Fallow Fields

Ideas. So many of them pass through our minds. Some we latch onto and can't let go. We obsess about them. We live with them. We develop them. Eventually, we act upon them, and bring either good or ill into the world.

Some of our ideas involve a memory of the past, such as why did I do such and such to this person, or why did this person do such and such to me? If we choose not to let these ideas go, we obsess about how to correct our own behavior or gain some recompense for that of others. Sometimes, we merely wonder if a choice we made was the correct one: should I have bought this house? Should I have majored in business? Should I have quit my old job for this new one?

Some of our ideas involve plans for the future, such as starting a business, or getting married. If we choose not to let these ideas go we play with our plans, alter them, hone them, and, often, act on them to affect some change on our lives. Sometimes we simply live with them, unsure if action is the right thing to do.

I have had many ideas the last four months. Many of them about subjects I could write about here in my own little forum. Some I even wrote down.  However, as I scroll through the list of topics on my phone, many of the subjects that I wrote down make no sense, or have lost their relevancy. For instance, I actually wrote the beginning of a post several months ago about Meghan and I being a childless couple by choice and some of the things that people have said to me or near me that made me wonder if they, subconsciously or otherwise, have little, if any respect for me, based solely on that one choice. I might share that idea later on, but, now, it doesn't ring with me as it did then. I apologize for not finding the time to complete it and post it when it had more immediacy, but, as Arlo always says, "We'll just have to wait for it to come back around on the guitar."

And, while we are waiting for that one to come back around, something else came back around to me in its place. Also in my notes was a poem I had written, 717 days ago. This is remarkable for many reasons. The first reason is that I don't write many poems, anymore.  I think, in the 717 days since I wrote this one I have written approximately zero poems. At that rate, I will have a book of poems some time after the Andromeda galaxy collides with our own. Look for it in bookstores near you!

The second reason that I find this rediscovery remarkable is that the poem was written when Monkey and I were in France two years ago.  Coincidentally, we are lucky enough to be going back there in three weeks! We won't be going to Provence, where this poem was written, but we will be spending a week in Paris, which I surprisingly found to be maybe my favorite city (that I've been to, anyway).

The third reason I find this remarkable is that it sent me down this rabbit hole of thinking (as these things often do). I had such a vivid memory of the moment that I wrote the poem. Which is the complete opposite feeling I felt when I looked at all these other notes I had written not ninety days ago. All of these words represent ideas--ideas that I found worthy of writing down--but only the ideas in the two year old words had any real connection in my brain. I mean, obviously, I contemplated the two year old ideas a bit more, making a story out of them (something I did not do with the other ideas). Also, the poem represents a singular experience, whereas the other ideas were primarily intellectual contemplations. I'm consistently amazed by my own mind's abilities and limitations. It is a regular occurrence that I come across some scrap of paper or other marginalia that fills me with curiosity, questions, frustration, and ironic humor as I try to parse out exactly what I meant by "8/5 work travelogue."

Be that as it may, I have a solid idea to work with this evening, and here it is. And while the poem itself is not about ideas, it led me, in this instance to a contemplation of ideas, even though, as a poem, it's really not about ideas, at all. After all, Charles Olson once said, "No ideas but in things." I don't know if I trust that anymore, but, as a younger cuss, I found Olson to be something of an idol.  He was certainly a thing that encompassed ideas.

Anyway, here's the poem (a fresh draft, and none too good), a photo, and a painting by some 19th century resident of the same grounds.

Hospital Saint-Paul, Saint-Remy-de-Provence

At the asylum
at the spot where
he painted the olive trees.  

A swift flies overhead.

A trio of women
ride horseback
through the ruined gate of Glanum.

The Asian tour guide
leads his flock
as they trace the weary footsteps
of Theo's older brother.

The olive grove (2012)

The Olive Trees (Van Gogh--1889)