"My Words Do Wound Sheep Sensibilities"

My words do wound sheep sensibilities

Mark Engle| "Dominican Retrospect"

Mark pulled out his Camel Wides and popped a fat cigarette into his mouth. "I think you specifically buy that brand because you know I won't bum one of those foul things." He took a drag and slowly exhaled, staring straight ahead, seeming lost in thought. "Where's your lighter? Yeah, I know. You gave me my own, but I lost it. Yes: in two days, I lost it. Lighter? Light? Come on." He produced his lighter, refused to hand it over (lest he never see it again), and lit my smoke for me. 
"Where are we going?" he asked. 
I sighed. Where? Damned if I knew. Our liberal arts educations hardly prepared us for the working world. We were experts at all-night writing sessions, smoking, and burning candles while pontificating on the trappings of society, the allure of other eras, the idiocy of organized religion, our own insecurities and shortcomings, failed love affairs, pointless obsessions, and the deeply profound teachings of mysticism. But where all of that would take us, was totally unclear. 
"Maybe nowhere," I said. "Maybe wherever we want. I wish I knew -- I think." I sat there thinking about it, lost in the possibilities (and lack thereof). "Maybe I don't want to know." After a moment, Mark turned, stared at me for a moment and asked,
"Gretchen, are we picking up Michael or just grabbing a bite?" Right. Sometimes the questions were simpler than I thought. 


It is hardly a surprise that my thoughts would turn to Mark and Michael as I reflect on a semester of writing. Back in January, I talked about losing my voice, losing my passion for writing. I had stopped seeing the questions for more than they were. The three of us spent a lot of time contemplating questions, creating space to think, smokey space, sure, but we spent a great deal of time sitting together thinking, pondering, wondering, and then writing it all out in poems and journals. As I have said a thousand times, they were both better than me -- better thinkers, better dreamers, and better writers. They inspired me. Their writing still does. They were warrior poets to my court jester. And yet, the jester fulfills a certain need.


Mark was a soft-spoken man who left an imprint on my life. Despite a decade of silence, that mark has neither faded nor stopped haunting me. A truly excellent writer, if Mark was a woman, that fact would have made me hate him with a Shakespearean jealousy. However, his gender allowed me to feel nothing but admiration and respect for his superior talent and what seemed to be a bottomless well from which he easily drew inspiration. There are reasons why he stepped out of my life. Reasons I'm sure I know and choose not to remember or accept. It doesn't really matter, I suppose. It's not the leaving that matters, it's the time and experiences we share, the things we learn, the things we teach each other.  It's the ways we change each other that really matter.


And they changed me. The time I spent with them profoundly impacted my life, how I see the world, how I interact with it, and how I write. I didn't realize that fact until recently, but I can see it clearly now. The moments we shared feel like home to me now, moments that root me and the way I have grown.


After four months of writing again, of exploring the narrative art, I find myself delving back into that mindset, considering the world in ways we once did -- slowing down enough to think rather than blindly embracing the daily banalities that distract and muddle the mind, considering questions at a deeper level. I sit quietly and think about those times we spent together, the way we saw the world back then and the way we see it now. 


Of course we see it differently now. Michael and I are still friends, still talk. It is the type of friendship that does not recognize space or distance, each conversation picking up as though the last was just moments before. "Where we went" from that night to this one was filled with unexpected twists and turns, a great deal of time getting lost and finding new places we never considered might exist. We have both gone through dry spells with our writing but somehow find out way back "home," back to the pen, back to the words, back to ourselves. 


I have not seen Mark since late 1999. I hope he is still dipping into that well.