tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5128194866678415113.post6297423560687343279..comments2024-01-27T12:32:41.517-08:00Comments on The Idea of the Writer: December 18, 2007 WGA TheaterUnknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger3125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5128194866678415113.post-49027855242236843752008-01-13T04:13:00.000-08:002008-01-13T04:13:00.000-08:00V. I Am Dreaming of a White Christmas: The Natural...V. I Am Dreaming of a White Christmas: The Natural History of a Vision<BR/><BR/><BR/>[1]<BR/><BR/><BR/><I>No, not that door--never!</I> But,<BR/>Entering saw. Through<BR/>Air brown as an old daguerreotype fading. Through<BR/>Air that, though dust to the tongue, yet--<BR/>Like the inward, brown-glimmering twilight of water--<BR/>Swayed. though brown air, dust-dry, saw. Saw<BR/>It.<BR/><BR/>The bed.<BR/><BR/>Where it had<BR/>Been. Now was. Of all<BR/>Covering stripped, the mattress<BR/>Bare but for old newspapers spread.<BR/>Curled edges. Yellow. On yellow paper dust,<BR/>The dust yellow. No! Do not.<BR/><BR/><BR/>Do not lean to<BR/>Look at that date. Do not touch<BR/>that silken and yellow perfection of Time that<BR/>Dust is, for<BR/>There is no Time. I,<BR/>Entering, see.<BR/><BR/>I,<BR/>Standing here, breathe the air.<BR/><BR/><BR/>[2]<BR/><BR/><BR/>See<BR/>Yonder the old Morris chair bought soon<BR/>After marriage, for him to rest after work in, the leather,<BR/>Once black, now browning, brown at the dry cracks, streaked<BR/>With a fungiod green. Approaching,<BR/>See.<BR/>See it.<BR/><BR/>The big head. Propped,<BR/>Erect on the chair's leather pillow, bald skin<BR/>Tight on skull, not white now, brown<BR/>Like old leather lacquered, the big nose<BR/>Brown-lacquered, bold jutting yet but with<BR/>Nostril-flanges gone tattered in Time. I have not<BR/>Yet looked at the eyes. Not<BR/>Yet.<BR/><BR/>The eyes<BR/>Are not there. But,<BR/>Not there, they stare at what<BR/>Is not there.<BR/><BR/><BR/>[3]<BR/><BR/><BR/>Not there, but<BR/>In each of the appropriate twin apertures, which are<BR/>Deep and dark as a thumb-gouge,<BR/>Something that might be taken for<BR/>A mulberry, large and black-ripe when, long back, crushed,<BR/>But now, with years, dust-dried. The mulberries,<BR/>Crushed and desiccated, each out of<BR/>Its dark lurking-place, stare out at<BR/>Nothing.<BR/><BR/>His eyes<BR/>Had been blue.<BR/><BR/><BR/>[4]<BR/><BR/><BR/>Hers brown. But<BR/>Are not now. Now staring,<BR/>She sits in the accustomed rocker, but with<BR/>No motion. I cannot<BR/>Be sure what color the dress once was, but<BR/>Am sure that the fabric now falls decisively away<BR/>From the Time-sharpened angle of knees. The fabric<BR/>Over one knee, the left, had given way. And<BR/>I see what protrudes.<BR/><BR/>See it.<BR/><BR/>Above,<BR/>The dry fabric droops over breastlessness.<BR/><BR/>Over the shrouded femurs that now are the lap, the hands,<BR/>Palm-down, lie. The nail of one forefinger<BR/>Is missing.<BR/><BR/>On the ring-finger of the left hand<BR/>There are two diamond rings. On that of the right,<BR/>One. On Sundays, and some evenings<BR/>When she sat with him, the diamonds would be fingers.<BR/><BR/>The rings. They shone.<BR/><BR/>Shine now.<BR/><BR/>In the brown air.<BR/><BR/>On the brown-lacquered face<BR/>There are now no<BR/>Lips to kiss with.<BR/><BR/><BR/>[5]<BR/><BR/><BR/>The eyes had been brown. but<BR/>Now are not where eyes had been. What things<BR/>Now are where eyes had been but<BR/>Now are not, stare. At the place where now<BR/>Is not what once they<BR/>Had stared at.<BR/><BR/>There is no fire on the cold hearth now,<BR/>To stare at.<BR/><BR/><BR/>[6]<BR/><BR/><BR/>On<BR/>the ashes, gray, a piece of torn orange peel.<BR/>Foil wrappings of chocolates, silver and crimson and gold,<BR/>yet gleaming from grayness. Torn Christmas paper,<BR/>Stamped green and red, holly and berries, not<BR/>Yet entirely consumed, but warped<BR/>And black-gnawed edges. I feel<BR/>Nothing. A red<BR/>Ribbon, ripped long ago from some package of joy,<BR/>Winds over the gray hearth like<BR/>A fuse that failed. I feel<BR/>Nothing.<BR/><BR/>Not even<BR/>When I see the tree.<BR/>Why had I not seen the tree before?<BR/>Why, on entering, had I not seen it?<BR/>It must have been there, and for<BR/>A long time, for<BR/>The boughs are, of all green, long since denuded.<BR/>That much is clear. For the floor<BR/>Is there carpeted thick with the brown detritus of cedar.<BR/><BR/>Christmas trees is our section always were cedar.<BR/><BR/><BR/>[7]<BR/><BR/><BR/>Beneath the un-greened and brown-spiked tree,<BR/>On the dead-fall of brown frond-needles, are,<BR/>I see, three packages, Identical in size and shape.<BR/>In bright Christmas paper. each with a red bow, and under<BR/>The ribbon, a sprig of holly.<BR/><BR/>But look!<BR/>The holly<BR/>Is, clearly, fresh.<BR/><BR/>I say to myself:<BR/><BR/><I>The holly is fresh.</I><BR/><BR/>And<BR/>My breath comes short. For I am wondering<BR/>Which package is mine.<BR/><BR/><I>Oh which?</I><BR/><BR/>I have stepped across the hearth and my hand stretches out.<BR/><BR/>But the voice:<BR/><BR/><I>No presents, son, till the little ones come.</I><BR/><BR/><BR/>[8]<BR/><BR/><BR/>What shadow of tongue, years back unfleshed, in what<BR/>Darkness locked in a rigid jaw, can lift and flex?<BR/><BR/>The man and the woman sit rigid. What had been<BR/>Eyes stare at the cold hearth, but I<BR/>Stare at the three chairs. Why--<BR/>Tell me why--had I not observed them before? For<BR/>They are here.<BR/><BR/>The little red chair,<BR/>For the baby. the next biggest chair<BR/>For my little sister, the little red rocker. Then,<BR/>The biggest, my own, me the eldest.<BR/><BR/>The chairs are all empty.<BR/><BR/>But<BR/>I am thinking a thought that us louder than words.<BR/>Thinking:<BR/><BR/><I>They're empty, they're empty, but me--of, I'm here!</I><BR/><BR/>And that thought is not words, but a roar like wind, or<BR/>The roar of the night-freight beating the rails of the trestle,<BR/>Is nothing but darkness alive. Suddenly,<BR/>Silence.<BR/><BR/>And no<BR/>Breath comes.<BR/><BR/><BR/>[9]<BR/><BR/><BR/>Where I was,<BR/>Am not. Now am<BR/>Where the blunt crowd thrusts, nudges, jerks, jostles,<BR/>And the eye us inimical. then,<BR/>Of a sudden, know:<BR/><BR/>Times Square, the season<BR/>Late summer and the hour sunset, with fumes<BR/>In throat and smog-glitter at sky-height, where<BR/>A jet, silver and ectoplasmic, spooks through<BR/>The sustaining light, which<BR/>Is yellow as acid. Sweat,<BR/>Cold in arm-pit, slides down flesh.<BR/><BR/>The flesh is mine.<BR/><BR/>What year it is, I can't, for the life of me,<BR/>Guess, but know that,<BR/>Far off, south-eastward, in Bellevue,<BR/>In a bare room with windows barred,<BR/>A woman,<BR/>Supine of an iron cot, legs spread, each ankle<BR/>Shackled to the cot-frame,<BR/>Screams.<BR/><BR/>She keeps on screaming because it is sunset.<BR/><BR/>Her hair has been hacked short.<BR/><BR/><BR/>[10]<BR/><BR/><BR/>Clerks now go home, night watchmen wake up, and the heart<BR/>Of the taxi-driver, just coming off shift,<BR/>Leaps with hope.<BR/><BR/>All is not in vain.<BR/><BR/>Old men come out from the hard-core movies.<BR/>They wish they had waited till later.<BR/><BR/>They stand of the pavement and stare up at the sky.<BR/>Their drawers are drying stiff at the crotch, and<BR/>The sky dies wide. The sky<BR/>Is far above the first hysteria of neon.<BR/><BR/>Soon they will want to go and get something to eat.<BR/><BR/>Meanwhile, down the big sluice of Broadway,<BR/>The steel logs jerk and plunge<BR/>Until caught in the rip, snarl, and eddy here before my face.<BR/><BR/>A mounted policeman sits a bay gelding. The rump<BR/>Of the animal gleams expensively. the policeman<BR/>Is some sort of dago. His jowls are swart.<BR/>His eyes are bright with seeing.<BR/><BR/>He is as beautiful as a law of chemistry.<BR/><BR/>[11]<BR/><BR/>In any case,<BR/>I stand here and think of snow falling. But am<BR/>Not here. Am<BR/>Otherwhere, for already<BR/>This early and summer not over, in West Montana--<BR/>Or is it Idaho?--in<BR/>The Nex Perce Pass, tonight<BR/>It will be snowing.<BR/><BR/>The Nez Perce is more than 7,000 feet, and I<BR/>Have been there. The first flakes,<BR/>Large, soft, sparse, come straight down<BR/>And with enormous deliberation, white<BR/>Out of unbreathing blackness. Snow<BR/>Does not yet cling, but the tall stalk of bear-grass<BR/>Is pale in darkness. I have seen, long ago,<BR/>The paleness of bear-grass in darkness.<BR/><BR/>But tell me, tell me,<BR/>Will I never know<BR/>What present there was in that package for me,<BR/>Under the Christmas tree?<BR/><BR/>[12]<BR/><BR/>All items listed above belong in the world<BR/>In which all things are continuous,<BR/>and are parts of the original dream which<BR/>I am now trying to discover the logic of. This<BR/>Is the process whereby pain of the past in its pastness<BR/>May be converted into the future tense<BR/><BR/>Of Joy.<BR/><BR/><BR/>-Robert Penn Warren, from Or Else<BR/><BR/><BR/>[Note: The spacing and margins couldn't be transcribed exactly as they should appear on this page. Sorry.]Danielhttps://www.blogger.com/profile/03096082599059200906noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5128194866678415113.post-62577211916074934142008-01-12T03:15:00.000-08:002008-01-12T03:15:00.000-08:00This comment has been removed by the author.Danielhttps://www.blogger.com/profile/03096082599059200906noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5128194866678415113.post-3667313830766076922008-01-12T03:08:00.000-08:002008-01-12T03:08:00.000-08:00This comment has been removed by the author.Danielhttps://www.blogger.com/profile/03096082599059200906noreply@blogger.com