We’re not alone now (No Time, part 8)

I think we're alone now 

There doesn't seem to be anyone around 

I think we're alone now 

The beating of our hearts is the only sound

Look at the way 

We gotta hide what we're doin' 

'Cause what would they say 

If they ever knew

- Tommy James and the Shondells, 1967

You could whisper down a well. You could write a letter and keep it in a drawer. You could inscribe a curse on a ribbon of lead and bury it in the ground to lie unread for thousands of years. The point is not to find a reader, the point is the telling itself.

Anne Carson

She and he were still at Maquoit Bay when they heard a noise that was hard to identify. They listened for a minute, and then he said the obvious: I don’t think we’re alone now. You hear that? It sounds like an animal or a person wading through the marsh grass. 

That’s very odd. She agreed, and then they both caught sight of a huge muskrat foraging in the water right next to the rushes. Not far away was a man, presumably a photographer, judging from the gear he was carrying. He was trying to sneak up for a close shot, but aimals in the wild are usually too alert for that. The muskrat skittered off, and the man with the camera looked dejected.

He said, we’ll have to return when nobody else is around. She was reluctant to end their conversation.

She had an idea. Would you mind telling me more about your Cabinet of Curiosities? (There were capital letters on Cabinet and Curiosities.) I’d like to see what’s in it. I didn’t want to pry while I was staying at your house, but I’m curious (she laughed at her own play on words).

He hesitated, because the same thing had been on his mind, but he had been hesitant to ask her over. It wasn’t shyness; he simply didn’t want to create the wrong impression, but he really was looking forward to showing his collection to somebody. He’d been waiting for her to mention it, yet afraid she wouldn’t. Now she had. He didn’t hesitate. Would you like to come over now?

She agreed, more quickly than she intended to. He only lived five or ten minutes from the bay.

Once they were standing in front of the Cabinet, he explained its history from centuries ago, and also explaining how it appealed to him to have the equivalent of a three-dimensional journal. So many things didn’t fit on the flat pages of a book. What’s more, the act of holding them created a story. The story, telling it, is the point he said, then mentioned the latest Nobel Prize in Literature, won by Anne Carson. Her writing is profound, he said, reading a passage off a piece of paper he was going to insert in a drawer: You could inscribe a curse on a ribbon of lead and bury it in the ground to lie unread for thousands of years. 

She thought about that, thought about how she’d been refusing to tell her story, even to herself. Maybe she should tell it. She shook off the thought and asked to see more of the Cabinet’s contents. He showed her the bones tied together with a red thread or ribbon, and explained that the title of the poem, “D.E.P.” meant R.I.P. and that it was a sort of auto-epitaph. Why would she write that?, she asked, after he explained that the author was only around 45 years old. Was she ill? He explained that she had suffered pain her entire life and poetry was one way of resisting the attacks of her own body. She recalled the pain of her own body growing up and saw a glimmer of hope.

They then began talking about how people find strength in times of extreme discomfort. And they began to think they both had stories that had never been told and needed telling.

Why do you think that book about a dog you read as a boy is something you often remember? she asked.

Why did you suggest we meet at Maquoit Bay? he asked, not entirely sure of the reason. She had made him inspect his own memories more closely.

They looked at each other, neither of them in favor of answering the other’s question yet knowing they would get around to it. Just not now. They studied the Cabinet more closely. Sonnet the Maine coon came up and rubbed along the legs of both humans, as if in agreement. They had a right to their silence, as long as it didn’t crush them. She wanted him to show her the books he’d made but didn’t want him to know she’d seen several of them. What did you mean when you mentioned your book arts professor? What are book arts?

He smiled, happy to answer the question. Few people know about book arts and that there is something called an artist’s book. He had taken quite a few courses and knew the process of making books was more than simply assembling paper, thread, cloth and colors. It was something he’d loved learning, but he knew it was also a consolation.

Author’s Note:

He was an editor because, as he liked to say, I get paid to read. She worked for a non-profit that worked in the community, mostly with women’s issues. Some of the women were homeless, others lived on a very limited budget, others were in hiding, trying to avoid an abusive relationship. His publishing house was not large, but it was growing steadily. Its name was Journeys and Sequences. It was an odd name and he was thinking about changing it to simply Journeys. Or Frigate, in honor of Dickinson’s poem. 

Her organization was called In the World, and she also had doubts about the name. She might suggest Winning the Race, although its goal was not to make the people with whom they worked think they had to compete with others. Why is my mind always on running? she asked herself. That was odd, since she had taken the job because it Allowed her to work with members of the community, and because by making others feel safe, she too felt safer. (She wasn’t aware of the latter.)

Returning to the story:

Neither of them had spoken much about their employment, which was odd, but they were cautious about giving too much information. Both had a tendency to self censure, which clearly was the result of childhood experiences. She also had taken karate to develop poise and strength, she told herself. He had become an editor after realizing that being a museum director or a librarian (both of which professions would have been natural choices for a career) was too easy. As an editor he read many things he wouldn’t have chosen for his personal reading and in a sense that made him a maker of books. He liked that; it made him feel powerful - something he had not really felt as a boy. 

But they were still standing and looking at the Cabinet and her thoughts returned to the poem with its three parts and three bones threaded with a red ribbon. What are the bones of the Pedreira poem made of? she asked, hoping they weren’t the actual bones of an infant and she was also confused by the ribbon. He pointed out the many symbols and metaphors in the composition and said the one that referred to bones had impressed him the most. They aren’t real bones, he replied. They’re made of air dry clay I had on hand. She asked, What language is this? It wasn’t Spanish like the Lorca poem (she only thought this because she had not told him she’d read it when she was alone in his house - not yet, anyway). And what about the ribbon?

Again, he felt very pleased at being able to explain to somebody that the original language was galego (Galician) and that he was drawn to it because the translation into English was so difficult he’d given up temporarily. He thought he might include another untranslatable poem, this one by Rosalía de Castro (oddly enough, a contemporary of Dickinson’s): Negra sombra. He feared the explanation of the translations wouldn’t interest her, so didn’t bring it up. He was sad about her lack of comments, but he wanted to think it would get better. She had in fact noticed this, that he wanted to explain the translation process but feared he’d bore her if he did that in any detail. Nevertheless , she chose not to say much when he showed her each poem, a copy of the original and the English rendering. He assumed she wasn’t especially fond of reading, which explained her lack of comments. She had chosen to allow the description of the movement from one language to the other because it seemed too complex for her at the moment and she wanted to ask the right questions. She felt deep respect for the work involved, although she’d never done it herself. What was that galego anyway? She’d never heard of it. Curiosity never killed any cat, and neither would it kill her. She wasn’t ready to show how interested she actually was in his haphazard collection, though. Not yet.

Their conversation led her to think about some of the people she worked with (she hated calling them clients). Do you have any extra books you’d be willing to donate? Or can you suggest somebody, some place that does?) My program has lots of physical activities, but there are also classes or ‘clubs’ that involve reading and discussing literature. It had surprised her when she suddenly realized that she’d found a use for creative writing, for prose and poetry. My groups could benefit from reading was her timid comment. Timid because she was talking to a real expert and he might not like having his own literature go to people who didn’t read. She was oh so wrong in assuming that.

Nothing of the kind! He’d be glad to help.

It was getting late and both had work in the morning. She was dying to hear the answer to what one actually did with book arts. He gave a brief explanation and a promise that he’d show her if she came back. There was so much more. One designs and makes books that can be both an object we read and a work of art. Could the artist’s books be sold, she wondered? That question she wasn’t going to ask either.

And so the next chapter was slowly being written - perhaps on a piece of lead, or perhaps on the wings of birds. This was still the beginning, though. That’s why there is no end yet to this story, of course. The Cabinet holds so much more.

[To be continued.]