Mar. 13, 2003
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Poem: "Mrs. Hill," by B.H. Fairchild from Early Occult Memory Systems of the Lower Midwest (W.W. Norton & Company).
I am so young that I am still in love
with Battle Creek, Michigan: decoder rings,
submarines powered by baking soda,
whistles that only dogs can hear. Actually,
not even them. Nobody can hear them.
Mrs. Hill from next door is hammering
on our front door shouting, and my father
in his black and gold gangster robe lets her in
trembling and bunched up like a rabbit in snow
pleading, oh I'm so sorry, so sorry,
so sorry, and clutching the neck of her gown
as if she wants to choke herself. He said
he was going to shoot me. He has a shotgun
and he said he was going to shoot me.
I have never heard of such a thing. A man
wanting to shoot his wife. His wife.
I am standing in the center of a room
barefoot on the cold linoleum, and a woman
is crying and being held and soothed
by my mother. Outside, through the open door
my father is holding a shotgun,
and his shadow envelops Mr. Hill,
who bows his head and sobs into his hands.
A line of shadows seems to be moving
across our white fence: hunched-over soldiers
on a death march, or kindly old ladies
in flower hats lugging grocery bags.
At Roman's Salvage tire tubes
are hanging from trees, where we threw them.
In the corner window of Beacon Hardware there's a sign:
WHO HAS 3 OR 4 ROOMS FOR ME. SPEAK NOW.
For some reason Mrs. Hill is wearing mittens.
Closed in a fist, they look like giant raisins.
In the Encyclopaedia Britannica Junior
the great Pharoahs are lying in their tombs,
the library of Alexandria is burning.
Somewhere in Cleveland or Kansas City
the Purple Heart my father refused in WWII
is sitting in a Muriel cigar box,
and every V-Day someone named Schwartz
or Jackson gets drunk and takes it out.
In the kitchen now Mrs. Hill is playing
gin rummy with my mother and laughing
in those long shrieks that women have
that make you think they are dying.
I walk into the front yard where moonlight
drips from the fenders of our Pontiac Chieftain.
I take out my dog whistle. Nothing moves.
No one can hear it. Dogs are asleep all over town.
It's the birthday of Scientology
founder L[afayette] Ron Hubbard,
born in Tilden, Nebraska (1911). Hubbard formulated his early ideas for Scientology
in a hospital bed after serving in naval intelligence during World War II. Before
that he was a popular contributor to pulp magazines, writing westerns, horror
stories and science fiction.
He wrote Dianetics: The Modern Science of Mental Health (1950), and his writings are considered scripture by the church.
It's the birthday of writer Janet Flanner, born in Indianapolis, Indiana (1892). She wrote the "Letter from Paris" for the New Yorker, starting in 1925 when it was a fledgling magazine. In Paris she was part of the expatriate literary colony; in her small hotel room on the Left Bank she hosted literary figures such as Ernest Hemingway and F. Scott Fitzgerald, who liked to drop in well after midnight to gossip and talk about her writing. She was a novelist and then turned to journalism to support herself. She said, "I act as a sponge. I soak it up and squeeze it out in ink every two weeks."
Be well, do good work, and keep in touch.®