family – Planet of the Blind

Each morning I gather mosses, even in January, even when bending to customary tasks. Washing dishes, I touch the moist earth. It’s a game I play to keep alive.

Generally, I think human beings would be better creatures if they talked with their feet.

Go on. Push the child you once were into the deep end. The kid will do fine.

A memory: just before heart surgery (mine), one of the hospital interns who spoke no English tried talking to me using a translation app on his iPhone. But I couldn’t read it. I was thinking about the probability of death. And we couldn’t talk.

Now give me that damn candy and leave me alone!

Trying to live well and grieving all the time. You’re one of them, those others.

You know all those “top ten” lists. Here’s a new one—top ten dream clots:

Talking to a dead mother on the phone while a dead father stands over your shoulder and tells you what to say…
Buying strange bread in a foreign land with your hands tied behind your back and a gag in your mouth…
Old acquaintances gathered in a gentle place, a room with soft lighting, and all the old wounds and wrongs have been forgiven. Trouble is, we were in a funeral home. And one of us, probably me, had tracked dog shit all over the fancy carpets.
You’re pretending to see as you did during childhood. You’re in the softball game. Nothing you do will lead to a good outcome. But you want so desperately to fit in.
A train and you’re on it. Perfect. And your uncle who was sinister in life is next to you talking about vodka.
Dreaming
Of the little girl
Who was beside me
In the infant hospital
All those years ago
Blind children
Side by side
Her singing
Savage laughter
You see yourself in mirrors
Them ovoid ass bad pants
A mannequin’s poor dream
Mozart

Improbable yes but I dreamt of him
And though we were in a room
Rain fell and it was beautiful
Water coursing down the walls

“We only get so much”
He said—“opera is for the young”
“String quartets, for dying”
He was there alright

I tend to not have nightmares. My dreams are odd though. They tend to be like Elizabeth Bishop’s poem about waiting for the dentist.

I recognized they weren’t living men
There was a blind man there, not me,
And he had a dog, not mine
In the cafe
With red curtains
My twin brother
Who died at birth…

Book Review:
by Stephen Kuusisto

Reasonable People: a Memoir of Autism & Adoption
By Ralph James Savarese
The Other Press

“My name is DJ and I am taking a trip of a lifetime.”

The line above appears in the journal of DJ Savarese who is the co-author of the memoir Reasonable People which has just been published by The Other Press. The sub-title of the book is as important to culture as the title itself: “On the meaning of family and the politics of neurological difference”. This timely book is about the Horatian life, “Life” written with a capital “L”. Accordingly it is about family and the life of the mind; about poetry and the fierce resistance to stereotypes of people with autism.

Assuredly one can think of dozens of additional sub-titles for the book: Living Outside their Boxes; Unraveling the Outworn Tapestry of Academic Autism; A Prayer Wheel by Two Poets; or The Road of Salt and Honey.

This is a memoir about “hard traveling” as Woody Guthrie would say, and yet it is far more than a narrative of trouble and triumph. The poet, Ralph James Savarese, skillfully tells the story of his adoptive son DJ’s former life of physical and intellectual abuse and in turn and almost seamlessly tells the story of how he and his wife Emily must grow both intellectually and emotionally and yes, politically, since DJ’s autism is the kind of disability our culture has misunderstood throughout history.

Continue reading “"Reasonable People": On Poetry and the Politics of Breathing”