How to Be Happy: Another Memo to Myself

by Stephen Dunn

You start with your own body
then move outward, but not too far.
Never try to please a city, for example.
Nor will the easy intimacy
in small towns ever satisfy that need
you have only whispered in the dark.
A woman is a beginning.
She need not be pretty, but must know
how to make her own ceilings
out of all that’s beautiful in her.
Together you must love to exchange
gifts in the night, and agree
on the superfluity of ribbons,
the fine violence of breaking out
of yourselves. No matter,
it’s doubtful she will be enough for you,
or you for her. You must have friends
of both sexes. When you get together
you must feel everyone has brought
his fierce privacy with him
and is ready to share it. Prepare
yourself though to keep something back;
there’s a center in you
you are simply a comedian
without. Beyond this, it’s advisable
to have a skill. Learn how to make something:
food, a shoe box, a good day.
Remember, finally, there are few pleasures
that aren’t as local as your fingertips.
Never go to Europe for a cathedral.
In large groups, create a corner
in the middle of the room.

Chop Wood, Carry Water

Not a Basho quote apparently. It’s been mis-attributed. Best I can get from a quick search is “Wu Li” or “Zen Proverb.”

Anyways, Anthony Bourdain came to Maine.

I had heard about this from several people this winter. Some infamous food-guy came through Portland and word on the street was that he gave Street (of Street and Co.) a bad rap, which was just desserts or entirely unfair depending on who you heard it from.  It was the first I had heard of the show, not having a TV or being that TV-minded, but still I was intrigued as it’s always interesting to get an outsiders reflection upon our state. Sure, let him come, greater men have come before.

Verdict: The only way to come to Maine and truly enjoy it is with someone who knows the state, who has family or friends here. The great thing about this episode is that it really hits on the community. Friends, uncles, kids, neighbors, all of it is classic Maine. Yes some of it is dysfunctional or fiercely private but it’s this interconnection that lends itself so well. There’s no way to get by up here without having at least one point of human contact, and at the same time it’s the startling lack of it in the more remote areas that provides such a nice contrast.

That and bear meat. Which now I’m going to have to track down.

Good to see Shipyard getting consumed and what looked like a Geary’s. Good to see guns getting shot. Great to hear “Sweet, dude!” being yelled while Bourdain chops wood and fantastic that they let Zach do some talking. I love bringing people into the fold, out into the woods or around Portland for eats and Zach just reflected this joy. Maine’s a great place to come from and it’s great to see that pride come through.

Also pluses: No Portland Headlight shot. Exchange Street in Portland. J’s Oyster Bar as the opener. Mornings in Paris (though they should have come up the Hill to Rosemont and Hilltop) and a few other places. The two cooks in Rockland and Bourdain allowing Dana Street to make a flawless dink of himself.

“To be a Mainer is simple: one only has to be here. To eat the fish is to become the sea. To eat the plants and animals is to become the land…”

Good stuff, dude.

A Big Sea (Draft 2)

It had rained earlier. The rough, broken rocks of the beach were stained dark greens and browns as the two men in bright jackets picked their way through them, eyes fixed on the ground. The July air was still humid, despite the rain and everything that was spoken between the two men had to be spoken above the roar of the big dam beyond the edge of the lake.

Sunrise

Three times in the past two weeks I’ve awoke early enough to see this.

Weak Moon

Erik begins his voyage back from the West: desert sky, mountain tops, the sick green belly, flat Arkansas, a Waffle House in Jackson, and up the coast with teeth. With it comes the promise of starting up another musical project. And again, I sit here wondering what that means for myself. I love music, that’s not in dispute. But all I’ve been doing so far is cutting and arranging songs. Swingset and Sparrow Wing were shining moments, Indianola could be great, but the fluidity is still not there. To create beats and dig for samples is such a serendipitous process. If something doesn’t work, it’s inflexible. You discard and begin the search again. I’d love to be able to contribute something more musical. Harmonicas are a start I guess, but are still not the kind of thing I want to contribute. A synthesizer, perhaps, something to make musical clouds with, warm, simple sounds, pulses, etc.

Paul Simonon didn’t know how to play bass when he joined the Clash. He learned all the songs by rote. Something I always think of when this comes up. I guess I just have to apply. Polymathism leads to shallow work in most areas. I certainly don’t have musical “talent” so, who knows. We’ll have to see, first Erik returns and we rejoice. First I get paid. First rent gets paid.

So many firsts.

Sometimes I think I want to be good at too many things. I love cracking artistic things open and seeing how they work, appreciating them, trying my hand, but it has to have a limit at some point. Painting, acting, writing, music, photography. I worry that I stretch myself too thin. I want to have a passion that is all encompassing, that I can be recognized for. (Recognition is an interesting word here—Who am I living my life for?) But some folks just will never care. Musicians will not care about my photos unless they are of them, vandals will not care if I write, and if I write about them most likely they’ll take offense. Likewise my poetry teachers don’t care what I do with paint.

I sit in my apartment prodding the ceiling with a broomstick. I am convinced that there is a massive shoe up there, just waiting to drop.

An Opening

Very excited about this.

How much as changed in this city in my life? Looking at some of the images I see buildings that I thought were Portland fixtures for ages are not much older than myself, certainly younger than my parents and other buildings that I thought were products of the nineties have been sitting gathering age for much, much longer. What used to stand in place of the library in Monument Square? When did that old pawn shop that took rags and tin scraps close? Where are these people now?

I love this city so much.

Sympathy (Draft Three)

Found them in the sugar—looked more
like pepper—thousands of black spots, an army.

Emptied cupboards, sprayed below the sink. Need to kill
the queen. Laid poison, kept spraying.

Three days, they died. They’ll do the same to us. Them
or the worms. Today,

the cat brought us a squirrel. Broke it’s back legs. Stepped
on its head out of pity.

It’s not mean. It’s practical. I loved
that cat, that squirrel.

Moving Images

About a year ago, in Old Orchard Beach awaiting breakfast.

From much longer ago.