Monthly Archives: April 2008


When I first learned to paint I was timid. I had to learn to trust what I saw and the ability in my hands. Like most beginning artists I had trouble recording what I actually saw. My frustration wasn’t so much with inaccuracy in my work as a lack of beauty. If sunlight fell a certain way on a table, I became happy if I could capture at least some of the depth and ebullience of the light. I was much less perturbed about things like perspective and where the tables legs lay. Those sorts of things you can practice. But putting down the life of an object or a scene is a process of learning the language of your own vision.

I think writing may be similar. Often when I write I’m discouraged by my inability to tell the truth about the things I know about a scene: sight and smell, the things that occur during speech, underneath it. (For example, the second to last clause didn’t capture what I wanted to say about the thing that occur underneath speech! I had this image of people exchanging small folded notes in a dimly lit room, maybe a black market pub, windowless, and everything is made from exposed wood with ridges raised like angry lines of welts and just as raw to the touch. The exchanged notes are tattered, the people sit across from each other with their whole backs clenched, and their forearms stiff with fury. Their hands move fast and pluck like frightened, hungry birds. Sharp. It smells like wood and sap and that smell I can never explain except that it’s “what cold smells like when you’re outdoors at night in a small town on a street where everyone’s indoors and all the people and radios are at a low volume, and the snow has just fallen and all the smells in the word and tamped down to the ground so the air is clear almost as though the stars flood pure oxygen down to you and the whole sky is clear and the stars shimmer like tears in a dark room and you’re alone and wearing your winter coat but going someplace that is indoors, the light a dim claustrophobic red and yellow, and other people are there but they’ll be drowsy and it’ll smell like the hair and cigarette ashy collected on your thick carpet for several months, and remembering this smell so sharply the air outside is even cleaner, so clean it shakes your body like high pitches in singing.”) My senses know all of these details simultaneously but the translation is so arduous it’s almost painful. Sometimes it doesn’t even make sense. I can’t tell whether it’s making sense to anyone but me.

But I do think it might be like painting or drawing. When I started a curved line took many tiny marks to make, and the whole was unsatisfactory. Sometimes now when my eyes and hand move in tandem the mark is single, swift and right. Most of the time it doesn’t feel that way. Most of the time I’m frustrated with myself. But maybe if I practice the patience of translation and the trust of my senses and tools what I see will become what I record more often.

I hope.


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Gregory Orr: “This I Believe: The Making of Poems”

Gregory Orr wrote in his essay This I Believe: The Making of Poems:

“I believe in poetry as a way of surviving the emotional chaos, spiritual confusions and traumatic events that come with being alive.

“….Because poems are meanings, even the saddest poem I write is proof that I want to survive.

“….Whenever I read a poem that moves me, I know I’m not alone in the world. I feel a connection to the person who wrote it, knowing that he or she has gone through something similar to what I’ve experienced, or felt something like what I have felt. And their poem gives me hope and courage, because I know that they survived, that their life force was strong enough to turn experience into words and shape it into meaning and then bring it toward me to share. The gift of their poem enters deeply into me and helps me live and believe in living.”

The latter part of this succinctly and beautifully makes sense of all the things I was trying to explain in a prior post about JT LeRoy. Art can an act of survival and a (sometimes dark) joy-taking in that urge to press forward, to keep living and trying to thrive.

Here’s one (of many) Gregory Orr poem(s) that I like:

The Project

My plan was to generate light
with no outside source.
To accomplish this, I lived alone
in a burrow under the earth.
Previously I had observed
that in darkness my body
gave off a faint light. Suspecting
that this glow came from the bones,
I scraped the flesh from my right hand.
I’d been underground so long
the meat came off
painlessly, like wet clay.
But when the flesh was gone,
the light was gone too.

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Filed under art, poetry, trauma