It’s morning – cool and gray. I tried to write a poem about knowing and possessing and the odd calm in almost believing that I know nothing, have known nothing, possess nothing, have possessed nothing.
The poem was rubbish and lacked stickiness. Instead, I remembered a first date I had many years ago. It was one of the first first dates I had gone on after my divorce. We held hands which had a magical feel to it. That, too, seemed like a type of knowing, a type of temporary possession. In thinking of that small intimacy exchanged between strangers, I thought of other intimacies – sharing coffee in the morning or listening to music over a glass of wine after a long day at work.
In thinking of these small ways of knowing, I was reminded of a Raymond Carver quote I saw the other day, “I loved you so much once. I did. More than anything in the world. Imagine that. What a laugh that is now. Can you believe it? We were so intimate once upon a time I can’t believe it now. The memory of being that intimate with somebody.” I like the quote – except for the line “what a laugh that is now.” It’s a line, for me, that is too diminishing, undercutting – perhaps a betrayal of the self. Intimacy, as Carver describes it, is a type of knowing. And when it’s gone we’re left with a not-knowing, a dispossesion of knowing.
Today is a holiday and despite my efforts, it’s hard for me to spend my morning in reading, writing, and loafing mode. Or, perhaps more accurately, I’m caught between two spaces. In one space, I want to sit here, do nothing, float between this present moment and the sweetness of a few memories. In the other space, my mind (and body) want to pull out the pen and note pad and work up a to-do list: laundry (at least two loads), groceries (what the hell am I going to have for dinner), a run, straighten up, sort out plans for the week, maybe go for a walk if the sun comes out, finish up a volunteer project, etc. etc. etc.
I’m nearly done my second cup of coffee – of which, the last sips are tepid and bitter. I hear a crow cawing. I hear the groan of truck breaks. Maybe I’ll sit a little longer – try to sort out what I know.