The First Quartet
"I am not driven, so much, by intentions, as I am stunned into being by intent." (from author's note to DRIVE: The First Quartet)
The First Quartet: Age 25 - 50.
The Poets Quest. I want to write that, now, and so, I do.
And, it begs the question: "There is a next?" And, another, unvoiced, "There is another?" "To Whom?" An answer immeasureably quantum when squared. The Philosopher's Choice? The Next.
I don't want to finish this book.
I realise that now. Or, as it was expressed to a dear friend, "These things change as we do." But now that it is realized, noted, noticed, I must. And so, for the context, and the sub-
-there is a text. And the post. (off to it soon)
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Some praise for the First Quartet, four days into the next:
1) For my mother, Rose, for the thorns & through the bramble, for loving me unconditionally. For saying; and all the ways she found of saying until the day she died: "That girl is a genius!" Whether it was true or not. For the lap of words, unconditionally, for the daily ritual read to me from the page, off the voice, tethered to the head or heart. For trusting—because she did not.
2) For my mother for loving my father, unconditionally, until the day she died, for saying more than once: "He was a real man" and meaning only the opposite gender, but in truth: A man walking in truth. There is such. But for the bramble and the thorn. The bruise and the blush.
3) For my father, for never abusing me.
4) For my father, for that "inner thing", for trusting the way it's done, its many-way. For his Susan, his true companion, for teaching me to hold to the Light; for his loving her until the day he died.
5) For my grandmother, who taught me to laugh, for her silent sexuality and her hidden tears, for her garden. And this talking to birds until the day I die, unconditionally.
The First Quartet: Age 25 - 50.
The Poets Quest. I want to write that, now, and so, I do.
And, it begs the question: "There is a next?" And, another, unvoiced, "There is another?" "To Whom?" An answer immeasureably quantum when squared. The Philosopher's Choice? The Next.
I don't want to finish this book.
I realise that now. Or, as it was expressed to a dear friend, "These things change as we do." But now that it is realized, noted, noticed, I must. And so, for the context, and the sub-
-there is a text. And the post. (off to it soon)
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Some praise for the First Quartet, four days into the next:
1) For my mother, Rose, for the thorns & through the bramble, for loving me unconditionally. For saying; and all the ways she found of saying until the day she died: "That girl is a genius!" Whether it was true or not. For the lap of words, unconditionally, for the daily ritual read to me from the page, off the voice, tethered to the head or heart. For trusting—because she did not.
2) For my mother for loving my father, unconditionally, until the day she died, for saying more than once: "He was a real man" and meaning only the opposite gender, but in truth: A man walking in truth. There is such. But for the bramble and the thorn. The bruise and the blush.
3) For my father, for never abusing me.
4) For my father, for that "inner thing", for trusting the way it's done, its many-way. For his Susan, his true companion, for teaching me to hold to the Light; for his loving her until the day he died.
5) For my grandmother, who taught me to laugh, for her silent sexuality and her hidden tears, for her garden. And this talking to birds until the day I die, unconditionally.
posted by Lorna Dee Cervantes at 12:01 PM
1 Comments:
Ala Lyn Hejinian's My Life, you could always go back on subsequent editions and add on, revise, etc. It's worked amazingly well for her!
Drive is such a monumentous undertaking and project for you- I can imagine there would be some separation anxiety- the fear of letting it go into the world, submitting a certain amount of ownership of your work to the reader. It certainly warrents some reflection and discussion.
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