The Taunting of John Blase (52 Weeks: Episode 9)
"Many essays should be poems," and other wise words.
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My friend, John Blase, once said me something along these lines: There are many series that should be single books, many books should be essays, and many essays should be poems. I might add: Much of all writing should be summed up in a single photograph. This is a working theory for another day.
This weekend, I missed the publication date for Episode 9. There are two reasons for my mishap. First, I was visiting my father in hospital outside Memphis, and for a skinny minute some very dark clouds were forming on the horizon. Details are generally important, but the only important detail in this story is that the clouds have rolled on for now. This was—and is—a relief.
Second, and more germane to the topic of writing, I’d over-written some sprawling drivel on new years resolutions, fifteen-minute-a-day influencer courses, and Sebastião Salgado’s photographic essay of global laborers. The essay was a thousand piece puzzle that, once stitched together, had all of the form of good writing but none of the punch. Sometimes, even I swing and miss.
On my five hour drive home from Memphis, John’s words came taunting. Many essays should be poems. Back at home, I reached into my bag and pulled the scape I’d stolen from the hospital. I started slashing. When I was finished, here’s what remained.
On January 1 hear no more sweet old men, their half-gloved hands ringing bells outside grocery stores, minting angels beside Salvation Army pots. swipe through paid pushers selling resolutions: fifteen minutes a day to grow your following, influence, reach. on the table, a cruet of olive oil. I reach for the glass, swirl to see the window's light glint through legs stretching down glass sides. generations of knowledge fall in dripping tendrils. I snake a thin line across the white bowl, swipe my finger down the midline and taste the sea, volcanic soil, a bead of sweat dripping down a farmer's stained cheek, the world forgotten. On the television a small choir sings for auld lang syne.
Postscript: Find me on Instagram.
Ha! Good words here. I especially liked "taste the sea, volcanic soil," a good sensory "wake-up" to what olive oil actually is. Keep slashing the essays down to poems, I'd say.
Great advice from wonderful writer, John Blase. Less really is more.