Bright Spots of Time

Wow. You knew I would love the poem. I really love it. Where is this museum? And how was the poem in a museum? In what form? Or were there just poetry books lying around on every surface and decorating the floors? This is how I would arrange a museum: I'd lay my friend’s sculptures on slabs of marble and hang art pieces suspended from the ceiling to eye level; our chairs would be books.
I hope you get the job. It fits you, but how did you feel when you interviewed? How come I’m always in the middle of what you’re doing? Rachel is calling me early early in the morning because she can't reach you, so she turns from Utah to Idaho to find you in AZ.? Logic? I'm trying to find you with zip luck as she's in a panic on the other line. I finally told her that I had shouted--not gently nudged--but shouted at you through text and e-mail. And even though I personally knew you were in a fetal position somewhere under sagebrush, cuddling with the snakes, I didn't tell her that. I told her I was sure you would contact her immediately. And I knew you would, since the job fell obviously from heaven into your un-deserving lap.
How is the desert? I think it wears your name, but so does a graduate program.

Hey and thanks for bringing me back here. I’m looking around, and it feels good. Jaren blew me off this site a couple of months ago like a dark wind from hell with his condescending remark about changing reality. Now, he’s sent me an essay to read, which I’m dying to open, but won’t until I get an official apology from Tuscan. I love Jaren, so I’ve wondered why his snooty comment caused grief, since I realize he completely missed or willfully ignored my point. But, no matter what he says, he, Greg, and James were a delight to be around. Jaren and Greg pulled up chairs in my office to sit in on my interview with James, coaching him in what to say either before or after (can’t remember, Jaren, and it doesn’t matter anyway) because his answers read like textbooks. “I don’t need to hire another EGO, James. Looking at Jaren and Greg, I said, “We have enough egos already at the WC. Don’t need more, thank you very much.” Whoa and what if I hadn’t hired James? Makes me sick to think I might have missed knowing James Best.

Time is a strange animal. As I grow older, it speeds up and passes like a Technicolor dream. Memory is even stranger. Summer and fall semesters blend like falling leaves. However, at times, I DO choose to have a selective memory. I remember only good times in my marriage unless I’m with other people, since it’s a safer way to live. I locate bright spots and ask why they are bright? My memory of knowing James and Greg and Jaren (“around” the same time, Jaren) has sunlight about it—Why? Because I enjoyed their cynicism? Hardly. More because I loved their ability to let go of cynicism and see the present, see “now” like innocent children. They have keen minds and love to use them. (However, Jaren’s mind suffers lately from sunburn.) James and Jaren usually live at the front edge of their lives while, all the time, both investigate their darker pasts. Greg’s mind needs a hook like a large crochet needle to pull it in, but once in the vicinity, he sparks up any landscape.

In my writing, I compress time and blend characters together. My mother becomes part of my grandmother. Randy becomes part of Jim. You--Em G. -- and Em Little often blend in your exclusive brilliance. But I don’t mistake the center of reality, Jaren Watson. How could I? It has often slapped me side the head –even while I pulled mountains down to hide my home--with its continual harshness, complicated paradoxes, and forever beauty. Here’s why I think I felt insulted: 1) My life’s goal is to find exact reality; without that goal, I’m aware that I cannot find God. 2) I’ve been a long time at it. 3) It’s important to me because I spent time in a landscape where I wasn’t sure which reality to believe. Is the paint really dripping off those walls? Should I walk over and touch it to find out? Did that radio really come on before I turned it on? 4) It’s almost as exciting as being in love (but not quite) to find what really “is” underneath the 1000 illusions we pile on top of truth. 5) I’m aware there are 1000 truths inside one truth, and I love the hunt.
Enough. I love the poem