middleagedmiddlechild.

I write.

I read.

  • i read suite française.

    May 3rd, 2022

    I’ve seen Irene Nemirovsky’s Suite Française popping up on my Twitter feed for a long time. The colorized cover photo, which originally I thought was a little sentimental, turns out to be precise & appropriate. Though it’s got a cast of dozens, the heart of the novel is the drama of a man & a woman in a time we think we know well (WWII). The photo shows a man & woman of a certain age … no longer young, but still full of vigor & life & possibility, and in this case, full of uncertainty. They’re united but looking in different directions; I’d say that they’re in an embrace, except for the fact that each of them has a hand free.

    It’s that kind of novel. One of uncertainties during a time of turmoil in Europe, here, in occupied France in 1940 & 1941. Nemirovsky, a Jewish novelist living in Paris, begins Suite Française with a kaleidoscopic energy. The Germans have moved from air bombing France and are marching on it, swiftly and successfully.

    The opening part of the two-part novel focuses on several different families & citizens fleeing Paris with what little they have, with what little they can not bear to leave behind. Their fates are as varied and as shocking as … well, the fates of refugees in a time of war. Nemirovsky makes these continental events domestic & interpersonal — the wounds & kindnesses, the good luck & the bad fortune. The struggle for shelter & bread, for petrol & a shave.

    The second part of the two-part novel focuses on a single occupied village, tracking the uneasy routines that emerge over months. Soldiers billeted in private homes; French officials compelled to (& enjoying the safety) of collaborating with the occupying German forces; children & survivors of the Great War dazzled openly & quietly (respectively) by the precision & strength of the Germans. And finally the women, performing obedience and politeness, while meditating in interior monologues about the beauty and natural novelty of young men in the village — their village’s men having left for war months and months earlier. Nemirovsky centers the drama of part two on the newlywed Bruno (a German officer skilled at music and eager to make the occupation civilized) and the newlywed Lucile (a girl from the forests waiting for a husband that doesn’t love her to return, enamored with the walks & talks, the talent & promise of Bruno).

    Nemirovsky meant for this to be a five-part series. She was arrested in 1942  “and deported to Auschwitz, where she died. For sixty-four years, this novel remained hidden and unknown.” As a result, the novel ends with an unintended verisimilitude — none of the characters know and the author cannot hint at what is in store for these characters, for their way of life on part two’s last pages, set in July 1942 as the Germans leave the village for the Russian front.

  • i read a tree grows in brooklyn.

    May 1st, 2022

    I have heard great things about Betty Smith’s autobiographical A Tree Grows in Brooklyn all my life—the book and the movie. I finally got around to this readable, accessible, emotionally & historically nimble story.

    To say that it’s a coming of age story is accurate, to a point, as accurate as it is to say that it’s a family story or a bootstraps story or a … well, we’d call it historical fiction now, but it was written originally with the psychological & emotional precision that the best stories have.

    Betty Smith shapes the protagonist Francie & her family through the lens of what Toni Morrison once called Homeric fairness. That is, it is a story told bravely & honestly, a growing up ennobled & complicated by surprising empathy & honesty. Francie endures the fact that she is less loved by her mother than her brother is — but Smith depicts the mother chides her disarmingly to the effect of, “Oh, honey, don’t make a fuss — you know that he needs my love & support more than you do.” And you believe the mother. Francie bristles at the indignities & consequences of her father’s drunkenness — but Smith also centers the father’s love & struggles, his talent & tragedy.

    I could go on. There’s no single antagonist, no enemy (unless it is poverty). There is instead the ambiguities of life & the everyday heroism of love & hard work, the gentle daily blessings that get people through the persistent daily burdens & losses.

    It is a beautiful & hopeful book, made all the more beautiful by the direct style (which has moving flourishes & shifts in POV) and made all the more hopeful by the realization that we are not alone, or at least not alone for long.

  • fire lane.

    April 27th, 2022
    Three Chimneys parking lot, Greenhill School, April 27,2022
    Every few summers
    right before the kids return,
    the cones & ropes come out
    directing traffic somewhere else.
    
    There's a potbellied trailer
    spattered & smoking, surrounded
    by men in fluorescent vests
    & tarred steel toed boots.
    
    The asphalt goes down
    thick & clean, the oily heat 
    rainbowing & distorting 
    the new view.
    
    Then a slower process,
    stencils & block letters, 
    striping & labeling: 
    students & faculty,
     
    visitors & diagonally reserved spots 
    we hope never to need,
    a reminder of the everyday horrors
    that happen somewhere else. 
    Years later the colors return
    to the earth, as we all must.
    Cracked & bubbled, a broad mottled stripe
    thrown into relief by sun & time.
    
    The lines, faded & crumbling,
    can still keep us safe. 
    We remember
    where we belong. 
    

    On April 27, I sent my students outside with their phones to return with photos of different colors. This is inspired by a color I found.

  • ambient sonnet.

    April 27th, 2022
    Along with the usual noises
    (washing machines, wind chimes),
    this house has other voices.
    Scratches, creaks, murmurs, all times,
    all corners of the house. Like a
    conductor tapping a baton,
    a critter's feet ticks out a
    path across the roof, lighting upon
    the shingles faintly. Beneath 
    the deck, deep in the shrubs,
    a bit of digital-ish noise beeps
    & chirps, then drops out, an abrupt
    small wild world alive, persistent -- but each
    time I approach, silent, just out of reach.

    Written for this challenge, this sonnet features words & phrases from this record review.

  • hope, midnight, candle.

    April 26th, 2022
    which is to say
    in the darkest of hours
    there's a flickering,
    an easily snuffed light.
    
    You can lift it,
    you can move it,
    but you must
    protect it.
    
    A hope chest holds
    soft elegance,
    handstitched care 
    for the body & the bed.
    
    A hope candle can last
    if you're careful & still.
    Keep it close. 
    Keep it dry.
    
    Watch hope dance then stand
    to reveal dangers, to ennoble
    wide eyes. Windowed, mirrored, 
    it even grows. 
    
    Hope throws big shadows,
    darkening what's behind.
    So look ahead, look close.
    And hold your breath. 
    

    For this writing challenge, I rolled some metaphorical dice, which gave me the three words that are the title & inspiration here.

  • lightning, thunder.

    April 25th, 2022
    The light comes before 	the rumble.
    The longer the gap		between them,
    the further the storm		from you.
    
    The first flash woke me.	For once,
    my wife slept through	it all.
    
    I lay alone with the sound	        and light,
    watching, listening, 		        and counting.
    
    Light, 				one Mississippi,
    two Mississippi,		then
    
    a rumbling menace 		                           above the roof.
    Windows rattled, the dog	burrowing        between us.
    
    In the next flash, 		a silhouette, a child
    midstride, framed by		the illumined window.
    
    He climbed through		        the thunder
    into the flannel & heat		a safe dry place
    between father, mother,	        and dog. 
    
    The sound got as close		as the light.
    It rained 		                        till morning.
    

    Written in response to this writing challenge.

  • how to pray at home.

    April 19th, 2022
    Backyard, March 29, 2022
    There’s a rusty chair left over
    from your grandparents in law, 
    one the squirrels haven’t yet
    torn to shreds.
    
    Pull it from the corner of the yard
    and right to the center,
    the pollen crunching
    under your feet.
    
    There’s a neighbor behind you,
    his garage door open. 
    Music is playing. Something is 
    being fixed or installed.
    
    Push that from your focus,
    and avoid being annoyed
    by his perpetual busy
    suburban nesting.
    
    There’s a deck before you,
    decades old, creaking & buckled
    from rain & sun,
    boards warped & bleached,
    nails reaching upward. 
    Some slats mossed over
    fold beneath the lightest
    of footsteps.
    
    Give thanks for the long years
    this space has given you, 
    and avoid being annoyed
    at this crumbling hazard.
    
    There’s a vista before you,
    a roof that’s never leaked,
    a tree above it, right at the center 
    of this part of your life.
    
    Cross your legs. Palm the glass
    of wine. Watch for mosquitos.
    And look up.  
    
    There are clouds & birds,
    branches & wind.
    
    It’s all starting again.
    It always will. 
    

    Written in response to this challenge.

  • legato.

    April 18th, 2022
    Josef Sudek, home of Leoš Janácek (1948).
    There’s a place for your hands
    And another for your feet.
    
    You look. You breathe. 
    You count. You play.
    
    It’s just as responsive as you 
    would hope wood would be.
    
    Eventually you learn to play 
    with your whole body
    
    like you’re gently blessing 
    the music into the keys,
    
    your elbows nudging,
    your wrists pliant,
    
    your fingers curved 
    and lifting,
    
    a fragrant sheet
    caught on a line.
    
  • morning routine, 2022

    April 17th, 2022
    Santosh Shetty, Bert Fields Park, Dallas TX (January 2022)
    These days my mornings
    begin outside with the sun
    in my face. Texas
    makes this difficult most days
    what with heat and mosquitos.
    
    But it’s a habit 
    now -- a tan line on my nose
    where my glasses sit.
    “Here’s another day,” I think.
    And here too am I. Thank God.  
    

    This is another tanka poem. Sorta.

  • the whole child.

    April 13th, 2022
    Josef Sudek, Plaster Head (1945)
    The day's first email --
    subject line: "Confidential."
    A kid in crisis
    is bravely getting some help.
    Looking up from the email,
    
    I see her come in
    like it's just another day -- 
    which, I guess, it is. 
    Still, every word & gesture
    becomes a sign, a warning.
    
    
    
    
    If you or someone you love needs help, please know that there are resources out there. This is a kind of tanka poem. Sorta.
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Thanks for reading–and there’s more! Click here for things I write. Click here for things I read.

 

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