On Tenterhooks: Dick Allen

Suspense seldom kills, but too often
stretched between the hooks, the cloth
drying in the sun so its weave might be straightened
rips in one section and the whole taut fabric,
so like a riveted drumskin or the canvas of a trampoline,
goes slack, its practical use over —
that anxiety which kept us searching the heavens,
wringing our hands, wiping our brows,
questioning the outcome,
only a matter of tension: that intangible
way of holding things we'd just as soon let go.

Letting go. I think when I think of letting go, of holding things that I'd just as soon let go, I don't really think of suspense, but more about anxiety. Maybe they're different names for the same thing - what will happen? How will this turn out?

It's an interesting idea, that it's just a matter of tension, of holding on or letting go. I suppose that's true. What happens if you just let go of suspense, of tension that you don't want to have any more?

What's the use of holding on to tension, of anxiety, of suspense? Sometimes we can't help it, it just is. Lots of religions have been founded on that 'letting go', of giving over to something larger than ourselves, of just being.

I'm interested in the line of the cloth being stretched taut to straighten it's weave. What does that mean? That by stretching ourselves tight with suspense, with anxiety, we're attempting to straighten what really makes us, us. Hmm.

I don't know. But it's interesting to think about. Why fight what really makes us, us... (and, can letting go include embracing some of those anxieties and suspenseful times?) I read something in Oprah (I think) about how we should all try to be our own 'brand', whether people like you or not. Water's boring, why not be really tart lemonade (which some people adore, others can do without).

Well. With that (a bunch of words going nowhere), that's the poem of the day.