The Mad Potter
By John Hollander
Now at the turn of the year this coil of clay
Bites its own tail: a New Year starts to choke
On the old one's ragged end. I bite my tongue
As the end of me--of my rope of stuff and nonsense
(The nonsense held, it was the stuff that broke),
Of bones and light, of levity and crime,
Of reddish clay and hope--still bides its time.
Each of my pots is quite unusable,
Even for contemplating as an object
Of gross unuse. In its own mode of being
Useless, though, each of them remains unique,
Subject to nothing, and themselves unseeing,
Stronger by virtue of what makes them weak.
I pound at all my clay. I pound the air.
This senseless lump, slapped into something like
Something, sits bound around by my despair.
For even as the great Creator's free
Hand shapes the forms of life, so--what? This pot,
Unhollowed solid, too full of itself,
Runneth over with incapacity.
I put it with the others on the shelf.
These tiny cups will each provide one sip
Of what's inside them, aphoristic prose
Unwilling, like full arguments, to make
Its points, then join them in extended lines
Like long draughts from the bowl of a deep lake.
The honey of knowledge, like my milky slip,
Firms slowly up against what merely flows.
Some of my older pieces bore inscriptions
That told a story only when you'd learned
How not to read them: LIVE reverted to EVIL,
EROS kept running backwards into SORE.
Their words, all fired up for truth, got burned.
I'll not write on weak vessels any more.
My juvenalia? I gave them names
In those days: Hans was all handles and no spout;
Bernie believed the whole world turned about
Himself alone; Sadie was close to James
(But Herman touched her bottom when he could);
Paul fell to pieces; Peter wore away
To nothing; Len was never any good;
Alf was a flat, random pancake, May
An opened blossom; Bud was an ash-tray.
Even their names break off, though; Whatsisface,
That death-mask of Desire, and--you know!--
The smaller version of that (Oh, what was it?--
You know . . .) All of my pots now have to go
By number only. Which is no disgrace.
Begin with being--in an anagram
Of unending--conclude in some dark den;
This is no matter. What I've been, I am:
What I will be is what I make of all
This clay, this moment. Now begin again . . .
Poured out of emptiness,;drop by slow drop,
I start up at the quarreling sounds of water.
Pots cry out silently at me to stop.
What are we like? A barrelfull of this
Oozy wet substance, shadow-crammed, whose smudges
Of darkness lurk within but rise to kiss
The fingers that disturb the gently edges
Of their bland world of shapelessness and bliss.
The half-formed cup cries out in agony,
The lump of clay suffers a silent pain.
I heard the cup, though, full of feeling, say
"O clay be true, O clay keep constant to
Your need to take, again and once again,
This pounding from your mad creator who
Only stops hurting when he's hurting you."
What will I then have left behind me? Over
The years I have originated some
Glazes that wear away at what they cover
And weep for what they never can become.
My Deadware, widely imitated; blue
Skyware of an amazing lightness; tired
Hopewear that I abandoned for my own
Good reasons; Hereware; Thereware; ware that grew
Weary of everything that earth desired;
Hellware that dances while it's being fired,
Noware that vanishes while being thrown.
Appearing to be silly, wisdom survives
Like tribes of superseded gods who go
Hiding in caves of triviality
From which they laughingly control our lives.
So with my useless pots: safe from the blow
Of carelessness, or outrage at their flaws,
They brave time's lion and his smashing paws.
--All of which tempts intelligence to call
Pure uselessness one more commodity.
The Good-for-Nothing once became our Hero,
But images of him, laid-back, carelessly
Laughing, were upright statues after all.
From straight above, each cup adds up to zero.
Clay to clay: Soon I shall indeed become
Dumb as these solid cups of hardened mud
(Dull terra cruda colored like our blood);
Meanwhile the slap and thump of palm and thumb
On wet mis-shapenness begins to hum
With meaning that was silent for so long.
The words of my wheel's turning come to ring
Truer than Truth itself does, my great
Ding Dong-an-sich that echoes everything
(Against it even lovely bells ring wrong):
Its whole voice gathers up the purest parts
Of all our speech, the vowels of the earth,
The aspirations of our hopeful hearts
Or the prophetic sibilance of song.
tyellas pointed out this Village Voice interview with Philippa Boyens, who compares herself to scary masculine nightmare Shelob and talks about sexuality in the films.
Fannish awards: In my experience always cause hurt feelings, a sense of unfriendly competitiveness and sometimes downright nastiness. Thus I avoid them. The "but someone might discover a great story/fanart that they otherwise they might have overlooked!" argument seems silly to me; most of the material that's well-known enough to dominate such awards is well-known enough without needing an award to come to people's attention, and there's no question that BNF politics frequently play roles in the judging and voting. Other than the handful of people who need such awards for their egos and are widely read enough actually to win them, why do people bother?
Friends lists: I understand full well that filters are necessary for sanity, and there are people on my Flist whom I haven't gotten around to reading in weeks. That said, I have Friended everyone who has Friended me and am willing to Friend anyone who would like, even people who don't want to Friend me because they're afraid their mother in law will discover from their Friends page that they read brotherslash or whatever. It's fine with me if people want to take me off their lists because of some sense that their lists are too big, but I don't really understand the "my list is too big!" logic when default lists make it very easy to read only the people one wants to read regularly.
And yeah: if I've known you here for two years, and we were at one time Real Friends, or so I thought, and then we sort of drifted into different fandoms or focuses or phases of life, and you take me off your list...I DO take that personally. Because while maybe I should be making more of an effort to stay in touch with you directly and not take your presence for granted, I also know that life comes and goes. I now talk nearly daily here to beckyo, someone who was my best friend from fandom nearly 10 years ago and then our interests drifted but we discovered over time that our friendship, at the core, had not. I get to keep up with the lives of people like jenwrites, madlori and madame_manga whom I have also known for nearly a decade even if we sometimes go months without direct communication. Would I throw that out over some abstract sense that my Flist is too big? Not on your life.
I absolutely love the things I learn about literature from austin's journal.
Squee! jommy drew my gerbils and cats -- and me and my husband! Hee! Go look!
AND! I completely forgot to mention that my beloved perkypaduan got me FILM CELS from Master and Commander for my birthday! *joy* Now I just have to figure out how to mount Jack and Stephen. Um, the cels, that is. Yeah. *veg*
In case I don't make it back here by tonight for some reason, Happy New Year!