Hauntings

On value, simplicity, class, Mary Oliver, bats and dogs.

A post from poet Maggie Smith reminded me this morning that Mary Oliver was born on this day, and that not everyone is a snob. Thank fuck for that.

I’m not doing great, but I am highly suspicious of people doing well when the world is literally burning, when our rights (reproductive, to protest, and just… all of them really) are being threatened, and when we’re seeing multiple genocides with an immediacy and a level of details never seen before. My new morning ritual: wake up, see what’s up in the world, cry a little, share the posts that will help others be informed without traumatizing them, post a video of a cute animal or two (a bat, preferably), cry a little, message a friend about all of it - the horrors, the cuteness, the crying.

Bat du jour by @lubeebatconservancy

I am starting a new poetry class. That shit will never not be intimidating. Screenwriting? Yes, I know what I’m supposed to do. Poetry: what are words and who me is? In this very first week there was a discussion about poetry being difficult, and how everything good in life is difficult. I vehemently disagree but I didn’t want to start off with that when already the prof explained to me that it’s inaccurate to say something rhymes if it’s an off rhyme or a slant rhyme. Isn’t it still a rhyme? Whatever, I’ll do rhymes like I do a lot of things: imperfectly, instead of not at all.

Difficult things can be beautiful, and it's honourable to work hard to create something of value. Put care in it. Even better if you make it seem easy. Props to you. And when difficulty is a statement in itself, the way bebop was a big fuck you to dad jazz, a way to tell whiteness “you can’t catch up, motherfucker”, my god, yes. But I don’t think things are inherently more valuable if they’re difficult. How bleak. How puritanical. Isn’t life difficult enough? Yes, give me a poem (a movie, a song, a relationship, a bra clasp) that is simple and accessible. It doesn’t mean there isn’t more to uncover. There’s also something very European-centric in this elitism: there’s Art, by those who access the status of recognized artists, and there’s folk art, there’s artisans. Recognized by whom? According to what value system? Who does it prioritize? Isabella Segalovich does an amazing job deconstructing these notions, and she does it with so much love, both for the art and for her audience. By making her work accessible, she elevates both.

interstellar_isabellar

A post shared by @interstellar_isabellar

Sometimes, I think it’s a bummer I’m doing what I’m doing only now, and not ten years earlier. But ten years ago, I still had quite a bit of shame about my working class background, about my limitations, about my style. I had started deconstructing all of that intellectually a decade prior at that point, but it takes time to get to the core, to undo the emotional damage. More importantly, ten years ago, I didn’t know I was disabled. I couldn’t understand why I was fucking up things that were easy for almost everyone. If the common denominator of all my problems was myself, then it could only mean I was the problem, right? And since my parents, my teachers, and almost everyone else kept repeating it, it had to be true. Although… they also kept telling me I wasn’t even trying, and I knew that wasn’t true. I was trying. Hard. Nothing was ever good enough.

I know now that I can’t make a deeply ableist society like my autistic ass (among other disabilities). I can only be truer to myself to allow those who need to see that part of themselves reflected in the world find me. For me, it means embracing the simplicity of what I write. If you see nothing else than something entertaining? Amazing. I aim to entertain. If you see a bit more? A lot more? Amazing. There is more, even if it’s not to everyone’s taste.

I do like to work to appreciate a piece. I don’t want everything to be easy. But I am also grateful for the generosity of simple poems.

Prompted by Maggie Smith, here’s one of my favourite poems by Mary Oliver. I remember reading it for the first time, sitting on a park bench in Montreal, in the very early morning sunlight. There was no one around, so I let myself sob, my puzzled golden retriever at my feet. She was afraid of everything and she was often puzzled.