It Hardly Matters, It Does Not Matter, But Let's Unravel The Edge Of Time, Where Proofs And Postulations Rise

--"Proofs", Mates of State

Not Fond of Mushrooms

When you're wondering
about the delivery

guy--how he got to
be forty-two or look like

Bob Saget in a
faded red shirt and khakis--

he is spending time
wondering why you're not fond

of mushrooms and if
he ever thought as young as you.

And when you're paying
him the twenty-six dollars

he's owed, he's thinking,
you're going to need it more

than I do, sweetheart,
before he hands you your change.

dw

----

My English teacher brought up the anomaly of being a poet and writer aficionado, unlike other worshippers of celebrity, ours is a mostly faceless form of adulation. Even though I have spent many nights padded down with a great collection of this certain poet or breathtaking new novel of that certain writer, were I to cross paths with any but a handful of people possessed of this writing gift I would surely not recognize a single one of them. You can only look at so many cover jackets, so many publicity photos, before they all meld into a formless haze of unrecognizable facial features. The idea's the thing and putting eye color or hairstyle to the words the woman says seems altogether superfluous to me. How am I to recognize the brilliance of a man if that man does not hang a sign around his neck proclaiming "My latest piece was featured in The Atlantic Monthly"? What hope do I have in discerning the average passerby from the genius that hides within the throng of teeming masses?

It'd be like when wind met earth; two mighty forces of nature with no working knowledge of how the other operates. Were one to stop me without so much as a by-your-leave and say, "Hey there, Toby. I'm Catherine Marshall and I was featured in The Best American Poetry 2009," I very well might run away. What I would not do would be say, "Gosh, it's real swell to meet you."

That is not what I would do.

I have it worked up in my head that profiteers and professional purveyors of the written word operate on a wholly different set of instructions as to how to function. They sidle from brilliant thought to brilliant thought the way a jazz singer shuffles through the different notes--lightning fast and without mercy. That's why the sight of someone like Jane Smiley or Annie Proulx shopping at the malls of America might short-circuit some inner wiring regarding how people of a certain intellect are supposed to interact with the rest of the world. For one, they are not supposed to release themselves from their self-styled enclave of creation. They do not get to peek at the sun. They do not get to drive a car, dance a jig, or drop off their dry cleaning. Their greatest contribution to society is one that requires them to be forever vigilant in their pursuit of the perfect compilation of thoughts and ideas and philosophies. It does not suffer idle chit-chat or errands lightly. It would be like seeing a automobile manufacturing robot arm taking in a movie at the cineplex; if your main function is to write then it behooves you to write without end, Amen. Otherwise, you're just depriving the rest of the world and the fans which it encompasses of your brilliant insights.

It also strikes me that I don't want to be leveled by the normalcy in their visages. I don't want to see their arch to their back or the slight imperfection to the right side of their cheek. I don't want to know that somebody whose work I once compared to one of Jesus' miracles on a good day lists to one side when they walk. I don't want to know the color of the ocean if it is not the blue of my imagination. Writers do not have bodies, after all. They only minds and mouths with which to speak the truth.

I know I wouldn't be able to hold court with them. I could not hope to keep up my end of the conversation. Were it even to devolve to the smallest of talk, I would still bow to their authority, I can tell you that much. Every query would be met with my "I agree." Every statement of opinion would be met with "I agree." Every challenge to my preconception of how things are done or work or are understood would be met with "I was so wrong." It wouldn't even be a fair fight. My independence would suffer the loss every time. They made it, they're doing it, my brain would say in upper case letters and exclamation points. Everything they tell you would hold the weight of gospel. If they tell you to be careful crossing the street, then, gosh, you'll cross the street as if you're guarding the crown jewels themselves. If they tell you to have a nice day, then you'll strive to have the best day anyone has ever had in a decade.

That's how I would understand them, not through the lens of truth but something more reverential and slightly fanatical.

I've been thinking, though, it wouldn't be any different for them. They wouldn't see me either. All they would see would be just another doting fan. They might not see what it's like to be one of their readers; they might not see what struggles their words produce when it comes time to dovetail the insights their works have incited with the universal truths one has held onto since a small child. They might have forgotten what it's like to be working your upward when it comes to understanding how language can both lash one's psyche and massage it at the same time. For them it might be a foregone conclusion. They might not understand the sense of being astounded like I still do. When they look at me they might not recognize my curiosity for what it is--like the smoker who mistakes the alley cat for some common street rat. They may not believe that I'm a writer myself so instead of seeing me with the eyes of a colleague or at least master to apprentice, their gaze may more resemble that of the way a hawk eyes its prey or a shepherd eyes his sheep. It wouldn't be a look of empathy. Pity perhaps, but most likely indifference.

It would be a difficult task meeting a writer and try to gain equal footing as them for the reasons mentioned above. It would be most troubling establishing any type of peer-to-peer set of ground rules. The idolized and idolater relationship is, indeed, a hard habit to break. Or maybe it's not even the sociodynamics of celebrity that's the problem. Maybe it all comes down to the idea that one's self-image is not ever the image projects out into society. The way I see you is not the way you see yourself. It's not a matter of which version is the truth; it's accepting the fact that both images are true and both images are false. For me it would be the trial by fire of accepting the fact that these gifted individuals are both masters of their craft and still servants of the human condition. There is no either/or choice when it comes to heroes; everyone is a hero and the damsel in the distress. Everyone should be applauded and overlooked. Everyone's important and everyone's nobody.

Everyone wins.

Everyone poops.

Maybe that's what I should focus on were I to run into Stephen King strolling down Fourth Street Live! or meet Nick Hornby at the nearest White Castle. They're better than me, to be sure. But when they look me in the eye my thoughts should turn to the truism that perhaps, perhaps I'm a little bit better than them as well. We all need that chip on our shoulders to have someone else knock off, otherwise, we're all walking around thinking that we're no better than the average personage of no interest to anyone. We need to be our own biggest fans so we don't all become someone else's, I say.

dw