Vermont Writer/Yoga Retreat Wins Architectual Design Award for Guest Quarters
February 4, 2008
I was planning on leaving the middle-of-nowhere until I happened upon a shed this afternoon. It spoke to me. “Stay and Die,” it said. “But Die slowly, like a Buddhist, and know that there is nothing else to attend to.” Inside the shed, rotting furniture, an old iron bed post, broken dishes, a child’s wooden rocking horse. Snow melting through a hole in the roof. I thought about the Cabaret Symposium at Yale, my novel, my bank account, my ego, my aging, still smiling eyes. I felt my strong, healthy body moving effortlessly as I pressed through deep iced snow, a crunch and a crunch, in the still air. I peaked through broken windows into old lives. No ghosts remained. Just the message: “Stay and Die” or ”Go and Die”- but know about death and the heartiness of life, and as Beaudelaire said so magnificently, “Drown yourself in it, whatever it is. Whatever moment of your life it is, drown in it.” Take it in fully and dont think about the Yale Cabaret Symposium, or the novel, or the bank account, or your age, or what you can accomplish if you just, if you just…. Get drunk on everything, every moment.
And I did. I got drunk in the shed, because of the shed and because my body took me to the shed without a hitch. In the shed, the rusting, irretrievable, useless past. Useless, like memories and manufactured yearning.
I must let go and be. I fight it, because I will not be able to make the authorities happy. My reviews will be small, on page 12. My gifts, supressed and shaped to entertain the targeted mob. Oh, I am alone. Will they take my home away from me if I become myself? The shed offers itself. I will accept.
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There is somebody in my house in Vermont. A nice man is renting my house and I am thrilled because that man is renting my house and sending me money so that I can rent an apartment in Providence. Now, wait a minute. Does this make sense? I thought so, a few weeks ago, when I was working here, singing, planning, organizing, hob-knobbing, but as of today, as I lugged a bunch of my crap up two flights of stairs on the East Side, all the while knowing I would have to lug the crap back down the two flights of stairs a few months from now— as of today, I thought to myself, “Gee, I don’t feel very good in my head” I sat on the stairs, dirty stairs, very dirty, and considered my situation. I blamed the town of Bridport , Vermont, for not having a Dunkin Donut’s or a Cafe, a bar or a nightclub, a college, tennis courts, health club, movie theater. Then I blamed myself for wanting those things. Then I blamed myself for having those things here in Providence and not taking advantage of them because I like staying home and reading in bed. Now, if I like staying home and reading in bed, why don’t I just move back to my own home, in Bridport, and wait out the winter with Charles Dickens and Mark Twain? Now that I have rented my house, I miss it. It is not available. That is why I was so sad today, moving into what I thought was a nice apartment on the East Side. It is somebody elses house and always will be, no matter how many knick knacks, rugs, paintings, books, personal items I stuff into it. Renting makes me feel insecure, more insecure than worrying about how to pay my property tax. It’s silly, because none of us own anything fully. Still, sombody is in MY house and i am in somebody else’s house, and it’s ridiculous in a way that I can’t quite comprehend and it is making me very very sad.