Scribblings with Green Chalk

Somehow I had thought I would be spared. But no, I can feel two new teeth knocking at the gums. Surely they have nothing to do with wisdom.

I still feel like Stevens’ “Snowman” quite often, which is why the header is trees crusted with snow. I might let them thaw for a while, I think. I took some pictures during the walk in the gorge with Debbie today and she told me about a woman who would take a picture of the same tree each day throughout the seasons. It does sound like one of those great ideas that you wish you had thought of but that are distinctly someone else’s. I cannot offer a photo-biography of any of Ithaca’s trees or of any trees anywhere. But I want to read my random snapshots can as hints at my decision-making. I wanted to see what was underneath the snow and here I am.

The differences have to be slight. Tiny displacements, changes of scale. I pick up a carton of milk from the fridge and get an Alice-in-Wonderland feeling that everything around me has grown and is stealthily continuing to expand. As for the blueberries — the berries were chalk-like, too. This has, of course, nothing to do with taste. They could seem like a mathematician’s joke; they are larger here. Thick dots.

I am having a great time. My ruminations on kitchen themes seem like research, watching fireflies is a serious study of nature. I think about the first naturalists who came to theNew World and named so many plants and animals after the European species that appeared to them similar — only to discover that there is more than meets the eye. I feel like I can appreciate such kind of misunderstanding.

Back in Ithaca after a few months to enjoy the contrast with winter as I saw it here. I’m counting on those small everyday slips and modest revelations. I do identify to some extent with Zuko, the cat, who gets lost immediately after he steps out of the house but nevertheless tries to get out.

Debbie told me that the Spanish words for blueberry and cranberry make little sense in Latin America. Not only are the fruits fairly unknown, but the names seem to describe nothing. I cannot remember what those words were and I feel that old sense of annoyance that I do not understand. I wish that I could understand that lack of understanding. I looked up “health” in the online Welsh dictionary today and remembered how much fun it was to play with my ignorance, collecting new words like glass balls or souvenir magnets. I wonder what counting blueberries would be like if the word “blueberry” made no sense. And I wonder if Bishop knew about the linguistic confusion when she was writing the poem. Was that in Brazil? Is there any dilemma in Portuguese? If those questions appear silly to you, please remember that I started with amazement at milk cartons. This is as far as I want to go — not straying from the fridge. Here’s the deepest thought that came to me: words like to go for a walk away from the concepts, as the blueberry/cranberry example shows. Or blackberries. Either way, it’s all about fruit.

Not profound or particularly moving — but this is my clearest thought tonight and an argument as good as the sound of certain clogs in a certain country. I last saw fireflies years ago. In a different kind of dusk, in different grass, in different trees. They flickered differently. As I’m falling asleep over this (it’s hours past my original bedtime) I wonder about the taste of blueberries. It’s all about research, of course. All of it EB’s fault. Once you start asking questions, they do not want to stop coming. Regardless of their possible stupidity.

All my recent moving has left me somewhat despondent. I have wanted to write something here but instead found myself trying to unpack things that will soon need to be packed again, re-establishing a friendship with a cat that’s forgotten I exist, calling old friends that were all very busy…
Walking around Poznań I feel like a tourist. When I was there in winter I got the impression that the city spat me out. All the places that should be familiar seem somehow sealed off. Remembered but not felt. Maybe I should dip a madeleine in tea or reread Proust. Or maybe just leave it as it is.

So I’ve been quietly trying to figure out which I want more: cookies dipped in tea or to move.