I have been a writing fool this evening, first about our Ty Cobbs and then a little more on the Paleo Indians in the Bend (and don’t miss the cute revelation of how Professor Anderson spends his time).
My neighbor and I went strolling around my garden and I gave her some cucumbers and we saw, laying in the dirt, a zucchini so ridiculously big it would have made even a drunk me blush. I also have a ton of beans on the one bean plant that has managed to live. And we’re going to have a shit ton of pumpkins.
Her tomatos are also out of control, so we bonded over that.
And then she marvelled at my pears.
Which is not a euphamism, though it would be awesome if it was! Ha.
The trouble with a good poem is that, at some point, you can’t say what is good about it, I don’t think. I mean, to switch tracks just a second, the reason I love Those Darlins is because I feel like they love the deep and wide history of American music and dip their legs in it to keep cool on hot days. And when you listen to them, it is the equivalent of sitting at the edge of the pool with them, water between your toes, hot sun over head, and someone calling from the kitchen “Who needs a beer?”
And yet, when you listen to them and I ask you, “Can you hear the cool history of America?” that’s not a question that really has an answer we can share.
And so it is with poems, you know?
It pisses me off so much that poetry is supposed to be fru-fru and that reading it and liking it is not a pursuit of “real” people.
Who else can say so much about real people?
My favorite times are not just the ones where you are knee-deep in the waters of America, but those very rare times where someone shocks the water and you are just one point among many all humming in a pleasure bordering on something beyond death, where all the voices are making noise, and you get to try to hear them.
The Professor called me last night to tell me she was back in town, to share with me some interpersonal drama I’m still laughing about, and to try to get a sense of just how big the crap in my garden is.
She has been in my garden. As you recall, her weeding efforts among the pumpkins were so thorough some of the pumpkins now write love letters to her.
But she said that she just could not get a sense from the pictures, because the pictures made it look like some of the leaves were bigger than her hand.
And I said, “Yes.”
Folks, it’s unreal. And this weekend when I take pictures, I will stick a hand in the frame or something so that you can get a sense of how ridiculous everything is.
I mean, seriously, are tomatos supposed to reach your tits? I kind of imagined them as a thigh-high plant.
I don’t know if the mushroom compost is just that good or if my backyard is magic, but it tickles the crap out of me.