STUFF.

Today I went to the cinema to see New Moon. I don’t think there’s any need to describe that experience, maybe apart from the fact that my movie buddy brought little mini bottles of white wine for us to have during the screening. It was a first for me, but I have to say – what a great idea.

We were meeting at 7pm, and I knew I was going to be hungry (I spent the day running errands and only had toast in the morning) so I stepped into Maccas for a quick bite (it wasn’t my first choice, believe me). I only ever have one thing there – the fillet-o-fish sandwich and fries. As I was sitting there eating I got a sudden memory flashback to when I was very young and my parents would occasionally take us, my brother an I, to this fast food restaurant. I think it was one of the first fast food joints in town, sort of like a cheap knock off of McDonalds, with red plastic chairs and thick vanilla milkshakes.

I remember one time, there was no occasion, just a sunny spring or summer Sunday afternoon, my parents decided (or maybe gave in to our persuasions) that we were to go. Go to Max! That’s what it was called and I remember yelling out that phrase: we’re going to Max! Or maybe it had two Xs? I remember putting our nice clothes on and getting into my dad’s car – it was dark cherry red – and making the trip to the center. We would stand by the counter and go through the menu thinking of what we wanted, even though we always ended up getting the same things in the end. I would get a cheeseburger and my brother would get a Big Mac (that’s what it was called, I swear). Without fail, there would be a milkshake or two somewhere in the mix, too. One vanilla and one chocolate. And I remember sitting on that red plastic bench, eating my sandwich and looking at my Mum demanding to know why was it that I always ended up with a cheeseburger, and was never allowed to get a Big Mac like my brother (it looked so impressive). She looked at me and said, very matter-of-factly, that it was because I would never be able to finish one. And I accepted that explanation. Because, of course, she was right.

This evening all these memories came flooding back because somewhere in the middle of my meal I looked down at my half finished fillet-o-fish thinking that there was no chance in hell I was going to be able to finish it because I was already so full. Ha, and I think it must have been smaller than the cheeseburger.

That photo I posted earlier, the one of the dark canal, reminds me of a poem by Elisabeth Bishop, whom I adore. I keep coming back to it. I love how the water is dense and black, almost oily, and you can almost feel how cold it has to be.

At the Fishhouses

Although it is a cold evening,
down by one of the fishhouses
an old man sits netting,
his net, in the gloaming almost invisible,
a dark purple-brown,
and his shuttle worn and polished.
The air smells so strong of codfish
it makes one’s nose run and one’s eyes water.
The five fishhouses have steeply peaked roofs
and narrow, cleated gangplanks slant up
to storerooms in the gables
for the wheelbarrows to be pushed up and down on.
All is silver: the heavy surface of the sea,
swelling slowly as if considering spilling over,
is opaque, but the silver of the benches,
the lobster pots, and masts, scattered
among the wild jagged rocks,
is of an apparent translucence
like the small old buildings with an emerald moss
growing on their shoreward walls.
The big fish tubs are completely lined
with layers of beautiful herring scales
and the wheelbarrows are similarly plastered
with creamy iridescent coats of mail,
with small iridescent flies crawling on them.
Up on the little slope behind the houses,
set in the sparse bright sprinkle of grass,
is an ancient wooden capstan,
cracked, with two long bleached handles
and some melancholy stains, like dried blood,
where the ironwork has rusted.
The old man accepts a Lucky Strike.
He was a friend of my grandfather.
We talk of the decline in the population
and of codfish and herring
while he waits for a herring boat to come in.
There are sequins on his vest and on his thumb.
He has scraped the scales, the principal beauty,
from unnumbered fish with that black old knife,
the blade of which is almost worn away.

Down at the water’s edge, at the place
where they haul up the boats, up the long ramp
descending into the water, thin silver
tree trunks are laid horizontally
across the gray stones, down and down
at intervals of four or five feet.

Cold dark deep and absolutely clear,
element bearable to no mortal,
to fish and to seals . . . One seal particularly
I have seen here evening after evening.
He was curious about me. He was interested in music;
like me a believer in total immersion,
so I used to sing him Baptist hymns.
I also sang “A Mighty Fortress Is Our God.”
He stood up in the water and regarded me
steadily, moving his head a little.
Then he would disappear, then suddenly emerge
almost in the same spot, with a sort of shrug
as if it were against his better judgment.
Cold dark deep and absolutely clear,
the clear gray icy water . . . Back, behind us,
the dignified tall firs begin.
Bluish, associating with their shadows,
a million Christmas trees stand
waiting for Christmas. The water seems suspended
above the rounded gray and blue-gray stones.
I have seen it over and over, the same sea, the same,
slightly, indifferently swinging above the stones,
icily free above the stones,
above the stones and then the world.
If you should dip your hand in,
your wrist would ache immediately,
your bones would begin to ache and your hand would burn
as if the water were a transmutation of fire
that feeds on stones and burns with a dark gray flame.
If you tasted it, it would first taste bitter,
then briny, then surely burn your tongue.
It is like what we imagine knowledge to be:
dark, salt, clear, moving, utterly free,
drawn from the cold hard mouth
of the world, derived from the rocky breasts
forever, flowing and drawn, and since
our knowledge is historical, flowing, and flown.

I got an e-mail recently asking about patchworks, but sadly my machine (and all of my stuff) is away in the basement of my mom’s apartment, neatly packed into boxes and waiting for better times. I can’t wait to break it out again, but that’s not going to happen till about mid October, so for now, I’m sorry to say (if I haven’t made it clear yet) – I have to go on a little sewing break. I’m about to finish my thesis and then need to find an apartment in Amsterdam. And then have to move there. And then need to unpack. And so on. Anyway, I’m sure you get the point. For now, it’s tea, banoffee and lots of writing (and procrastinating….gah, I’m my own worst enemy!).

(my thesis is on Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland!)