Saturday, January 18, 2020


Here I am again reminding myself that there is indeed still summer that it is guaranteed as long as I stay alive that my skin and hair and toes will return to their natural order that my elbows and wrists and hands will thaw the garden will be fecund and loamy moss will return to the trees roses and greeny green grass will magically reappear I will inhale lilac and hyacinth deer will turn tawny summer dresses and sandals will emerge from my closet and my knees will emerge and become their scabby spectacular selves I need to remind myself almost daily of the summer promise during terrible flat frozen winter I say it all the time I am and will always be a summer girl a Leo a water baby and to my very soul
Amin Amin Amin

this morning the wind is crawling up again so far it’s at an easy going 20 mph I’m still in bed with two cats rereading Anthony Bourdain’s Kitchen Confidential because I wanted to have his voice in my head I have not forgotten what a great writer he was before his television shows and that’s how I knew him first

“I’ve asked a lot what the best thing about cooking for a living is. And it’s this: to be a part of a subculture. To be part of a historical continuum, a secret society with its own language and customs. To enjoy the instant gratification of making something good with one’s hands—using all one’s senses.”

This is very much how I feel about being a musician that I am in a secret society a strange little aquarium of skilled obsessives closed to the outside world that the sound of rehearsals the guts of the music library their stacks ceiling high and valuable the after hour parties the competition and the ache that hours of practice brings the sharp emotional pain of having a student you’ve taught for eleven years go away to school the smell of rosin in a cold church on a Saturday morning are things that the world at large cannot gain admittance to not even the internet with its weird prying snake eyes can take it away I don’t feel that way about being a poet I never have perhaps because you can fake being a poet but you cannot fake playing a Mozart violin concerto but to be honest it’s probably because I’ve never felt like I belonged to poetryworld where having an MFA attached to your name or at least a college education is what allows you access to the top tier journals and conferences no matter the quality of your work no matter that I have published five books no matter that one of those books was nominated for a Pulitzer Prize I will never feel part of  but plop me down in any size group of musicians then I feel it always and immediately ahhhhh yes this is it this is home and I am so grateful for that strange eccentric family that accepts me for exactly how well I can play and nothing more


Blogger Ms. Moon said...

I always wanted to be part of that family but alas, I cannot play a thing. Still, I love that family and have had so many relationships in it that sometimes I feel as if maybe I am a fourth cousin twice removed-in-law or something. I think that musicians let me hang around because I feed them.
And you may not feel as if you are part of the poet family but you are. You're a poet to your bones and beyond them too.

January 18, 2020 at 2:47 PM  
Blogger Radish King said...

An audience is the most blessed thing on earth. Thank you dear Mary.

January 18, 2020 at 5:38 PM  
Blogger 37paddington said...

I love the glimpse of this secret society that you allowed us here. I love that there is a place where you know you belong. I have one such place on this earth and it’s not writing world either.

January 19, 2020 at 12:34 PM  
Blogger Radish King said...

It is a delight to have that like a room of one’s own but filled with people with a particular thing in common. XO

January 19, 2020 at 12:38 PM  

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