Nothing is Certain, I am a Poet

on potato season, certainty, & AI

This morning the alarm goes off at 6am, the room is cold, I kiss A.’s face. Once downstairs, I run a superglue bottle under hot water to loosen it—the dulcimer is broken; I try to glue a peg back on. It doesn’t take. I ask A. if they want more coffee and they say, Go write. I go write: candle lit, Brian Eno on, sending voice memos to a friend about our perilous feelings on social media. We admit that Substack is becoming its own social media. Later on, I’ll learn the word luddite—a derogatory word meaning someone’s resistance to technology. Am I one?

Yesterday, at my favorite Turkish café, an old curmudgeon of a man lit up after he saw A. reading Barbara Kingsolver. We exchanged favorites: Isabelle Allende and Gabriel Marcía Márquez. I told him about The Sparrow and he recommended a murder novel that I’ll never read. He probably won’t read The Sparrow, either. Once he had his Turkish coffee in one hand and a mosaic lamp he bought on whim under the other arm, he began to walk out. Then right before grabbing the door handle, turned around, said, “Have fun, life is short.”

I know, I grumbled to A. after the door shut. I know life is short. I looked around the almost empty room. The owner plopped down on his chair, phone out, behind the counter. The kindle I was reading turned off because I hadn’t flipped the page in a while. I felt tired. I wondered, am I having fun? 

Strangers love to talk to me and A.. Once, during our very first month of dating, someone saw us holding hands and said, “Don’t ever let go!” I remember thinking: how can a person be so sure of anything? Letting go—in a spiritual sense—is the one thing I am sure of, when it is time, though I struggle.

Last week, while digging up potatoes, I asked someone working on the bed next to me if his row of potatoes were a different variety. He said, “I don’t know.” In a very knowing way. Then, “Do they look the same?” I shook my head, walked away, expecting not much more from the Washington male gallery. Later I thought, “Nothing is certain, I am a poet.” It was a too-late-thought, as the best are, but it’s helped me see a little clearer this week.

At a dinner party, I heard a friend say that she is going to do potato research during the off season. I heard wrong, she is doing data research, no potatoes, but it made me think about how fun it would be to do potato research and how that is probably a reality for someone, if not all of us, as we cut and bake and taste. Or whatever else. It sounded fun, life is short, and AI, among other things, looms. 

But, on AI and being terrified of the future (tomorrow)) world, poetry is the opposite of predictive text. A feeling cannot be foretold; nothing is certain. You can make a graph of potato depth or potato size for no reason at all. You can say something is for reason but inside know there is none. It might be scary. That is okay. You can hear clacks of rhythm hit the sidewalk from an unknown source and think, Garhhhh and then, Well at least I have writers’ block and AI can’t have that. Thank you, Writers’ Block. That will do. I will sit and wait for god and be honored all the more for it. Click clack, says the rhythm.

…

In other news, farming is making me feel alive again; I made some new friends; everyone is home again in Stilt Mansion, and Thomas drew this incredible new design for The Hummus is Out Welcome Page:

Here is a marvelous photo of me and A. taken by my mother on Kalaloch beach in Washington. My mother came to visit me. I planned to write today’s Substack on that, but my fingers went typity type, full of other plans. This will do.

Love,

Jo