Elizabeth Bishop on vicarious travel

In the waiting room
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/in-the-waiting-room/

Osa and Martin Johnson
http://www.natgeotv-int.com/images/programmes/00544.jpg
From February, 1918

Loss

When you lose a parent, suddenly your only fear becomes losing the other. Since assessing her health and well being is a bit complex, you look at all her more tangible assets (in our case, paintings of nudes done by my brother, paintings of krishna done by others, and a thousand knick knacks from every craft fair on the east coast). I don't want to move anything from this house. Ever. I want this place to look exactly like this. Forever should have been weaned out of my dictionary, and yet, it's not.

My mother is very careful not to smoke in the house. Nothing smells like smoke. No number of stories about the state of papa in the hospital ultimately seem to have any effect. Escapist adults. One marches off to the mountain when he's ill, albeit away from horrid doctors and worse hospitals. The other doesn't sleep, eat, rest, exercise if it gets in the way of work. Why was I raised so routine conscious when they themselves take all the liberties? Libertines!

I walked into the house this time thinking, "Oh god, clutter". Peak inventory season. Hats coming out of every crevice of the house. Lectures certainly ensued about financing inventory on credit cards. But I looked further. Saw the book after book on design and textile and fabric and weave. Even my meager heart succumbed.

My eyes always fall on the mustard walls. It's supposed to be an unlucky color to love in Spanish lore. Our baby days, our chubby days, our graduations duly documented in frames. The reminders in charcoal of the time when she looked for shelter. The avid garden. The butterflies in the curtains.

The morphosis happened when i wasn't paying attention. This is me. The Mrs. Bennett moments, so punjabi by nature. The losses. The acrylics. The asceticism. The ups /downs unmodulated without endorphins. The worry, the resignation to what will be... The reminder that everything is always a choice.

incomplete

"Bros before hoes"

You'll probably never read this. And I won't ask you to. This is my playground and you're an adult. It's good too because I know you don't get moved by sentimental crap.

I'm sorry. I fucked up. I though I'd never be saying something like that. Though I'd always be at the receiving end of that. I'm sorry I wasn't there when I should have been. And there is no way to rewind.

And you've always been there. "Chin up". "You can handle anything". "You don't need to be rescued". Like a drill sergeant. Or a nike commercial.

Life's short. And we always have to move forward. I don't want to conceive of how much I've fallen. Would involve realizing that I almost lost. And yet, your life is full of images of me.

You're the only person who can boss me around without trying. And the one who can actually make me feel guilty about not going out at night. And the one who can see though me before I realize what I feel. The one who patiently lets me fumble and fall and get up myself. The one who can revive Paris in Arlington. The one who could watch a burlesque, innocence intact. The one from whom I learned to expect more, and finally, to slow down. I've never met someone so grounded and so sure of herself. Beside you, I'm effusive.

I remember when we first met. You'd said something about liking me for the bubble I lived in, and that you lived in one too. Was an odd thing to say, to acknowledge the newspaper world for a moment, and then put it all aside. And since then, you knew how to lead, and I, to follow. People assumed we were the same but I always knew better.

I know I'm lucky. That you'll make me live in the moment, and not play the 'remember when?' game. Please be angry. I'm not asking for grace. Just don't go far. I'm not used to maps.