Last week I was not keeping up with this blog. I was lounging by the pool at a Palm Springs resort. I was there with my daughter and most of their family. It was spring break week for many people, including my granddaughter Abby, so off we went for a little sunshine.
I’m a watcher. Writers are often watchers, of course. I typically don’t spend my time at high-end resorts where the beautiful people go. So it’s interesting.
The hotel bathroom mirror is lit in a large circle so that every flaw can be accurately addressed. It is all glass, tile, and teak in there. The bedroom itself is huge, with a private balcony. And when I step out into the hallway, I can look down six stories into the interior pool that extends past a glass barrier to the outside. Inside are tall (fake) palm trees, wrapped with lights. Not gaudy, just appropriately pretty. Outside are pools and pools, a river of them, some for swimming, some for admiring, with waterfalls, ducks, and even flamingos. All stunning, somewhere between Vegas and Hawaii in feel.
Successful people come here. They generally have good social skills. They stand tall. They seem happy (they’re on vacation). They occasionally step discretely to the side to take a business phone call. Their bodies are in great shape. They’re dressed exactly right for each occasion: tennis shorts, flowing swim coverups, or long dresses.
You know me. This is not my territory, although I can enjoy it with my family. I’m pondering the wealth, thinking of the parched soil beyond this oasis, that as metaphor for the whole world. But of course I am myself rich compared to most of the planet’s people. It’s relative.
Probably many of these people are giving away a great deal of money to charities. They’re good people, many of them, who’ve been successful by hard work. Nothing to blame here unless you’re into reverse-snobbery. If you want to praise or blame, you’re already off track as a writer, right?
It’s not that a writer has to be dispassionate. Heavens no. I just read a poem called “Terminus,” by Nicholas Christopher that describes in graphic detail a rape of a 14-year-old Muslim girl as the beginning of a series of horrors – well, you can read it yourself: https://blog.bestamericanpoetry.com/the_best_american_poetry/2022/03/terminus-by-nicholas-christopher.html
The poet ends by defining “survivor” as one who lives on to outlive others. The last line of the poem is “I would not have used that word.”
The greatest damnation offered here is in simply telling the truth, seeing it clearly. Which is why journalists are my heroes, along with poets and other writers. Speaking of poetry, there are all kinds of singing, which is kind of how you could think of a poem. There is the lyric singing that celebrates, there is the drum-pounding rap of rage, the cello of sorrow, the violin of anguish. All this accomplished in words.
All this by looking closely to let the world speak for itself.
Three grandchildren, two significant others, one daughter, one son-in-law, and me.
The flamingos at the resort were kind of pale pink. They needed more of the crustacean diet that would be native to them. One solution, I read, is to mix more beta-carotene into their feed.
Another would be to leave them in their native habitat, but that’s often ruined these days. So we construct a different one. Come to think of it, there is no such thing, really, as native habitat. It’s all filtered through our eyes and consciousness and in that way is our own invention. We’re the world. What the world speaks comes also out of our own mouths and out of our own writing.
The P.S. . . . .
We haven’t moved yet. We’re waiting for a place to open up at Cordia, which may be months, who knows?
There are four places left in my April 9th poetry workshop. I’d love for you to sign up. Here’s the link: https://www.tlanetwork.org/event-4722901
Flying Through a Hole in the Storm was named a Foreword INDIES Book of the Year Finalist! Read about that here:
https://www.forewordreviews.com/awards/books/flying-through-a-hole-in-the-storm/