2009

January 1, 2009

Amy and Bill arrived yesterday evening, so the complement is complete. Everyone faced wreck-related back-ups on 95, which must be going through a bad spell, or is the most accident-prone, rubber-neck inducing stretch on earth.

We hit the former-spinster-mansion museum with the statues in front, the Telfair. Its collection is small but elegant and well-chosen. It was lovely to hear the docent misinform DJ about the history of the Black Prince, whose dynamic image was featured both on the wall and on mouse pads. The paintings linger individually in mind, perhaps because there wasn’t the usual surfeit of them. Rembrandt out front held a mockingbird in his hand. The mockingbird–I swear it–froze when he thought anybody was looking at him, so to appear part of the statue. We rode on the Georgia Queen, a riverboat, which really didn’t have anywhere to go except past some warehouses and towering cargo cranes, and then back again. We did see a falcon arrowing over River Street. I did buy enough pralines to make myself sick, my companions sick, our neighbors on the riverboat sick, and finally to provide a New Year’s surprise to the derelict who sits at the end of our drive.

Also toured of that mansion which is made of tabby and takes Regency symmetry to Homeric lengths– Owen Thomas, I think. I was exhausted by sideboards and carved plaster and went out with the others to sit in the winter sun. The haint blue the slaves painted their portions was the best.

Ate Chinese food before we hit the town seeking New Year’s festivities. Our waitress was Russian and had a hard time with the English language, but was quite beautiful. Bill and I discussed how, except for matters of history, Asheville has it over Savannah in every way. Lovely mayhem at the Town Market before midnight. I was happy there, but Jack wanted to get close to the river, and Leland asked me to lead the way, and I plunged through what I thought would be the easiest passage, but when I turned around, I was quite alone. It was a disturbing moment, and colored the rest of the evening, and the end of a finally disturbing year, for me. I was not frightened to be alone, of course, but I was angry. I felt I had been set up-- which is unlikely, I see now by the not-quite-light-of-day-- but for the rest of the evening I felt I was definitely not among friends. Thinking back on last year, too, I wonder if perhaps the world has formed a habit of handing me something a little dark as a parting gift on the last day of the year. Anyway, I resigned my commission as finder-of-sights, whereby we spent the stroke of midnight in a rather odd bar (odd in the sense of not for us, particularly) and were blocked by buildings from the fireworks. The streets were happy with well-wishers as we wound our way home. When we arrived, our row of houses was suffering a brown-out, which was both lovely (for the soft coppery quality of the light) and unsettling. Moments later all the power went out, for many blocks westward (eastward is the river) and we sat in the dark, discussing our nostalgia for the little light that was. Dark in a place dependent on electricity can be very dark indeed. Lying down in dark and closing your eyes into dark is not a proper transition.

I have not slept well here, and missed my customary afternoon naps. Strangely, I have felt no ill effects, but rather continued to be energized throughout the day. I was indulging myself, thinking that feeling tired meant I should rest, when in fact it means (mostly) it’s time to set out for my next adventure.

Traveling at New Year’s diminishes the urge for introspection, but I will reflect a little before the others awake. 2008 began in Dublin and ended in Savannah. Dad’s death was a major and Anna in Chicago a medium-sized disaster, but beyond that the keel was pretty even, and sometimes danced over the waves a little. I am out of debt and, on a minuscule level, an investor, and I enjoy it. Is that the major life change? Perhaps it is. Between dad’s death and a few weeks ago, I thought life had changed more radically than it had, that I had lost interest (curiously, inexplicably) in what had been the central passion of every day and hour before. Turns out that was not the case, but while I thought it was, I discovered that it would have been all right. I would have gone on, and in time may have recognized my new self. But I’m writing again, painting again, and the moment of either a temptation dangled or an opportunity offered by the world has passed. Age tried the doors of my body for the first time, and I understood how hard I will have to fight to keep it bayed. My face is different from the face I remember. At some moments that is almost too hard, and I look away from the mirror or the photograph. I’m pretty much in control of what can be controlled, and that is about all that reasonably can be asked. My father’s last, bad hours signaled that what I must watch in my own future are wrath, suspicion, paranoia. The old tragedy of longing for what is clearly going to be denied to me by destiny endures, but one understands at length what makes one who one is, and without that longing I would be unrecognizable to myself. Still, if offered. . . If offered I would give in one second all that I have for what I want. I would refuse God’s gifts for the fruit of my own will. God knows I would do this without even a glance behind; thus I am fairly sure that the offer never will be made. It is almost too late to accept without absurdity.

Bright morning along the brown Savannah. The holly trees at the door are dressed for Christmas.

Poem and a folded sheet of on Broughton Street after midnight on New Years: It had been stuck into the rough surface of a power pole for somebody to find:

Good thing we don’t wake
Puntas: result: crying child, broken bottle, no crying
Piggy bank–result crying child broken hammer
Puzzler– can’t solve the puzzle
chimneys– children don’t get presents from Santa
Good thing we don’t wrap presents