Rough Likeness: Essays (2 page)
Read Rough Likeness: Essays Online
Authors: Lia Purpura
Anyway, I already think like a buzzard.
The times I forget my child, most powerfully marked by the moments that follow, in which I abruptly remember him again, with sharp breath, disturbed at the oversight—those times are evidence enough of my fall into reverie, into the all that is set, unbidden, before me: inclinations gone to full folds, bone-shaded hollows, easings and slouchings, taut ridges, matched dips, cupped small of the back, back of the neck, the ever-giving body—yes, I take what’s set before me. So much feels hosted—and fleet. I chew a little koan: all things go/always more where that came from.
I already know the buzzard.
That the world calls me to hissing and grunting, that I am given a nose for decay’s weird sweetness, that I am arranged in a broken-winged pose to dry feathers and bake off mites in the sun, that I love the wait, that I have my turn, that no one wants my job so I go on being needed—I have my human equivalences for these.
The Lustres
I am, I admit, daunted here. Set upon by impossibility, which is both my subject and predicament. My method, then, will be the standard proceeding-in-the-face-of variety. I’ll call some point “beginning” and begin. This state, right now, is coiled up like a fiddlehead fern, so bright-green, fresh, lemony, cochlear I cannot bring myself to pick/wash/steam it just yet. This moment, folded into itself, is resting so tenderly I find it hard to get going—in just the same way I cannot bring myself to make a fist with one hand while touching the yielding velvet of an earlobe with the other. Or to bite down hard on pearled barley or luminous beads of tapioca. At the farmers’ market, it’s the shiver of apricots, their thinnest bitter-honey skin, the speed at which the over-softness will set in, right then, right that minute if mishandled.
I have ways to manage and even enjoy the subacute rise in anxiety. The adjustments, once the words are set in motion, the circling, the backtracking, the proper dimming of lights save me.
I call upon the partial.
It is the partial I believe in, twilit and salvaged as any childhood god. Scraps and spots, moments and lustres passing and glimpsed sidelong.
I remind myself that starting anticipates a geography. A moment seeks a shape and claims
here
(bedroom window, perfume bottle) as its wobbly launch. And it is somewhere in
here
that the unsayable is lodged. How to speak of it is my problem, my subject, rolled between thumb and index finger like a bead of wool. I worry it and it soothes. Very early, I embarked on this task in its simplest form, by unspooling words: I’d hold one in my mouth and repeat it over and over, letting incantation mow down sense, so the phonemes marked a spot, trampled the ground, lit a fire and purified themselves into rote, risen things. I’d let a single, drossy word dissolve on my tongue, little plosives (
pepper
), or breathy sibilants (
citizen
) until a brief pulp of sustenance formed, a slurry juice where a word once was, and from there I could start building back meaning.
here
(bedroom window, perfume bottle) as its wobbly launch. And it is somewhere in
here
that the unsayable is lodged. How to speak of it is my problem, my subject, rolled between thumb and index finger like a bead of wool. I worry it and it soothes. Very early, I embarked on this task in its simplest form, by unspooling words: I’d hold one in my mouth and repeat it over and over, letting incantation mow down sense, so the phonemes marked a spot, trampled the ground, lit a fire and purified themselves into rote, risen things. I’d let a single, drossy word dissolve on my tongue, little plosives (
pepper
), or breathy sibilants (
citizen
) until a brief pulp of sustenance formed, a slurry juice where a word once was, and from there I could start building back meaning.
Of course I believe, still, that words harbor side streets with surprise spills of bougainvillea come upon, low stone walls and chickens whitening briefly the chinks between stones. Stiff cough and broom-swipe in a courtyard, low easy talk, internal doors slamming. I give no casual access to my city here, but think it will—I hope this impulse to speak of it will—lift lightly and settle over you, offer some sensibility, some original atmosphere. I want some lisp, a recognizable accent to surface, to catch and welcome you in.
Starting, I hoard, palm, pocket the impulse. Starting, I think: back it up, slow it down. Delay with just a little more history here.
Early on I knew. I’d suspected for some time, but then: in one of my father’s art books, there was Magritte’s curvy pipe, titled “Ceci n’est pas une pipe.” And his four-paneled painting in which a horse is called “door,” a clock is “wind,” a pitcher “bird,” and a valise (surprise!) is exactly—or inexactly now—“valise.” So objects
were
loosely affixed to their names, and language a game we all agreed to play! This suggestion did not make me queasy; I was not chilled or moved to anger, as if toward an imposter. I was not disillusioned. I was a child. And to the word as stand-in I gave my pity and my allegiance. I extended latitude. I granted amnesty. I was
grateful
to the word for trying. So here:
were
loosely affixed to their names, and language a game we all agreed to play! This suggestion did not make me queasy; I was not chilled or moved to anger, as if toward an imposter. I was not disillusioned. I was a child. And to the word as stand-in I gave my pity and my allegiance. I extended latitude. I granted amnesty. I was
grateful
to the word for trying. So here:
I called it
Vienna,
but it wasn’t Vienna-the-city. I did not know that Vienna. My grandmother and great aunt were from Augsburg, and Vienna was far, nearly 300 miles, and there were no stories about it. I could assume I’d encountered Vienna in books and arranged associations from what I’d read. But that would be inaccurate. I read no books about Vienna. (I was busy for a long time with a perfectly square little book about kids in Japan, their Children’s Day, their Flower Festival. I was busy imagining my feet in wooden sandals and my waist cinched tight in a red silk kimono; the rice-powder makeup I’d be allowed to wear. The gift of an orange I’d eat with reverence. I’d have a gray kitten. And a box kite that obeyed.) I could construct other accountings of the word’s first appearance, but here, now, I’m ready. It’s that I took the word—
Vienna
—and matched it up with what I knew of distance and its complications. I applied
Vienna
to an elsewhere. It’s one of the ways I taught myself that
elsewhere
has a shape—and that one might be, if alert, if not grabby, shone upon by its mystery.
Vienna,
but it wasn’t Vienna-the-city. I did not know that Vienna. My grandmother and great aunt were from Augsburg, and Vienna was far, nearly 300 miles, and there were no stories about it. I could assume I’d encountered Vienna in books and arranged associations from what I’d read. But that would be inaccurate. I read no books about Vienna. (I was busy for a long time with a perfectly square little book about kids in Japan, their Children’s Day, their Flower Festival. I was busy imagining my feet in wooden sandals and my waist cinched tight in a red silk kimono; the rice-powder makeup I’d be allowed to wear. The gift of an orange I’d eat with reverence. I’d have a gray kitten. And a box kite that obeyed.) I could construct other accountings of the word’s first appearance, but here, now, I’m ready. It’s that I took the word—
Vienna
—and matched it up with what I knew of distance and its complications. I applied
Vienna
to an elsewhere. It’s one of the ways I taught myself that
elsewhere
has a shape—and that one might be, if alert, if not grabby, shone upon by its mystery.
And now that I’m in it, now that I’m committed, here are some Viennese offerings: the Long Island Railroad tracks that ran behind my Aunt Pasq’s house, just beyond her small grape arbor trussed to the poles of the clothesline. Across the street, lying in bed at night in my grandmother’s house, I practiced gauging the arrival of trains by the pitch of their hollow whistles sounding three towns, two towns, then one away. The profound rattle started first in the walls, rose into the vases and cups of nighttime water, and by the time it reached my chest and hummed there, it was gone.
In the moments just after the trains flew past, it was
Vienna
in the room.
Vienna
in the room.
And in the morning, pairing that rush with the feel of an ampoule breaking and spreading its pinks and golds, it was a new Vienna, a Vienna again and again to enter, through the door of noise (trains every ten minutes) or the buttery window, south-facing, and catching and holding the fresh-poured light.
More?
In truth, I have a ready list:
I learned the word
bower
for an intimacy I trace to a scene atop an enameled pillbox, given to me by Madame Lulu, visiting from South Africa. She ran an orphanage for Jewish refugees, and we knew the grown-up orphan who was my parents’ friend, David. On the pillbox, in blue and white, a seated peasant girl and standing peasant boy inclined together in a tondo of love amid hills and a far-off, blurry castle. Their heads touched, their eyes met on the empty basket in her lap and the bouquet in his hand hung just a wisp, a breath of white away from it. Sometimes I’d take a break from the scene and flick the golden lips of the clasp apart, open the box, and touch my tongue to the fine powder left there by Madame’s pills—tiny saccharine tablets for her tea—then snap the box shut and ride the wisp all the way down to the girl’s lap, and fast up to the distant castle.
bower
for an intimacy I trace to a scene atop an enameled pillbox, given to me by Madame Lulu, visiting from South Africa. She ran an orphanage for Jewish refugees, and we knew the grown-up orphan who was my parents’ friend, David. On the pillbox, in blue and white, a seated peasant girl and standing peasant boy inclined together in a tondo of love amid hills and a far-off, blurry castle. Their heads touched, their eyes met on the empty basket in her lap and the bouquet in his hand hung just a wisp, a breath of white away from it. Sometimes I’d take a break from the scene and flick the golden lips of the clasp apart, open the box, and touch my tongue to the fine powder left there by Madame’s pills—tiny saccharine tablets for her tea—then snap the box shut and ride the wisp all the way down to the girl’s lap, and fast up to the distant castle.
Contradict
broke apart, escaped like a gas and entered the air precisely here: climbing a rough, wooden ladder into the loft where everyone slept. I am at my parents’ friends’ farm, 1970, in northern New Hampshire, a safe home for conscientious objectors en route to Canada. I’m on rung three or four following the younger brother up; he’s got a hole in his thick, wool sock, the hems of his jeans are caked and dirty after milking the cow and his brother’s voice is trailing us both: “Jamie, don’t
contradict
me.” I knew at once the word to be a borrowed one. It was clumsy, too big and too new in the older boy’s mouth, but it worked, the tumblers of
contra–
and–
dict
clicking hard, the loft air both dusty and cold, the anger above and below me, pressing. I said nothing, alone with the word. Lobbed, slammed, unbuckled—
contradict—
their terrible father’s word, cribbed, choric, refracted—now
theirs.
And by stealth, mine as well. Mine, since I grabbed it as soon as it fell. Over and over I turned the word, then under my breath I exploded the pieces in all directions:
contra/ry, contra/st, contra/ption, contra/ct. . . .
broke apart, escaped like a gas and entered the air precisely here: climbing a rough, wooden ladder into the loft where everyone slept. I am at my parents’ friends’ farm, 1970, in northern New Hampshire, a safe home for conscientious objectors en route to Canada. I’m on rung three or four following the younger brother up; he’s got a hole in his thick, wool sock, the hems of his jeans are caked and dirty after milking the cow and his brother’s voice is trailing us both: “Jamie, don’t
contradict
me.” I knew at once the word to be a borrowed one. It was clumsy, too big and too new in the older boy’s mouth, but it worked, the tumblers of
contra–
and–
dict
clicking hard, the loft air both dusty and cold, the anger above and below me, pressing. I said nothing, alone with the word. Lobbed, slammed, unbuckled—
contradict—
their terrible father’s word, cribbed, choric, refracted—now
theirs.
And by stealth, mine as well. Mine, since I grabbed it as soon as it fell. Over and over I turned the word, then under my breath I exploded the pieces in all directions:
contra/ry, contra/st, contra/ption, contra/ct. . . .
And years later, traveling through France, what
are
those things, I wondered from the train—little
huts
dotting the fields?—until I could sift back for the word:
haystacks!
So changed was the word by those new forms, I almost couldn’t locate it
.
So here were the great tufted haystacks of France!
Monet’s
haystacks! And
then
I had the absolute golds and granite blues to attend the word, hold its cape, to polish and serve! Oh hidden, exoteric pinks and ochers—and
still
I could hardly get the word to fit! How these forms broke from the Midwestern haystacks I knew, baled and wired, or rolled in plastic in my little college town. How these reconstituted the tufted, leaning sheaves the poets of the Lake District so loved.
are
those things, I wondered from the train—little
huts
dotting the fields?—until I could sift back for the word:
haystacks!
So changed was the word by those new forms, I almost couldn’t locate it
.
So here were the great tufted haystacks of France!
Monet’s
haystacks! And
then
I had the absolute golds and granite blues to attend the word, hold its cape, to polish and serve! Oh hidden, exoteric pinks and ochers—and
still
I could hardly get the word to fit! How these forms broke from the Midwestern haystacks I knew, baled and wired, or rolled in plastic in my little college town. How these reconstituted the tufted, leaning sheaves the poets of the Lake District so loved.
All my life, my words worked hard. Stood up to.
Withstood and understood.
I have tried to keep them safe.
By the time I’d learned
sublime
, I’d already seen its chased grays and lit hurricane greens in the Hudson River School painters’ skies (
firmament
!), those parlous heights brightening to revelatory, those gorges blackly, mossily seducing. I’d already read Keats’ “The Eve of St. Agnes,” and to that, too—though I apologize now for the taxonomy of purples I made of it in high school English class—I retroactively applied the word.
sublime
, I’d already seen its chased grays and lit hurricane greens in the Hudson River School painters’ skies (
firmament
!), those parlous heights brightening to revelatory, those gorges blackly, mossily seducing. I’d already read Keats’ “The Eve of St. Agnes,” and to that, too—though I apologize now for the taxonomy of purples I made of it in high school English class—I retroactively applied the word.
My Aunt Pasq made us Easter bread—dense, yeasty and saltless with a hard-boiled egg, shell and all, held fast in its braided center. My grandmother grew tomatoes in her backyard. I had, for “sublime,” the words
bread
and
tomato
. I had the phrase “go pick a nice tomato for dinner.” And once out there, alone with my task, I had all to myself the teetering six o’clock light, the peeling and tender, pink-skinned birch shadowing the grass and me, the fence hung with flower boxes we’d watered just that morning, the fence keeping back the weedy graveyard on one side of the house and grocery’s parking lot on the other. That is,
sublime
was all around—loose, though, and rampant, unaffiliated with the word for it. Even now I say it sotto voce, preferring
egg, bread, tomato, birch, wet fence
.
bread
and
tomato
. I had the phrase “go pick a nice tomato for dinner.” And once out there, alone with my task, I had all to myself the teetering six o’clock light, the peeling and tender, pink-skinned birch shadowing the grass and me, the fence hung with flower boxes we’d watered just that morning, the fence keeping back the weedy graveyard on one side of the house and grocery’s parking lot on the other. That is,
sublime
was all around—loose, though, and rampant, unaffiliated with the word for it. Even now I say it sotto voce, preferring
egg, bread, tomato, birch, wet fence
.
(I can go on, though—it’s quiet enough, it’s still dark out this early and I’ll quickly remake that semi’s air horn into a far-off train whistle. So, shhhh.) We made our beds in the morning. We did not throw clothes on the floor, nor did we put our shoes on the couches. Nothing ripped was worn in my grandmother’s house. There was sherry sometimes. Some bathroom nymphs. Melon balls in translucent green bowls. A glass butter dish. We had cream in that house, whipped, with crushed pineapples and spread between layers of airy-wet cake for birthdays. On the mantle, a pair of porcelain doves. There was a vase with blue and gold trim and a Schubert-era, rosy, coiffed woman who watched you over her very bare shoulder as you took a bath. There were French perfume bottles on a mirrored tray, each with a dram of valuable scent gone brown and syrupy at the bottom. There was a vanity table, though we never said “vanity,” and neither did we have the words “highboy,” “chifforobe,” “antimacassar.” We had
shelf
and
cabinet
and
slip cover.
In jewelry boxes, a few
good things
sat apart from the more spectacular rhinestones and mod, white, baubly stuff. In the living room, me in a red velvet frame, my sister in gold. My mother as a bouncy kid, also framed on my grandmother’s dresser. My mother in college, with a short cap of hair, luminous with who knows what pleasure and sadness contained beneath the decorum and perfect, sourceless light.
shelf
and
cabinet
and
slip cover.
In jewelry boxes, a few
good things
sat apart from the more spectacular rhinestones and mod, white, baubly stuff. In the living room, me in a red velvet frame, my sister in gold. My mother as a bouncy kid, also framed on my grandmother’s dresser. My mother in college, with a short cap of hair, luminous with who knows what pleasure and sadness contained beneath the decorum and perfect, sourceless light.
And always, just outside my great aunt’s bedroom window (not the train-facing window, mine when I stayed there, but the south-facing one)—ah, there it was. Jump down from the high and strictly made bed, step onto the braided rug, move to the window, and there, you could touch it, open onto
Vienna
. But I never touched it. I never stepped to the window at all. I gazed unfocused, sometimes at it, sometimes through it, from the distance of my bed:
Vienna
, the way dancers locate a still point, for balance as they spin.
Vienna
. But I never touched it. I never stepped to the window at all. I gazed unfocused, sometimes at it, sometimes through it, from the distance of my bed:
Vienna
, the way dancers locate a still point, for balance as they spin.
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