on smallness
a precious investigation
YOU MAY BE CAPABLE OF GREAT THINGS, but life consists of small things.
…THE IRONY OF SMALLNESS, like beauty or tragedy or brilliance or terror, IS THAT IT REALLY DEPENDS ON A THING WE CALL: context. OXFORD LANGUAGES DEFINES context AS, “the circumstances that form the setting for an event, statement, or idea, and in terms of which it can be fully understood and assessed.” [NOTE: circumstances AND setting ARE ALSO SYNONYMS FOR context.]
DICTIONARY.COM (the third-to-sixth tier SEO rank of online dictionaries) PROFFERS ANOTHER DEFINITION: “the parts of a written or spoken statement that precede or follow a specific word or passage, usually influencing its meaning or effect,” INCLUDING A THIRD INTERPRETATION THAT DEFINES context AS A MYCOLOGICAL TERM1.
THUS, IT APPEARS, smallness IS A CONVENIENCE MECHANISM FOR SCALE.
STARS, CELLS, THE REAL WORLD, THE DREAM WORLD, THE HAND OF GOD, THE KISS OF DEATH. IGNORE THEIR SUPPOSED contexts. HOW ARE THEY DIFFERENT? ARE THEY EACH SINGULAR ENTITIES OR ARE THEY VARIATIONS OF THE SAME PRIMEVAL WHOLE…? CASCADING INTO EACH OTHER TO FORM A CERTAIN… -NESS? …GREATNESS? smallness? TOGETHERNESS?
ONCE UPON A TIME, WE WERE ALL THESE ‘THINGS’; small and ETHEREAL, big AND BOUNTIFUL, SPIRIT AND MATTER; THE OFFICIANT BEWEDDING OURSELVES AND OUR PROFANE DUALITIES: HEAVEN AND HELL; BORN FROM THE ETHER OF TIME AND SPACE, AN ANIMAL, THE MARRIAGE OF EGG AND SPERM; INTO THE DARKNESS WE ARE BORN AND OUT OF THE DARKNESS WE DIE; INVISIBLE FEATHERS FLOATING; AS ABOVE, SO BELOW, AS WITHIN, SO WITHOUT.
HOW OFTEN DO YOU FIND YOURSELF LOOKING UP THE ETYMOLOGY OF WORDS AND THEIR RESPECTIVE DEFINITIONS AND SYNONYMS? PARTICULARLY, ‘ELEMENTAL’ WORDS LIKE ‘context’ OR ‘necessary’ OR ‘law’ OR ‘poor’; THAT IS, NOUNS AND ADJECTIVES THAT UNDERGIRD A BELIEF OR “TRUTH” OR CONJECTURE; WORDS WE LEARNED IN ELEMENTARY SCHOOL; WORDS WOVEN INTO THE FABRIC OF OUR INSTITUTIONS, AND REVOLUTIONS, WORDS THAT ESPOUSE JUSTICE AND ITS EVIL TWIN; WORDS NOT LIKE PUTREFACTION (NOT A WORD WE LEARNED AT A RUDIMENTARY LEVEL). OUR SOCIETY, OUR ERUDITION, OUR BROKEN POLITICAL SYSTEM DEPEND ON THESE ESSENTIAL ALBEIT CONNIVING AND PARADOXICAL WORDS—! LANGUAGE, IDEOLOGY! aie.
TO KEEP THE POOR POOR, LAWS ARE NECESSARY.
TO KEEP THE RICH RICH, LAWS ARE NOT NECESSARY.
riddle me that, my dear brethren. it’s the impenetrable truth.
SIDE NOTE: WRITING PREDOMINANTLY IN CAPITAL LETTERS IS AND FEELS INTENSE, ALSO IRKSOME. ALSO SLIGHTLY INSANE, AND YES, PATRIARCHAL (IN AN ARCHETYPAL SENSE). BUT I AM WRITING THIS WAY, TODAY, WITH INTENTION. IF THESE WERE SMALL CAPS, WOULDN’T THIS SLIGHTLY FEEL LESS ABRASIVE? THINK ABOUT IT. GENERALLY SPEAKING, WHAT THINGS ARE WRITTEN IN ALL CAPITAL LETTERS? CERTAINLY NOT PERSONAL EMAILS OR TEXTS, UNLESS YOU’RE PISSED, TRYING TO FREAK SOMEONE OUT, OR EMPHASIZING SOMETHING. MAYBE THE lowercase REVOLUTION IS A CLEVER MIDDLE FINGER TO THE PATRIARCHY? TO CAPITALISM AND THE SYSTEM OF RULES EMBEDDED WITHIN THEM? MAYBE NOT. BUT…
smallness CAN BE JUST AS PROFOUND AND EXCLAMATORY AS HER FRIEND, MADAME GREATNESS.
I WROTE A POEM ENTITLED smallness A WHILE AGO. IT WAS A TIME IN MY LIFE WHEN I DID A LOT OF WRITING, PERSONAL WRITING, BEFORE I SABOTAGED THE PRACTICE BY BECOMING A FREELANCE WRITE FOR-ANYONE-THAT-WILL-PAY-ME WRITER. I WAS LIVING IN A MAGICAL LITTLE SHOEBOX IN THE 7TH ARRONDISSEMENT OF PARIS. I WAS GOING ON YEAR TWO IN FRANCE AND HAD ARRIVED TO MY PARISIAN ABODE A MONTH EARLIER THAN ORIGINALLY PLANNED—AFTER A MONTH WALKING THROUGH SPAIN THEN SURVIVING MY WAY THROUGH ANOTHER MONTH (A RATHER SURREAL MONTH, CAUSING UNANTICIPATED MOVES) IN TURKEY (AND GREECE).
FINALLY, I HAD A SPACE, A ROOM OF MY OWN. I MOVED IN ON AUGUST 1ST OF 2016 AND WITH LITTLE REMORSE, DECAMPED MY PRECIOUS ‘CHÂTEAUBRILLANT’ AT OCTOBER’S END, TWO YEARS LATER. THE STEEP NARROW SPIRAL THAT WAS MY STAIRS NEVER QUITE GAVE ME THE ASSLIFT I WAS HOPING FOR, NOR THE CONFIDENCE; BUT THEY DID SCULPT PERSPECTIVE AND MOTIVATION INTO MY GROINS. AND SPIRIT.
GOING TO A FRENCH IMMERSION SCHOOL KINDERGARTEN THROUGH THIRD GRADE REALLY SET ME UP. THANKS TO MY PARENTS AND MINNESOTA’S PUBLIC EDUCATION SYSTEM, I HAD THE FORTUNATE OPPORTUNITY TO BECOME “CULTURED” AT A YOUNG AGE; TO NOT BECOME ONE OF THE NUMEROUS AMERICANS WHO ONLY SPEAK ONE LANGUAGE; BECAUSE NOW, I WAS DETERMINED TO SPEAK TWO. (AT LEAST.) THEN THE NEWS BROKE—IT WAS SOMETIME AFTER THE CATASTROPHE OF 9/11—‘WE’RE MOVING’.
TO PENNSYLVANIA. (TO THE PHILADELPHIA REGION WHERE THE LARGE MAJORITY OF MY MOTHER’S FAMILY STILL LIVES.) MY SISTERS AND I WERE MORTIFIED.
MY PARENTS GOT CLEVER. THE FOLLOWING SUMMER, THE SUMMER OF 2002, I WAS SHIPPED OFF TO FRANCE WITH CHRISTELLE—THE LAST TEACHING ASSISTANT MY FAMILY HOSTED BEFORE OUR MOVE TO ONE OF THE CRUNCHIER TOWNS OF THE TRI-STATE AREA, IN ‘DELCO’. A TOWN CALLED SWARTHMORE.
CHRISTELLE AND I HAD BONDED QUITE A BIT THAT LAST YEAR (2001-2002), SO HER INVITATION TO COME BACK TO FRANCE WITH HER, JUST ME, ALONE, WITHOUT MY PARENTS OR SISTERS, FOR 3 WEEKS, FELT SPECIAL—MAYBE EVEN A BIT HOLY; A PRECOCIOUS RITE OF PASSAGE SO TO SPEAK. I WAS 9 YEARS YOUNG.
MOST OF MY TIME IN FRANCE WOULD BE SPENT IN THE NORD-PAS-DE-CALAIS, CHRISTELLE’S HOME REGION. SOME OF IT, IN PARIS. I WAS PRETTY MUCH FLUENT UPON ARRIVAL, BUT BY THE SECOND WEEK, CHRISTELLE WAS TELLING MY PARENTS I HAD MASTERED THE REGIONAL ACCENT. LITTLE DID I KNOW I WAS TRANSFORMING AT A GRANULAR LEVEL, ONE MY 9 YEAR OLD BRAIN WOULD NOT COMPREHEND UNTIL LATER. MY ENVIRONMENT WAS NO LONGER MINNESOTA, BUT FRANCE; MY BEHAVIOR NATURALLY STARTED TO MIRROR THOSE AROUND ME, BECOMING INCREMENTALLY MORE FRENCH; MY SKILLS WERE EXPANDING, LEARNING INTERDEPENDENCE THROUGH THE AWKWARD ART OF CULTURAL ASSIMILATION; AND BY THE THIRD WEEK, MY BELIEFS HAD BECOME LESS INFLUENCED BY MY FAMILY AND PEERS AND MORE INFLUENCED BY MY EXPERIENCE AS A HUMAN; ALL OF THIS, SPAWNING A FRESH IDENTITY, AND WITH IT, A NEW WELTANSCHAAUNG.
I FELT AT HOME IN FRANCE.
‘I COULD LIVE HERE,’ I WOULD OFTEN THINK, THE POSSIBILITY EVENTUALLY TRANSFORMING INTO A FIXED BELIEF THAT ‘ONE DAY, I WILL LIVE HERE’. I WAS IN PARIS AT THE TIME, SITTING OUTSIDE LE MUSÉE DE L’ORANGERIE. SKIES WERE BLUE-ISH GRAY, DOTTED WITH PUFFY BURSTS OF WHITE. THE SUN FELT WARM, THE BREEZE COOL. MANIFESTATION WAS A FOREIGN CONCEPT TO ME. I WAS JUST A CHILD. IMAGINING.
THIS TRANSATLANTIC VOYAGE MARKED A FAREWELL TO FAMILIARITY. IT MEANT NO TURNING BACK. IT MEANT THE END OF ONE CHAPTER AND THE BEGINNING OF ANOTHER. WHEN I RETURNED, I RETURNED TO THE EAST COAST, TO A NEW PLACE THAT WOULD BECOME MY HOME FOR THE NEXT 9 YEARS. MINNESOTA NOW INHABITED THE ROOM IN MY MIND CALLED CHILDHOOD; FRANCE IN A SEPARATE HOUSE ALTOGETHER.
THIRTEEN YEARS LATER, MY CHILDHOOD DREAM NEVERTHELESS BECAME MY YOUNG ADULT REALITY. MY FINAL SEMESTER OF COLLEGE, I APPLIED TO TAPIF, THE “TEACHING ASSISTANT PROGRAM IN FRANCE” RUN BY THE FRENCH MINISTRY OF EDUCATION. LIKE A FOOL, I WAITED UNTIL THE LAST POSSIBLE DAY TO APPLY. (PROCRASTINATION MASQUERADING AS ACUTE SENIORITIS.) TWO MONTHS LATER, I RECEIVED NOTICE THAT I WAS PUT ON THE WAITING LIST; I COULDN’T TELL IF PURGATORY WAS BETTER OR WORSE THAN FLAT OUT REJECTION. IN THE FINAL DAYS OF JULY, I RECEIVED MY LETTER OF ACCEPTANCE. SERENDIPITOUSLY, IF I ACCEPTED (AND I HAD 3 DAYS TO GIVE THEM A RESPONSE), I WOULD BE TEACHING IN THE VERY REGION I VISITED AS A 9-YEAR-OLD: LE NORD-PAS-DE-FUCKING-CALAIS. WHEN APPLYING, APPLICANTS GOT TO CHOOSE THEIR TOP 3 DEPARTMENTS FROM 3 DIFFERENT LISTS. I OPTED FOR ALL SOUTHERN REGIONS. WHEN I SAW MY PLACEMENT, I THINK I LAUGHED. THEN CRIED.
HOW IRONIC, I THOUGHT. MY PLACEMENT IN THE NORTH DID NOT FEEL COINCIDENTAL; THIRTEEN YEARS HAD PASSED AND HERE I WAS REALIZING THE POWER OF A LITTLE 9 YEAR OLD’S WORDS, OF WHAT SOME PEOPLE NOW CALL ONE’S ‘SOFT DESIRES’. MY LIFE HAD COME FULL CIRCLE.
FROM OCTOBER 2015 TO LATE APRIL OF 2016, I TAUGHT ENGLISH TO STUDENTS BETWEEN THE AGES OF 11 AND 14. MIDDLE SCHOOLERS. A FORMATIVE EXPERIENCE, BOTH EMPOWERING AND DISPIRITING. (NOTE: THE U.S. EDUCATION SYSTEM IS DEEPLY FLAWED, BUT GUESS WHAT. THE FRENCH EDUCATION SYSTEM IS ALSO PRETTY FUCKED.) TO MY SURPRISE, I DISCOVERED TEACHING WASN’T WHAT I FEARED, IT WAS THE INSTITUTION OF TEACHING—SUBMITTING TO STANDARDS AND RULES AND TEACHING MATERIALS THAT FELT LARGELY OUTDATED AND UNINVENTIVE. BANAL.
THE TEACHING ASSISTANT PROGRAM WAS NO DOUBT A POIGNANT AND PIVOTAL EXPERIENCE, BUT ON AN ULTERIOR LEVEL (I’M A SCORPIO RISING OF COURSE I HAVE ULTERIOR MOTIVES FROM TIME TO TIME), IT WAS A LILYPAD TO MY PARISIAN DREAMS. GETTING A MASTERS DIDN’T INTEREST ME, SO I DECIDED TO BECOME AN AU PAIR. IT WAS THE EASIEST WAY FOR ME TO RENEW MY VISA WITHOUT HAVING TO LEAVE EUROPE; BESIDES, I WAS TOO BROKE TO BUY A PLANE TICKET BACK TO THE STATES.
ENTER: LES VILLEROY DE GAULHAUS. MY NEXT EMPLOYERS. IN EXCHANGE FOR MY TUTORING AND NANNYING SERVICES, THEY WOULD PROVIDE ME WITH MY OWN STUDIO (SEPARATE FROM THEIR APARTMENT) AND PAY ME A WHOPPING 500 EUROS A MONTH. THEY HAD ONE SON, ANTOINE. AND AS IRONY OR FATE WOULD HAVE IT, HE WAS 9 YEARS YOUNG WHEN I STARTED WATCHING HIM. MEANWHILE, I WAS ABOUT TO TURN 24.
WHEN I GOT TO PARIS, I WAS DEEPLY DISTRAUGHT. I WAS FUCKING POOR, FRESHLY HEARTBROKEN, AND HAD A MONTH TO KILL BEFORE MY NEW JOB OFFICIALLY STARTED (AND I WOULD EARN A PAYCHECK). THE JUXTAPOSITION OF CREATIVE FREEDOM AND INNER DEFEATED-NESS WAS PARALYZING. THE AMORPHOUS FACE OF smallness HAUNTED ME. WAS I MISSING THE POINT?
THE PRESENCE OF smallness TAUGHT ME QUITE A BIT; ITS ESSENCE AN UNFALTERING ELIXIR FOR THE DEEPENING VOID OF EXISTENTIAL DREAD THAT WOULD CONSUME THE REST OF MY 20s. BY THE TIME THIS POEM —smallness — CAME AROUND, THE SEEDLINGS OF WHICH TOOK TWO YEARS TO GROW, I HAD ALREADY DEPARTED FRANCE. AGAIN, HEARTBROKEN; AGAIN BROKE. AGAIN, PARALYZED, BUT THIS TIME, BY GRIEF. MY DAD’S LIFE CAME TO AN END AUGUST 25TH, 2017.
embracing smallness was no longer a suggestion but a necessity: it felt like the only tangible way i could access this extraordinary person who no longer lived on this earthly plane.
smallness december 11th, 2018 ~ the breath of an infant gentle claps of thunder under the blanket with your beloved a smile from a stranger ants marching, each leg before the other snow falling, every flake, a unique imprint buoys out at bay a ship from the sky ladybugs still in the crevices of windows lightning, small, but great the space between now and then cash flow fringe an unexpected kiss before love in utero the atomization of broken dreams a shooting star dust swarming in a single ray of light blades of grass beneath towering trees ideas kept to oneself today, yesterday, the space in between you me us particles in a petri dish the blue thin line between continents the green versus the blue your greatest secret the bromides of society versus the wisdom of the universe time versus infinity immeasurable memories, forgotten. ~
the poem isn’t meant to be great. it’s meant to be small. simple. but also deep and riveting and metaphysically provocative.
smallness is precious, doted by a certain -nessNESS, a special kind of -nessness, like that of a child—never mind its ineffable scale—the [suffix] -ness indicating the quality or state or condition of the adjective.
small is a baby’s hand, the small of the mother’s; small-ness a baby’s countenance: the -nessness of some unspeakable sequence of events…energies colliding, creating something to be doted, nestled, held in the heart of something much greater; in this case, a man and a woman, my parents.
in smallness, THE TANGIBLE IS RENDERED INTANGIBLE, the corporeal transmuted into the incorporeal. or maybe the other way around, depending on how you experience it.
i found a lone yellow $10,000 bill from the game of LIFE on the ground the other night on my walk down union street, near gowanus. i smiled, bewildered, and paused in pure astonishment. not a body around me. i became a child, fascinated; the future adult in me, bemused. i crouched down to give it a closer look and decided to claim it as a gift from the universe, never mind all the tread marks and grime of the countless feet who had not the eyes to see it, or perhaps, did not care to pause and investigate or ruminate on this bizarre, ironic gift.
a block later, this time on the corner, i found a lone pink $50,000 bill, again, from the game of LIFE. in between the discovery of the two bills, i had spotted a pile of trash scattered about the sidewalk, with a few cards from the game of LIFE tattered and face down—were they dead? no other bills, no board, just cards. a curious sight indeed. i repeated the same process with the $50,000 bill as i had with the first bill.
what now inhabited my coat pocket was neither large, nor small. these precious pieces of trash embodied what i had gleaned in france: smallness is a gift, it is omnipresent, incorporeal and terrestrial; profound in the good, hidden in the bad and disguised in the ugly; smallness is the parent of greatness. something i had not fully recognized or appreciated for quite some time. these bills were charmless charms, ironic bits of paper that now held value; relegating their inherent value ($60,000 in the dream world and $0 in the real world) to a magical ideal, insofar that the context made one person’s trash (or version of loss) another person’s treasure (or version of gain)—mine. if anything, these innocuous, scuffed-up pieces of colored juvenilia propelled me to sit down and write something on the matter; something again, on smallness…a word, which ever so poignantly was the Tao meditation of the day from my weathered book and talisman 365 Tao.
“…if they would humble themselves enough to bend down, they could scoop untold treasures into their hands2.”
…and though we may be well to relish in the haimish underbelly of abundance, we often forget how small we are, and how great smallness can be.
CONTEXT in the field of Mycology is “the fleshy fibrous body of the pileus in mushrooms.”
P. 311 ‘Smallness’ of Deng Ming-Dao’s 365 Tao.