Whose blog is this? demands the officious Blogging Valet. I want to tell him he looks silly in his semi-military uniform, but he’s my own creation, so that would be unsporting. Mine, I reply, already on the defensive, and I begin a rambling acknowledgment that I haven’t “moved” any new entries here in the Old Hatchery since—yeesh, February? I was thinking March. But it’s not like I’m creating a traffic jam or exceeding time on a meter. No, but you wouldn’t have invented me if you weren’t feeling guilty, says the Valet in a milder tone. He sits down on the stool next to me.
I do something pensive, like rub my beard. I mean, I get that this is the public face of my writing, so, yeah, I feel like I owe someone—you, maybe—an explanation. It’s not like I’ve been mute. I’ve been writing poems. The odd e-mail (very odd). And throwing words on a page—stem-cell essays, not ready for the Bigs. So, this is my last resort, kind of. Write about not writing, which sometimes works.
And my purpose is what again? the Valet asks. To listen, respond, be company. We’re walking on a picturesque country road now, for variety and kinesis. He frowns at kinesis, but editing is not part of his character set. Fine, movement. Erg flow. Expenditure of work. I tend to think of writing and physical movement as two separate challenges, but they both use ergs.
In fact, I wrote two poems that are about writing and moving. One’s called Physics, because there are a couple of physical forces in my life who have developed big personalities. And the second poem is called Room.
Physics
Two goons
in tight suits
sit on either side of me
in the back seat of a parked car.
Goon 1 is mumbling
“Bodies at rest stay at rest”
over and over.
“So don’t get any funny ideas,”
Goon 2 adds darkly.
But I am not
without resources.
I sheathe an urge
inside a plan:
to initiate a movement
and rise.
“Where the hell
do you think you’re going?”
asks Goon 1.
“Nowhere is where ,” says 2,
throwing an arm around me
possessively.
“Gotta go,” I apologize.
I tell my brain what I need:
a fulcrum.
We propose
to tuck my fingers into fists,
and use the phalanges between the knuckles
as a counterweight:
push down into the upholstery,
lean forward—nose over toes—
and rise!
I clamber over
Goon 1, who’s singing
“Bodies in motion stay in motion!”
while Goon 2,
attempting a little levity, says;
“Give that man a fig, Newton!”
The door is unlocked.
Room
It’s not a mystery.
It’s a vacancy.
Contemplate
the blank page
until it seems to teem.
Add words.
Cross words out.
Think of the ink as mulch.
Get your hands dirty!
Start over.
Call it a vacant lot, an empty field,
if a lot can ever be vacant
or a field empty.
Lurking in the tall grass,
someone’s pet cat
is stalking birds.
Someone’s lost doll is sprouting green shoots.
A ring-necked pheasant rockets out of the brush.
And a feral shopping cart
houses a neighborhood
of orb-weaving spiders.
Find a vacancy.
Move in.
The Valet says okay, buddy. I’m outa here. Don’t forget: you got to move out to move in. Something along those lines. It’s like appointment TV. Those shows don’t just appear like an elevator in a rock. Someone’s got to write them.
And just for the hell of it, I conjure an elevator door sliding open in a nearby tree and the Valet steps in like he was expecting it, and there’s even a uniformed operator in there and a couple other passengers. “Blogs, essays, memoirs, poems, orange drink!” goes the car jockey’s litany—a tribute to the gravelly-voiced guy who used to work the cars on the New Haven Railroad when I was a kid.
The Old Hatchery 