Joseph Cornell trying to hold on to his experiences,
scribbling on napkins to mark his place in books, on catalogues, on
envelopes, on record jackets, on anything he could find, cluttering up
his study, his diary, his life, but caring so much to get everything
down. Not to forget ever any moment.
I'm on my way home, early, to the boathouse, on my bike. Once in the park,
I feel free.
My home is in the middle of Central Park. Like an anchor,
that dilapidated building welcomes me. I am nervous until I finally push
open the green door and go past the telephone - where I sometimes call
Carolyn to see if we can walk, or
Matthew [my son], to see if he can join me. At the counter, a few
desultory remarks, the hot cup between my cold
fingers.
I choose a table inside, by the windows, leave it for the
terrace, where the old men are still sunning themselves with reflecting
foil collars under their chins. I put my feet in their white Reeboks up
on the railing, see the snow beneath the terrace, the ducks swimming in
the lake delighted between the banks, the trees losing their white profiles
as the sun starts up. (195-6)
· · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · ·
I've just
seen my face in the mirror. Always a surprise. I look like my father, a
thing I used to regret; but he had spunk and moral strength. My chin
sticks out like his, as if I were determined. Don't know to do what.
Last night I dreamt of mother in a flowered dress, although she never
wore a flowered dress to my knowledge. She was dancing, rather a modern
dance, strangely, not her style. She smiled at me and went on dancing.
I would have told Carolyn, but she's not here anymore. (196-7)
· · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · ·
Now that I look at it, my journal seems always to have been about
coming home . . . no matter where I was. Or trying to find a home to come home
to. (197)
That smell of plaster of paris in my grandmother's
dark-shingled mountain studio comes rushing in again with the sight of
the morning glories pressing blue against the walls. An old ring made
for her in Venice has replaced my wedding ring - I won't be taking that one off.
The light in her eyes may reach
over to me this morning, as if, no longer here, she could teach me all
the same. Now is when I want to learn. Her energy is there somewhere,
ready to be passed on. To me, and maybe from me. (202)
· · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · ·
This telling was once to be about growing up in the South. About some
tanglings up and some clearing, and then about a boathouse farther north,
another kind of home. It's a story and yet it's true, as far as I can
see it. It's funny how it matters where you start being you. I started
there, in the southern Tidewater. Now I live somewhere else, but not
only. Grandmother knew home was wherever you were and decided to be and
dwell. You are wherever you can speak from. I think I've found the
right address. (204)
