The mug I've been using is from Dollar Tree, and it began retaining dark tea stains as soon as I began using it. It looks fine on the outside but the inside looks decades old. I'm hoping the new mug will resist staining better. It cost me four times as much as the Dollar Tree mug, and was actually priced at twice that (I had another 50% off coupon.) But I doubt it will be as good as the thirty-year-old, barely stained mug I had before the fire. The one I got as a premium when I subscribed to the magazine of the American Museum of Natural History.
Thirty years ago is easier to remember than this morning. In fact I remember opening the package the mug came in, and being pleased with the shape and feel of it. I made a pot of coffee that day, to inaugurate it, though I don't remember what I read while I drank it. That I did read something is pretty much a certainty, as that's what I almost always did while drinking coffee or tea. Now I mostly look at the computer screen. Thirty years ago I had no computer. Maybe that's why that time is easier to remember than this morning.
by Mark Jarman
Is nothing real but when I was fifteen,
Going on sixteen, like a corny song?
I see myself so clearly then, and painfully—
Knees bleeding through my usher's uniform
Behind the candy counter in the theater
After a morning's surfing; paddling frantically
To top the brisk outsiders coming to wreck me,
Trundle me clumsily along the beach floor's
Gravel and sand; my knees aching with salt.
Is that all I have to write about?
You write about the life that's vividest.
And if that is your own, that is your subject.
And if the years before and after sixteen
Are colorless as salt and taste like sand—
Return to those remembered chilly mornings,
The light spreading like a great skin on the water,
And the blue water scalloped with wind-ridges,
And—what was it exactly?—that slow waiting
When, to invigorate yourself, you peed
Inside your bathing suit and felt the warmth
Crawl all around your hips and thighs,
And the first set rolled in and the water level
Rose in expectancy, and the sun struck
The water surface like a brassy palm,
Flat and gonglike, and the wave face formed.
Yes. But that was a summer so removed
In time, so specially peculiar to my life,
Why would I want to write about it again?
There was a day or two when, paddling out,
An older boy who had just graduated
And grown a great blonde moustache, like a walrus,
Skimmed past me like a smooth machine on the water,
And said my name. I was so much younger,
To be identified by one like him—
The easy deference of a kind of god
Who also went to church where I did—made me
Reconsider my worth. I had been noticed.
He soon was a small figure crossing waves,
The shawling crest surrounding him with spray,
Whiter than gull feathers. He had said my name
Without scorn, just with a bit of surprise
To notice me among those trying the big waves
Of the morning break. His name is carved now
On the black wall in Washington, the frozen wave
That grievers cross to find a name or names.
I knew him as I say I knew him, then,
Which wasn't very well. My father preached
His funeral. He came home in a bag
That may have mixed in pieces of his squad.
Yes, I can write about a lot of things
Besides the summer that I turned sixteen.
But that's my ground swell. I must start
Where things began to happen and I knew it.