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on writing, rewriting, & taking notes

Coyotes

Indira Ganesan, Noon Like Moon, 2014

I heard the coyotes again last night– arise of yelps pitched high with barks. I once saw them a year ago circle in the horse farm, late at night. Was it coyotes New Englanders heard when they condemned women as witches at Salem? They did the same in England. The sound is unearthly, frightening, because there is an edge of agitation, animal unease. I thought my cats would dive under the bed at the sound last night, but they were merely alert, curious for a while.

Now it is later, and it has been raining since yesterday. A gaggle of geese and ducks are swimming in the neighbor’s lake that two days ago was a field. The horses still have pasture, but I their coats are wet and dirty from rolling in the mud. The white horse died a month back, from age, I think. She did not want to get up, but when pushed, her owners walked her around the pasture. I spied from a window, unable to move away, as they called the vet. Later, a day later, a bulldozer came to dig a grave, and she was buried. She was old. When I fed her carrots last summer, she was hungry, but could barely chew. A new horse came to stay in the fall. So the number is back to five. I wanted to offer my condolences, but did not know what to say, or how. Still, I might have gone down to the farm, to show my respect.

A circle of condos surround the horse farm, and I have been told that long ago, children rode horses where I live now. I am in my third and possibly final spring at the Long Term Residency at The Fine Arts Work Center, and since I moved in, I have been grateful for the presence of the horses. Today I am grateful for the rain which seems to finally usher in the season, though there might be urban flooding.

If this were a Garcia Marquez story, a very old man with enormous wings would appear in a backyard. Maybe he already has. As it is, the geese honk, the rain patters, and the cats are busy watching and bathing.

As I finish up this post, the rain has given way to wind, howling.

Sleeplessness comes uncalled

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Indira Ganesan, Dreamflower, 2013

Sleeplessness comes when you least expect it, and yet, perhaps you consciously court it. Why else eat popcorn laced with your aunt’s special Sesame-cumin-dal powder, followed by spoonfuls of hazelnut chocolate? What matter it isn’t Nutella but organic, as is the popcorn and powder? Sunday before Monday, and you eat, in full knowledge, yet are still surprised to find it is half-past twelve, and in four hours –less, really–the alarm will go off, and you must get in a car and drive. You have disturbed the cats who were quietly slumbering as you tossed in bed to get comfortable, finally getting up to microwave a mug full of milk with saffron and honey, leading them to foolheartedly follow you to the kitchen, thinking they will be fed. You wonder why on earth isn’t the milk working, and you read an article about yet another person who has given up dairy, knowing you should not reach for the computer, but you really do want to know when the nasturtiums will bloom at the Gardner. It will be in April, but as long as you are there, in cyberspace, why not check what is happening at the MFA, the ICA, only you type in CIA-Boston, and get the wrong information, leading you to wonder if you are now on a list. You spent the morning having brunch with a table of interesting, vibrant women, and you came home to get caught up on work. You finished reading an article on Arundhati Roy, which leaves you feeling exhilarated and happy to be involved in novels, although you suspect she would disapprove of your work, although you hope she and a host of other South Asian writers, as well as the rest of the world, frankly, approve and exclaim over everything thing you do, for is that not why you secretly write to begin with? You drift off to sleep, having tired out your mind, knowing that the alarm will ring too soon, and of course, without fail, it does.

My Mother ‘s Wings

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Mccalls 9605 Sewing Pattern 1960s Teenage Wardrobe for Barbie: Gene Outfit, Coat Apron Dress from http://www.amazon.com/Mccalls-Sewing-Pattern-Teenage-Wardrobe/dp/B007BFLG6O

In an article on Jill Lepore in the Winter 2014 issue of Radcliffe Magazine, there is mention of the compelling essay in The New Yorker on writing about Ben Franklin’s sister. Lepore speaks of her mother building a doll’s house for her out of cardboard shoe boxes, papering each wall, affixing tiny stringed lights. Right then, I remembered my mother’s wings.

My mother made a lot of things for me growing up, including making tiny Barbie clothes; there was a wrap dress in blue zebra print I remember–were they from Butterick patterns? She made covers for our sofa and chairs, made cushions and drapes. I would make trips with her to JoAnne’s Fabrics, and while my mother dreamed about the fabrics, I would wait impatiently for her, paging through the catalogues of dress illustrations. Although a pile of felt squares housed in a corner cart fascinated me, I was not really interested in fabric. Unlike my mother, I could not sew.

When I was eight and watched The Banana Splits, a 1960’s version of Barney Gone Mad, my mother made me my very own Snorky elephant, a toy sewn from a pre-printed pattern. I loved it. My father made me boats with out of paper for me, four of them connected together, or one which had foldout canopied seats, beautiful origami that made me long to travel.In a few years, when I took Home Ec, as required by my school, I tried to feed cloth gently to the machine’s needle but I always got it jammed. I wasn’t good at cutting fabric, I did not understand how to purl and knit, and out of desperation, perhaps, my mother got me to crewel, an easier form of embroidery, using yarn instead of thread.

But what I remembered when I read the Jill Lepore article were the wings my mother made for a Halloween costume. They were a surprise for me. Usually I was a witch for Halloween, easy enough with my long black hair, which my mother let me wear unbraided. But had I been a fairy one year? She fashioned cardboard wings for me, and decorated them with the bright blue and white stars foil wrappers from Drake’s Yodels. Every lunch, I would carry a cheese or Peanut Butter sandwich, a bag of Fritos, a packaged dessert, carrot sticks, and an apple. The carrot sticks would drip to the corner of the plastic bag. Did she save the wrappers and send me to school with naked Yodels? Did she ask me to bring them home?

I can call her and find out.

Part of the charm in writing is remembering, challenging your mind to retrieve half-forgotten details. Remembering the story can furnish the details, which is the opposite of fiction in some ways. I can only remember the wings. I cannot remember the costume or the person who might have wanted to be a fairy instead of a witch or a gypsy, two costumes I do remember.

In trying to find a picture of the yodel on the net that I could use for this post, I discovered the company is bringing out the chocolate cakes again. (If you Google “Drake’s yodel foil wrapper ” and click images, you will find a lovely photo on someone’s Flickr.)

In calling my mother, she wonders if someone else might have made the wings, and reasons maybe she bought me a packaged costume. I don’t remember the costume, I tell her, but I remember the wings, the way the wings were edged in the starred foil, and how there were stripes made with foil on the inside because, obviously, we couldn’t eat that many Yodels. She wonders if I am thinking of someone else. We both remember me always wanting to be a witch. She said she made a cape, but had to buy the hat because she could not make one. I don’t remember the hat.

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