I won't even go into the hands that painted this and what they must look like.

I never cry when it matters. A couple nights before my grandfather died (he'd had a stroke when I was four, this was inevitable), I cried. I don't remember what set me off but I do remember sitting outside the space at the end of the hall between my bedroom and the bathroom and being inconsolable. I think I was crying about him but that wasn't why I'd started crying. I cried when Walt and I broke up, but that was because of the election results. They weren't sad tears. I cried trying to explain Whitman to someone once. I was trying to get across what it felt like (and still feels like) to read the line "one hour to feel sufficient as I am" at 12 years old, in my brother's bedroom. The realization that someone had actually put to words (simple, perfect words) exactly what it was that I desperately wanted but had never (have never) felt. I'm more careful when I explain Whitman now. Not everyone sees why poetry might make you cry.

So it made sense that in the Art Institute, when I accidentally happened upon "The Old Guitarist" I caught a small pooling in the corner of my eye. It wasn't surprising, just a little unexpected. I envy what people can do with their hands. Writers like to talk about writing like it's a craft. Like you could sit at a computer and crank out a chair. But it isn't that. It's all cerebral what I do. You can't see it in calluses or arthritic knots and cricks. I have a small writer's bump on my left middle finger, but it's gone down some since I started typing everything. I barely ever get smudges on the side of my hand anymore. My father built every shelf and cabinet in our house. He curses and sweats and takes forever but when it's all done, he's done it. I watch musicians in the hopes that if I look hard enough, I finally get the trick to moving my fingers that quickly. There has to be a trick to it. They all have hands suited to the job. All calluses and knots and elongated fingers.

The guitarist is curled around his instrument, gaunt and half-dead looking but still playing as if that's what won't allow the other half to give up. Even though he's completely contorted, it's alarmingly natural compared to the other Picassos at the museum. That might be what made me cry. He's human. Irreparably so. He has musician's hands, thin and long. Like his toes...though I don't imagine anyone has musician's toes...

You don't expect this painting to be where it is. Around an unassuming corner. Maybe that's why it's there. I wasn't the only person who turned and stopped dead. I'm not sure anyone didn't do that. The guy next to me, who'd been in many of the same rooms with me as I traced the map of the galleries, stopped just behind me. We both just traipsed through Carvaggio. These huge, Biblical scenes--all opulent purples and purposeful awe. What struck me was how the real the painted robes looked folded over angels and disciples. I wasn't moved. You're supposed to be moved by Carvaggio. It's easy emotion.

But look at this and tell me you wouldn't cry to hear him play.

that message on my phone saturday morning was all I needed to finish this, thanks.

I don't usually post drafts this drafty. Literally, this is the first draft of this, written in the span of a Metro ride and culled from my moleskine. It's taken me a year (give or take a couple weeks) to get anything down on paper about all of this. Every time I would write about him it seemed too emotional still. This might still be that but it's down on paper and since I need to get more things down on paper, I will take it for the time being. I played with my form somewhat and it doesn't quite translate here. All of the lines preceded by an em dash should be indented. Please pretend that the are because I suck at coding . It also doesn't have a title yet. I've been toying with this title: Everything I Meant to Tell You Earlier, in a Series of Poorly Formed Haiku but I don't think it works here. I'll come up with something when I revise this. Let me know what you think of this:



The spaghetti’s still in the sink.
The noodles don’t give way
anymore to water or sauce—
but break when forked
from the collinder into the trash.

—not so much of a change from the night before.

“It’s undercooked,” you said not at me
but at the strands, spooled
uncomfortably around tines,
setting down the fork and carrying
everything back to the kitchen.

This is the call and response part of you and me.

—everything dries out eventually.
—it was dry all along.

Were I to write this scene—
you and me and the pasta,
half in the trash, half in the sink—
the clean lines of the room and us
would give way
to the palsied scrawl
of leaving well enough alone
and the argument we never had
because we never have.

—have we?

Were I to write you
it would be all dead letters and brown
paper-wrapped pornography.
The address isn’t right, the postman
can’t make it out and it sits in a room
with the others. Sits waiting for someone
to make out your concussive Rs and Ks—
to deliver you.

—for thine is the something and the something (I forgot the words to this part. forgive me.)

The Teutonic was always lost on you.
Too hard-edged for your hands
or the hair at the nape of your neck
that curled in on itself when you needed a haircut.
Then again, you never could get your legs that high.

—you make a terrible German. I guess it’s good I never wanted to call you Daddy.

Were I to write you it would be just this—
your back to me, scraping pasta into an empty
trash can and turning
to set the dish, unwashed, in the sink.

—leave the rest to me.


10/18/2009. meredith jones ©

it's funny that it fits my middle finger...

I've been cleaning various odds and ends out of my room in a continual effort to streamline my life. I really have too many things. None (well, most) don't make me particularly happy. They don't make me particularly anything. I'm not clearing things out to make way for more things either. I just have way too much crap and could do with considerably less.

I have a small box wherein I keep old rings, bracelets, earrings, and the like (most of my necklaces are on a jewelry tree for expedient early-morning-coffee-has-not-kicked-in-yet-and-meredith-is-still-a-sleep-zombie access. Also, I rarely wear either rings or earrings. I don't know why, I just prefer necklaces and the occasional bracelet. I was looking through the box full of jewelry I never wear and I came across the claddagh Walt gave me when he went to Ireland. It doesn't fit either ring finger anymore and is currently backwards on my middle finger on my right hand. I haven't worn it in over a year and in the intervening time have apparently lost enough weight that it no longer fits the finger it was originally sized to fit. I can't decide, though, if wearing it all is ok.

I always liked this ring. It's not a strictly traditional claddagh and it's much smaller and more delicate than the one it replaced (which was somewhat destroyed thanks to my overzealous use of bleach when cleaning my dorm bathroom.) But it was a gift from a man whose intention it was to keep it pointed in a particular direction for the rest of my life...except that this ring was not indicative of that desire. It was just a ring --a present, because he knew I wanted a replacement and was in the land of their creation. No pending contractual arrangement attached. Perhaps there was the implication that there might be one one day, but not the day he gave me the ring. Certainly not related to the ring.

Can I wear it? How would I explain it to a new guy? Would he even necessarily notice or ask? Am I obligated to explain the ring to gentlemen callers? It does indicate that I am single. And while I suppose my current situation may generously be described as slightly more complicated than "single" (but that's not something that will ever be discussed here. This is not the place for that), I like this ring and am tired of having it collect dust.

I guess what I am trying to ask is, what's the statute of limitations? I don't have any jewelry from other ex-boyfriends. I don't know how this works. I kept the ceramic cow Mike gave me until it broke and I could not glue it back together (poor cow, I really liked it.) I kept the CDs and books Jim gave me. He also gave me clothes once or twice but none of them fit so they've been given away. Is this ring so very different from the framed Rogue comic that I can't keep it? The comic is still perched on my shelf. I like it. I like the way it looks against my purple walls. When I look at it, I don't think about Walt. When I look at this ring I don't necessarily think about him either.

Can it just be a ring now? Not a ring with an asterisk attached?