Destination: Oklahoma


Hello, readers!

And a happy Monday to you. The weekend turned out much better than I could’ve hoped. It’s entirely possible I passed my test, so I’m hesitantly optimistic on that front! Beers were not had with the wife… Instead we pumped ourselves full of Gin, accompanied by things like passion fruit and citrus and mint and rosemary. Say what you will about hipsters, but they’ve got their alcohol down pat. I also learned a bit of hebrew. So, you know, all in all it was a pretty good weekend.


In other news.

We’ve been in Oklahoma for what seems like an unnecessarily long time. I know. I get distracted. I suppose I’m part goldfish. Perhaps the part that likes to drink? (That was a terrible joke, but I’m endlessly amused nonetheless. I’m sorry. Please bear with me.) In any case, enough is enough! I was looking for poetry about Oklahoma, because why not? And I found this little gem. It’s about writing and being there and writing without being there. It’s full of down to earth imagery that takes you there. To that place that makes you think, I want to write about this….

In Oklahoma


When you leave a Real City, as Gertrude Stein did, and go to Oakland, as she did, you can say, as she did, there is no there, there. When you are a Hartford insurance executive, as Wallace Stevens was, and you have never been to Oklahoma, as he had not, you can invent people to dance there, as he did, and you can name them Bonnie and Josie. But a THERE depends on how, in the beginning, the wind breathes upon its surface. Shh: amethyst, sapphire. Lead. Crystal mirror. See, a cow-pond in Oklahoma. Under willows now, so the Osage man fishing there is in the shade. A bobwhite whistles from his fencepost, a hundred yards south of the pond. A muskrat-head draws a nest of Vs up to the pond’s apex, loses them there in the reeds and sedges where a redwing blackbird, with gold and scarlet epaulets flashing, perches on the jiggly buttonwood branch. Purple martins skim the pond, dip and sip, veer and swoop, check, pounce, crisscross each other’s flashing paths. His wife in the Indian Hospital with cancer. Children in various unhappiness. White clouds sail slowly across the pure blue pond. Turtles poke their heads up, watch the Indian man casting, reeling, casting, reeling. A bass strikes, is hooked, fights, is reeled in, pulls away again, is drawn back, dragged ashore, put on the stringer. In Oklahoma, Wally, here is Josie’s father. Something that is going to be nothing, but isn’t. Watch: now he takes the bass home, cleans and fries it. Shall I tell you a secret, Gert? You have to be there before it’s there. Daddy, would you pass them a plate of fish? See friends, it’s not a flyover here. Come down from your planes and you’ll understand. Here.

Until next time, readers! Stay tuned for a more in depth look at my August: Osage County reading experience during the #24in48 Reading Marathon!

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