Rough Likeness: Essays (19 page)
Read Rough Likeness: Essays Online
Authors: Lia Purpura
Not too many people are patient enough to throw back the young pieces. I do, because without fully-developed features, without the properties sand and tides produce, beach glass is detritus, junk, trash. Sharp, splintery breakage. Time makes it otherwise.
How much
time?
When
is a piece cured? At what point might the hydrodynamics we’re studying turn our specimen from waste to prize? All logical questions, though definitive answers would require tracking devices in the wild, centrifuge trials in labs, carbon-dating electron-micro attention, charts and maps and sampling tools, like those Alaskan ice-borers that dig down through seasons of freeze and melt and pull up long cores of time. So while this point, the moment of transmutation from junk-to-value, certainly could be researched, I’ve found through experience that the eye is the best judge here. The ability to internalize OPE, to make decisions about a specimen—to stoop-and-gather, or pass it up—conjures a state of being well known to b.g. collectors: a kind of happy blankness, a reverie that counters the anomie of one’s daily landlocked existence.
How much
time?
When
is a piece cured? At what point might the hydrodynamics we’re studying turn our specimen from waste to prize? All logical questions, though definitive answers would require tracking devices in the wild, centrifuge trials in labs, carbon-dating electron-micro attention, charts and maps and sampling tools, like those Alaskan ice-borers that dig down through seasons of freeze and melt and pull up long cores of time. So while this point, the moment of transmutation from junk-to-value, certainly could be researched, I’ve found through experience that the eye is the best judge here. The ability to internalize OPE, to make decisions about a specimen—to stoop-and-gather, or pass it up—conjures a state of being well known to b.g. collectors: a kind of happy blankness, a reverie that counters the anomie of one’s daily landlocked existence.
This state might best be defined by isolating its component parts: reverence (such as the ocean and its might demands); primitive postures (largely lost to us today: the bending, gathering, and sifting of bits, the sitting back on haunches in an open-hipped squat); an eye for buried brightness; the pulse-quickening moment of finding; the clever manner in which worn glass at once holds and deflects sun; the essential strangeness of a rare blue chip found tucked amid all forms of biotic matter; a sun as heavy as a hand on the back; the esperance of waves; the sand supporting then shifting into troughs around feet; feet sinking into suckholes as waves crash and recede . . . all while the looking goes intently on.
And so in response to the many memos submitted and received over the years from colleagues, on such useful topics as the distinctions between ax and maul, the properties of a variety of woods—i.e., the give or resistance of their fibers upon chopping, their relative BTUs (which I’d forgotten is British Thermal and not Burn Time Units)—and to redress my tardy response to a very fine recent memo (discussions scientist Jeffrey Lockwood’s research on the sudden disappearance of the locust swarm) which reads, in part: “It is believed that they bred in certain river valleys in Colorado, and when settlers first arrived and plowed up the land for farming, they killed the eggs that were buried in the soil and so inadvertently wiped out the North American locust”—and including this lovely line, too, so rhythmic, so pleasing read aloud: “These locust swarms had a biomass as great as the bison herds and swept over the great plains in regular migrations”—and other memos of note: a short history of personal gun use; urban vs. rural pigeons; the mysticism of glaciers—I submit, here, this brief. Pulled as it is out of thin air, pulled from the place where that-which-we-didn’t-know-we-knew abides. Where so much gathers in a rich miasma until called forth by luck, competition (the aforementioned memos were
very
good), an impulse to sketch, itchiness for form, abundance of love for an object, a drive to give small things their due, or the weight of a personal collection piling up, asserting its presence. I submit this memo whose true subject is both a founding tenet and sustaining goal of the whole operation I’m running here, a subject which bears repeating at times of reorganization, challenging times of uncertainty and instability, lest we forget it: the bright uselessness of joy ful endeavors.
very
good), an impulse to sketch, itchiness for form, abundance of love for an object, a drive to give small things their due, or the weight of a personal collection piling up, asserting its presence. I submit this memo whose true subject is both a founding tenet and sustaining goal of the whole operation I’m running here, a subject which bears repeating at times of reorganization, challenging times of uncertainty and instability, lest we forget it: the bright uselessness of joy ful endeavors.
Two Experiments & a Coda
All things go. Snow comes, stays, hardens, then melts. Along one block, dropped and unfound, or unsearched-for, things surface in the thaw. First a penny, and I see the ¢ mark in my head—
who writes that anymore?
I know I wrote a lot of them as a kid, in my play stores making play price tags to stick to the fast-sale things. I think, “Nah, leave the penny,” but a few steps later there’s a nickel, bright as an open eye on the gray stones, and it earns, in that way, my attention. As coin number two it suggests a series, little coin-crumbs leading up to a Susan B. Anthony prize. The intrigues of finding and finding a way to proceed stir together, form an inclination, steps toward. I go back for them both.
who writes that anymore?
I know I wrote a lot of them as a kid, in my play stores making play price tags to stick to the fast-sale things. I think, “Nah, leave the penny,” but a few steps later there’s a nickel, bright as an open eye on the gray stones, and it earns, in that way, my attention. As coin number two it suggests a series, little coin-crumbs leading up to a Susan B. Anthony prize. The intrigues of finding and finding a way to proceed stir together, form an inclination, steps toward. I go back for them both.
Next comes a tiny feather. I have to go back for that, too, since I passed it, thinking, “Too small to be worth it” and “Not of the series.” But it’s so fresh, so dry in the slush, just-come-down, unmatted and perfect, from somewhere. The proper name,
pinfeather,
attaches and helps; such precision lends weight. At first I thought, “It’s enough just to note this,” that noting alone would seal the feather in mind—and it’s at just this moment that the experiment starts, the challenges firm, the rules finesse:
everything
found in the space of a block will be picked up and kept, and by way of that decision, a synchronic study,
some
kind of picture will emerge. The likelihood of finding stuff asserts, now that I’m saying “experiment,” and the awareness of things-to-be-found is a form itself.
pinfeather,
attaches and helps; such precision lends weight. At first I thought, “It’s enough just to note this,” that noting alone would seal the feather in mind—and it’s at just this moment that the experiment starts, the challenges firm, the rules finesse:
everything
found in the space of a block will be picked up and kept, and by way of that decision, a synchronic study,
some
kind of picture will emerge. The likelihood of finding stuff asserts, now that I’m saying “experiment,” and the awareness of things-to-be-found is a form itself.
The objects are not talismans; they’re not the stuff of magical spells. It’s better than that. Things are evidence, and the experiment’s a form of alertness to take part in. A turning-toward, where slowly, one possibility shades into the next. Moves bear forth things. Thing begets thing.
Come two stalks of silver milkweed, dried and uprooted, blocks from the riverbank where they grow. And with them, the word “berm,” from way back, from nowhere—the place where so strangely, precisely, they’ve landed. Then a red ribbon. A cork. A lanyard crimped into a stiff, uncomfortable curl. Each rough, hempy end is wound like a noose with black plastic. It’s the shape of the thing that complicates—too short for a bracelet, too lumpy to mark a place in a book. The strands tooth into each other, grip tightly, and pinch into hard spines at each side. That I can’t tell what the lanyard is for makes me off-kilter. I want to drop it and change the rules, but the experiment’s already in motion. Now I have a thing that just
is.
As a series of knots, it seems meditative, like the making smooth of a branch with a knife for the hell of it, practice, alleviation of boredom. A tension twists it, suggesting tendon /scar /pod. Broken finger or tail. Dendrite, those sprouting, frayed ends. The urge to go longer, or to flatten asserts. I may be wrong about
meditative
. There are intentions I cannot know. The story’s still going, the end still furled. Discovery’s current. Now. Right this minute. I pocket the thing and keep walking.
is.
As a series of knots, it seems meditative, like the making smooth of a branch with a knife for the hell of it, practice, alleviation of boredom. A tension twists it, suggesting tendon /scar /pod. Broken finger or tail. Dendrite, those sprouting, frayed ends. The urge to go longer, or to flatten asserts. I may be wrong about
meditative
. There are intentions I cannot know. The story’s still going, the end still furled. Discovery’s current. Now. Right this minute. I pocket the thing and keep walking.
I find a rubbery, fishbone skeleton. It’s a cartoonish form with a triangle head, center spine and three requisite ribs intersecting. It’s ready to choke a mean cartoon cat. It fits in my hand. How it came loose from a whole is not clear. If it broke from a key chain, its eye isn’t ripped and there’s no telling grommet; if it fell from a necklace, there’s no silver link. Decoration, fishing gear, useless cereal box prize—I can’t tell, but into my pocket it goes.
Stubby pencil with hospital logo, bottle cap, and wet envelope come. Then I see—I’m pretty sure—what will be the last thing. There’s a lot of traffic today for some reason. My experiment’s running along Linn Street between Market and Jefferson. And here I am, at the corner of Jefferson, my planned destination. A woman sees me eyeing the thing and together we laugh at its clear incongruence, right there in the street and so out of season, at how I’m timing my move because the traffic won’t stop, and probably, too, because the sun’s finally out and the town’s finally warming after a very long winter. All this makes the present moment shine, the white golf tee shine on the wet, slushy cobbles and the tether between us, the woman and me, firm up. I let all the cars pass. I dart out for the tee and she applauds as she crosses.
My path is complete now, here at the corner. But crossing with my pocket of loot, I wonder, right off, what to do if I find more stuff. If something comes, will I stop and reach down? Will extending the rules invite disappointment, the little deflations of staying too long, of trying to rekindle? Will overriding the experiment’s frame wreck the objects’ odd preciousness, stain the control, dilute the results? These questions are part of the experiment, too. If the experiment’s over and the boundaries marked off—does that mean it
ends
? If I am not there, won’t things still appear? I consider the notion of unclaimed surprises. Will anyone else’s eye wander as mine does, and after the pleasures of finding and taking, wonder
now what
and
what’s next?
I cross the street. In my pockets, all the stuff jangles.
ends
? If I am not there, won’t things still appear? I consider the notion of unclaimed surprises. Will anyone else’s eye wander as mine does, and after the pleasures of finding and taking, wonder
now what
and
what’s next?
I cross the street. In my pockets, all the stuff jangles.
I think there’s more to it. I’m certain there is.
And though I didn’t know it then, the experiment really wasn’t over.
Months later, at my last dinner party, I gave away all the stuff I found to ten friends. Before they arrived, I laid the things out on my bed and considered which would best suit each person. The objects found their recipients easily. To Brooke, the split hooves of milkweed spilling their down; weird lanyard to Jeremy; rubber fish to Ryan who also was puzzled by its origin. And one by one, as the things left my hands, I saw it: the experiment was still in motion! When the coins first came, they suggested “series.” Then “series” broadened. Parameters firmed:
allow everything, take it all in
. Then, when the time came to leave, things came to mean “remember me.”
allow everything, take it all in
. Then, when the time came to leave, things came to mean “remember me.”
I have to believe the experiment’s end is disguised, even now, as “giving away.” I have to believe orange fish/feather/ lanyard, the experiment itself is under way still, and that I, at my starting point on the cobbled street was no starting point at all. And that night, my room, emptied of stuff was not at all empty.
Silence ExperimentIt takes only a moment to decide.
I let the phone ring and ring and don’t answer. And now I’m in it.
My breathing is loud. Drinking coffee is loud. Keeping silent is a thing I’m doing with the whole of my body and I hear things anew. I take deeper breaths, the better to expel more air, because voice isn’t here to help me sigh, to shape a thought with sound.
Ice breaks loose and slides roughly down the big skylight, and I startle, but let no brisk exhalation escape. Will someone I absolutely
must
talk to come by? Will I scribble comments on my yellow pad in response, or just stay away? Outside, everything is icing over. A guy scrapes his windshield, no gloves at all. With no words at all, I’m thinking that I’d last not three minutes like that before freezing up. It’s windy and the trees are swaying stiffly. My breath catches when they bend lower than it seems they can bear. If they snapped, how loud would it be? And ice pelting the skylight, is it lovely, is it lonely to eat uninterrupted by even the possibility of talk? I have terms to abide, rules to attend as I consider these things.
must
talk to come by? Will I scribble comments on my yellow pad in response, or just stay away? Outside, everything is icing over. A guy scrapes his windshield, no gloves at all. With no words at all, I’m thinking that I’d last not three minutes like that before freezing up. It’s windy and the trees are swaying stiffly. My breath catches when they bend lower than it seems they can bear. If they snapped, how loud would it be? And ice pelting the skylight, is it lovely, is it lonely to eat uninterrupted by even the possibility of talk? I have terms to abide, rules to attend as I consider these things.
I’m reading an article in the paper about Roger Staubach and realize I don’t know how to pronounce his name. I try an “au” then an “ow” in my head. I clear my throat after a jalapeño and hear my voice, way back there, against bone. Without my voice, something else rests, too. Even listening feels loud, especially the radio report about tin masks made for WWI soldiers whose faces were burned off or ruined in combat. Soldiers had not yet evolved instincts for trench warfare and when they stuck their heads up and looked out they got blasted. Mirrors were banned in hospitals. Suicide was rampant. I conjure the sound of knuckles-on-tin-cheek. The disbelieving rap in air. The writer being interviewed, Caroline Alexander, has done an article about the masks for
Smithsonian Magazine
. Her voice is hard, righteous, assured. When asked about new prosthetic technologies, she refuses the shift in conversation, suggests that perhaps it would be better not to make war in the first place. She lets the words sit. She won’t fill the quiet. An extra beat slips past the interviewer, into which the author’s corrective tone seeps and stills. I very much admire her ferocity. I very much admire the effect of the silence.
Smithsonian Magazine
. Her voice is hard, righteous, assured. When asked about new prosthetic technologies, she refuses the shift in conversation, suggests that perhaps it would be better not to make war in the first place. She lets the words sit. She won’t fill the quiet. An extra beat slips past the interviewer, into which the author’s corrective tone seeps and stills. I very much admire her ferocity. I very much admire the effect of the silence.
The trees move without talking. Not that they were chatty before, but such a conjecture leads to all kinds of what-ifs. Their bent-to-near-snapping leads and leads. What do you say to a tree in peril? In my way I am answering: tension in the back confirming, ache in the neck abiding. According to the plan, I’m not going to speak all weekend.
And, yes, I
am
bored at times.
Boredom is a state in which hope is secretly being negotiated
. I keep that phrase on my bulletin board. A friend of mine advocates boredom for kids, so they might learn to rely on their inner resources. I think it’s good to support certain states-of-being, fragile ones like boredom, in danger of being solved or eliminated. Similarly, I fear for aimlessness, restraint, reverie. On my watch list are the sidelong glance, the middle distance, chatting with strangers, frisson, navigating a body by scent, wandering. Anyway, I don’t want to stop the experiment now. Phone calls come that can wait, though there’s the call from a friend checking to see if I’ve lost power since the storm picked up and inviting me to his warm house for dinner—and for the night if I want. I do want. But I don’t take the call.
am
bored at times.
Boredom is a state in which hope is secretly being negotiated
. I keep that phrase on my bulletin board. A friend of mine advocates boredom for kids, so they might learn to rely on their inner resources. I think it’s good to support certain states-of-being, fragile ones like boredom, in danger of being solved or eliminated. Similarly, I fear for aimlessness, restraint, reverie. On my watch list are the sidelong glance, the middle distance, chatting with strangers, frisson, navigating a body by scent, wandering. Anyway, I don’t want to stop the experiment now. Phone calls come that can wait, though there’s the call from a friend checking to see if I’ve lost power since the storm picked up and inviting me to his warm house for dinner—and for the night if I want. I do want. But I don’t take the call.
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