I am no prophet, and here's no great matter

I once was a techy nut. When the internet was fresh and new, I designed webpages dedicated to Riot Grrl ranting and my love of strawberry Chapstick. I suppose that was the center of my universe at age 13-14. This is the same girl that competed on a math team in local competitions; it is the girl that talked astronomy with her father.

About my Sophomore year of high school, I discovered several names that changed my world: Allen Ginsberg, Sylvia Plath, George Orwell, Nikki Giovanni, and William Carlos Williams. I even had a laminated black and white photo of Walt Whitman in my desk, which, on many occasions, I remember swooning over while mid-90s Radiohead played in the background. Nevermind that Whitman was dead, I was crushed to discover he was homosexual. Maybe the saddest part of this whole ordeal is that it was the older, bearded Whitman that got me revved.


During this period, I clearly remember my passion for all things numerical and logical transforming into a whole different beast, and because of these great writers and poets, I could never be the same. I guess because the World Wide Web was taking over, I also link this period in my existence with my parents' decision to get rid of our extensive collection of Encyclopedias, which had become obsolete in the wake of the electronic revolution. The countless hours I spent pouring over the heavy books in our isolated country home--they were the only friends I had when we moved away from town--were soon removed with a swift drive to the local donation store. My new friends, the best and brightest poets and novelists of the 20th century, stepped in to take the place of history and facts.

Yesterday, I had my William Carlos Williams and EE Cummings lecture planned. On my drive in to work, I was listening to last week's This American Life podcast, and, coincidentally, the discussion in Act II covered one of the Williams poems I had prepared:

This Is Just to Say
I have eaten
the plums
that were in
the icebox

and which
you were probably
saving
for breakfast

Forgive me
they were delicious
so sweet
and so cold

Legend is that this poem began as a note to Williams's wife, but I have my doubts about anything too mythical straight from the writer's mouth. Though the title of my blog is from a Wallace Stevens poem, the url address is from Williams. Though he was a successful physician, he was a prolific writer that inspired many of the brightest poets of the Beat Generation. Williams even treated Ginsberg as a child, which is a pretty magical story.

The TAL podcast invited listeners to send in their own versions of the above poem, and some were very, very dark, while others were much more funny. The topics ranged from banging one's sister-in-law at a wedding to the crucifixion of Jesus. I watched my students alternate, appropriately, between chuckling and somber silence as each version was read aloud by various TAL staffers. I could tell the students who were moved by the whole affair, and it made me so honored to have the opportunity to share these truths with them.

If I'm lucky, one of them got that same stomach-emptied feeling I get when I hear something fucking brilliant. I felt that way the first time I heard Built to Spill play "Carry the Zero," and the first time I read Pablo Neruda. Days like today make me restless and longing for the girl who finds inspiration in the needle drop of a record player or the brilliant simplicity of the doctor poet's words.