Rasma Says

Musings, deliberations, flashes of unaccounted for brilliance…

Is that my desk?

My bulletin board at VSC is empty but for the stabbed pins scattered like a complex dot to dot. Maybe they would make a picture. Maybe they would make a poem. Maybe the river outside my window is really a creek or a stream. Everywhere you look there is an inadequate word describing something, and something begging to be said. But there is a gag on the world. Duct tape over the mouth of America.

It’s down to hours now and everyone agrees that a month is nothing. Everyone remarks wide-eyed over how little they got done. Most say they know what they’ll do next time. They’ve got their next retreat scheduled.

Maybe mine should be in prison. Solitary confinement never seemed such a bad thing to me. I mean talk about TIME TO WRITE!

Soon we will be served our last supper. Move ’em in, move ’em out. On Sunday other hopefuls will occupy our spaces. The painters have painted over their walls with white. The writers have filled the recyle bin. With bottles. They recycle bottles and paper in the same bin here. And the poets of a certain age have been drinking in the evenings on The Porch. There is another porch where the artists meet. It’s the louder porch. Coming to the porch tonight? Kathy asks me. I say sure. I’ll be packed up by then.

Two boxes of 17 lbs each sent – a relief. My suitcases should pass through okay now. Sent the rocks, the books, more books, an umbrella, scissors, anything that seemed heavy – gum! American gum weighs a ton. Value? the woman at the post office asks. Do you want a signature on that? Priority? Priority Express? There are only 3 lines on the customs form to list all the contents. I want to add “mini” to the candybars in order to diminish their value. Am I going to be taxed on this? Why do I feel guilty? I send the boxes off feeling like I’ve cheated someone, gotten away with something. I lied on the customs forms, of course. I mean, I don’t know how many books there were… I tried to mentally eyeball them, counting books per inch. Value them at $90, which is also a lie. “They have no intrinsic value, anyway,” says the lady at the post office, who is a very young very strict woman you would not want to be your first grade teacher. “Are we ready?” she says after I have mummified the boxes with tape. I have written “candy” next to “stones” because I can’t waste a line on each of them. Maybe she’ll think I’m an actual Norwegian who doesn’t know the right way to say “rock candy”. Did the same with “umbrella scissors” – let it appear like one thing. Please, boxes, just get there, nothing lost, because those books are irreplaceable, intrinsic value and all.

So it’s getting to be time to say goodbye to Vermont. I’ll never see these hills again. But that’s okay. I wouldn’t come back here. Not to exactly this place. My next retreat, if I can swing one, will be in a more secluded place. Smaller. More solitary. Confined. The kind of place where they leave your meals at the door for you to reach out and take in.

Like Hedgebrook.


This entry was posted on 29/07/2010 by in Uncategorized and tagged , , , , , , , .


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