading about why shakespeare stressed his iambs just so, i keep thinking, this is bullshit. finally, i've come across one author who says,

scansion is not a science and stresses will vary from reader to reader.

which is marvelous comfort to me because i had been contemplating that this whole time. how do we ever know that's a spondee and a dactyl and not a trochee and a spondee (i didn't check to make sure that works out, so just be impressed by the sound of it, okay?).

my prof spelled it all out for me, making the whole thing digestable, or it would seem, but i am striken by a grave case of indigestion where prosody is concerned. the whole thing feels like a load of crap to me, and while every poet worth his word says you must study prosody, i find the endeavor wearisome beyond words.

know what you're not choosing is the logic, but i would like to let something organic happen. writing, for one.

i'm wasted tired now, more tired than i've been in a long time. last week after the botanical gardens i slept over fourteen hours. i read somewhere, sleep is a salve for a hurt mind. i think it was oscar wilde who said that.

and i think, more than physically healing of late, i'm mentally and emotionally healing. the utero of slumber is the best i can do, but day comes too soon and my dreams are of little comfort.

in fact, they leave me pondering the meaning for days.

which i guess is better than not dreaming at all.

peace.