5:10
Larissa Thompson: First of all, it

would be great if you could tell me a bit about your
history with the state of Vermont, as a resident of the
community and as a writer. What types of memories
do you link with the piece of your life in VT?

AR']hursda‘y, April 5, zoo’: 7:09

[WE/c\l/fiesday April 4, 2oo1

Jeff Wa it: I will always think ofVermont as
home (even though I grew up in rural Pennsylvania).
I drove.to Vermont in my beat up Festiva during a
horrible winter storm (without snow tires!) in January
1993, heading for Plainfield, where I was moving in
with a woman I had never met and into a house Ihad
not seen.

I needed to complete a teaching semester at
Goddard College to satisfy the requirements for my
MFA in Writing and Literature, and they (Goddard)
hired me on as an adjunct that semesterito facilitate an
on-campus Creative Writing course. I spent most of
that winter in my room writing, and when I wasn’t
writing, I was reviewing my students’ work.

I grew to love the solitude of winter, and the com-
munities of Plainfield and Goddard though I stood
somewhere on the periphery of both. Ironically, ‘The
woman that I rented my room from, Bev, had a gay
son who I became friends with over time. Three of the
poems from The Danger -in Everything are great
examples of my time there—(“This World, This
Fracture,” “Solace V
Late in the Day’
and “House of Joy
and Rage”)—poems 5
that are very reflec-
tive of the space I was in at the time. ' .

I was falling in love with all sorts of things back
then: trees, birds, grass, the sky. Vermont opened me
up to so many natural possibilities.

I was also falling into anoverwhelming sense of
loss connected to the loss of my childhood. My moth-
er was a severe alcoholic who attempted to raise three ‘
children alone, so in many ways, I was suffering the
loss of her as well (even though she was still alive at
the time). I often say that I had the luxuryiof watch-
ing someone kill herself since my mother——quite lit-
erally—drank herself to death. I usethe word luxury

because I learned so much about living as a result of
the way she lived and died.

Almost all of the poems in Danger were written
while I lived in Vermont from 1993 to 2000 (with the
exception of two summers spent in Provincetown and
one in Pennsylvania), born out of the space and the
love relationship that I was in at that time. My major
spiritual growth spurt happened during those years, so
when I swim back over my life, I am very connected
with everything—-the good and the bad—that
occurred in my life when I lived in Vermont. I return

’ to Vermont at least once a month as my partner and I

own property there.

I was always self-absorbed—and still am to a large
degree——in the “poetry” of my life that I didn’t con-
nect much to a writing “scene” or community, though
I wish now———just a little—that I could have been open
to it. I definitely don’t regret my choices over those
years. I have always been a loner in every aspect of
my life. Even after my chapbook, What I Didn’t
Know, came out in the chapbook anthology,
Passionate Lives, I still didn’t attempt a reading in
Vermont. I always felt I was doing a bit of a disserv-
ice to myself as a poet by not trying to put my name (
out there more, but again, that’s where I was then. I
accept it.

I don’t think I read my work publicly in Vermont
until my poem, “Postcards My Brother Used to Send”
won first place in the OITM poetry competition in
2000.

 
  

 ~'.«:"Z"13.c4:

A};/lariday, April 6, 2oo1W11:2

LT: Where do you-think your feelings of solitude
come from? Your work is often nature-oriented, and I
notice that when you do involve people,-you are often
the observer. Do youever wish to give more of your-
self, or do you feel that this would be pulling too
much of the childhood angst you referred to into your
work? Do you think that now, as a more accomplished
writer, you might be able to project those inner-feel-
ings in a less “angst-ridden” way? How do you want
to challenge yourself in the future? Where do you
want to go with your writing now that you are more
accessible to the public with your book, The Danger
in Everything? I '

P);/%]unday‘,l April 15, 7.001 7:03

JW: I feel a_ writing life demands solitude. When
I think of my relationship to solitude I think of it as a
need—a requirement to do what I do, which is look
closely at life, at_the‘details of the world. I believe that

P poets examine the minuteand how it all relates to the

larger picture.

I was an introverted, shy child and spent hours hid-
ing, watching, listening. '

My brother had the stage. My mother would put

him on the kitchen table with a big guitar and he‘

would pretend to be Elvis for our neighbors and rela-
tives. I was in the attic wandering frombox to box,
digging for treasure. I was the Bionic Woman, Police
Woman and all three of Charlie’s Angels. I kicked ass.
I sang songs. I wrote poetry. Solitude has always been
a big part of my life (consciously and unconsciously.)

I believe that solitude is different from detachment.
My feelings of detachment come from growing up
with an alcoholic parent. I detached from needing my
mother’s love because so often she was not there to
provide the love that I needed as a child. Frequently,
when I would let my guard down and expect her love
to shine bright, there was always a big disappoint-
ment, which reinforced the detachment.

For example, I was hoping for a big birthday party

. when I turned thirteen, but I ee from school

® may 2001 OITM ° 19

 
 
 
 
   
    

   

   

4 .4 «

to an empty house. My mother arrived an hour later
with her lover — both of them terribly drunk. They
drove the van through the yard and onto the sidewalk
in front of our house, and when they got out of the
vehicle my mother tripped and smashed a Seagram’s
bottle between her head and the cement. Her lover,
Henry, fell on the lawn and died of a heart attack.
Soon, our yard was lined with neighbors, the coroner,
police and an ambulance.

This is just one example, but as a result of a series
of incidences similar to this one, I moved inward

I where it was safe.

There are ways in which we guard our hearts—
afraid to feel pain, so we detach from people and
events where there is the slightestpossibility to be
hurt so, as adults, instead of investing in a long-term
relationship where one is completely vulnerable, we
may choose years of one-night stands in which we
never know the other person at all; our buttons don’t
get pushed in the same way. We grow toward a dif-
ferent light.

I have chosen to utilize my adult love relationships

as springboards for development—the space that

opens my eyes and allows me to do my life work. I
believe that my life is my career, so my spiritual

. growth is of ‘paramount importance to me. Only in

relationships do I feel the full impact of my triggers.
Yes, I do want to give more of myself in many
ways. ‘I want to share what I’ve learned about poetry
and being connected to this world and how they
relate. I’ve learned a lot about giving in the past cou-
ple years and have had a couple great role models——
my ex-partner and my current partner are great exam-
ples of pure giving, and I use them for inspiration.
' When my mother was near death, I stayed away,
unable to be physically close to her at that time. There
was a lot of pressure from other family members for
me to be near her while her dementia progressed. My
sister and brother had detached from the situation and
had little communication with her. She was bed-rid-
den without anyone to take care of her except the
derelicts she chose to associate with. She was selling
her morphine to punks on the streets—if they had not