At around dinnertime, I’d like to conjure the ghost of Wallace Stevens, and ask him a few questions. I can’t think of a better ghost to meet, and discuss life and the poetic mind. Though I have tried contacting other ghosts in the past, they’ve all been so busy, and frankly rude. Would it really take so much time out of one’s ghostly day to return a phone call?
For my seance, I’ll need candles, a fringe scarf to wrap around my head, and at least one other person to bring him to earth (I hope that’s all that’s needed; should’ve paid more attention when watching The Craft). With the other ghosts, won’t say names but think “bread and fish,” I simply used Skype… Sadly, I’ve lost my Skype account and have been called an internet ghost stalker.
This is what will happen at around five-ish: the lights will begin to flicker (computer screen, etc.), an ominous rumbling will be heard (my hungry belly), a chill will sweep the room, and an old white man will appear (not my boss)– the ghost.
Wallace: Why’ve you called me here, I was in the middle of bridge?
Me: You play cards?
Wallace: No, London Bridge, helping with construction. What do you want?
Me: So, that’s what you do now. Is the after-life pure drudgery?
Wallace: The after-life for us all is ever present.
Me: Is this the beginning of a poem. How do I write one?
Wallace: Reject reality.
Me: Don’t I reject enough things everyday…and am thereby rejected?
Wallace: You asked for my help, and I’m giving it. Also, conjure the divine.
Wallace: God and the imagination are one.
Me: So, what’re you saying…live in a fantasy world, and pray? You sound like MC Hammer.
Wallace: What can I say?
Me: Wally, you’re not being helpful.
Wallace: Ok, a challenge then– write a poem using the words: bowl, field, berry, deathdark, quagmire, connect, risk, scarlet, rejection, sweater, thin, chair, bloom, harlequin, despair.
Me: Oh Walls, thank you! What about love… will I fall in love soon?
Wallace: Dear, you’re going to have to conjure Rumi for that one.