Elizabeth Bishop In Conversation, Key West, Late 1947 Poem by Dennis Ryan

Tuesday, January 26,2021

Sitting here inside their house, thinking back to the time when I first moved to the island and into my house, how I enjoyed living there, and now looking outside in the direction of the converted carriage house on the far side of the property, the writing studio on the second floor that I presently call 'home', and realizing how unsettled I feel at the moment, it's shocking to discover how difficult it is to make sense of my life. You would think that... Heavens, I will turn thirty-seven in a little over two months, and... Has the town changed that much in ten years to become unrecognizable? What has happened to the charm, the beauty I associate with things, this island? Is it just an effect of the light?

The first time I visited, I knew I would live here. The sunlight. The warmth. The climate. (I do hate the cold. The long winters inside up north. The dreariness. The boredom. I needed the change.) Living life outside affords more freedom, more life. Considering everything that has happened, this new life has done wonders for me, my writing. As has her friendship, and my reading, especially the books he has written up in the studio—I started observing everything much more closely, and published my book. But now? I should be happy, but... I lack all certainty and direction. I travel from place to place looking for... what? All this travelling has proven a distraction. My relationships, my work suffer in comparison. I find myself constantly alone now, solitary. And I do dislike solitude, these feelings of loneliness. They're a constant reminder of childhood, the times after I left my grandparents' home in Nova Scotia, the moving around. And so all this letter writing--this flurry of letters. I crave conversation. Personal contact. The give and take.

Will I write him a letter today about this? He knows where I am. The last letter described these grounds. I felt at home immediately. He was easy to talk too. It should be easy to discuss poetry, my impressions of people, places. But my present circumstances? I don't know. We made a good start at that party in January. I really enjoyed his company, and he mine. Never mind that rumpled blue suit! Almost a year gone by now. It's only a matter of time, and I will—leave this island for good. Try to imagine that. Those left behind. But will I meet him come summer?

Come New Year, I will have to find other lodging. She will certainly have guests this winter, not to mention her sons returning with her soon, so I will have to make the most of the time remaining, my use of the writing studio. I just wish I could shake this feeling that my poems are superficial. She had sent my book to him in Cuba, and he wrote back saying he liked the poem about the fish, that he wished he knew as much as me about it—I'm guessing he meant the five fishing lines, the swivel and leader caught in the fish's jaw. The embedded hooks. His saying that meant the world to me. His kindness. He knows fishing better than any critic, and was already a well-known writer when I arrived that January ten years ago.

I would see him from time to time, downtown, on Duval Street, and on Whitehead Street when he made those walks to the bar, and then back home in the evening. I was indeed fortunate to have rented an apartment on the same street upon my arrival—on the same side of the street at that, not knowing this place was just farther up the street. We never really talked. He would acknowledge me, say hello when we crossed paths. He knew my face. I wish I had had the courage to approach him, acknowledge that I had read his books, especially the one on bullfighting that taught me so much about writing. Let him know that I was a writer too. That I had aspirations. I think he would have liked hearing that. Then we might have... Oh, so many lost opportunities because I lacked the courage! So many of my thoughts here expressed in the past tense! I wish I had known something about what was going on with him, but I was busy with Louise house-hunting, buying the house on White Street, and settling in, making our life comfortable. Life was so new, and I thought I had all the time in the world on my hands. I had just turned twenty-seven. I had time to write, and to drink. Plenty of that. And then he was gone, had left the island for good! Well, I shan't miss this next opportunity!

The house at 624 White Street. It was, I like to say, 'perfectly beautiful, inside and out.' It was well-built, well-shaded, with arching beams that reminded me of a ship's cabin. It fit us perfectly. Was in a good location, close to downtown and the beach—I could ride my bike or walk anywhere in 10-15 minutes. And I liked fishing. I would line-fish off the docks, and just sit there, taking in everything. The blue-green colors of the water, the flowers, --bougainvillea, hibiscus—so many shades of red, pink and purple! Life was perfect. But the downtown, and the harbor, if you can call it that, was a mess—the shoreline littered with broken white boats after every storm, no one in a hurry to salvage or clean up; the whole place noisy, the spongers and fishermen carousing on the docks, boats everywhere, the smell of gas and engine oil a constant; and the irritating mechanical sounds of the dredging going on. It was perfectly busy, perfectly awful.

But we were perfectly happy in our house those first few years— with Minnow, our other cats. It was bliss. We got into the habit of spending our summers in New York because of the terribly hot and humid summer months here. Awful. And Louise, of course, was quite the entertainer even though I preferred 'less entertainment'—being with her was entertainment enough for me. The thing is, Key West is really a small place, with a limited number of things to do really, and if you don't enjoy doing those things—deep-sea fishing, boating, going to bars, attending parties— the place begins to wear on you over time. After a few years, Louise started to go to New York more often, and earlier in the year; it was the place where she got more attention because of her wealth. Eventually things fell apart. She wanted more, and the arguments started. Then the infidelity. By '41 it was over, and I was heart-broken. It took me time to get passed it, to start all over again. And then the next disaster--Marjorie. Oh, let me not—I need say good-bye to such bad thoughts.

I'm going to miss this house. Not like I will miss 624 White Street, but I will miss this house. The cats. The way the rooms are laid out, the rooms themselves. The swimming pool. The grounds. The décor—The ceramic cat. The matador chair. The paintings. (He was a collector. Then to leave it all behind. Makes no sense. At the end, all he seemed to care about was the books. So many books, boxed up. Box upon box. I saw activity from the street, but didn't know why at the time, and I have never asked her about the breakup. And won't, not in the short time I have left.) This catwalk leading from upstairs to his writing studio serves no purpose now. It's just an empty reminder of what was, and she's talked about dismantling it. (I hope she does. It's been eight years.) The house itself is something to look it—French colonial—and will look one hell of a lot better without it.

She tells me she has no plans of moving anytime soon. She has the boys to look after, but I catch glimpses—though she doesn't talk about him, tell old, sentimental stories. Her wit, in fact, is sparkling. I've never met anyone quite like her. An incomparable wit. I'm glad I got to know her after he left. She's been quite generous of her time, letting me stay here after I sold the house when I needed a roof. She's one person I will miss.

I'm taking care of the cats while she's away, and shooing people off the property. They just show up, wanting to look around. They bring along their kids, a parent who claims to have read one of his books but can't remember the title, anything about it. I find this annoying, their cloying curiosity, their thoughtless intrusiveness—people who want to size up the property, peer inside, strangers who care nothing about Pauline, her life. This unwanted attention--she doesn't need the interruptions because some newspaperman somewhere wrote that her husband, now ex-husband, has written great books. All that publicity. Popular attention. It sure brings the money in, but in the end, the lack of privacy, is it worth it? For all his fame, Hemingway hasn't won a Pulitzer. Maybe he never will. Maybe better for her he doesn't. No one really knows who I am, and there's no worry about me becoming well-known unless, perish the thought... You never know, but I don't want anyone to profit from, use my life story to cash in. I value my privacy. Do I still have time to write that letter today? If so, I will be informative, descriptive, but careful not to mention any of the bad times. I will voice no regrets.