Emily and Steve

Sunday, August 2, 2009
7:09 A.M.
Mood: 7 of 10
Sleep: Slept sporadically, but my guess is I got at least 7 or 8 hours total.
Meds: 150 mg Depakote, 5 mg Zyprexa, 1 mg Klonipin
Diet: Had major sugar binge last night – ate 2/3 box of peanut butter Captain Crunch

More Events

Wherein I continue my journey though the chasms in my mind to me after all these years. I travel to places seldom seen by me – stretching ahead and behind, leaving me breathless with the possibilities of this day.

The day before my last trip to the hospital I met a man outside George’s Gourmet in Iowa City, Iowa। The man was late middle age or lets face it - old. His hair was long and it stank, but so did mine I imagine. Georges is a restaurant and bar which I used to attend frequently during the 1970’s. It was where the most argumentative intellectuals in Iowa City tended to congregate. Although, Dorothy Parker will turn in her grave at the comparison, many at George’s consider themselves members of a Midwestern version of the Algonquin club – that early 20th century bastion of New England intellect. I never felt like I belonged at Georges. My comments were good but I lacked the tenacity and mental elbows to make them heard.

But that was 1970। Today it is July 2009. I am on my way to a brief stint in the hospital to adjust my medication for bipolar disorder, although I do not know this at the time. As I sit on the old church pew outside of George’s a man approaches me. He claims to be a descendant of Emily Dickinson, a great, grand nephew twice removed or some such. He recited one of her poems.

He ate and
drank the
precious Words –
His Spirit grew
robust –
He knew no more
that he was poor;
Nor that his
frame was
Dust –
He danced
along the dingy
Days
And this Bequest
of Wings
Was but a Book –
What Liberty
A loosened Spirit
brings –

I wept. It was a poem that I had written a paper on while I attended Clinton Community College the semester when lack of funds prevented my return to the University.

Weaving, the man paused in front of me to light up a cigarette।

“So, you’re a writer?” He nodded his head toward the notebook I was filling with words as quickly as possible।

“Some have called me so.” It was always best to appear enigmatic while at George’s.

He laughed.

“I’m the grand nephew of Emily Dickinson.”

My breath stopped. I was in the presence of greatness – someone who shared DNA with one of the most insightful writers of the English language. A writer who had inspired me years ago to write a paper that my professor suggested I submit for publication. I never did. Instead I locked away the words in the cabinet of my mind only to have them loosed and tossed free on the summer breeze by this old man.

While reciting, the old man stood a bit straighter and punctuated his performance by poking the sky with his cigarette. He finished with a bow.

“So what have you written?”

“Well, I wrote a fictionalized autobiography. It is call Just Dale.”

“Just Dale?”

“Yes, I am trying to lay down all the labels I have picked up over the years.”

Another laugh.

“Well, that’s a good goal. So this book of yours, is it on online?”

“Yes, you can order it on any of the popular sites.”

The old man, nodded, gave me a half salute then shuffled onward. The tears dried on my face. Emily became dust long ago. Soon I shall join her. But till then I’ll dance along the dingy days with a spirit her words helped free.

WHAT BLIND, SELF CENTERED DRIVEL THIS IS.
STEVEN BOCK IS DEAD! HOPEFULLY I CAN FIND SPACE IN THIS SELFISH HEART TO WRITE ABOUT HIM TOMORROW.