as scattered as ourselves

Lyn Hejinian's book of prose, My Life, appears as disconnected, trivial ramblings when  only one page is read. However, that is how are own lives are. If all our comments we make, the scattered scratches on paper, and missed phone calls and voice mails we complied from one day,  one week even, no outsider could decipher the meaning behind "bunny" "brusslesprouts" "MENSA""Ponderosa" "green flame" my aversions to cherry jello, why my quarters are running out, or why apple cores now remind me of beauty.

But over time, after hearing bits of these stories again and again, you to will smirk at the thought of dust bunnies over taking the world, or think of your mothers complete dislike for many thing different and that your room mates other favorite food is tapioca simultaneously when you smell brusselsprouts.  This is how Lyn derives understanding from her readers: a relationship. you could choose to end that relationship, end the conversation at any time, but then you'd never know the full story, or how fully the story can be told. Like sneaking glances through a fence- you have to keep moving to get a clear picture.

Lyn's ideas are too big for one poem, for one snap shot,  because her entire life forms her idea about life . So Lyn introduces us to each idea with a name, to be refereed and connected back to later, those the three most common reference I've found In her first few pages: a name trimmed with colored ribbons; as for we who "love to be astonished;  and  a pause, a rose, something on paper. How simple are those ideals. How complex: something of meaning dolled up for frivolous means, the desire for wonder of learning, the need for beauty and simplicity. Her pieces of prose each have a focus, each describe multiple scenes relating to the same thing. The overarching theme: discovery of self, of world, of connection.

Through out the book, Lyn questions identity, wanting to be the farmer and the horse at the beginning, and later accepting her self as one with multiple roles, multiple selves, but one. Listen to her voice, her anecdote - the obvious analogy is with music- the bits and pieces DO fit, they describe what I have been thinking about for aporiximatly a year now: the suggestive mundane is the most beautiful because it is the most relate-able; the most cherished.

Let's remember our own smells that we cherish, not artichokes, but green beans. Our own petty qualms, not pony rides, but hammering abilities; not estranged birthday parties, but torn seating arrangements and driving distance. By being human, Lyn invites us to remember we are human, and we are human because of other humans; we claim "self" because we claim memories, observances-- claims to Eskimo pies  because a mother came from Alaska or MennoTea because  you've heard about it since November and it reminds you of stories you'd rather not tell and your favorite prof.

Lives, real lives, not biographies, cannot be explained straight forward. Our lives are Not straight forward. They are thoughts, threaded together like dream catchers, time and numbing allowing certain thoughts to seep through.
Connect, connect, and learn. See anew.

This is My Life.