Fish Pudding, 10/4/83

 

Reflecting on the many experiences that led me to this moment has let me air-out a lot of my dirty laundry. In this case, writing about my hubris of producing a literary atrocity such as the one I'm now sharing is beyond the stink of stale yoga pants and sweaty boat clothes. It's brutal to the point of hilarity.

Read the poem below. It's a hoot. Like a blooper reel.

Pointing to the obvious mixed metaphor of dead fish and mixed desserts provides enough grist to grind this poem to dust. But the fact that I actually submitted this as an assignment makes it all the more nuts.

This untitled poem was written in the fall of my junior year in college. I was deep into the requirements of major, (creative writing---eek!), and somehow I lifted my noggin from the booze and the recreational stuff to drop words about a guy being like stale pudding in the fridge. You'd think my debauchery would have reared something raw and inexplicable, not just base word pollution on the page. Bacchus was never my muse. Maybe this poem is somehow about him.

If I could start my education over, I likely would have studied herbology, textiles or culinary arts. I would have used my writing to promote a yoga business or pen volumes about feminist philosophy. I can't allow myself to sink in disappointment at how my life is going since I live like a boss on a vintage sailboat in the tropics with the man of my dreams. Maybe I could have turned out way cooler, like an international traveling urban beekeeper or a niche cheese producer who pairs wine and chocolate. Those peeps are fire. But I have this silly poem as an armature for my musings and it makes me smile.

So instead I inspect the tatters of my college projects and attempt my big thinks. I try to make sense of the craziness and find that it's okay not to be brilliant or stellar or, well, special. It feels just right to be in my own skin in this moment. What a life!

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One day he might belly-up
Fishlike, bloated and dewy
Floating and dwindling like marshmallow in hot chocolate
That by virtue of its sweetness blends into
The rich brown.

Or one day he might dry-up
And cover the top of the parfait dish
And grow tougher with each day in the refrigerator.
He might be old pudding left uncovered.
He might be old pudding.