The Cloud

Feeling a little bit blue and a lot tired since my trip to Japan

[Did I mention to the reader that I was going to Japan? Probably not. I had a wonderful time. It was lovely to see Takaaki and spend two weeks with him. He is not sure what to make of the 26 page poem I wrote about him. I think he might be embarrassed I love him so much. Tough cheese, I say. C’est la vie.]

I have been spending the last few evenings at home watching Doctor Who. There is an episode in Season 4 where The Doctor’s arch-nemesis, the Daleks, abduct the Earth and several other planets (including Adipose III) in order to use them to power a great engine which will extinguish all light—all life—in this universe—and all dimensions beyond. All life, that is, except the Daleks, who will reign in the ensuing darkness supreme.

Of course, the Doctor manages to defeat the Daleks—or, maybe, set-back the Daleks, since the powers of darkness are never quite defeated. The Doctor returns the Earth to its proper place in space and time, using his time machine, The Tardis, but not before delivering the idea for a poem to me.

The alien force which follows here, in my poem, is not malevolent or intelligent: it is simply a thick cloud of interstellar gas the solar system runs into one day—a natural disaster. Feel free to substitute your own nebulous menace, if you find mine inadequate. These are relatively abundant in the Cosmos, I understand: a problem for one civilization, the end of the world for another.

Isn’t that always the way?


The Nebulous Menace

Astronomers had seen it first. They could
do nothing but track it when it arrived,
eating at the constellations. Man
was not to be informed. He was. The void

grew visible—ink spilled among the stars—
with nothing there to soak it up: no
blotting paper—no salvation. God,
there goes Orion—Betelgeuse—all gone

beyond the small, bright corpuscle of Mars.
(Mars has a few more months to shine, you see.)
That's where my sister works, Bradbury
Weather Station on Olympus Mons:

counting devils in the peach twilight,
rusty, dusty devils dancing on
the edge of night. Good for asparagus
she says—the soils of Mars. She built a bed

beneath the dome she calls her home. She
harvested a hundred spears this spring—
as Jupiter went out. She didn’t know
what Earth expected her to do. To shout?

The Invasion Continues

It has been a very busy day at your humble author's day job, so today's contribution to his poem "Takaaki" is rather modest. It consists mainly of a re-writing of yesterday's bits with a little additional characterization and local color. Still, upstairs, in my head, where the thing is being conceived, there are ideas bubbling. Hopefully, this weekend will see some real focus and progress.

We shall see.

...Takaaki

Slowly shut the faucet off. He dried
His swollen fingertips on a dishtowel
With “Thanksgiving” printed on one side,
A turkey, goose—some kind of cooked, brown fowl—
Emblazoned on the other. He withdrew
Another cigarette. (There were just two,
I noticed, left inside Doraemon.)
“Are we still playing games or are we done?”
I left when he invited me to go—
Which is not to say that I objected:
I understood. I should have expected
This. Nagasaki went too far. To show
How bad I felt, I called him to surrender,
Unconditionally, the 7th of December.



Part III


Since our worlds already were at war,
There wasn’t much which I could do, really.
I buzzed Takaaki gently—prepared for
Another argument—contingency
Chrysanthemums and Dunkin’ Donuts
My auxiliaries. Although he was
Bound to be annoyed that I was late,
I hoped the Martians might consent to wait
Two hours and obliterate New York
Again, at ten-fifteen, since eight-fifteen—
Our time—had passed. Martians can be keen
On sticking to their schedules. They work
Very hard on planning their invasions,
Sleepless, indefatigable. With patience,

I pressed his buzzer harder, wondering
What on Earth was taking him so long
To answer the door, mind wandering
Back toward the cinema: what’s wrong
With him? Mysterious music swelled somewhere;
A whiff of singed meat hanging in the air
Compelled reflection. Not quite panicking,
I gave the buzzer a one minute ring,
The tip of my thumb glowing bony white.
Frustrated by my absence, had he gone
Off to face the Martians all alone—
Half-crazy—seeking a heat-ray to light
A final Marlboro? No. As it hap-
Pend, I aroused Takaaki from a nap.

He blinked at me and my chrysanthemums
As if presented with preserved bullfrogs
Retrieved from one those great pickle drums
For sale in scientific catalogs:
Every specimen in our collection
Formaldehyde free for your protection.
The ads will grin with grisly emphasis.
Takaaki offered me a ghostly kiss
Which missed my lips entirely. “Mars sends
These flowers—and regrets they look so sick.
They did seem brighter in that black plastic
Bucket at the bodega. Cut the stems
And water them, they should perk up,” I said.
“Chrysanthemums are given to the dead

By people in Japan,” Takaaki’s
Jaw yawned, unromantically, I thought.
“Maybe these Martians are not Japanese.
From me. Strawberry frosted donuts ought
To be acceptable, more auspicious.”
He made a fuss about how delicious
These tasted when I brought a couple home
One day. His favorites. Twelve Styrofoam
Rings, of no variety, or beauty,
Now glistened in his contact lenses. “Same?”
He blinked again, “Who buys all of same
Donuts? Who does that?” “It’s my duty
To disappoint you every way I can,
Takaaki. I am an American,”

I added, wearily removing
Saturated sneakers, lead pea-coat,
Wet socks, wet pants, wet everything, including
A pair of foggy glasses. As remote
As peaceful coexistence between us
Seemed, I confess the cold and clammy penis
Shyly shivering in my underwear
Was pleased a towel appeared from nowhere—
Materializing on top of the tansu
Directly opposite the front door,
When I was peeling off my t-shirt, or
Jeans. People constantly surprise you.
From the tatami room, came a fantastic
Robe inside a wicker laundry basket.

“Please put this on. It's warm. I will wash clothes
Tonight.” For once, I did what I was told.
Resistance is futile, I suppose,
Confronted by goose pimples and warm gold
Kimonos. I pulled down my briefs
Shedding any lingering beliefs
In Christian modesty in his front hall.
I rolled my doubts into a blushing ball—
A sort of maraschino cherry—
Carefully adorning the dark pile
Of soggy garments I abandoned while
He was so busy. I was grateful. Very.
He held up that kimono, like a cross,
His face invisible, his body lost

Behind the fabric…

Martians!

Here are today's contributions to Part III of the infamous Takaaki poem. Pennies are beginning to drop in my imagination--all over the place. I think this poem maybe be getting easier to write. It is very much a rough draft, one that I will have to go through and re-work top to bottom when it is done, but I am feeling better about it today than I have felt for weeks.

As I did yesterday, I reprint the concluding stanza from Part II for context.


...Takaaki

Slowly shut the faucet off. He dried
His swollen fingertips on a dishtowel
With “Thanksgiving” printed on one side,
A turkey, goose—some kind of cooked, brown fowl—
Emblazoned on the other. He withdrew
Another cigarette. (There were just two,
I noticed, left inside Doraemon.)
“Are we still playing games or are we done?”
I left when he invited me to go—
Which is not to say that I objected:
I understood. I should have expected
This. Nagasaki went too far. To show
How bad I felt, I called him to surrender,
Unconditionally, the 7th of December.



Part III


Standing on the twenty-seventh floor
I closed my clamshell phone: eight-thirty.
I pressed the buzzer firmly—prepared for
Another argument—emergency
Chrysanthemums and Dunkin’ Donuts
Ready for Takaaki. Though he was
Bound to be annoyed that I was late,
I hoped the Martians might be willing to wait
Two hours and obliterate New York
At ten-fifteen instead of eight-fifteen.
Aliens are notoriously keen
On sticking to their schedules. They work
Very hard on planning their invasions,
Rarely sleeping, even on vacations.

I pressed the buzzer harder, wondering
What on Earth was taking him so long
To answer the door, my mind wandering
Toward catastrophe: something’s wrong.
Mysterious music swelled somwhere,
A fishy odor (haddock) filled the air;
I heard the elevator softly ding,
And gave the buzzer a one minute ring,
The tip of my thumb glowing bony white.
Frustrated by my absence, had he gone
Off to face the Martians all alone?
An angry rectangle of silver light
Dispelled my darkest fears. As it hap-
Pend, I’d disturbed somebody’s nap.

Takaaki blinked at my chrysanthemums
As if I handed him preserved bullfrogs
Retrieved from one those great pickle drums
For sale in scientific catalogs
To high school bio-teachers—for dissection:
Formaldehyde free for your protection,
The ads italicize for emphasis.
Takaaki offered me a ghostly kiss
Which missed my lips entirely. “Victims
Of terrible neglect. They looked less sick
Sticking out of that black plastic
Bucket at the bodega. Cut the stems
And water them, they should perk up,” I said.
“Chrysanthemums are given to the dead

By people in Japan,” Takaaki
Murmured, unromatically, I thought…

Good News and Bad

I will begin with the Bad News.

It seems that our new friend on Mars, Mr. Dan Haggerty, better known to viewers of a certain age as Grizzly Adams, has ceased to exist. While I am happy to report he hasn't fallen into a ravine or been mauled by a bear, it saddens me to say that investigators at JPL have revealed that Mr. Haggerty is just an interesting outcropping of rock: an optical illusion.

I suppose, like Santa Claus, or Senator Fred Thompson, he was always too good to be true. Ever since learning that the Man in the Red Suit was a fiction, I held out the greatest hopes for Life on the Red Planet. I suppose the story of Percival Lowell should have served as a warning, or at least modified the initial rush of rapture we all felt when we saw his picture.

I cannot help it if I am a naturally optimistic person at heart. Fortunately, I am not easily discouraged by disappointment.

Although, I have to admit, it is becoming harder and harder to hold out hope for intelligent life on Earth, especially when it seems to be in such short supply down here, especially in Hollywood, the press, and at our major universities.

This is why, each night, before I lay me down to sleep, I thank Heaven for you. For the good sense you show in reading my blog. And for the patient, diligent efforts of fishermen everywhere. And for fish.

IFAQ: Infrequently Asked Questions

Last night's Japanese class was a little difficult (Kino no ban kurasu wa chutto muzukashi deshita), but I survived. I shall be adding another revolution to my list of New Year's Revolutions: 1 hour of Japanese verb conjugation everyday. God only knows where that hour is going to come from though. I may need to borrow against my future earnings.

...

I am not sure you noticed this bit of news yesterday, but it certainly took me by surprise. Just when we were getting used to being alone in the Cosmos, and Grizzly Adams turns up on Mars. How do you like that? If there is anything which convinces me of the existence of a higher celestial power (with a more sophisticated sense of humor) in the great chain of being, it is odd little snapshots of our psychology like this. It takes a talented eye to pick a bearded man out of a bunch of rocks.

...

One thing I am not often asked is: Why do you blog? What is the meaning of all of this drivel you have been posting lately? Especially the poems. Gorblimey! What are you, some kind of sadist. What gives?

I think George Orwell probably had the final word on why a writer writes, in general, but everybody's motivations differ slightly. I do not expect to earn money from blogging, or publishing poems, nor do I really feel that I have anything new to say that has not been said already, or will be said more eloquently by others.

I guess the reason I am here, typing, is more or less selfish. Writing helps me untangle my thoughts. The software at Blogger just makes it easier to embarrass myself.

The addition of rhyme and rhythm to ideas helps me to remember what I am thinking, or was thinking, at a particular juncture in time: allowing me to coordinate the decisions I make in the present with the past, and with the future.

I am not sure I have a particular destination in mind right now. I am just in it for the ride, as it were. But where one is going, after all, depends an awful lot upon where one has been.

And here we are.