Auld Lang Syne

Thursday, September 27, 2012

Welcome to a Beheaded Thursday

Have you ever awakened to the feeling of being disconnected to everything around you? It's like the head you laid on the pillow the night before has been severed and remains in the dream state while the body gets up, dresses itself and moves on to the day. Welcome to a beheaded Thursday.

Actually, I'd rather have the head part going onward and leave the body in sleep. The body needs so much tending: feeding, washing, dressing, brushing teeth, all that necessary "stuff" of morning. For me, today was one of those "shot out of a canon" mornings. I had forgotten to pick up the farm share yesterday afternoon, mostly because the head was on duty and in the world of poetry. So, my hubby, who normally gets up early woke me to remedy my faux pas. I threw on clothing (do I like what I'm wearing right now? NO) and drove to pick up the goodies from the farmer who is by fall and winter a teacher. I think that redeems my boo-boo from yesterday. But the point here is that the body was up shockingly early and the head was not ready for prime time. The head, you see, was working late which required the body to hang around the office.

I'm prepping for the big interview with poet Richard Wilbur, which is one day less than a week from now. The head is revved up with possible questions and a desire to read more of Wilbur's poems before the interview, just to be better prepared and to be completely IN the work. The body, however, got worn out in a hurry and pushed itself beyond the normal late night limits of a body and then had to jerk itself up and out way too early. What happens when I have these late night sessions is that the body needs to rest more the next day and the head needs to be a work while this is going on. This morning the head stayed home while the body drove off into the sunshine for veggies and a chicken. Beheaded Thursday indeed.

I am happy to report however, that the head is awake now and replete with dreamed interest and materials. This happens. Dreaming, I can vouch, is a helpful state for writers. Much happens in the head during REM sleep. I am lucky that the part of my brain which works as a ghost-writer has a photographic memory. I awakened with some great ideas for the interview and a sense of things being pretty well jelled, save for the fifth question to ask Wilbur (I said I'd limit the interview to five questions).

A fascinating thing about the beheaded state is that Fate sometimes intervenes and brings a serendipity along to help. This happened today and took the persona of my 20 year old grandson, Christopher who just happened to spend part of last evening in discussion with his college mates over a Wilbur poem, Still, Citizen Sparrow as well as Wallace Stevens' anecdote of the jar poem. Christopher and I ended up in  a brief chat on FB a bit ago about these two poems and poets, with my asserting that Wilbur and his poem far outdo Stevens and his. (No disagreement there from Brilliant Grandson). The resultant serendipity: I asked Christopher if he had a question he'd like me to ask Wilbur next Wednesday, a question HE might ask if he were there with me. Fate, in the person of my grandson, has now provided me with the fifth question. I had four solid ones before this morning and now I am ready. The question he posed fits perfectly as a segue from one of my questions. AHA!

The whole grandson in the mix part of the upcoming interview is a wonderful thing. First of all, it reinforces for me that Wilbur is not passé as some in my grad school program were wont to suggest. (Aaaargh, meter: just making it OLD was the hue and cry)

More important than that, it shows that generations after generations are still asking wonderful questions of poets and poems.

Even more important than both of those things is the relationship I have in poetry realms with Brilliant Grandson. He may not write poetry (YET), but he loves reading and thinking about it. It's a start.

The body is now demanding breakfast. It's 1039 AM so I guess I ought to meet the demands. The head, however, is grumbling about how much there is to think about before next Wednesday.

Beheaded Thursday indeed!

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