Thursday, September 12, 2013

Poetry Thursday: An Excellent View of the Essence of Things

My beloved--and I can't say how very much she is be-loved to me--Stephanie Schamess sent me this poem by Wislawa Szymborska for my birthday today. It's a big birthday--as all birthdays are.

We live in a world where life is still inestimable and, unable to count it, we account is as cheap. We live in a world despoiled, corrupted, persistent, contested, impossible to fathom, vulnerable to misery and seemingly impermeable and indestructible due to its very precarity, its very fluidity, its very unknowing unknowableness. But we live. And some of us really know how to do just that.

http://danielriccio.com/thimble-pics/Pages/01_Ricciothimbles.html
Thimble maker Dan Riccio.
What I know about living could fit in a thimble after 50 years on earth. But I have learned, through the love and patience of people like Steffi and people like you, my dear friend, to look very long and very deeply into the thimble.

May you find your depths in the little bit of deep you hold in your hand today. I'm off for another swim.  See you on the next shore.


[image courtesy of Daniel Riccio Thimbles]

Friday, May 10, 2013

What I Did All Summer

(...and Also All Fall, Winter, and Most of the Spring)

Sorry I'm late. But read on--I have a poem for you at the end of all this. Even better: IT'S NOT MY POETRY!

So, I miss you guys, and I miss being the cheeky, moxy-afflicted personality of the Cheap Bohemian.

But out in the world, a lot has been happening. I keep meaning to come back here and look at all of it through my Cheap lens, and maybe even impart some money wisdom. But a lot of what has been happening has been so profound (and frankly some of it, so profoundly not funny) that words have failed me. Repeatedly.

That's a good thing. I really wouldn't want to live the kind of life that could be summed up in mere words.

Since about February 2011, there's been every kind of challenge to a budget-minded non-consumer like me. Note the conspicuous absence of links around some of the most important things:

love
family illness,
major diet changes that doubled our grocery bills but are still cheaper than medical bills,
marriage,
leaving teaching (last day was in December!),
starting back to my work as a full-time writer and bearing the huge swings in cash flow that come with it.
beginning to permit more silence in my life (thank you, Eliza King).

Meanwhile, the world goes on. Meanwhile, terrible things have happened everywhere, wonderful things have happened somewhere, and the sky continues to arch over them all. I remain maxed out on debt and slowly coming out of it, just as I was doing in 2010. Also: I am wildly happy a number of days every week.

But that is not why you are here. Today you are here for a poem.

Today, that poem is Naomi Shihab Nye's "Famous." I won't be reproducing it here. I will simply say that as I warm up to write today, this poem asserts itself again and again. I don't know why yet, which is why I am sharing it with you. Maybe you can help me connect to it with my head, for surely my heart already knows that

The idea you carry close to your bosom
is famous to your bosom.



[photo taken by the Lisa Schamess in London, 2010.]

Tuesday, March 12, 2013

Poem Tuesday

The Clam
Mary Oliver


Each one is a small life, but sometimes long, if its place in the universe is not found out. Like us, they have a heart and a stomach; they know hunger, and probably a little satisfaction, too. Do not mock them for their gentleness, they have a muscle that loves being alive. They pull away from the light. They pull down.They hold themselves together. They refuse to open.

But sometimes they lose their place and are tumbled shoreward in a storm. Then they pant, they fill with sand, they have no choice but must open the smallest crack.Then the fire of the world touches them. Perhaps, on such days, they too begin the terrible effort of thinking, of wondering who, and what, and why. If they can bury themselves again in the sand they will. If not, they are sure to perish, though not quickly. They also have resources beyond the flesh; they also try very hard not to die.

Monday, January 28, 2013

CB Redux: Virginia Woolf Is My Homegirl

Money dignifies what is frivolous if unpaid for.














Once in a great while, I make quick surveys of the creative, political, intellectual, and philosophical forces of the known world who were also Cheap Bohemians.

Where better to reboot this effort with a tribute to the woman who made the phrase "money and a room of one's own" the battle cry for generations of us? It's Virginia Woolf's birthday today, and that makes it a very good day.

Go to the source and read the 1929 book based on her lectures to the dons and swans of Cambridge. You'll come away with a solid grasp on just how pragmatic and blunt Virginia Woolf really was in matters fiscal and creative:

"Dogs will bark; people will interrupt; money must be made; health will break down. Further, accentuating all these difficulties and making them harder to bear is the world's notorious indifference."

But here is why I really love Virginia Woolf: Her unflinching, unsentimental, wholly human admission that having money feels fantastic even if your aunt has to buy the farm for you to get it:

My aunt, Mary Beton, I must tell you, died by a fall from her horse when she was riding out to take the air in Bombay. The news of my legacy reached me one night about the same time that the act was passed that gave votes to women. A solicitor’s letter fell into the post-box and when I opened it I found that she had left me five hundred pounds a year for ever. Of the two — the vote and the money — the money, I own, seemed infinitely the more important. Before that I had made my living by cadging odd jobs from newspapers, by reporting a donkey show here or a wedding there; I had earned a few pounds by addressing envelopes, reading to old ladies, making artificial flowers, teaching the alphabet to small children in a kinder garten. Such were the chief occupations that were open to women before 1918. I need not, I am afraid, describe in any detail the hardness of the work, for you know perhaps women who have done it; nor the difficulty of living on the money when it was earned, for you may have tried. But what still remains with me as a worse infliction than either was the poison of fear and bitterness which those days bred in me. To begin with, always to be doing work that one did not wish to do, and to do it like a slave, flattering and fawning, not always necessarily perhaps, but it seemed necessary and the stakes were too great to run risks....whenever I change a tenshilling note a little of that rust and corrosion is rubbed off, fear and bitterness go.

****

Fear and bitterness are still the portion for many women--artists and other creators--and for men and women who had the misfortune to be born poor. Virginia Woolf was not the last to speak of the corrosive connection between financial want, economic dependence, and creative silence--Tillie Olsen would soon take up the cry in her stunning book Silences. How many voices are lost every day to the crushing want of money, the demands of soul-destroying, bone-grinding work? To say nothing of the way we devalue the only work that is utterly demanding and routinely done for free or far too little: raising and teaching children.

As for me, today I am lucky. In the bedroom I share at this moment, with barely enough money to get home from this family vacation, I listen to three little girls aged six to eleven bicker behind me in preparation for a family show, rooting through my luggage for suitable clothes, including necklaces and bracelets.

"So are you going to appear as a human or as a god?" asks one.

"First I'm going to appear as a god," says the other. "And then I'm going to announce that I'm going to a Goodwill store."

I know exactly what she means.


[image via Wikimedia Commons. You can buy the shirt here.]