Through Dense Fog and Dreaming
On Becoming a Poet: Stories of the Wild
Wednesday
July 3, 2024
Through Dense Fog
On Becoming a Poet: Stories of the Wild
The big yellow bus seems a block long as its lights emerge through the dense fog. The sun hasn’t burned away the rain puddles holding the night’s unexpected storm and the sandy bean fields are littered with tree branches and leaves the color of rusty vintage pick up trucks like the ones out by the pond left by the prior tenant: a weekend mechanic whose mother was in the Women’s Army Corps. I collect stories as the bus drew near. Weaving words settles my busy bee brain into honey and this Land of Goshen becomes more wonderful and miracle than the real dangers of being small and shy.
There is no mechanic. Though my Mom’s eldest sister was a WAC in the Philippines during WWII. Another story. Another day. She used to wink at me when I was too introspective and too serious for my own good. Or so I was told. Both my Aunt Blanche and my Aunt Eulah winked at me. My inner life has always been kaleidoscopic and sometimes quite phantasmagorical. In other words, I dream. Often.
The sound of the bus squeaks and squeezes the tar road. The soles of my sneakers are sticky with tar, sand, and dust. I look up at the stairs climbing each with silent trepidation. The other kids are wild and vocal. The quiet ones all eyes and ears like an audience before the running of the bulls or a gladiator match. And there’s usually at least one clown. Clowns kinda freak me out. Too many Stephen King stories.
Smack. A spitball to my forehead. Yuck. Slimy and cold. I reach my seat. I feel the tears stuck in my throat. I hadn’t made eye contact with anyone. I tried to make it a practice actually. Avoidance of others. The humans. I prefer dogs. A few close friends. Mostly dogs. Plants. Insects. Frogs.
I tried not to hear the bully’s roaring laugh. I hum a song. To no avail. So, I looked out the window and realized I can dream into being and I can soften the blow of being the different one. I can weave poems in my imagination to carry me through the chaos and discord. Trees. Bees. Spiders. Gooseberries. Wild pink thistle. Willow. Oak. On and on. I collect the natural world like seashells on the beach.
I remember snow. Buffalo. Or Bushalo. The Sioux. The Doll Museum. That one freaky doll with the glass eyes that looked through me. Still I collected dolls until the neighbors had a bonfire and told a ghost story about a haunted doll. I swear. Some adults love to see little humans squirm. These bullies are their offspring. Seed pod doesn’t fall far from the tree. That’s all I’m saying about that. For now anyway.
Yankton, South Dakota. Another story. Another day. My first dog. A white mutt. Part pig. Part terrier. Part canine mystery. Gina Marie. I feed her my hot cereal. Cream of wheat or oatmeal with milk.
So many stories .
Giant cardboard appliance box. Obviously a tree house. I drew a door and windows. Gina and I lived inside weaving words and laughing, woofing and singing.
My Auntie Blanche (aka Rachel. Another story. Another time) is with us. My Mom is in bed pregnant with my brother. All I know is snow and nature. Trees and snowsuit. Play and play some more. Not yet two.
Auntie Blanche takes to hiding my snowsuit in the laundry hamper in the bathroom. But I like a clever and determined fox quickly push over the hamper, discover the snowsuit, and throw it at Auntie Blanche’s feet. I call her A-N-T. Ant. She says,”ouch!” Because the snowsuit lands on the corn on her big toe. She laughs easily though and off we go into the wild, frozen tundra.
Suddenly, the bus driver stops the bus. She declares we will be stopped until the ruckus stops and order resumes. Her hair is short and her tone stern yet in a blink she turns towards me and winks! I immediately look at my sneakers and laugh a bit. I think of my Auntie. Her mischief is her heart. And for that brief moment I’m safe. I’m safe. I’m seen. My small heart is a soft, tender metronome still. And this gift of soft and tender, wild and gentle, fierce and stubborn, fluid and true at my center beats a rhythm all its own. The armor is more like cotton gauze. More muslin or linen like cloud than metal in bronze or iron or steel.
And even in the harmony and dissonance there is joy. Two hummingbirds and a Cardinal greet me with song and memory. Today, just for today I am free.
Thank you Everybody! For reading and celebrating my work here and beyond. Your generosity of time and donations are so appreciated and allow me to take artist dates and explore the larger dream of this big blue marble.
Merci Tender Artist Joon
Xoxo,
I love artist dates, it's been a while since I have taken one, thanks for the reminder!!!
I also love how your writing stirs up memories of my own childhood!