Tucson
I remember first contacting David, asking him if he'd like to visit Tucson to give a reading. I remember how gracious he was in helping to arrange his visit. That was May 1997. We barely scraped together enough money to pay for his flight back to California.
I remember David's first night in Tucson, shopping with him for instant oatmeal and fruits and flowers at Safeway.
I remember he stayed at the Poetry Cottage on Cherry Avenue, gone now.
I remember, in the Poetry Cottage living room, pointing out a framed print of a Jess collage announcing a Robert Duncan reading in Berkeley. I remember feeling both embarrassed and exhilarated when he smiled and said, "I was at that reading."
I remember going to the gym with David, and how he loved to swim.
I remember talking with David about metonymy while he sat in bathing trunks at the edge of the jacuzzi.
I remember his talk on Jackson Mac Low and Robert Grenier. I remember how lively the talk was, the way people held themselves, leaning forward in their chairs, engaged.
I remember David didn't carry any of his books with him, preferring instead to visit the Poetry Center library and pull copies of his books off the shelves to read from later that day.
I remember David ordering fish and chips at Kingfisher, joking about whether they'd measure up to the real thing.
I remember how he held together a long table at the bar with his talk and his listening. His humor and anecdotes and a great feeling of community.
I remember hiking with David in the desert. He wore a T-shirt that said "LIFE IS BRIEF IT SAYS HERE."
I remember misreading the T-shirt as "LIFE IS BRIEF IT STAYS HERE."
I remember misquoting his T-shirt during my introduction to his poetry reading at Dinnerware Gallery, but I can't remember what I misremembered.
I remember David bending over on a narrow desert trail to look closely at a cactus. As he bent forward, a cactus on the other side of the trail stuck him in the arse. I remember that as he stood up, the cactus in front of him stuck his hand. I remember "It's a farce!"
Driving back toward the city, I remember something that looked like black lightning flash across the road and disappear into the desert. I remember David leaning forward in the backseat. "What was that!?"
I remember "Stop the car!"
I remember before we could explain what it was--a coachwhip, one of the fastest snakes on earth--David was out the door, camera in hand, running off after the snake.
I remember watching David run into the desert and thinking Wild West.
I remember we found the snake a few minutes later, up in a mesquite tree.
I remember David taking a picture of the snake in the mesquite tree and wondering if he was standing too close.
I remember David taking a picture of the audience after his reading and not wondering whether he was standing too close.
I remember thinking it was strange for a poet to photograph their audience. I remember later thinking it was not so strange.
I remember just last week reading Charles Alexander's memorial post on David's visit to Tucson and feeling grateful for what memories it helped me repossess.
I remember drinking scotch with David at Cushing Street, then visiting El Tiradito Shrine. I remember our talk about the castaway's scattered body and memory's wishful remembering of the scattered body of time.
Sebastopol & Santa Rosa
I remember visiting California later that year to do some readings in San Francisco and north, and staying with David and Cecelia at their house in Sebastopol.
I remember falling off to sleep in David and Cecelia's basement and thinking I'm falling off to sleep in David and Cecelia's basement.
I remember long talks in the backyard about poetry.
I remember a wild car ride along winding roads in the Russian River Valley, stopping to visit a half-dozen small wineries along the way.
I remember David knew people at each winery, and I remember how fluent he was in conversation about local history and flowers and trees.
I remember talking about wine with David.
I remember talking about talking about wine with David.
I remember lounging with David in the itchy grass of a winery lawn, high clouds and our heads abuzz with wine and sunlight, not talking.
I remember dinner with David and Cecelia in Santa Rosa, but I can't remember what we ate.
I remember standing in the parking lot after dinner, looking at David from a distance and feeling some inexplicable sadness.
I remember, after dinner, reading with David in a small cafe.
I remember, after reading, drinks with David in a small, cozy bar in Sebastopol.
I remember David went to the local gym while I stayed behind in the backyard to read what he'd put in my hands: David Antin's "Modernism and Postmodernism: Approaching the Present in American Poetry."
I remember the last time I saw David. It was a late morning in Sebastopol, leafy shadows and summer sunlight dappling everything. I remember David preparing a spread of fruits and cheeses and breads and juice and coffee, and maybe some champagne or dessert wine.
I remember David slicing lemons at the kitchen counter.
I remember he was rereading Samuel Beckett, delighting once again in the language, as if for the first time.
I remember our correspondence falling off, 1998 or 1999.
I remember one of David's last emails. I remember him telling me that he was feeling the loss of so many friends. I remember him saying that at his age, most of life is behind him, and at my age, most of life is before me.
I remember these acts of friendship, the candor and generosity. To say life is brief. To say, here.
