I am not sure if this is satire or a little melancholia. I wrote this to detail my feelings as I discard certain “things” from my home in my desire to lighten the load, and not have so much “stuff.” I was thinking about art in all of its forms. Art that requires physical space and art that occupies mental space. I LOVE art I can touch, but I also love art I can read and hear. This was an effort to console me.
Give me art.
I must discard the canvas gently stroked with your brush.
The swirls and the colors shaped beautifully by your gift.
The fiber and the texture I can feel with my touch.
It is time to let it go.
Its dwelling place is gone.
Give me art.
I want to hold it close.
Write down the words that fill that space.
The beautiful prose I hear.
Formed lyrically from your talent.
I have a home to store it.
Give me art.
Never to be cast out.
My spirit will hold the verse
and it will rest upon my heart.
Why am I choked up when I visit the truth that Pat Conroy has died? I cry, not because his “promiscuous gift with metaphors” are lost. They will continue to live through the words and characters he has given us. I cry because writing is a gift given to us by a writer. Despite the genre, often the words we are given come from the writer’s personal pain and experience. In the early 1990’s I heard Pat Conroy speak at a lecture series. I was struck by his affable demeanor as he spoke and the ambiguity of the personality of the writer painting the narratives in his work, but I got it. I got him. When I was reading “The Prince of Tides” in the late 1980’s I had to put physically down the book and throw up. I knew those people. I did more than get physically ill; I cried. Also, I was amused. He….his writing….affected me. A good writer does that, makes us feel emotions with their words. When I heard him speak, I laughed, as he talked about his family dysfunction. He talked about it humorously. In 2013 when I read “The Death of Santini: The Story of A Father and His Son” I cried more. His words showed me a son trying to say to his father, “I understand you more now. I see you differently now.” I also understood that he and his brother saw their childhood from different perspectives. His brother didn’t see the same father that Pat Conroy saw which he represented in “The Great Santini,” the abusive dictator of their home. I don’t think Pat Conroy’s childhood experience changed nor did his perception of his life and those around him. I think he just understood more, and he accepted it. I get that. Thank you, Pat Conroy, for doing so much more than entertaining me. Thank you for showing me how to represent what pains me and knowing that one day I may understand it.