Not much to say tonight except that this poem makes me glad that bullying in school is finally getting some attention and teachers are being taught some techniques to deal with it. Of courses kids are getting this kind of info also and it is about time. I don't know why kids have to be so mean sometimes - it seems like a rite of passage for some. For other kids, the rite is being on the receiving end of cruelty, heartless torture and terrible loneliness. Parents would not believe how cruel their young children can be to a those who show any kind of weakness or display a behavior that can be interpreted as weakness.
Perhaps the ability to be cruel to another living being, person or animal, is inborn and resides deep within only to be awakened in a social environment such as school.Perhaps the bullies perceive their own weaknesses and are acting out ahead of any bad treatment that might be coming their way. Perhaps there are just some scared, abused kids who must abuse others in order to make sure their psyches survive. And perhaps some kids are just twisted and mean and dark through no fault of their parents or anyone else. They are what they are and no amount of teaching, role playing and interference technique will work with them. Many bullies grow out of it, but not all. Have you ever worked for a bully? Be honest, now - have you? Yes, they exist in the adult world too, using skills that were honed in school hallways and playgrounds all over the world.
Bullies of any age are hard to deal with until we take that first step to finding out their fears and move on to letting them know we see their weaknesses. My dad always said to stand up to a bully because bullies are just empty air and insecurities. In my experience, he was right on that. It is unfortunate that pain may be involved in deflating the bully: pain for you and for him or her. But deflate them we must in order to survive ourselves.
In this poem the tables are turned and the narrator learns what it is like to be on the other side of bullying.
Sins of the Father
by W.D. Ehrhart
Today my child came home from school in tears.
A classmate taunted her about her clothes,
and the other kids joined in, enough of them
to make her feel as if the fault was hers,
as if she can't fit in no matter what.
A decent child, lovely, bright, considerate.
It breaks my heart. It makes me want someone
to pay. It makes me think—O Christ, it makes
me think of things I haven't thought about
in years. How we nicknamed Barbara Hoffman
"Barn," walked behind her through the halls and mooed
like cows. We kept this up for years, and not
for any reason I could tell you now
or even then except that it was fun.
Or seemed like fun. The nights that Barbara
must have cried herself to sleep, the days
she must have dreaded getting up for school.
Or Suzanne Heider. We called her "Spider."
And we were certain Gareth Schultz was queer
and let him know it. Now there's nothing I
can do but stand outside my daughter's door
listening to her cry herself to sleep.
"Sins of the Father" by W.D. Ehrhart, from The Bodies Beneath the Table. © Adastra Press, 2010.
Monday, December 6, 2010
Sunday, December 5, 2010
"Greeting the barefoot child"
Babies are very, very special entities.I haven't had one in a long, long time, but I remember vividly the deliveries of my two children as I'm sure all women remember theirs. After all, it's a pretty cool thing to bring life out of your own body. Humbling and thrilling and scary and painfully wonderful all at once. Yes, pretty cool. But now, in my advanced non-childbearing age, I appreciate babies on another level.
When I look at a baby, I see "intimations of immortality." I see a being that doesn't communicate with words, but simply with its presence. I see eyes that really look. I don't know what babies see, but they surely see something and maybe that something is not just its physical surroundings. Somehow, I think a very young baby sees and knows much more than we think. Just because they can't verbalize, doesn't mean they don't know what is happening on some level. Perhaps they know more than we do.
I don't know why I feel this way, but looking at babies makes me think that anything is possible. For them, for me, for the world. My jaded sensibilities are suspended for a few moments and I see pure love looking back at me. Not necessarily from only babies that I know, but any baby passing by in it's father's arms or ensconced in a stroller. It doesn't matter.
Maybe I'm a silly old lady. Maybe I just want every child's life to be filled with love and I'm projecting that onto these wee ones. It doesn't matter, I love looking at babies and hoping they stay as wonderful as they are at that moment for the rest of their lives.
Here is Linda Pasten's poem about birth.
Notes from the Delivery Room
by Linda Pastan
Strapped down,
victim in an old comic book,
I have been here before,
this place where pain winces
off the walls
like too bright light.
Bear down a doctor says,
foreman to sweating laborer,
but this work, this forcing
of one life from another
is something that I signed for
at a moment when I would have signed anything.
Babies should grow in fields;
common as beets or turnips
they should be picked and held
root end up, soil spilling
from between their toes—
and how much easier it would be later,
returning them to earth.
Bear up ... bear down ... the audience
grows restive, and I'm a new magician
who can't produce the rabbit
from my swollen hat.
She's crowning, someone says,
but there is no one royal here,
just me, quite barefoot,
greeting my barefoot child.
"Notes from the Delivery Room" by Linda Pastan, from Carnival Evening: New and Selected Poems 1968-1998. © W. W. Norton & Company, 1999. Reprinted with permission. (buy now)
When I look at a baby, I see "intimations of immortality." I see a being that doesn't communicate with words, but simply with its presence. I see eyes that really look. I don't know what babies see, but they surely see something and maybe that something is not just its physical surroundings. Somehow, I think a very young baby sees and knows much more than we think. Just because they can't verbalize, doesn't mean they don't know what is happening on some level. Perhaps they know more than we do.
I don't know why I feel this way, but looking at babies makes me think that anything is possible. For them, for me, for the world. My jaded sensibilities are suspended for a few moments and I see pure love looking back at me. Not necessarily from only babies that I know, but any baby passing by in it's father's arms or ensconced in a stroller. It doesn't matter.
Maybe I'm a silly old lady. Maybe I just want every child's life to be filled with love and I'm projecting that onto these wee ones. It doesn't matter, I love looking at babies and hoping they stay as wonderful as they are at that moment for the rest of their lives.
Here is Linda Pasten's poem about birth.
Notes from the Delivery Room
by Linda Pastan
Strapped down,
victim in an old comic book,
I have been here before,
this place where pain winces
off the walls
like too bright light.
Bear down a doctor says,
foreman to sweating laborer,
but this work, this forcing
of one life from another
is something that I signed for
at a moment when I would have signed anything.
Babies should grow in fields;
common as beets or turnips
they should be picked and held
root end up, soil spilling
from between their toes—
and how much easier it would be later,
returning them to earth.
Bear up ... bear down ... the audience
grows restive, and I'm a new magician
who can't produce the rabbit
from my swollen hat.
She's crowning, someone says,
but there is no one royal here,
just me, quite barefoot,
greeting my barefoot child.
"Notes from the Delivery Room" by Linda Pastan, from Carnival Evening: New and Selected Poems 1968-1998. © W. W. Norton & Company, 1999. Reprinted with permission. (buy now)
Oh, Christmas Tree
Ah yes, 'tis the season, fa la la, ringing bells and all that. And it even snowed today to make it seem more like Christmas. So why an I not in the mood? No mystery there - it's time to get a Christmas tree. For the 17th year, the pressure is on once again. You see, by a fluke or perhaps a warp in the time-space continuum, the first year in our new home I found a tree that was very tall, very pretty - distinctive even, and very cheap. That set the bar for all subsequent Christmas trees: they had to be tall, pretty or distinctive (and boy have we had some distinctive trees), and cheap.
A tall tree is somewhat hard to find, but with a modicum of diligence, one can be found without driving 60 miles round trip. If it is tall, it cannot be skinny. We usually err on the side of fat because many times we have traipsed out to a farm waaaaaay out in the country even farther than we live. The farm tree we pick is about a mile from the little tree house where they wrap it for you and we have to drag it there. Snow helps. Mud does not.It is usually an older tree that hasn't been trimmed since it was one year old and looks like it needs to go on a diet. But it's tall - the primary requirement - and it isn't too expensive, the second prerequisite. We have had some trees with great personality, if you know what I mean. That's right, no one else wants to date this tree because it is too tall and too weird, but it does provide great conversation stimulus as we wrap a rope around it and ourselves and drag it up to the little house, providing no little entertainment for the people hoisting normal trees on shoulders and marching briskly to their cars.
Getting such a tree through the wrapper-machine is usually sketchy. The guy at the big end gets big eyes and the man at the small end of the tube has "Oh no" written all over his face. Smart wrapper-guys don't even try to push this tree through the wrapper. Those who like a challenge grin, grab the tree and stuff it in causing me to worry about breaking the spirit of our charming new friend. Usually, the tree comes out wrapped and ready for the car. Of course, because of requirement number one (remember, it has to be tall - 10 feet at least), the tree sticks out the back of the Element and we have to ride with the hatch up. It is a long, cold ride. Where is the hot chocolate? If we are feeling particularly skinny, we indulge when we get home. But I digress.
So far, we have been able to find tall, charming, not-too-expensive trees, but every year I dread the pressure. It is getting harder to find tall trees at anything like a reasonable price. I refuse to pay a lot of money for a dead tree. And even though I love the odor of a fresh tree, I am moving closer to the artificial camp every year. I don't want to trek out to the hinterlands to find our tree anymore. I just want to buy the thing and get it home quickly. And there's the rub. If I find a tree close to the house in a tree lot, and if it isn't painted that ridiculous blue-green color, and if it is tall and lovely, or tall and with personality, it is way too expensive. Like you wouldn't believe how expensive. Over $100 expensive. Out of the question.
So here it is, December 5th and tree-time is here. The lot guy I spoke to yesterday said after this weekend, most of the trees would be gone. He had 10 foot trees for only $100. I was not amused. My Sweetie has a bad cold so this weekend's hunt for the perfect tree has been postponed. Next weekend I will be gone visiting my newest grandson (and his parents too), far away so no tree search then. That leaves us just one weekend before Christmas to find our tree, have our family decorating party, and be ready for the big holiday. If all the good trees will disappear this weekend, imagine what will be left the week before Christmas.
This situation reminds me of what my father did when we were little. He would wait until Christmas Eve to buy our tree because he didn't like paying for a dead tree either. You can guess what he brought home most of the time. My mother would sigh and get out the decorations as he tried to make a crooked tree with multiple gaps in the branches stand up and look good.
I live in fear that this will happen to us and we will lose our position as the possessors of tall trees with true character. These trees usually come with great stories of the searching for hours, the chopping down, the aforementioned dragging, the wrapping and the freezing ride home. I know that some Christmas soon we are going to end up with a Charlie Brown tree. And worse yet, we will have paid a lot of money for it. Truly, that is the beginning of the slippery slope - an artificial tree cannot be far behind. Well fa la la la la and Merry Christmas to all. If our usual search is fruitless, I do know where the perfect tree can be located - at KMart with twinkling lights already installed.
Robert Frost has a different perspective on this tree issue.
Christmas Trees by Robert Frost
A Christmas Circular Letter
The city had withdrawn into itself
And left at last the country to the country;
When between whirls of snow not come to lie
And whirls of foliage not yet laid, there drove
A stranger to our yard, who looked the city,
Yet did in country fashion in that there
He sat and waited till he drew us out
A-buttoning coats to ask him who he was.
He proved to be the city come again
To look for something it had left behind
And could not do without and keep its Christmas.
He asked if I would sell my Christmas trees;
My woods—the young fir balsams like a place
Where houses all are churches and have spires.
I hadn’t thought of them as Christmas Trees.
I doubt if I was tempted for a moment
To sell them off their feet to go in cars
And leave the slope behind the house all bare,
Where the sun shines now no warmer than the moon.
I’d hate to have them know it if I was.
Yet more I’d hate to hold my trees except
As others hold theirs or refuse for them,
Beyond the time of profitable growth,
The trial by market everything must come to.
I dallied so much with the thought of selling.
Then whether from mistaken courtesy
And fear of seeming short of speech, or whether
From hope of hearing good of what was mine,
I said, "There aren’t enough to be worth while."
"I could soon tell how many they would cut,
You let me look them over."
"You could look.
But don’t expect I’m going to let you have them."
Pasture they spring in, some in clumps too close
That lop each other of boughs, but not a few
Quite solitary and having equal boughs
All round and round. The latter he nodded "Yes" to,
Or paused to say beneath some lovelier one,
With a buyer’s moderation, "That would do."
I thought so too, but wasn’t there to say so.
We climbed the pasture on the south, crossed over,
And came down on the north.
He said, "A thousand."
"A thousand Christmas trees!—at what apiece?"
He felt some need of softening that to me:
"A thousand trees would come to thirty dollars."
Then I was certain I had never meant
To let him have them. Never show surprise!
But thirty dollars seemed so small beside
The extent of pasture I should strip, three cents
(For that was all they figured out apiece),
Three cents so small beside the dollar friends
I should be writing to within the hour
Would pay in cities for good trees like those,
Regular vestry-trees whole Sunday Schools
Could hang enough on to pick off enough.
A thousand Christmas trees I didn’t know I had!
Worth three cents more to give away than sell,
As may be shown by a simple calculation.
Too bad I couldn’t lay one in a letter.
I can’t help wishing I could send you one,
In wishing you herewith a Merry Christmas.
A tall tree is somewhat hard to find, but with a modicum of diligence, one can be found without driving 60 miles round trip. If it is tall, it cannot be skinny. We usually err on the side of fat because many times we have traipsed out to a farm waaaaaay out in the country even farther than we live. The farm tree we pick is about a mile from the little tree house where they wrap it for you and we have to drag it there. Snow helps. Mud does not.It is usually an older tree that hasn't been trimmed since it was one year old and looks like it needs to go on a diet. But it's tall - the primary requirement - and it isn't too expensive, the second prerequisite. We have had some trees with great personality, if you know what I mean. That's right, no one else wants to date this tree because it is too tall and too weird, but it does provide great conversation stimulus as we wrap a rope around it and ourselves and drag it up to the little house, providing no little entertainment for the people hoisting normal trees on shoulders and marching briskly to their cars.
Getting such a tree through the wrapper-machine is usually sketchy. The guy at the big end gets big eyes and the man at the small end of the tube has "Oh no" written all over his face. Smart wrapper-guys don't even try to push this tree through the wrapper. Those who like a challenge grin, grab the tree and stuff it in causing me to worry about breaking the spirit of our charming new friend. Usually, the tree comes out wrapped and ready for the car. Of course, because of requirement number one (remember, it has to be tall - 10 feet at least), the tree sticks out the back of the Element and we have to ride with the hatch up. It is a long, cold ride. Where is the hot chocolate? If we are feeling particularly skinny, we indulge when we get home. But I digress.
So far, we have been able to find tall, charming, not-too-expensive trees, but every year I dread the pressure. It is getting harder to find tall trees at anything like a reasonable price. I refuse to pay a lot of money for a dead tree. And even though I love the odor of a fresh tree, I am moving closer to the artificial camp every year. I don't want to trek out to the hinterlands to find our tree anymore. I just want to buy the thing and get it home quickly. And there's the rub. If I find a tree close to the house in a tree lot, and if it isn't painted that ridiculous blue-green color, and if it is tall and lovely, or tall and with personality, it is way too expensive. Like you wouldn't believe how expensive. Over $100 expensive. Out of the question.
So here it is, December 5th and tree-time is here. The lot guy I spoke to yesterday said after this weekend, most of the trees would be gone. He had 10 foot trees for only $100. I was not amused. My Sweetie has a bad cold so this weekend's hunt for the perfect tree has been postponed. Next weekend I will be gone visiting my newest grandson (and his parents too), far away so no tree search then. That leaves us just one weekend before Christmas to find our tree, have our family decorating party, and be ready for the big holiday. If all the good trees will disappear this weekend, imagine what will be left the week before Christmas.
This situation reminds me of what my father did when we were little. He would wait until Christmas Eve to buy our tree because he didn't like paying for a dead tree either. You can guess what he brought home most of the time. My mother would sigh and get out the decorations as he tried to make a crooked tree with multiple gaps in the branches stand up and look good.
I live in fear that this will happen to us and we will lose our position as the possessors of tall trees with true character. These trees usually come with great stories of the searching for hours, the chopping down, the aforementioned dragging, the wrapping and the freezing ride home. I know that some Christmas soon we are going to end up with a Charlie Brown tree. And worse yet, we will have paid a lot of money for it. Truly, that is the beginning of the slippery slope - an artificial tree cannot be far behind. Well fa la la la la and Merry Christmas to all. If our usual search is fruitless, I do know where the perfect tree can be located - at KMart with twinkling lights already installed.
Robert Frost has a different perspective on this tree issue.
Christmas Trees by Robert Frost
A Christmas Circular Letter
The city had withdrawn into itself
And left at last the country to the country;
When between whirls of snow not come to lie
And whirls of foliage not yet laid, there drove
A stranger to our yard, who looked the city,
Yet did in country fashion in that there
He sat and waited till he drew us out
A-buttoning coats to ask him who he was.
He proved to be the city come again
To look for something it had left behind
And could not do without and keep its Christmas.
He asked if I would sell my Christmas trees;
My woods—the young fir balsams like a place
Where houses all are churches and have spires.
I hadn’t thought of them as Christmas Trees.
I doubt if I was tempted for a moment
To sell them off their feet to go in cars
And leave the slope behind the house all bare,
Where the sun shines now no warmer than the moon.
I’d hate to have them know it if I was.
Yet more I’d hate to hold my trees except
As others hold theirs or refuse for them,
Beyond the time of profitable growth,
The trial by market everything must come to.
I dallied so much with the thought of selling.
Then whether from mistaken courtesy
And fear of seeming short of speech, or whether
From hope of hearing good of what was mine,
I said, "There aren’t enough to be worth while."
"I could soon tell how many they would cut,
You let me look them over."
"You could look.
But don’t expect I’m going to let you have them."
Pasture they spring in, some in clumps too close
That lop each other of boughs, but not a few
Quite solitary and having equal boughs
All round and round. The latter he nodded "Yes" to,
Or paused to say beneath some lovelier one,
With a buyer’s moderation, "That would do."
I thought so too, but wasn’t there to say so.
We climbed the pasture on the south, crossed over,
And came down on the north.
He said, "A thousand."
"A thousand Christmas trees!—at what apiece?"
He felt some need of softening that to me:
"A thousand trees would come to thirty dollars."
Then I was certain I had never meant
To let him have them. Never show surprise!
But thirty dollars seemed so small beside
The extent of pasture I should strip, three cents
(For that was all they figured out apiece),
Three cents so small beside the dollar friends
I should be writing to within the hour
Would pay in cities for good trees like those,
Regular vestry-trees whole Sunday Schools
Could hang enough on to pick off enough.
A thousand Christmas trees I didn’t know I had!
Worth three cents more to give away than sell,
As may be shown by a simple calculation.
Too bad I couldn’t lay one in a letter.
I can’t help wishing I could send you one,
In wishing you herewith a Merry Christmas.
Wednesday, December 1, 2010
Thoughts about impending shoulder surgery
Well, of course I waited too long to go to the doctor about the pain in my shoulder. A car door smashed into my shoulder seven months ago and I wanted to give it a good chance to heal.It seemed to get a little better in a couple of months, but then the pain increased, interfering with long rides on my bike. After three hours on the bike, my arm throbbed with pain from the wrist up to the shoulder. After another couple of months of this, I shortened my rides but that was unacceptable. What with hiking trips and other summer fun, I did not visit the doc until six months had elapsed from the car door incident.
The doc put me into therapy because he figured it was a minor tear in the labrum - definitely not rotator cuff problems. After three weeks of therapy the pain was worse. Back to the doc who ordered a special kind of MRI called an arthrogram during which dye is injected into the shoulder to be able to visualize the tear in the labrum. Dye is not needed for rotator cuff tears, but is necessary to see the labrum tear. The doctor who injected the dye let me watch on the xray screen and I saw the dye seep downward as I felt an uncomfortable sensation.
The MRI was interesting. Even though they put me into the tube only up to my hips, I had them put a white towel over my eyes. I figured I wouldn't be so freaked if I couldn't see the apparatus encasing me. After 30 minutes of pops, hisses, grinding sounds, knockings like an irate poltergeist and vibrations shaking me a bit, the MRI was over. I thought it quite funny that the technician cautioned me not to move. I didn't move. The whole bed was shaking from the machine. Anyway, the experience was finally over and I collected my CD of Eva Cassidy they suggested I bring along for my listening pleasure. With all the noise, I couldn't hear Eva at all. In fact, at first I thought they were playing someone else's CD because I couldn't recognize the songs. I guess they need a better CD player.
So the upshot is that I have a full thickness tear in my supraspinatus muscle - one of those muscles of the rotator cuff. I opted to wait until after Christmas for the surgery since you pretty much cannot move the arm for about two months except for when you are in therapy. And we all know what they do to you there so the less said about that, the better. I delayed because I wanted to make sure I could still put on a great Christmas for the kids and grandkids. Now I wonder if I was smart about this: it hurts more each day and I lose a bit more use of the arm each day. I want to be sure that I get it done in December to take advantage of my deductible which I have exceeded, finally. If I get sick and have to push the operation back to January, I will have to pay $1500 more. So I'm staying healthy, healthy, healthy.
Several people I know have had this surgery and they are filling my head with how difficult it is to get along after it. No driving for a month but you have to get to therapy twice a week. That's a bit of a challenge. The arm is in a sling which holds it away from the body and you cannot move that arm. After a while, you can take a shower and let it dangle down as you scrub yourself with only one hand. How do you scrub the armpit of the arm that has the soap in that hand? How do you shave either armpit since you can't raise one arm and you can't force your wrist to twist backward to shave the good arm's pit? How do you pull on pants with one hand? Or put on socks, zip jeans, blow dry your hair, open jars in the kitchen, put on pjs? One woman said I will be surprised by how ingenious I get at figuring out how to do all these mundane but necessary chores. I can hardly wait.
I bought two huge flannel shirts at Goodwill so I could stay warm - can't put anything on over my head as that would necessitate raising the operated arm above my shoulder, a definite no-no. I have plenty of elastic waistband workout pants so I'm good to go there. A bra? Ha!
Even with all the post-operative challenge, I am ready to do this and get on with my therapy. With one arm that doesn't work, I feel like I am living only a partial life. I cannot lift weights and even spinning (indoor cycling workout) puts stress on the shoulder so it is a bit unpleasant. But I want to get back to fully living so I will faithfully do my therapy no matter how painful it is. I refuse to own a shoulder that doesn't work - one that will hinder me. So there it is: I want the surgery and will work like the dickens to get back to normal afterward. I did it with my pelvis and I can do it with my shoulder. So bring it on, Dr. Cha, I am ready for you and your arthroscopic devices.
Geoffrey Hoffman has some thoughts about surgery also:
A SONG OF OPERATIONS (WITH APOLOGIES TO FLANDERS AND SWANN)
I had a little cataract.
I saw life through a cloud.
I felt that I was destined for
An inexpensive shroud;
And then they operated.
The sun seemed brighter then,
And I had to wear dark glasses
To make it dim again.
Today for operations
I’m as eager as can be.
Count me among the faithful fans
Of ophthalmology.
I had a second cataract.
It drove me quite insane.
I felt enthusiastic for
Eye surgery again.
I did not fear the scalpel;
No, not one tiny bit.
They gave me an appointment -
And then they cancelled it.
At last my operation came
And I was filled with glee.
I’m still among the faithful fans
Of optic surgery.
I’d love another cataract.
I wish I had a third.
I long for the excitement, though
I know it’s quite absurd.
And then I had a tummy ache.
I was more cheerful then:
They took me into hospital
And cut me up again.
These doctors are so clever.
They bring such joy to me.
Count me among the faithful fans
Of hos-pi-tal-i-ty.
My heart was feeling rather odd.
I didn’t feel too good.
They gave me an aorta, that
Was made of balsa wood.
Just one prick of the needle:
I fell asleep; and then,
While they were operating, I
Was awake again.
Ophthalmic operations
Can help a patient see;
So why do I have doubts about
Cardiology?
I had a little headache, and
Had surgery again.
They thought the best thing they could do
Was to replace my brain.
That was an operation -
The best I ever had!
They said they had to do it,
Because I was quite mad.
And now I feel more cheerful.
There’s nothing wrong with me
That surgery can’t remedy -
Just mild insanity.
The doc put me into therapy because he figured it was a minor tear in the labrum - definitely not rotator cuff problems. After three weeks of therapy the pain was worse. Back to the doc who ordered a special kind of MRI called an arthrogram during which dye is injected into the shoulder to be able to visualize the tear in the labrum. Dye is not needed for rotator cuff tears, but is necessary to see the labrum tear. The doctor who injected the dye let me watch on the xray screen and I saw the dye seep downward as I felt an uncomfortable sensation.
The MRI was interesting. Even though they put me into the tube only up to my hips, I had them put a white towel over my eyes. I figured I wouldn't be so freaked if I couldn't see the apparatus encasing me. After 30 minutes of pops, hisses, grinding sounds, knockings like an irate poltergeist and vibrations shaking me a bit, the MRI was over. I thought it quite funny that the technician cautioned me not to move. I didn't move. The whole bed was shaking from the machine. Anyway, the experience was finally over and I collected my CD of Eva Cassidy they suggested I bring along for my listening pleasure. With all the noise, I couldn't hear Eva at all. In fact, at first I thought they were playing someone else's CD because I couldn't recognize the songs. I guess they need a better CD player.
So the upshot is that I have a full thickness tear in my supraspinatus muscle - one of those muscles of the rotator cuff. I opted to wait until after Christmas for the surgery since you pretty much cannot move the arm for about two months except for when you are in therapy. And we all know what they do to you there so the less said about that, the better. I delayed because I wanted to make sure I could still put on a great Christmas for the kids and grandkids. Now I wonder if I was smart about this: it hurts more each day and I lose a bit more use of the arm each day. I want to be sure that I get it done in December to take advantage of my deductible which I have exceeded, finally. If I get sick and have to push the operation back to January, I will have to pay $1500 more. So I'm staying healthy, healthy, healthy.
Several people I know have had this surgery and they are filling my head with how difficult it is to get along after it. No driving for a month but you have to get to therapy twice a week. That's a bit of a challenge. The arm is in a sling which holds it away from the body and you cannot move that arm. After a while, you can take a shower and let it dangle down as you scrub yourself with only one hand. How do you scrub the armpit of the arm that has the soap in that hand? How do you shave either armpit since you can't raise one arm and you can't force your wrist to twist backward to shave the good arm's pit? How do you pull on pants with one hand? Or put on socks, zip jeans, blow dry your hair, open jars in the kitchen, put on pjs? One woman said I will be surprised by how ingenious I get at figuring out how to do all these mundane but necessary chores. I can hardly wait.
I bought two huge flannel shirts at Goodwill so I could stay warm - can't put anything on over my head as that would necessitate raising the operated arm above my shoulder, a definite no-no. I have plenty of elastic waistband workout pants so I'm good to go there. A bra? Ha!
Even with all the post-operative challenge, I am ready to do this and get on with my therapy. With one arm that doesn't work, I feel like I am living only a partial life. I cannot lift weights and even spinning (indoor cycling workout) puts stress on the shoulder so it is a bit unpleasant. But I want to get back to fully living so I will faithfully do my therapy no matter how painful it is. I refuse to own a shoulder that doesn't work - one that will hinder me. So there it is: I want the surgery and will work like the dickens to get back to normal afterward. I did it with my pelvis and I can do it with my shoulder. So bring it on, Dr. Cha, I am ready for you and your arthroscopic devices.
Geoffrey Hoffman has some thoughts about surgery also:
A SONG OF OPERATIONS (WITH APOLOGIES TO FLANDERS AND SWANN)
I had a little cataract.
I saw life through a cloud.
I felt that I was destined for
An inexpensive shroud;
And then they operated.
The sun seemed brighter then,
And I had to wear dark glasses
To make it dim again.
Today for operations
I’m as eager as can be.
Count me among the faithful fans
Of ophthalmology.
I had a second cataract.
It drove me quite insane.
I felt enthusiastic for
Eye surgery again.
I did not fear the scalpel;
No, not one tiny bit.
They gave me an appointment -
And then they cancelled it.
At last my operation came
And I was filled with glee.
I’m still among the faithful fans
Of optic surgery.
I’d love another cataract.
I wish I had a third.
I long for the excitement, though
I know it’s quite absurd.
And then I had a tummy ache.
I was more cheerful then:
They took me into hospital
And cut me up again.
These doctors are so clever.
They bring such joy to me.
Count me among the faithful fans
Of hos-pi-tal-i-ty.
My heart was feeling rather odd.
I didn’t feel too good.
They gave me an aorta, that
Was made of balsa wood.
Just one prick of the needle:
I fell asleep; and then,
While they were operating, I
Was awake again.
Ophthalmic operations
Can help a patient see;
So why do I have doubts about
Cardiology?
I had a little headache, and
Had surgery again.
They thought the best thing they could do
Was to replace my brain.
That was an operation -
The best I ever had!
They said they had to do it,
Because I was quite mad.
And now I feel more cheerful.
There’s nothing wrong with me
That surgery can’t remedy -
Just mild insanity.
Monday, November 22, 2010
I wish I knew more about those who came before
The other day I was listening to a son interview his father on NPR's National Day of Listening. I think it was the last story they were going to record after doing so for a long time. They mentioned that it might be a good idea to sit down with a family member or friend and listen to their life story. If my father were alive, he would be a fine individual to listen to. He loved to tell stories and could do so with enthusiasm and skill. I caught myself wishing that I could sit down with him and hear some more about his life.
Then I remembered that shortly after he was diagnosed with prostate cancer, he made many tapes recording his life as he experienced it. Since he was an intelligent man with many opinions, most of them well thought-out, these tapes are more than a little interesting to a daughter who loved and respected her dad. I have listened to only a couple of these tapes and I now fear that they may have deteriorated. I want to get them to someone who can turn them into a digital recording that I can keep for my children and grandchildren to listen to if they have the inclination.
My mother's family is all gone. My dad's last remaining sister died about a year ago and her husband died a few months ago. No one of their generation is left to answer questions we may have about how Grandpa Henry came to this country at the turn of the century or how he met Florence Greene and married her. We may never know about the mystery of my mother's family: she had two half-brothers. That's all we know - that her mother must have been married before she married our grandfather and had our mother was never openly addressed while Mom was alive. Her parents died before I was in the third grade so they are only vague memories in a young child's mind.
It is really sad that we know so little of our family history. I am sure it is interesting. My dad's father came from Austria-Poland and was Jewish. My mother's family is from England and Wales. She told us that Twiggy, the skinny model who ushered the waif look into the modeling world, is a cousin. All our grandparents who were alive when we were children loved us, but Grandpa Henry died before my father got married. Something to do with the stock market crash, I think.
I do remember something: My father graduated from high school when he was fifteen. He went out west and worked for a year to earn college money by painting huge oil refinery tanks. He narrowly missed being hurt in a fire in one of those refineries and when he came home to go to college, my Nana had spent all his savings on a wedding for one of his sisters. Oh my. He did get to Penn State and walked on for the football team which did not choose to use his talents. Then he joined the fledgling lacrosse team and found the sport he loved and a coach he respected.
If I want to know more, I need to listen to his tapes. I need to become less involved in the daily minutia of my life and become immersed in his and my mother's as revealed by the tapes. And I will - soon, because I am getting to an age that demands that I know more about where and who I came from. I guess as we get older, we have a bit more time for family history as well as the interest to dig into the past.
Who knows, maybe I will leave an audio history of my life for my progeny, although I cannot believe they would ever be interested in the humdrum life of a woman who lived during the advent of television, who witnessed the first man walking on the moon, who lived through presidential impeachments, four wars so far, the collapse of the Berlin Wall, the bombing of the World Trade Center, the introduction and proliferation of the digital world, social networking, the Ipad...and on and on. Hmm, maybe my life hasn't been so humdrum after all.
Richard Wilbur writes a beautiful poem about his daughter:
The Writer
by Richard Wilbur
In her room at the prow of the house
Where light breaks, and the windows are tossed with linden,
My daughter is writing a story.
I pause in the stairwell, hearing
From her shut door a commotion of typewriter-keys
Like a chain hauled over a gunwale.
Young as she is, the stuff
Of her life is a great cargo, and some of it heavy:
I wish her a lucky passage.
But now it is she who pauses,
As if to reject my thought and its easy figure.
A stillness greatens, in which
The whole house seems to be thinking,
And then she is at it again with a bunched clamor
Of strokes, and again is silent.
I remember the dazed starling
Which was trapped in that very room, two years ago;
How we stole in, lifted a sash
And retreated, not to affright it;
And how for a helpless hour, through the crack of the door,
We watched the sleek, wild, dark
And iridescent creature
Batter against the brilliance, drop like a glove
To the hard floor, or the desk-top,
And wait then, humped and bloody,
For the wits to try it again; and how our spirits
Rose when, suddenly sure,
It lifted off from a chair-back,
Beating a smooth course for the right window
And clearing the sill of the world.
It is always a matter, my darling,
Of life or death, as I had forgotten. I wish
What I wished you before, but harder.
Then I remembered that shortly after he was diagnosed with prostate cancer, he made many tapes recording his life as he experienced it. Since he was an intelligent man with many opinions, most of them well thought-out, these tapes are more than a little interesting to a daughter who loved and respected her dad. I have listened to only a couple of these tapes and I now fear that they may have deteriorated. I want to get them to someone who can turn them into a digital recording that I can keep for my children and grandchildren to listen to if they have the inclination.
My mother's family is all gone. My dad's last remaining sister died about a year ago and her husband died a few months ago. No one of their generation is left to answer questions we may have about how Grandpa Henry came to this country at the turn of the century or how he met Florence Greene and married her. We may never know about the mystery of my mother's family: she had two half-brothers. That's all we know - that her mother must have been married before she married our grandfather and had our mother was never openly addressed while Mom was alive. Her parents died before I was in the third grade so they are only vague memories in a young child's mind.
It is really sad that we know so little of our family history. I am sure it is interesting. My dad's father came from Austria-Poland and was Jewish. My mother's family is from England and Wales. She told us that Twiggy, the skinny model who ushered the waif look into the modeling world, is a cousin. All our grandparents who were alive when we were children loved us, but Grandpa Henry died before my father got married. Something to do with the stock market crash, I think.
I do remember something: My father graduated from high school when he was fifteen. He went out west and worked for a year to earn college money by painting huge oil refinery tanks. He narrowly missed being hurt in a fire in one of those refineries and when he came home to go to college, my Nana had spent all his savings on a wedding for one of his sisters. Oh my. He did get to Penn State and walked on for the football team which did not choose to use his talents. Then he joined the fledgling lacrosse team and found the sport he loved and a coach he respected.
If I want to know more, I need to listen to his tapes. I need to become less involved in the daily minutia of my life and become immersed in his and my mother's as revealed by the tapes. And I will - soon, because I am getting to an age that demands that I know more about where and who I came from. I guess as we get older, we have a bit more time for family history as well as the interest to dig into the past.
Who knows, maybe I will leave an audio history of my life for my progeny, although I cannot believe they would ever be interested in the humdrum life of a woman who lived during the advent of television, who witnessed the first man walking on the moon, who lived through presidential impeachments, four wars so far, the collapse of the Berlin Wall, the bombing of the World Trade Center, the introduction and proliferation of the digital world, social networking, the Ipad...and on and on. Hmm, maybe my life hasn't been so humdrum after all.
Richard Wilbur writes a beautiful poem about his daughter:
The Writer
by Richard Wilbur
In her room at the prow of the house
Where light breaks, and the windows are tossed with linden,
My daughter is writing a story.
I pause in the stairwell, hearing
From her shut door a commotion of typewriter-keys
Like a chain hauled over a gunwale.
Young as she is, the stuff
Of her life is a great cargo, and some of it heavy:
I wish her a lucky passage.
But now it is she who pauses,
As if to reject my thought and its easy figure.
A stillness greatens, in which
The whole house seems to be thinking,
And then she is at it again with a bunched clamor
Of strokes, and again is silent.
I remember the dazed starling
Which was trapped in that very room, two years ago;
How we stole in, lifted a sash
And retreated, not to affright it;
And how for a helpless hour, through the crack of the door,
We watched the sleek, wild, dark
And iridescent creature
Batter against the brilliance, drop like a glove
To the hard floor, or the desk-top,
And wait then, humped and bloody,
For the wits to try it again; and how our spirits
Rose when, suddenly sure,
It lifted off from a chair-back,
Beating a smooth course for the right window
And clearing the sill of the world.
It is always a matter, my darling,
Of life or death, as I had forgotten. I wish
What I wished you before, but harder.
Sunday, September 19, 2010
Laughter
I was thinking about the importance of laughter the other day. I was thinking that it is very important to have at least one good laugh a day as I was enjoying Ellen's antics. She is very good at spreading laughter which I think of as a kind of joy. She does so in a non-threatening, non-nasty or put down way. That's why so many people like her - they aren't afraid of her humor.
I know that health sources have been saying that laughter is important for good health for some time now. When I was a young know-it-all teen, I heard a comedian say he thought he had a very important job, making people laugh. My youthful position was that his job was not important. Real jobs like building roads, heading up companies, being a doctor were really important jobs and humor was just a fun thing that I was amazed people could make a living wage with. Ah, now my many years have made me wiser and much more appreciative of laughter.
Don't get me wrong. I have always loved to laugh and I am quick with a giggle, chortle or downright bellylaugh. I just didn't know how important it was to indulge in laughing until the lightness of youth turned into the responsibility of adulthood. Now I know that a laugh may save someone from doing something really stupid or dangerous or self-harming. If you can laugh at your situation, you control it more than it controls you and that may be a necessary thing so you can get a grip and move on. If we take ourselves and our lives too seriously everything becomes extremely important so even a small setback grows a large, dark shadow. If we can laugh at ourselves, we can see light; if we can see light, we can use it to find our way out of darkness.
I now respect those comedians who can look at life with that little twist that makes things funny, sometimes things that don't seem to be very humorous. Their view can make us giggle and give us the distance we need to hitch up our pants and get back to the seriousness of living. As Judy Collins sings, "Send in the clowns."
Your Laughter BY Pablo Neruda
Take bread away from me, if you wish,
take air away, but
do not take from me your laughter.
Do not take away the rose,
the lance flower that you pluck,
the water that suddenly
bursts forth in joy,
the sudden wave
of silver born in you.
My struggle is harsh and I come back
with eyes tired
at times from having seen
the unchanging earth,
but when your laughter enters
it rises to the sky seeking me
and it opens for me all
the doors of life.
My love, in the darkest
hour your laughter
opens, and if suddenly
you see my blood staining
the stones of the street,
laugh, because your laughter
will be for my hands
like a fresh sword.
Next to the sea in the autumn,
your laughter must raise
its foamy cascade,
and in the spring, love,
I want your laughter like
the flower I was waiting for,
the blue flower, the rose
of my echoing country.
Laugh at the night,
at the day, at the moon,
laugh at the twisted
streets of the island,
laugh at this clumsy
boy who loves you,
but when I open
my eyes and close them,
when my steps go,
when my steps return,
deny me bread, air,
light, spring,
but never your laughter
for I would die.
I know that health sources have been saying that laughter is important for good health for some time now. When I was a young know-it-all teen, I heard a comedian say he thought he had a very important job, making people laugh. My youthful position was that his job was not important. Real jobs like building roads, heading up companies, being a doctor were really important jobs and humor was just a fun thing that I was amazed people could make a living wage with. Ah, now my many years have made me wiser and much more appreciative of laughter.
Don't get me wrong. I have always loved to laugh and I am quick with a giggle, chortle or downright bellylaugh. I just didn't know how important it was to indulge in laughing until the lightness of youth turned into the responsibility of adulthood. Now I know that a laugh may save someone from doing something really stupid or dangerous or self-harming. If you can laugh at your situation, you control it more than it controls you and that may be a necessary thing so you can get a grip and move on. If we take ourselves and our lives too seriously everything becomes extremely important so even a small setback grows a large, dark shadow. If we can laugh at ourselves, we can see light; if we can see light, we can use it to find our way out of darkness.
I now respect those comedians who can look at life with that little twist that makes things funny, sometimes things that don't seem to be very humorous. Their view can make us giggle and give us the distance we need to hitch up our pants and get back to the seriousness of living. As Judy Collins sings, "Send in the clowns."
Your Laughter BY Pablo Neruda
Take bread away from me, if you wish,
take air away, but
do not take from me your laughter.
Do not take away the rose,
the lance flower that you pluck,
the water that suddenly
bursts forth in joy,
the sudden wave
of silver born in you.
My struggle is harsh and I come back
with eyes tired
at times from having seen
the unchanging earth,
but when your laughter enters
it rises to the sky seeking me
and it opens for me all
the doors of life.
My love, in the darkest
hour your laughter
opens, and if suddenly
you see my blood staining
the stones of the street,
laugh, because your laughter
will be for my hands
like a fresh sword.
Next to the sea in the autumn,
your laughter must raise
its foamy cascade,
and in the spring, love,
I want your laughter like
the flower I was waiting for,
the blue flower, the rose
of my echoing country.
Laugh at the night,
at the day, at the moon,
laugh at the twisted
streets of the island,
laugh at this clumsy
boy who loves you,
but when I open
my eyes and close them,
when my steps go,
when my steps return,
deny me bread, air,
light, spring,
but never your laughter
for I would die.
Friday, August 20, 2010
Oh My, It has been such a long time
Wow, a whole summer has gone by and I have not blogged. Terrible. But it's late at night, my mind has been fomenting ideas and I am back. Not that my blog has been missed by anyone, but since I write for myself, that is ok.
I want to talk about air travel. No, I'm not going to complain about overbooked planes, canceled flights, or rude attendants. I am going to heap praise upon an airline. Ready?
A couple of weeks ago I flew Southwest for the first time. I had to drive for a bit over an hour and a half to get the the airport SW flies from, but I have now decided it is worth the drive. First, I had a direct flight to Las Vegas (on my way to Utah to hike with friends). Second, it cost less than any flight I could get closer to home. Third, I didn't have to pay to check a bag. Fourth, and pay attention, I had no seat number assigned to me. I asked the attendant at the counter about that and she informed me that SW has no seat assignments. You have a letter - A, B, C, etc. on your ticket and you line up alphabetically according to signs at the gate. Within your letter group, you line up according to your number range that appears on your ticket: 1 - 15, 16 -30, etc. How novel. It took a while for some of us to figure this out and as I had an A classification I got onto the plane very soon and calmly chose one of the many available aisle seats.
Now here is where SW shines. THERE IS NO FIRST CLASS! I love this - how egalitarian and sensible. I like being equal to everyone else. Well, I like not being unequal to those in first class is probably more accurate.
So, did it take longer to load the plane with no seat assignments? It did not. It took very little time, amazingly little time. This was partly due to the fact that few people were trying to stuff large bags into small overhead compartments. Most passengers had checked their bags - for free, remember, so the overhead bins were virtually empty. This made deplanning easy also - hardly anyone had to yank a bag out of the overhead bin. Getting off was just as uncomplicated as getting on the plane.
What an enlightened company. Oh yes, the attendants wore blue polo shirts and kakhi shorts! Yes, shorts - men and women. How about the pilots? I checked - they were not wearing shorts which I found reassuring. I suppose it makes them look more serious. I doubt I'd want some youngster in Bermuda shorts flying my plane - well, once I did. But that was a 5-seater in the wilds of Utah - another story.
A great flying experience. We even had our choice of snacks and a nice menu to choose from for free drinks. A plus were the funny (really) announcements by the chief attendant when explaining seat belt use, the putting-on of life vests and other information a regular traveler doesn't listen to much. Lest you think the trip out had a unique staff, the return flight was just as good. The jokes were different, but the atmosphere was the same. Relaxed.
I am amazed that I feel so positive about Southwest that I will drive the extra time to take one of their flights and that I will write about it in my blog. But there it is - an enjoyable travel experience. Thank you Southwest. May you live long and prosper.
Even though my blog is light-hearted tonight, I chose two poems that have to do with war and flying. We cannot forget the past.
The War in the Air
For a saving grace, we didn't see our dead, Who rarely bothered coming
home to die
But simply stayed away out there
In the clean war, the war in the air.
Seldom the ghosts came back bearing their tales Of hitting the earth,
the incompressible sea, But stayed up there in the relative wind,
Shades fading in the mind,
Who had no graves but only epitaphs
Where never so many spoke for never so few: 'Per ardua,' said the
partisans of Mars,
'Per aspera,' to the stars.
That was the good war, the war we won
As if there were no death, for goodness' sake, With the help of the
losers we left out there In the air, in the empty air.
— Howard Nemerov
Losses
In bombers named for girls, we burned
The cities we had learned about in school —
Till our lives wore out; our bodies lay among
The people we had killed and never seen.
When we lasted long enough they gave us medals;
When we died they said , 'Our casualties were low.'
— Randall Jarrell, 1963.
I want to talk about air travel. No, I'm not going to complain about overbooked planes, canceled flights, or rude attendants. I am going to heap praise upon an airline. Ready?
A couple of weeks ago I flew Southwest for the first time. I had to drive for a bit over an hour and a half to get the the airport SW flies from, but I have now decided it is worth the drive. First, I had a direct flight to Las Vegas (on my way to Utah to hike with friends). Second, it cost less than any flight I could get closer to home. Third, I didn't have to pay to check a bag. Fourth, and pay attention, I had no seat number assigned to me. I asked the attendant at the counter about that and she informed me that SW has no seat assignments. You have a letter - A, B, C, etc. on your ticket and you line up alphabetically according to signs at the gate. Within your letter group, you line up according to your number range that appears on your ticket: 1 - 15, 16 -30, etc. How novel. It took a while for some of us to figure this out and as I had an A classification I got onto the plane very soon and calmly chose one of the many available aisle seats.
Now here is where SW shines. THERE IS NO FIRST CLASS! I love this - how egalitarian and sensible. I like being equal to everyone else. Well, I like not being unequal to those in first class is probably more accurate.
So, did it take longer to load the plane with no seat assignments? It did not. It took very little time, amazingly little time. This was partly due to the fact that few people were trying to stuff large bags into small overhead compartments. Most passengers had checked their bags - for free, remember, so the overhead bins were virtually empty. This made deplanning easy also - hardly anyone had to yank a bag out of the overhead bin. Getting off was just as uncomplicated as getting on the plane.
What an enlightened company. Oh yes, the attendants wore blue polo shirts and kakhi shorts! Yes, shorts - men and women. How about the pilots? I checked - they were not wearing shorts which I found reassuring. I suppose it makes them look more serious. I doubt I'd want some youngster in Bermuda shorts flying my plane - well, once I did. But that was a 5-seater in the wilds of Utah - another story.
A great flying experience. We even had our choice of snacks and a nice menu to choose from for free drinks. A plus were the funny (really) announcements by the chief attendant when explaining seat belt use, the putting-on of life vests and other information a regular traveler doesn't listen to much. Lest you think the trip out had a unique staff, the return flight was just as good. The jokes were different, but the atmosphere was the same. Relaxed.
I am amazed that I feel so positive about Southwest that I will drive the extra time to take one of their flights and that I will write about it in my blog. But there it is - an enjoyable travel experience. Thank you Southwest. May you live long and prosper.
Even though my blog is light-hearted tonight, I chose two poems that have to do with war and flying. We cannot forget the past.
The War in the Air
For a saving grace, we didn't see our dead, Who rarely bothered coming
home to die
But simply stayed away out there
In the clean war, the war in the air.
Seldom the ghosts came back bearing their tales Of hitting the earth,
the incompressible sea, But stayed up there in the relative wind,
Shades fading in the mind,
Who had no graves but only epitaphs
Where never so many spoke for never so few: 'Per ardua,' said the
partisans of Mars,
'Per aspera,' to the stars.
That was the good war, the war we won
As if there were no death, for goodness' sake, With the help of the
losers we left out there In the air, in the empty air.
— Howard Nemerov
Losses
In bombers named for girls, we burned
The cities we had learned about in school —
Till our lives wore out; our bodies lay among
The people we had killed and never seen.
When we lasted long enough they gave us medals;
When we died they said , 'Our casualties were low.'
— Randall Jarrell, 1963.
Thursday, April 15, 2010
Visiting the Baby
While I am away from home visiting the newest member of the family and his parents, I doubt I will have much time to blog. A seven-month-old takes a lot of effort to feed, nap, bathe, dress, walk, exercise and laugh with. Every "chore" is really a joy and it's a great plus that this child loves to play and laugh. He is already an expert at peek-a-boo games. He grabs the quilt that his honorary Aunt Alice made him and pulls it over his face. When he judges the moment to be right, he yanks it down and laughs uproariously when I squeal, "Peek-a-boo" or "There he is!" And I do mean great squeals of baby-laughter. Nothing in the world makes you feel as good as a baby's happy chortle or belly laugh. His parents have entrusted him to me while they are working and it's time for a bottle of the good stuff (Mama's milk), so off I go to warm it up in the nifty little bottle-warmer that was not around when I had my babies. That could be the subject of another blog. Great baby equipment in today's world.
Here's a baby poem that isn't as mawkish and sentimental as most of them. I think I have to write one someday soon. No author name. Got it from a website named Mumbaispace.com
Babies Have so Much to Do
In a world that's all brand-new,
Babies have so much to do!
Laughing, making funny faces,
Finding out those ticklish places...
Cuddling up and wiggling toes,
Looking cute in tiny clothes...
Tasting, touching, reaching high,
Crawling under, scooting by...
Learning words and having fun...
Making memories one by one.
Here's a baby poem that isn't as mawkish and sentimental as most of them. I think I have to write one someday soon. No author name. Got it from a website named Mumbaispace.com
Babies Have so Much to Do
In a world that's all brand-new,
Babies have so much to do!
Laughing, making funny faces,
Finding out those ticklish places...
Cuddling up and wiggling toes,
Looking cute in tiny clothes...
Tasting, touching, reaching high,
Crawling under, scooting by...
Learning words and having fun...
Making memories one by one.
Sunday, April 4, 2010
A Spring Thing
Here in southwest Ohio we think we had a hard winter. Yes, we had more snow than usual, but having grown up in Maine and Minnesota, I don't recognize the forty-some inches we received as anything special. But I will grant that the winter has seemed grayer and longer than usual. So the blue skies, green grass and fresh breezes do seem particularly enjoyable this year. This is one time of year,the other being autumn, that we have clear blue skies. Soon the haze of the Ohio River Valley will engulf the land, the humidity will return to blanket us in wet steam, and we will complain about that. But for now we are energized and can be heard to exclaim many times, "Look at that sunshine. Doesn't it feel good?" Yes, it does.
Today is Easter Sunday, the sun is shining and it looks like it will be a fine, warm day. We had our egg hunt last weekend because some grandchildren will be with their father this weekend. Last Sunday was drippy, gray, and brisk, but we all had a fine time. I enjoyed hiding the eggs in the drizzle along with the new neighbor dad, and the twelve kids didn't seem to notice the mud and wet foliage as they gathered over 300 eggs. We had quite a counting session on the driveway to see how many left-overs we adults would be finding as we cut the grass this summer. They seemed to have found most of the eggs, with the exception of THE GOLDEN EGG which contains a five dollar bill. A search for the big money ensued, and finally, with many hints from the egg-hider, the gold was found to the delighted squeals of the children and my adult daughter. I guess it's more about the hunt than the amount of money, right?
So today will be a quiet Sunday. A workout, early dinner with friends, and then a bike ride.
Look at that sunshine. Doesn't it feel great?
Easter is not one of my big holidays, but I found a nice poem posted today by a publisher's site.
Transport by Marie Ponsot
The rose, for all its behavior,
is smaller than the lifelove it stands for,
only briefly brightening,
and even its odor
only a metaphor.
Or so we suppose
just as we suppose the savior
we employ or see next door
is only some hired man
gardening.
Today is Easter Sunday, the sun is shining and it looks like it will be a fine, warm day. We had our egg hunt last weekend because some grandchildren will be with their father this weekend. Last Sunday was drippy, gray, and brisk, but we all had a fine time. I enjoyed hiding the eggs in the drizzle along with the new neighbor dad, and the twelve kids didn't seem to notice the mud and wet foliage as they gathered over 300 eggs. We had quite a counting session on the driveway to see how many left-overs we adults would be finding as we cut the grass this summer. They seemed to have found most of the eggs, with the exception of THE GOLDEN EGG which contains a five dollar bill. A search for the big money ensued, and finally, with many hints from the egg-hider, the gold was found to the delighted squeals of the children and my adult daughter. I guess it's more about the hunt than the amount of money, right?
So today will be a quiet Sunday. A workout, early dinner with friends, and then a bike ride.
Look at that sunshine. Doesn't it feel great?
Easter is not one of my big holidays, but I found a nice poem posted today by a publisher's site.
Transport by Marie Ponsot
The rose, for all its behavior,
is smaller than the lifelove it stands for,
only briefly brightening,
and even its odor
only a metaphor.
Or so we suppose
just as we suppose the savior
we employ or see next door
is only some hired man
gardening.
Tuesday, March 23, 2010
When you think about it, wrestling and dancing may not be so different after all
My 11 year-old grandson has been wrestling for several years now. His father is really into it. Sometimes I wondered how much Sam was into it, but this last weekend, I saw firsthand his dedication to the sport.
Now, this is not one of my favorite sports. For many years, as the wrestling season ground its way into spring, I saw too many normal high school boys morph into thin, slow-moving shadows of their former selves who couldn't stay awake in class and were afraid to drink water because it would be sucked into their dehydrated cells and cause them not to make weight. I know, I know, things have supposedly changed and draconian methods for making weight are frowned upon now. But I also know that it's easier to wrestle down than up. Some things never change.
But back to Sam. He is a skinny kid, not tall for his age - in fact, he's pretty short for a sixth-grader, but he is wiry, strong, and determined. When he sets his mind to something, he concentrates only on that one thing. An example occurred at my son's wedding about a year and a half ago. Sam sprang out onto the dance floor and exhibited a wealth of moves that would make any dancer proud. He knew all the new steps and looked like a pro in his kakis and white shirt. In fact, he was mesmerizing - where had this dancing fool come from? His parents, grandparents, uncles and in-laws were amazed. We had no idea he was a dancer - no idea at all. He was so good that he had all the kids and some of the grownups lined up behind him copying his routine. What a show it was. And he was oblivious of his following. He was into his dancing, twisting, turning, dipping, bouncing, stepping, and spinning. His eyes were focused somewhere far away, his face was red, dripping with sweat; his hair looked like he had just shampooed it, but he was unstoppable - he was deep into the dancing zone. It was a revelation to his family - a totally delightful surprise.
So the kid has focus. And when he wrestles, that focus makes him an impressive competitor. He took care of his first opponent in 1 minute 40 seconds - pin! His second match was with the kid who pinned him last year. I don't know a lot about wrestling moves, but the points kept adding up for one kid and I was pretty sure it was Sam. I was taking pictures and yelling and generally having a fine time watching Sam do a creditable job on the mat. The man next to me seemed to be rooting for the other kid so I asked him if he was the boy's dad. "No," he said, "I'm his uncle."
"Oh, I'm his opponent's grandmother."
"I gathered that," he said with a smile.
Anyway, soon the score read 6 - 0 and Sam had won. It was a hard fought match. The other kid was taller with longer legs that made it hard for Sam to manhandle him, or whatever they call the grabbing and twisting and flopping the opponent onto the mat. But Sam won and my neighbor asked, "What grade is your grandson in?"
"Sixth," I replied.
"Oh" was the only answer I got to that. I think he was disappointed that Sam wasn't in seventh grade so he could say his nephew got beaten by an older kid. But the 74 pound weight class is the 74 pound weight class and Sam is a sixth grader anyway. So there, Mr. Uncle. My grandson beat your nephew and that's the way it is. Both boys had enormous goose-eggs on their foreheads from when their skulls had crashed into each other. Ouch. Sam wore his as a badge of pride - the other kid cried.
Wrestling still isn't my favorite sport, and I worry about Sam's scrawny neck getting injured, but it was interesting to see him compete. He is good at this sport and he wants to win. His grandfather said that he had learned a lot since this meet last year.
The second day of the meet wasn't the best for Sam. He got pinned in his first match, but came back in his second to win that one. He didn't give up - what an important characteristic to have in life as well as sport. He was in the Parade of Champions; he got onto the podium. In his third match on Sunday, he got hurt and lost the match. His mother says his knee is extremely swollen, but at least he can walk on it. That's the 8th best wrestler in Ohio in the junior high 74 pound weight class limping on that swollen knee. And I'm a proud grandma even if wrestling still isn't my favorite sport.
Most of the poems about wrestling were simple doggerel, but Willie Madison had a nice one on his website, Here is is:
Battle In The Circle by Willie Madison
A Circle is my battlefield
Where I fight to survive with out a sword or shield
A war zone where no one gets killed
But where dreams are destroyed and some are revealed
Technique and hard work are my weapons of choice
It’s just me and the sound of my coach’s voice
I’m a soldier with the desire to win
So give me a opponent and let the battle begin
Now, this is not one of my favorite sports. For many years, as the wrestling season ground its way into spring, I saw too many normal high school boys morph into thin, slow-moving shadows of their former selves who couldn't stay awake in class and were afraid to drink water because it would be sucked into their dehydrated cells and cause them not to make weight. I know, I know, things have supposedly changed and draconian methods for making weight are frowned upon now. But I also know that it's easier to wrestle down than up. Some things never change.
But back to Sam. He is a skinny kid, not tall for his age - in fact, he's pretty short for a sixth-grader, but he is wiry, strong, and determined. When he sets his mind to something, he concentrates only on that one thing. An example occurred at my son's wedding about a year and a half ago. Sam sprang out onto the dance floor and exhibited a wealth of moves that would make any dancer proud. He knew all the new steps and looked like a pro in his kakis and white shirt. In fact, he was mesmerizing - where had this dancing fool come from? His parents, grandparents, uncles and in-laws were amazed. We had no idea he was a dancer - no idea at all. He was so good that he had all the kids and some of the grownups lined up behind him copying his routine. What a show it was. And he was oblivious of his following. He was into his dancing, twisting, turning, dipping, bouncing, stepping, and spinning. His eyes were focused somewhere far away, his face was red, dripping with sweat; his hair looked like he had just shampooed it, but he was unstoppable - he was deep into the dancing zone. It was a revelation to his family - a totally delightful surprise.
So the kid has focus. And when he wrestles, that focus makes him an impressive competitor. He took care of his first opponent in 1 minute 40 seconds - pin! His second match was with the kid who pinned him last year. I don't know a lot about wrestling moves, but the points kept adding up for one kid and I was pretty sure it was Sam. I was taking pictures and yelling and generally having a fine time watching Sam do a creditable job on the mat. The man next to me seemed to be rooting for the other kid so I asked him if he was the boy's dad. "No," he said, "I'm his uncle."
"Oh, I'm his opponent's grandmother."
"I gathered that," he said with a smile.
Anyway, soon the score read 6 - 0 and Sam had won. It was a hard fought match. The other kid was taller with longer legs that made it hard for Sam to manhandle him, or whatever they call the grabbing and twisting and flopping the opponent onto the mat. But Sam won and my neighbor asked, "What grade is your grandson in?"
"Sixth," I replied.
"Oh" was the only answer I got to that. I think he was disappointed that Sam wasn't in seventh grade so he could say his nephew got beaten by an older kid. But the 74 pound weight class is the 74 pound weight class and Sam is a sixth grader anyway. So there, Mr. Uncle. My grandson beat your nephew and that's the way it is. Both boys had enormous goose-eggs on their foreheads from when their skulls had crashed into each other. Ouch. Sam wore his as a badge of pride - the other kid cried.
Wrestling still isn't my favorite sport, and I worry about Sam's scrawny neck getting injured, but it was interesting to see him compete. He is good at this sport and he wants to win. His grandfather said that he had learned a lot since this meet last year.
The second day of the meet wasn't the best for Sam. He got pinned in his first match, but came back in his second to win that one. He didn't give up - what an important characteristic to have in life as well as sport. He was in the Parade of Champions; he got onto the podium. In his third match on Sunday, he got hurt and lost the match. His mother says his knee is extremely swollen, but at least he can walk on it. That's the 8th best wrestler in Ohio in the junior high 74 pound weight class limping on that swollen knee. And I'm a proud grandma even if wrestling still isn't my favorite sport.
Most of the poems about wrestling were simple doggerel, but Willie Madison had a nice one on his website, Here is is:
Battle In The Circle by Willie Madison
A Circle is my battlefield
Where I fight to survive with out a sword or shield
A war zone where no one gets killed
But where dreams are destroyed and some are revealed
Technique and hard work are my weapons of choice
It’s just me and the sound of my coach’s voice
I’m a soldier with the desire to win
So give me a opponent and let the battle begin
Monday, March 15, 2010
Thinking about sex lately, in a kind of intellectual way
I've been thinking a lot about sex lately. Possibly this train of thought was inspired by Dr. Christiane Northrup's presentation on "Think TV" (not always an oxymoron), about menopause and all that precedes and post dates it. She was a compendium of information, some of which I already knew simply because I have already gone through it. She treated the topic tastefully and with humor. She was fun to listen to. But when she got to the last part of her speech - the sex talk- she had even more interesting things to say.
First of all, she enjoined her audience to forget about the myth that older people don't enjoy or engage in sex. If you're healthy, you want it, can have it, and will enjoy it, she said. Well I paraphrase a bit, but that is the gist. Whew, I'm normal, I thought. I wonder how long it will be enjoyable. "For a long, long time," she said. Hmmm, that's nice, I thought.It may not be a spiritual, transcendent experience anymore, but I've had that and good romp is worth just as much to me as an out-of-body experience nowadays.
Then Dr. Northrup pointed to her head and said, "Sexiness is up here. It's not a matter of the heart; it's a matter of the head." If you don't feel sexy, you won't be sexy. Ah, I do know that one. Perception is all. So she ordered us pre-, post-, and menopausal women to stand in front of a mirror every day for two minutes and say, "I am a vital, attractive woman. I accept myself completely as I am." Or something like that. She then said for the PhD version of that, do it with all your clothes off.
My girlfriends howled when I told them that and that got my mind off sex and onto another aspect of aging. Girlfriends. A group of girlfriends who have known each other for years and still like each other is an invaluable gift of age. We know each others' histories - the unsuitable men, the awful hairstyles and hair colors, the jobs that drove us crazy, our dreams, our children and their foibles, our grandchildren and their perfection. Who else but a long-time girlfriend can make exactly the right face when you mention your long-divorced first husband? That's a real bond when she knows exactly what you had to go through to become the person you now are. A mother does not know you this intimately, but a girlfriend knows things that your mother does not. And that is a good thing because a girlfriend didn't have a mother's expectations. A girlfriend loves you just the way you are - or she wouldn't still be your friend.
When we get this old, (let's just say we are Boomers), we don't hang around with people we don't like. We have dropped them by the wayside as we evolved. When we get this old, we say what is in our heads. We may be polite or maybe a little bit tactful if the situation demands it, but we do tell it like it is. We don't care if people disagree, and it isn't a matter of thinking we are always right. We just say what we think and let it lie there. No big deal.
I was feeling very lucky the day we discussed looking at ourselves naked in the mirror. Lucky that I have these women in my life. They know me so well and they are still my friends. We can share chocolate, drink tea together, commiserate on life's tricks, enjoy good things that happen to each other, laugh raucously, and communicate volumes with an archly raised eyebrow. They know what is meant by that look - words are not necessary.
So from sex to the joys of friendship. Gee, at my age, with a long-time partner I guess sex is a joy of friendship. See? Now I'm back to thinking of sex again. There are worse things to think of, I suppose.
I've always considered Erma Bombeck to be a girlfriend. She didn't know me, but I knew her through her comedy routines and her one-liners about being a mom, wife, mother. To honor women and Erma, here are a few of her quotes:
Giving birth is little more than a set of muscular contractions granting passage of a child. Then the mother is born.
-- Erma Bombeck
Graduation day is tough for adults. They go to the ceremony as parents. They come home as contemporaries. After twenty-two years of child-rearing, they are unemployed.
-- Erma Bombeck
Have you any idea how many children it takes to turn off one light in the kitchen? Three. It takes one to say, "What light?" and two more to say, "I didn't turn it on."
-- Erma Bombeck
Housework is a treadmill from futility to oblivion with stop offs at tedium and counter productivity.
-- Erma Bombeck
How come anything you buy will go on sale next week?
-- Erma Bombeck
First of all, she enjoined her audience to forget about the myth that older people don't enjoy or engage in sex. If you're healthy, you want it, can have it, and will enjoy it, she said. Well I paraphrase a bit, but that is the gist. Whew, I'm normal, I thought. I wonder how long it will be enjoyable. "For a long, long time," she said. Hmmm, that's nice, I thought.It may not be a spiritual, transcendent experience anymore, but I've had that and good romp is worth just as much to me as an out-of-body experience nowadays.
Then Dr. Northrup pointed to her head and said, "Sexiness is up here. It's not a matter of the heart; it's a matter of the head." If you don't feel sexy, you won't be sexy. Ah, I do know that one. Perception is all. So she ordered us pre-, post-, and menopausal women to stand in front of a mirror every day for two minutes and say, "I am a vital, attractive woman. I accept myself completely as I am." Or something like that. She then said for the PhD version of that, do it with all your clothes off.
My girlfriends howled when I told them that and that got my mind off sex and onto another aspect of aging. Girlfriends. A group of girlfriends who have known each other for years and still like each other is an invaluable gift of age. We know each others' histories - the unsuitable men, the awful hairstyles and hair colors, the jobs that drove us crazy, our dreams, our children and their foibles, our grandchildren and their perfection. Who else but a long-time girlfriend can make exactly the right face when you mention your long-divorced first husband? That's a real bond when she knows exactly what you had to go through to become the person you now are. A mother does not know you this intimately, but a girlfriend knows things that your mother does not. And that is a good thing because a girlfriend didn't have a mother's expectations. A girlfriend loves you just the way you are - or she wouldn't still be your friend.
When we get this old, (let's just say we are Boomers), we don't hang around with people we don't like. We have dropped them by the wayside as we evolved. When we get this old, we say what is in our heads. We may be polite or maybe a little bit tactful if the situation demands it, but we do tell it like it is. We don't care if people disagree, and it isn't a matter of thinking we are always right. We just say what we think and let it lie there. No big deal.
I was feeling very lucky the day we discussed looking at ourselves naked in the mirror. Lucky that I have these women in my life. They know me so well and they are still my friends. We can share chocolate, drink tea together, commiserate on life's tricks, enjoy good things that happen to each other, laugh raucously, and communicate volumes with an archly raised eyebrow. They know what is meant by that look - words are not necessary.
So from sex to the joys of friendship. Gee, at my age, with a long-time partner I guess sex is a joy of friendship. See? Now I'm back to thinking of sex again. There are worse things to think of, I suppose.
I've always considered Erma Bombeck to be a girlfriend. She didn't know me, but I knew her through her comedy routines and her one-liners about being a mom, wife, mother. To honor women and Erma, here are a few of her quotes:
Giving birth is little more than a set of muscular contractions granting passage of a child. Then the mother is born.
-- Erma Bombeck
Graduation day is tough for adults. They go to the ceremony as parents. They come home as contemporaries. After twenty-two years of child-rearing, they are unemployed.
-- Erma Bombeck
Have you any idea how many children it takes to turn off one light in the kitchen? Three. It takes one to say, "What light?" and two more to say, "I didn't turn it on."
-- Erma Bombeck
Housework is a treadmill from futility to oblivion with stop offs at tedium and counter productivity.
-- Erma Bombeck
How come anything you buy will go on sale next week?
-- Erma Bombeck
Saturday, February 27, 2010
The Kingdom - what is the point? or War, Oil, and Terrorists
The other night we watched the movie The Kingdom with Jamie Foxx, Jennifer Garner, Jason Bateman and Chris Cooper as FBI agents who go to Saudia Arabia to find a terrorist who has just blown up a lot of people, many American families among them. Even though it is fiction, the situation is a common one nowadays - mass murder in the name of a religion that has been perverted and co-opted for political means. From the moment the agents set foot into Saudi Arabia the atmosphere is one of tension and fear. We see the terrorists spying on the agents as they go through the rubble trying to decipher how it happened and trying to find out who was behind the devastation. The agents are guarded by the Saudi police under the auspices of the Saudi king, but we feel that this protection cannot hold back the terrorists who are planning another mass murder with the FBI agents as the central victims. The Saudi police colonel who is assigned to protect and assist the agents is played by Ashraf Barhom, a newcomer to me, but a fine actor. I totally believed the difficult position he is in as he is threatened by one of his people for helping the Americans, the fear he has for his family, the distrust he has for the Americans. At first I was unsure whether he was going to help them or hinder them as was Jamie Foxx's character, the lead agent. The tension mounts throughout the film as the terrorists build their new bombs, packed with nails and marbles and the agents slowly piece together the knowledge they need to catch the terrorists. Shooting, car crashes, explosions, and treachery occur, but the Americans and the Saudi colonel learn to trust each other and even to like each other. To see this happen was encouraging; it made me think that it could happen in real life for all of us.
But the point of the film, for me, came at the very end. In the beginning, before the agents left for Saudi Arabia, just after they learn their close friend had been killed in the blast, Jamie whispers something to Jennifer Garner who is clearly quite upset. He is asked what he said in the plane trip to Saudi Arabia, but he won't answer. Near end of the movie as the elderly Saudi who was behind the attacks is dying as his young granddaughter looks on, he whispers to her something we cannot hear. Later, we shift to the Americans going home and Foxx finally tells what he whispered. He says, "I said, 'Don't worry. We will kill them all.'" The scene shifts to the apartment of the terrorist and his family and the mother asks the little girl what her grandfather said. This beautiful little innocent replies, "He said, 'Don't worry, we will kill them all.'" To me, this was the point of the whole movie. To me it is obvious that we cannot kill them all - more generations of terrorists will stand up and fight as others fall. Likewise, more Americans will stand and fight. Trying to wipe each other out is as futile an endeavor as stomping on a giant ant hill to eradicate the ants. Futile, absurd, stupid. Impossible.
So my take-away from this movie is probably not what Hollywood intended. After all, they went to a lot of trouble to make a suspenseful, action-packed, thought-provoking movie, but did the director want me to conclude that fighting terrorists never ends? Don't think so, but that message assaulted me with the force of truth. So maybe it is the point. At least it is my point and I'm sticking with it.
Here is a poem by Carl Sandburg that you may not have seen before.
Killers
I am singing to you
Soft as a man with a dead child speaks;
Hard as a man in handcuffs,
Held where he cannot move:
Under the sun
Are sixteen million men,
Chosen for shining teeth,
Sharp eyes, hard legs,
And a running of young warm blood in their wrists.
And a red juice runs on the green grass;
And a red juice soaks the dark soil.
And the sixteen million are killing. . . and killing
and killing.
I never forget them day or night:
They beat on my head for memory of them;
They pound on my heart and I cry back to them,
To their homes and women, dreams and games.
I wake in the night and smell the trenches,
And hear the low stir of sleepers in lines
Sixteen million sleepers and pickets in the dark:
Some of them long sleepers for always,
Some of them tumbling to sleep to-morrow for always,
Fixed in the drag of the world's heartbreak,
Eating and drinking, toiling. . . on a long job of killing.
Sixteen million men.
Carl Sandburg
And a quote:
We need a new law that owners of SUVs are automatically in the military reserve. Then they can go get their own goddamn oil. ~Jello Biafra, quoted in The Guardian, 3 November 2007
But the point of the film, for me, came at the very end. In the beginning, before the agents left for Saudi Arabia, just after they learn their close friend had been killed in the blast, Jamie whispers something to Jennifer Garner who is clearly quite upset. He is asked what he said in the plane trip to Saudi Arabia, but he won't answer. Near end of the movie as the elderly Saudi who was behind the attacks is dying as his young granddaughter looks on, he whispers to her something we cannot hear. Later, we shift to the Americans going home and Foxx finally tells what he whispered. He says, "I said, 'Don't worry. We will kill them all.'" The scene shifts to the apartment of the terrorist and his family and the mother asks the little girl what her grandfather said. This beautiful little innocent replies, "He said, 'Don't worry, we will kill them all.'" To me, this was the point of the whole movie. To me it is obvious that we cannot kill them all - more generations of terrorists will stand up and fight as others fall. Likewise, more Americans will stand and fight. Trying to wipe each other out is as futile an endeavor as stomping on a giant ant hill to eradicate the ants. Futile, absurd, stupid. Impossible.
So my take-away from this movie is probably not what Hollywood intended. After all, they went to a lot of trouble to make a suspenseful, action-packed, thought-provoking movie, but did the director want me to conclude that fighting terrorists never ends? Don't think so, but that message assaulted me with the force of truth. So maybe it is the point. At least it is my point and I'm sticking with it.
Here is a poem by Carl Sandburg that you may not have seen before.
Killers
I am singing to you
Soft as a man with a dead child speaks;
Hard as a man in handcuffs,
Held where he cannot move:
Under the sun
Are sixteen million men,
Chosen for shining teeth,
Sharp eyes, hard legs,
And a running of young warm blood in their wrists.
And a red juice runs on the green grass;
And a red juice soaks the dark soil.
And the sixteen million are killing. . . and killing
and killing.
I never forget them day or night:
They beat on my head for memory of them;
They pound on my heart and I cry back to them,
To their homes and women, dreams and games.
I wake in the night and smell the trenches,
And hear the low stir of sleepers in lines
Sixteen million sleepers and pickets in the dark:
Some of them long sleepers for always,
Some of them tumbling to sleep to-morrow for always,
Fixed in the drag of the world's heartbreak,
Eating and drinking, toiling. . . on a long job of killing.
Sixteen million men.
Carl Sandburg
And a quote:
We need a new law that owners of SUVs are automatically in the military reserve. Then they can go get their own goddamn oil. ~Jello Biafra, quoted in The Guardian, 3 November 2007
Wednesday, February 17, 2010
Truth, Beauty, and Mirrors
I have never been a raving beauty. Oh, I've had my time in the sun - the wolf whistles, the double-entendres, the outright compliments of my hips, my smile, my blah, blah, blah. So while I was never beautiful in the classic sense, I guess I was "attractive" like my mother said when as a teen I asked her if I was pretty. An honest woman was my mother. When she said, "You are attractive," I saw the neon sign, its garish colors broadcasting, "You are not pretty, not beautiful, not, not, not. You will never have a boyfriend. You will never be Homecoming Queen. Never, never, never." Of course I was about 14 at the time, dangerously hyperbolic when considering my worth. And what girl is beautiful at 14, the supremely awkward stage of a girl's life? Maybe Sophia Loren was gorgeous at 14 as she still is at 66.
But Sophia is the exception. Most of us gradually lose the youthful beauty we once had as the years erase the luster and replace it with wrinkles, sagging skin, warts, and facial hair. Good bone structure of the face may disguise the process, but we all get to the point where, as a friend of mine said years ago, "You need to have a great personality or a great job to get any attention. You can't depend on beauty anymore to open those doors and get those cabs." Or as Bette Davis said, "Old age ain't for sissies."
I've been thinking about those women who get a zillion plastic surgeries. Not the young ones - them I cannot fathom. The older women who are resculpting their faces and bodies in desperate attempts to remain beautiful, young, desirable. I understand the urge, but since I was never so beautiful that I turned the heads of all the men in the room, I do not suffer from quite the identity crisis the lovely ones must be going through. My honest mother told me that accomplishments, ability, generosity of spirit, depth of character were more important than beauty. She said that beauty will fade and if beauty made up all your worth as a person, you weren't going to have anything to stand on when your looks went. And they would go. Doesn't it kill you when Mom is so right?
Have you ever looked at pictures of your mother or grandmother or aunt when they were about 20 or 30? So young and pretty that they take your breath away. Where did those looks go? You may be able to see remnants in the eyes, or the cheeks now, but those pictures are proof that they once had sparkle, beauty, youthfulness. Depending on how old you are, you may hope and pray that you will escape this fading of your looks, but I have become realistic. Without plastic surgery, which I will never have, my eyelids droop, my neck wrinkles need to be covered by turtlenecks, my laugh lines do not smooth out when I am not smiling. And my hair is all gray. I do not look in mirrors as much as I used to. That helps some.
I have noticed that for some people, I do not really exist. Obviously I am not in the dating or baby-making market; nor am I their boss; therefore, I am uninteresting unless I am spending money in their store. Good thing I don't need their validation, but it is annoying when it happens. So now I have to know my own worth by what I've done and what I do, how I treat others, who I love and who I am. Good thing I didn't depend on my beauty to get me through life, but it is sad to see what looks I did have on their way out. Bye, bye, so long, farewell forever, youth and beauty. At least I still have the pictures.
Sylvia Plath says it well.
Mirror
I am silver and exact. I have no preconceptions.
Whatever I see I swallow immediately
Just as it is, unmisted by love or dislike.
I am not cruel, only truthful-
The eye of the little god, four cornered.
Most of the time I meditate on the opposite wall.
It is pink, with speckles. I have looked at it so long
I think it is a part of my heart. But it flickers.
Faces and darkness separate us over and over.
Now I am a lake. A woman bends over me,
Searching my reaches for what she really is.
Then she turns to those liars, the candles or the moon.
I see her back, and reflect it faithfully.
She rewards me with tears and an agitation of hands.
I am important to her. She comes and goes.
Each morning it is her face that replaces the darkness.
In me she has drowned a young girl, and in me an old woman
Rises toward her day after day, like a terrible fish.
But Sophia is the exception. Most of us gradually lose the youthful beauty we once had as the years erase the luster and replace it with wrinkles, sagging skin, warts, and facial hair. Good bone structure of the face may disguise the process, but we all get to the point where, as a friend of mine said years ago, "You need to have a great personality or a great job to get any attention. You can't depend on beauty anymore to open those doors and get those cabs." Or as Bette Davis said, "Old age ain't for sissies."
I've been thinking about those women who get a zillion plastic surgeries. Not the young ones - them I cannot fathom. The older women who are resculpting their faces and bodies in desperate attempts to remain beautiful, young, desirable. I understand the urge, but since I was never so beautiful that I turned the heads of all the men in the room, I do not suffer from quite the identity crisis the lovely ones must be going through. My honest mother told me that accomplishments, ability, generosity of spirit, depth of character were more important than beauty. She said that beauty will fade and if beauty made up all your worth as a person, you weren't going to have anything to stand on when your looks went. And they would go. Doesn't it kill you when Mom is so right?
Have you ever looked at pictures of your mother or grandmother or aunt when they were about 20 or 30? So young and pretty that they take your breath away. Where did those looks go? You may be able to see remnants in the eyes, or the cheeks now, but those pictures are proof that they once had sparkle, beauty, youthfulness. Depending on how old you are, you may hope and pray that you will escape this fading of your looks, but I have become realistic. Without plastic surgery, which I will never have, my eyelids droop, my neck wrinkles need to be covered by turtlenecks, my laugh lines do not smooth out when I am not smiling. And my hair is all gray. I do not look in mirrors as much as I used to. That helps some.
I have noticed that for some people, I do not really exist. Obviously I am not in the dating or baby-making market; nor am I their boss; therefore, I am uninteresting unless I am spending money in their store. Good thing I don't need their validation, but it is annoying when it happens. So now I have to know my own worth by what I've done and what I do, how I treat others, who I love and who I am. Good thing I didn't depend on my beauty to get me through life, but it is sad to see what looks I did have on their way out. Bye, bye, so long, farewell forever, youth and beauty. At least I still have the pictures.
Sylvia Plath says it well.
Mirror
I am silver and exact. I have no preconceptions.
Whatever I see I swallow immediately
Just as it is, unmisted by love or dislike.
I am not cruel, only truthful-
The eye of the little god, four cornered.
Most of the time I meditate on the opposite wall.
It is pink, with speckles. I have looked at it so long
I think it is a part of my heart. But it flickers.
Faces and darkness separate us over and over.
Now I am a lake. A woman bends over me,
Searching my reaches for what she really is.
Then she turns to those liars, the candles or the moon.
I see her back, and reflect it faithfully.
She rewards me with tears and an agitation of hands.
I am important to her. She comes and goes.
Each morning it is her face that replaces the darkness.
In me she has drowned a young girl, and in me an old woman
Rises toward her day after day, like a terrible fish.
Monday, February 15, 2010
Let it Snow...Nooooo, Let it Stop
We are having an unusual winter here in southwest Ohio. We have over 20 inches of snow on the ground and we may break all records for snow in February. Kind of neat since I grew up in Minnesota and Maine where it snowed a lot when I was a kid. I remember playing in the snow, making snow angels, falling backwards off the top of the fence into the soft cushion of deep snow, making snow forts and tunnels, and being dwarfed by huge piles of snow left by the plows. Those piles seemed like they were ten feet tall, at least. I know things appear a lot smaller if you go back as an adult, but I do not want to discover that those snow piles were only 3 feet tall. No way they were that little. I remain faithful in my belief in howling blizzards that left feet and feet of snow on the ground.
Of course now I have to shovel the driveway, especially because my other half has been in Europe the entire time we've had these two storms that dumped on us. I like shoveling the drive - it makes me feel like all my weightlifting and workouts have been for something practical. My back got a little sore during the fifth shovel session in two days, but I'll be fine tomorrow. My carpal-tunnel affected wrists may take a bit more time to heal, however.
It was not all shoveling. I got to take some walks on borrowed snowshoes, following animal tracks one day and searching for them the next because so much snow had fallen in the interim. Snow pelting my face, I found it invigorating to be out in the storm moving through the woods and fields under my own power. I have always loved storms. When I was a teen living on a lake in Maine with my family, I slept on the screen porch. I loved listening to the approaching storms - the thunder rumbling softly in the distance, coming closer across the lake and arriving with the full timpani of crashing thunder and heart-splitting lightning. The whoosh of the rain would drive me off the porch. Liking storms and sleeping in the rain are two different things. I remember once swimming in the rough waves of Sebago Lake as a storm approached. Those waves were so big I body-surfed them for quite some time. After choking on several mouthfuls of lake water, I gave up and came in to shore feeling tired and invigorated at the same time. And once my dad and I sailed our little scow of a sailing barge on our lake in the tailwinds of a hurricane. Yehaa! That little flat-bottomed heavy-weight actually heeled steeply and scooted wildly through the rough lake waters. What fun that was.
Being in a snowstorm feels different from those summer storms. It is quieter even with the wind swirling the snow into my face. It also feels more dangerous. I made sure I had my phone on me in case I fell and broke something. I'm more cautious now than I was when I was 17. That's because I've lived long enough to see many things happen to many people that a seventeen-year-old wouldn't countenance happening to them. The longer you live, the humbler you get. You are no longer protected by the hubris of youth; you know that anything can happen to anyone at any time. But that doesn't stop you from going out into the storm and experiencing nature in her power and beauty.
Good thing I like the snow. We are supposed to get another storm in four days. Even better, I won't be the only one home to shovel.
So many poems about snowmen exist that I was delighted to find this one.
The Snow-Woman by Angela Sorby
Her body's weighty, two snow-balls,
and so white she leeches red paint from the sled.
The whole yard resembles her: white getting whiter
as if it were all in her head.
Yesterday she fell in a trance from the sky.
I gave her buttons and two coal eyes.
She is an ambassador from the Old Order,
from the ice force that carved out the Kettle Moraine.
Her mineral rights are clear: she shares the past
with the stars and carries a stillness so vast it moves
like a glacier across the yard.
She asks nothing of me. I ask nothing in return.
I am genetically closer to mushrooms
than to her. Her roots are elsewhere, like the roots
of the daughter I will never bear,
and so things settle between us.
Angela Sorby
Bird Skin Coat
The University of Wisconsin Press
Of course now I have to shovel the driveway, especially because my other half has been in Europe the entire time we've had these two storms that dumped on us. I like shoveling the drive - it makes me feel like all my weightlifting and workouts have been for something practical. My back got a little sore during the fifth shovel session in two days, but I'll be fine tomorrow. My carpal-tunnel affected wrists may take a bit more time to heal, however.
It was not all shoveling. I got to take some walks on borrowed snowshoes, following animal tracks one day and searching for them the next because so much snow had fallen in the interim. Snow pelting my face, I found it invigorating to be out in the storm moving through the woods and fields under my own power. I have always loved storms. When I was a teen living on a lake in Maine with my family, I slept on the screen porch. I loved listening to the approaching storms - the thunder rumbling softly in the distance, coming closer across the lake and arriving with the full timpani of crashing thunder and heart-splitting lightning. The whoosh of the rain would drive me off the porch. Liking storms and sleeping in the rain are two different things. I remember once swimming in the rough waves of Sebago Lake as a storm approached. Those waves were so big I body-surfed them for quite some time. After choking on several mouthfuls of lake water, I gave up and came in to shore feeling tired and invigorated at the same time. And once my dad and I sailed our little scow of a sailing barge on our lake in the tailwinds of a hurricane. Yehaa! That little flat-bottomed heavy-weight actually heeled steeply and scooted wildly through the rough lake waters. What fun that was.
Being in a snowstorm feels different from those summer storms. It is quieter even with the wind swirling the snow into my face. It also feels more dangerous. I made sure I had my phone on me in case I fell and broke something. I'm more cautious now than I was when I was 17. That's because I've lived long enough to see many things happen to many people that a seventeen-year-old wouldn't countenance happening to them. The longer you live, the humbler you get. You are no longer protected by the hubris of youth; you know that anything can happen to anyone at any time. But that doesn't stop you from going out into the storm and experiencing nature in her power and beauty.
Good thing I like the snow. We are supposed to get another storm in four days. Even better, I won't be the only one home to shovel.
So many poems about snowmen exist that I was delighted to find this one.
The Snow-Woman by Angela Sorby
Her body's weighty, two snow-balls,
and so white she leeches red paint from the sled.
The whole yard resembles her: white getting whiter
as if it were all in her head.
Yesterday she fell in a trance from the sky.
I gave her buttons and two coal eyes.
She is an ambassador from the Old Order,
from the ice force that carved out the Kettle Moraine.
Her mineral rights are clear: she shares the past
with the stars and carries a stillness so vast it moves
like a glacier across the yard.
She asks nothing of me. I ask nothing in return.
I am genetically closer to mushrooms
than to her. Her roots are elsewhere, like the roots
of the daughter I will never bear,
and so things settle between us.
Angela Sorby
Bird Skin Coat
The University of Wisconsin Press
Saturday, February 13, 2010
Happy Birthday ...and Many More
The other day I had a birthday. It doesn't matter which one but the two digits add up to 10. That leaves a lot of possibilities but 19 and 91 are not among them. Somewhere in between. Old enough to be getting tired of the Christmas hype; young enough to enjoy sledding down the hill in the back yard. Old enough to enjoy a two-year-old's curiosity and exploration of his expanding world. Young enough to help a frail person negotiate icy steps. Too old to eat large meals with impunity but young enough to ride my bike 65 miles a day and enjoy it.
So I guess numbers don't really mean that much. Once again, as in so much of life, it's attitude that dictates enjoyment or its opposite. Thankfully, I still have an attitude that life is precious and interesting. Many things are left to learn and experience. The speed at which technology changes insures that much is left to learn in that area. I have many spots left on my list of places to see, more interesting people to meet and great books to read. In other words, I still love life.
But sometimes I think about family members and friends eventually dying and I wonder how I will react. Then I chastise myself for assuming that I won't die first and therefore miss the sadness and loss that is sure to come. I have lost both my parents and while I miss them tremendously and wish they were still here to provide counsel and see my children and grandchildren, I have survived their loss. So I suppose I will survive other deaths. I hope I will not be diminished by them to the point that I lose the spark that ignites my appreciation of this life. I hope that I will remember those who are close to me now with appreciation, love, and laughter after they are gone. And that makes me think that I have to live in such a way that my friends and family will remember me the same way - with love, appreciation that I was in their lives, and with laughter and good memories. This means I have to live up to those expectations. Well, that should keep me busy.
Death is a heavy subject but it seems to be one that naturally accompanies birthdays beyond, oh - 50 or so. In contemplating the end of life I find inspiration to live the rest of my life the best way I can. Maybe that's a sort of birthday in itself.
The following poem by Edna St. Vincent Millay is one of my favorites.
Dirge Without Music - Edna St. Vincent Millay
I am not resigned to the shutting away of loving hearts in the hard ground.
So it is, and so it will be, for so it has been, time out of mind:
Into the darkness they go, the wise and the lovely. Crowned
With lilies and with laurel
they go; but I am not resigned.
Lovers and thinkers, into the earth with you.
Be one with the dull, the indiscriminate dust.
A fragment of what you felt, of what you knew,
A formula, a phrase remains,—but the best is lost.
The answers quick and keen, the honest look, the laughter, the love,—
They are gone. They are gone to feed the roses. Elegant and curled
Is the blossom. Fragrant is the blossom. I know. But I do not approve.
More precious was the light in your eyes than all the roses in the world.
Down, down, down into the darkness of the grave
Gently they go, the beautiful, the tender, the kind;
Quietly they go, the intelligent, the witty, the brave.
I know. But I do not approve. And I am not resigned.
So I guess numbers don't really mean that much. Once again, as in so much of life, it's attitude that dictates enjoyment or its opposite. Thankfully, I still have an attitude that life is precious and interesting. Many things are left to learn and experience. The speed at which technology changes insures that much is left to learn in that area. I have many spots left on my list of places to see, more interesting people to meet and great books to read. In other words, I still love life.
But sometimes I think about family members and friends eventually dying and I wonder how I will react. Then I chastise myself for assuming that I won't die first and therefore miss the sadness and loss that is sure to come. I have lost both my parents and while I miss them tremendously and wish they were still here to provide counsel and see my children and grandchildren, I have survived their loss. So I suppose I will survive other deaths. I hope I will not be diminished by them to the point that I lose the spark that ignites my appreciation of this life. I hope that I will remember those who are close to me now with appreciation, love, and laughter after they are gone. And that makes me think that I have to live in such a way that my friends and family will remember me the same way - with love, appreciation that I was in their lives, and with laughter and good memories. This means I have to live up to those expectations. Well, that should keep me busy.
Death is a heavy subject but it seems to be one that naturally accompanies birthdays beyond, oh - 50 or so. In contemplating the end of life I find inspiration to live the rest of my life the best way I can. Maybe that's a sort of birthday in itself.
The following poem by Edna St. Vincent Millay is one of my favorites.
Dirge Without Music - Edna St. Vincent Millay
I am not resigned to the shutting away of loving hearts in the hard ground.
So it is, and so it will be, for so it has been, time out of mind:
Into the darkness they go, the wise and the lovely. Crowned
With lilies and with laurel
they go; but I am not resigned.
Lovers and thinkers, into the earth with you.
Be one with the dull, the indiscriminate dust.
A fragment of what you felt, of what you knew,
A formula, a phrase remains,—but the best is lost.
The answers quick and keen, the honest look, the laughter, the love,—
They are gone. They are gone to feed the roses. Elegant and curled
Is the blossom. Fragrant is the blossom. I know. But I do not approve.
More precious was the light in your eyes than all the roses in the world.
Down, down, down into the darkness of the grave
Gently they go, the beautiful, the tender, the kind;
Quietly they go, the intelligent, the witty, the brave.
I know. But I do not approve. And I am not resigned.
Wednesday, February 3, 2010
Digital World Has no Room for Books
I saw Digital Nation last night for the first time. What a mind-blower. They were discussing a subject near and dear to my heart: reading books and...not reading books. Those on the program contended that with the fast-paced changes in digital technology, the Internet, and video games, students of all ages do not want to read anything long - like say, a book. College professors say they cannot assign anything over 200 pages. (There goes A Prayer for Owen Meany, most of Dickens, Austen and any of the Victorians although I always thought they were a bit verbose anyway.) No more Moby Dick, (I hear thousands of hands clapping). Even a lot of modern novels are over 200 pages long. Wow. If college kids aren't reading those "long" books, how do we expect high schoolers to read anything over 150 pages?
The fact is, we can't. We can beg them to read; we can bribe them. We can try to make reading a game - exciting and fast-paced. We can try a lot of things, but the truth is, many, if not most of them, will not read more than a few pages a night if they even do that. They will go online and read the synopses which are abundant. They may even read the commentary or criticism if they want to impress their teachers. They will find the sites that provide tests and quizzes. They will go to great lengths to disguise purloined essays from the Web. But they will not read the entire book. Uh uh, no way, nada. Call me old-fashioned, but nothing substitutes for the real thing. Synopses are but pale ghosts of the lives and emotions depicted in a good book.
Why won't they read books? Digital Nation says that it isn't because they cannot concentrate for any length of time. They can play video games for hours and watch long movies diligently. But they want their literature fast, short, and they want it easy to read and understand. To take the time to read a long chapter and actually think about any nuances or message or theme? Come on, there are games to play, messages to text, music to download. The digital world is too seductive to resist and many parents are too busy to control their children's time. Some parents even think that letting Junior play video games until 2 a.m. will help him get a great job someday.
And it might. The armed services use drones in Iraq and Afghanistan which are controlled from the United States. The pilots wear cammies and report to duty every day and are able to return home to their families after work is over. Yes, it's safe and that is good, and most of these people actually know how to fly a plane. However, the TV show last night mentioned that in the near future, they will not be required to have ever flown a real plane. They just need to be good with the computerized controls they sit before. They may not even have to do sit-ups and push-ups and run. Wow. So all those hours Junior sat in front of his flickering screen playing war games will enable him to get a job. Mind-boggling.
And this is scary to me, a former English teacher. I knew we were losing the grammar battle years ago. I know that our language, one of the richest in the world, is losing its richness and texture to sloppiness and laziness. Who uses the past perfect anymore? I had taught many classes before my eyes and ears were opened to the truth. Most people don't want to take the time to express themselves carefully and clearly, let alone eloquently. It just doesn't matter anymore.
Don't get me wrong. I still wage the battle. I still fight the good fight. I simply know that the trenches I fight from are getting smaller with fewer fighters every year. In a world where a person with an extensive and well-used vocabulary is considered musty and boring and sometimes even incorrect by the masses, the language can't help but be diluted. In a world where people won't read books, the intellect becomes diluted and dulled. We need words to express how we feel, what we think, or how to solve problems. The poorer our vocabulary becomes, the weaker our thoughts, because we cannot express them to any degree of exactness. I would have used the word "exactitude" but I don't want to be considered hoity-toity.
Last night, the participants, all experts in their fields of education and digitalness, admitted that some things are lost as technology speeds on. But they didn't seem concerned. To them the future is bright because it is moving toward us and becomes the present in a dizzying whirl of development and new devices to "help" us or entertain us. Seductive, yes. But the Sirens were seductive, and they caused the deaths of many Greek argonauts who listened to their beautiful voices and couldn't resist getting close enough for a look.
I don't think we are heading for destruction with our technological developments - well, most of them anyway. But I do think we are losing some very important skills - reading, writing, and thinking things out in depth. Yes, some people will still read and think and do great things, but what about the masses? What about Trevor and Ellie sitting in their classrooms watching the movie of To Kill a Mockingbird instead of reading the book? Will they be able to discern when our political or financial leaders are lying to us? Will they know history and try to avoid it happening again? Will they know human nature well enough that they can make informed judgments? Maybe Second City can teach them about human nature. I sure hope so.
To counter the tone of the above post, I enclose a poem that isn't so serious about technology.
Remember When by James S. Huggins (Site: Refrigerator Door)
A Poem About Technology
A computer was something on TV
From a sci fi show of note.
A window was something you hated to clean
And ram was the cousin of goat.
Meg was the name of my girlfriend
And gig was a job for the nights.
Now they all mean different things
And that really mega bytes.
An application was for employment.
A program was a TV show.
A curser used profanity.
A keyboard was a piano.
Memory was something that you lost with age.
A CD was a bank account.
And if you had a 3 1/2" floppy
You hoped nobody found out.
Compress was something you did to the garbage
Not something you did to a file.
And if you unzipped anything in public
You'd be in jail for a while.
Log on was adding wood to the fire.
Hard drive was a long trip on the road.
A mouse pad was where a mouse lived.
And a backup happened to your commode.
Cut you did with a pocket knife.
Paste you did with glue.
A web was a spider's home.
And a virus was the flu
I guess I'll stick to my pad and paper
And the memory in my head.
I hear nobody's been killed in a computer crash,
But when it happens they wish they were dead.
And finally, a quote I found on a page that held a poem about technology that was, get this, too long to publish today. Maybe tomorrow. But here's an interesting quote from this page.
One of the seductive things about the internet is its immediacy.
It kind of demands immediate involvement but our lives have
priorites and often we must set the internet aside and do what
is important and let the immediacy go. So time between
communication is just time spent on those real events that
fill out our lives. John Peterson, Publisher, PoeticMatrix.com
The fact is, we can't. We can beg them to read; we can bribe them. We can try to make reading a game - exciting and fast-paced. We can try a lot of things, but the truth is, many, if not most of them, will not read more than a few pages a night if they even do that. They will go online and read the synopses which are abundant. They may even read the commentary or criticism if they want to impress their teachers. They will find the sites that provide tests and quizzes. They will go to great lengths to disguise purloined essays from the Web. But they will not read the entire book. Uh uh, no way, nada. Call me old-fashioned, but nothing substitutes for the real thing. Synopses are but pale ghosts of the lives and emotions depicted in a good book.
Why won't they read books? Digital Nation says that it isn't because they cannot concentrate for any length of time. They can play video games for hours and watch long movies diligently. But they want their literature fast, short, and they want it easy to read and understand. To take the time to read a long chapter and actually think about any nuances or message or theme? Come on, there are games to play, messages to text, music to download. The digital world is too seductive to resist and many parents are too busy to control their children's time. Some parents even think that letting Junior play video games until 2 a.m. will help him get a great job someday.
And it might. The armed services use drones in Iraq and Afghanistan which are controlled from the United States. The pilots wear cammies and report to duty every day and are able to return home to their families after work is over. Yes, it's safe and that is good, and most of these people actually know how to fly a plane. However, the TV show last night mentioned that in the near future, they will not be required to have ever flown a real plane. They just need to be good with the computerized controls they sit before. They may not even have to do sit-ups and push-ups and run. Wow. So all those hours Junior sat in front of his flickering screen playing war games will enable him to get a job. Mind-boggling.
And this is scary to me, a former English teacher. I knew we were losing the grammar battle years ago. I know that our language, one of the richest in the world, is losing its richness and texture to sloppiness and laziness. Who uses the past perfect anymore? I had taught many classes before my eyes and ears were opened to the truth. Most people don't want to take the time to express themselves carefully and clearly, let alone eloquently. It just doesn't matter anymore.
Don't get me wrong. I still wage the battle. I still fight the good fight. I simply know that the trenches I fight from are getting smaller with fewer fighters every year. In a world where a person with an extensive and well-used vocabulary is considered musty and boring and sometimes even incorrect by the masses, the language can't help but be diluted. In a world where people won't read books, the intellect becomes diluted and dulled. We need words to express how we feel, what we think, or how to solve problems. The poorer our vocabulary becomes, the weaker our thoughts, because we cannot express them to any degree of exactness. I would have used the word "exactitude" but I don't want to be considered hoity-toity.
Last night, the participants, all experts in their fields of education and digitalness, admitted that some things are lost as technology speeds on. But they didn't seem concerned. To them the future is bright because it is moving toward us and becomes the present in a dizzying whirl of development and new devices to "help" us or entertain us. Seductive, yes. But the Sirens were seductive, and they caused the deaths of many Greek argonauts who listened to their beautiful voices and couldn't resist getting close enough for a look.
I don't think we are heading for destruction with our technological developments - well, most of them anyway. But I do think we are losing some very important skills - reading, writing, and thinking things out in depth. Yes, some people will still read and think and do great things, but what about the masses? What about Trevor and Ellie sitting in their classrooms watching the movie of To Kill a Mockingbird instead of reading the book? Will they be able to discern when our political or financial leaders are lying to us? Will they know history and try to avoid it happening again? Will they know human nature well enough that they can make informed judgments? Maybe Second City can teach them about human nature. I sure hope so.
To counter the tone of the above post, I enclose a poem that isn't so serious about technology.
Remember When by James S. Huggins (Site: Refrigerator Door)
A Poem About Technology
A computer was something on TV
From a sci fi show of note.
A window was something you hated to clean
And ram was the cousin of goat.
Meg was the name of my girlfriend
And gig was a job for the nights.
Now they all mean different things
And that really mega bytes.
An application was for employment.
A program was a TV show.
A curser used profanity.
A keyboard was a piano.
Memory was something that you lost with age.
A CD was a bank account.
And if you had a 3 1/2" floppy
You hoped nobody found out.
Compress was something you did to the garbage
Not something you did to a file.
And if you unzipped anything in public
You'd be in jail for a while.
Log on was adding wood to the fire.
Hard drive was a long trip on the road.
A mouse pad was where a mouse lived.
And a backup happened to your commode.
Cut you did with a pocket knife.
Paste you did with glue.
A web was a spider's home.
And a virus was the flu
I guess I'll stick to my pad and paper
And the memory in my head.
I hear nobody's been killed in a computer crash,
But when it happens they wish they were dead.
And finally, a quote I found on a page that held a poem about technology that was, get this, too long to publish today. Maybe tomorrow. But here's an interesting quote from this page.
One of the seductive things about the internet is its immediacy.
It kind of demands immediate involvement but our lives have
priorites and often we must set the internet aside and do what
is important and let the immediacy go. So time between
communication is just time spent on those real events that
fill out our lives. John Peterson, Publisher, PoeticMatrix.com
Friday, January 29, 2010
Lamenting the Normal Life
A friend told me I should write a memoir of my life because growing up in various parts of the country could be interesting. Since I grew up in the 50s and 60s, he said it would make a great nostalgia piece. Possibly so. I did have some fun times. But what I really wanted to write was the Great American Novel - the tragic story of the rise and fall of...whom? My problem, I lamented many times as an English literature major yearning to write the Big One, was that I had lived a perfectly normal life. No big tragedies, no cruel parents one of whom was a sad, but creative and sometimes lovable drunk. No brother who ran away from home at 14 to hitchhike across the country and turn out to be a famous comedian in Vegas. My minimally dysfunctional family provided no fodder for humorous satire or sad commentary. What can you do with a middle-class American family that gets along reasonably well, whose parents never divorced or separated, whose pets were even the average dog and cat or two? Not much,it turns out.
Yes, I know memoirs are not always totally factual and I certainly can understand why. If you lived an average life, you would need to embellish a lot to make it interesting. If you lived a unique life because of horrendous family relations, you might need to change some names and tone some things down if any family members are still alive. If you experienced an interesting, unique life, memory may not serve you well. So, fact becomes laced with fiction. It's the way of the genre and most readers expect a little fluff with their facts. But I wanted the real thing to write about and I didn't have it. Therefore, the memoir remains a two page sketch, hidden in a file I probably cannot find. But that's ok. Now I am glad I had a good family. So I wrote a poem instead.
Shall I Pour?
Sometimes I wish I’d had
literarily or artistically talented parents
who made great art from
daily pain
and who had
passed down to me their talent
or interest or knowledge or
just the opportunity to be
among art as a child.
Wouldn’t it be
so much easier for me to be a
teller of tales if one of
them had told them before me?
Wouldn’t I then have
naturally picked up this skill through daughterly osmosis?
Wouldn’t it be easier if I’d
been steeped in the tea
Of parental talent as a child and
brewed slowly over the years
to pour the words now
In a golden arc of honey-sweetened images
for others to drink and exclaim, “Yes, that’s it.
How true. I wish I’d said that.”?
But, my childish
excuses do not put herbs in the pot;
I must arduously brew my own words into ideas and images
to fill mugs
with warmth and wit and wonder.
I alone am the
tea maker
pot pourer
leaf reader
who must steep myself in life
If I am to pour at all.
Literary parents would have been nice and very, very helpful,
but they just weren’t my cup of tea.
Yes, I know memoirs are not always totally factual and I certainly can understand why. If you lived an average life, you would need to embellish a lot to make it interesting. If you lived a unique life because of horrendous family relations, you might need to change some names and tone some things down if any family members are still alive. If you experienced an interesting, unique life, memory may not serve you well. So, fact becomes laced with fiction. It's the way of the genre and most readers expect a little fluff with their facts. But I wanted the real thing to write about and I didn't have it. Therefore, the memoir remains a two page sketch, hidden in a file I probably cannot find. But that's ok. Now I am glad I had a good family. So I wrote a poem instead.
Shall I Pour?
Sometimes I wish I’d had
literarily or artistically talented parents
who made great art from
daily pain
and who had
passed down to me their talent
or interest or knowledge or
just the opportunity to be
among art as a child.
Wouldn’t it be
so much easier for me to be a
teller of tales if one of
them had told them before me?
Wouldn’t I then have
naturally picked up this skill through daughterly osmosis?
Wouldn’t it be easier if I’d
been steeped in the tea
Of parental talent as a child and
brewed slowly over the years
to pour the words now
In a golden arc of honey-sweetened images
for others to drink and exclaim, “Yes, that’s it.
How true. I wish I’d said that.”?
But, my childish
excuses do not put herbs in the pot;
I must arduously brew my own words into ideas and images
to fill mugs
with warmth and wit and wonder.
I alone am the
tea maker
pot pourer
leaf reader
who must steep myself in life
If I am to pour at all.
Literary parents would have been nice and very, very helpful,
but they just weren’t my cup of tea.
Tuesday, January 26, 2010
Be Brave, Put On Those Carpet Slippers and Stride Out
Did you do anything courageous today? Was merely getting out of bed an act of courage? I hope getting out of bed was an act of embracing what was coming in this day. If getting up didn't require bravery, what courageous thing did you do today? Not that we have the opportunity to be overtly brave every day, but some days require more courage than others. Have you been brave lately? In the last week, month, year? I hope you are cultivating your courage muscle because we all are going to need to be brave at some point.
Bette Davis said that growing old wasn't for sissies. She was right about that. "They" say that the positive thing about growing old is the wisdom we attain. I suppose it may be wisdom that lets the old ones see the misstep a person is about to take and exactly where that step will land them. Perhaps it is wisdom that says, "Wait and see." "Forgive." "Don't judge until you have walked a mile in her shoes." "Ask why." "Don't take yourself too seriously." "Do you really want to do that?"
I cannot think of myself as wise, but I do see myself as experienced in life. That experience allows me to see things from a wider, longer perspective-a view that sees the probable end or consequences of an act. Hey, maybe I can see the future! Is that wisdom or is it just experience? Does it matter what we call it?
Acquiring wisdom as we age is supposed to be the great trade-off for losing our youthfulness. As for me, the jury is still out on that one. I'm not sure about how wise we get, but I recognize that we do need courage as we age. Courage will be the companion that allows us to embrace our lives, even with the limitations that sneak in as we add on years. One interesting thing about aging is how we respond to it. Will it be with whining and bitterness or with wit, wisdom, and courage?
The following poem is one I "taught" in tenth grade classes. What those 16-year-olds got from it, I cannot say, but it speaks to me more and more as I get older. I hope I can find my carpet slippers when I need them.
Courage by Anne Sexton
It is in the small things we see it.
The child's first step,
as awesome as an earthquake.
The first time you rode a bike,
wallowing up the sidewalk.
The first spanking when your heart
went on a journey all alone.
When they called you crybaby
or poor or fatty or crazy
and made you into an alien,
you drank their acid
and concealed it.
Later,
if you faced the death of bombs and bullets
you did not do it with a banner,
you did it with only a hat to
cover your heart.
You did not fondle the weakness inside you
though it was there.
Your courage was a small coal
that you kept swallowing.
If your buddy saved you
and died himself in so doing,
then his courage was not courage,
it was love; love as simple as shaving soap.
Later,
if you have endured a great despair,
then you did it alone,
getting a transfusion from the fire,
picking the scabs off your heart,
then wringing it out like a sock.
Next, my kinsman, you powdered your sorrow,
you gave it a back rub
and then you covered it with a blanket
and after it had slept a while
it woke to the wings of the roses
and was transformed.
Later,
when you face old age and its natural conclusion
your courage will still be shown in the little ways,
each spring will be a sword you'll sharpen,
those you love will live in a fever of love,
and you'll bargain with the calendar
and at the last moment
when death opens the back door
you'll put on your carpet slippers
and stride out.
Anne Sexton
Bette Davis said that growing old wasn't for sissies. She was right about that. "They" say that the positive thing about growing old is the wisdom we attain. I suppose it may be wisdom that lets the old ones see the misstep a person is about to take and exactly where that step will land them. Perhaps it is wisdom that says, "Wait and see." "Forgive." "Don't judge until you have walked a mile in her shoes." "Ask why." "Don't take yourself too seriously." "Do you really want to do that?"
I cannot think of myself as wise, but I do see myself as experienced in life. That experience allows me to see things from a wider, longer perspective-a view that sees the probable end or consequences of an act. Hey, maybe I can see the future! Is that wisdom or is it just experience? Does it matter what we call it?
Acquiring wisdom as we age is supposed to be the great trade-off for losing our youthfulness. As for me, the jury is still out on that one. I'm not sure about how wise we get, but I recognize that we do need courage as we age. Courage will be the companion that allows us to embrace our lives, even with the limitations that sneak in as we add on years. One interesting thing about aging is how we respond to it. Will it be with whining and bitterness or with wit, wisdom, and courage?
The following poem is one I "taught" in tenth grade classes. What those 16-year-olds got from it, I cannot say, but it speaks to me more and more as I get older. I hope I can find my carpet slippers when I need them.
Courage by Anne Sexton
It is in the small things we see it.
The child's first step,
as awesome as an earthquake.
The first time you rode a bike,
wallowing up the sidewalk.
The first spanking when your heart
went on a journey all alone.
When they called you crybaby
or poor or fatty or crazy
and made you into an alien,
you drank their acid
and concealed it.
Later,
if you faced the death of bombs and bullets
you did not do it with a banner,
you did it with only a hat to
cover your heart.
You did not fondle the weakness inside you
though it was there.
Your courage was a small coal
that you kept swallowing.
If your buddy saved you
and died himself in so doing,
then his courage was not courage,
it was love; love as simple as shaving soap.
Later,
if you have endured a great despair,
then you did it alone,
getting a transfusion from the fire,
picking the scabs off your heart,
then wringing it out like a sock.
Next, my kinsman, you powdered your sorrow,
you gave it a back rub
and then you covered it with a blanket
and after it had slept a while
it woke to the wings of the roses
and was transformed.
Later,
when you face old age and its natural conclusion
your courage will still be shown in the little ways,
each spring will be a sword you'll sharpen,
those you love will live in a fever of love,
and you'll bargain with the calendar
and at the last moment
when death opens the back door
you'll put on your carpet slippers
and stride out.
Anne Sexton
Monday, January 25, 2010
"My Life was More Wasted and Stupid than Yours" NOT!
Just saw these two poems and want to share. Let's not ever go to the conference titled "My Life was More Wasted and Stupid than Yours". In fact, let's make sure we never even come close to being asked to attend.
The Fury of Reminiscence
The conference was titled
"My Life was More Wasted and Stupid than Yours"
and it attracted over 15,000 participants
who occupied much of the hotel space
in downtown Boston, spilling to Newton & the burbs.
For three days the fury of reminiscence
scorched the rugs with tears, oi oi's, and
why, o Lord, why?'s
till finally the theme fell to silence
and many of the 15k flew home
shaking with disbelief that _______'s life
had been voted most wasted and stupid
by those who watched the conference
through online hookup.
"Stupid! maybe—
but waste?! They don't know waste!"
shouted an ethnographer from San Diego
as he ordered a 13 dollar
bagel with salmon
near his boarding area.
Edward Sanders -
Edward Sanders's Let's Not Keep Fighting the Trojan War: New and Selected Poems 1986-2009 was recently published by Coffee House Press. He is a founding member of the legendary rock group The Fugs, a classics scholar, publisher, former bookseller, and pioneer in investigative poetry. He lives in Woodstock, New York.
I LOVE the fact that this poet founded the Fugs!!! Apologies to Mr. Sanders. The format of the previous poem isn't exactly as he made it. I couldn't get it exact. To make up for this slight, I have to include his next poem also. Timely.
Let's Not Keep Fighting the Trojan War
Simone Weil took a train to the front
when the Civil War began in the summer of '36
She joined the ranks of an Anarchist Unit
and picked up a rifle though never fired
She suffered an injury, not from a bullet
and her parents came to her rescue
She'd been taken aback by the violence
her own side had committed
and soon published an essay
"Ne recommençons pas la guerre de Troie"
which I have slightly changed to
"Let's Not Keep Fighting the Trojan War"
especially now that the Air Force is insisting
on designing all-terrain cluster bombs
able to crawl and hop for miles
in search of a victim
The Fury of Reminiscence
The conference was titled
"My Life was More Wasted and Stupid than Yours"
and it attracted over 15,000 participants
who occupied much of the hotel space
in downtown Boston, spilling to Newton & the burbs.
For three days the fury of reminiscence
scorched the rugs with tears, oi oi's, and
why, o Lord, why?'s
till finally the theme fell to silence
and many of the 15k flew home
shaking with disbelief that _______'s life
had been voted most wasted and stupid
by those who watched the conference
through online hookup.
"Stupid! maybe—
but waste?! They don't know waste!"
shouted an ethnographer from San Diego
as he ordered a 13 dollar
bagel with salmon
near his boarding area.
Edward Sanders -
Edward Sanders's Let's Not Keep Fighting the Trojan War: New and Selected Poems 1986-2009 was recently published by Coffee House Press. He is a founding member of the legendary rock group The Fugs, a classics scholar, publisher, former bookseller, and pioneer in investigative poetry. He lives in Woodstock, New York.
I LOVE the fact that this poet founded the Fugs!!! Apologies to Mr. Sanders. The format of the previous poem isn't exactly as he made it. I couldn't get it exact. To make up for this slight, I have to include his next poem also. Timely.
Let's Not Keep Fighting the Trojan War
Simone Weil took a train to the front
when the Civil War began in the summer of '36
She joined the ranks of an Anarchist Unit
and picked up a rifle though never fired
She suffered an injury, not from a bullet
and her parents came to her rescue
She'd been taken aback by the violence
her own side had committed
and soon published an essay
"Ne recommençons pas la guerre de Troie"
which I have slightly changed to
"Let's Not Keep Fighting the Trojan War"
especially now that the Air Force is insisting
on designing all-terrain cluster bombs
able to crawl and hop for miles
in search of a victim
Sunday, January 24, 2010
Extraordinary People
The movie Julia and Julie inspired me to start a blog as Julie did, but Julia is the woman I find more fascinating than the modern day blogger. I read Julia's autobiography and a few minutes ago started a short story about Julia, her husband Paul and some friends dining out in a San Francisco Chinese restaurant. Julia had lost her voice and was writing notes to communicate and the restaurant owner would not speak but wrote notes back to Julia as she considered that to be polite. Paul was upset because the restaurateur would not accept payment for the meal and it was the Childs' policy always to pay to avoid the appearance of favoritism coming their way. Later, Julia writes that they should send the owner a book and also writes, "We must all help to cheer up Paul. He gets depressed when anything wrong w. wife." This reminded me of the way the movie portrayed the relationship between the two - very loving, supportive and understanding. To me, this little note reveals the sweetness of Julia's nature and I was impressed with how extraordinary this competent, determined, talented woman was.
That started me thinking about extraordinary people. What traits do I want in those I think are extraordinary and who do I think to be extraordinary? The traits are easier than selecting the people. An extraordinary person affects other people in a positive way, whether those people be the world, a nation, their community or acquaintances. An extraordinary person, in my opinion, shows strength of character. She does the right thing in each situation, and the right thing is usually the harder choice to make. An extraordinary person lives by ideals and stays true to them. This enables him to live straight and true and frees him up to accomplish things. What things? Things that are hard to do: write a book, build a company, invent something and carry it through to reality, teach children or adults who need teaching, negotiate peace, fight for a cause to the detriment of lifestyle, become so immersed in an idea that the idea actually becomes a reality that positively impacts others.
I suppose all this means that an extraordinary person carries through and does not give up when things get tough. A child who is subjected to a horrible youth and surmounts this to become a functioning adult, a positive member of society, is extraordinary. A mother who digs in Haitian ruins for over 70 hours to rescue her toddler is extraordinary. The man who several years ago, rescued fellow airline passengers from the freezing Potomac river and lost his life after going back in time and time again is truly extraordinary. A firefighter who enters a burning building; a father or mother who endures a grinding, uninspired job because that is the only way to support the family; a friend who brings another friend back from the brink of suicide; an artist who can create a work that provides beauty: these are all extraordinary people.
Being famous does not make one extraordinary. Think of some movie stars and singers whose lives are train wrecks. Their talent may be extraordinary, but they are not. They are destroyed by it and the fame that accompanies it. Being rich does not make a person extraordinary. What one does with the money may, but money may simply make you affluent, not extraordinary. Being smart, beautiful, or powerful does not lead to being extraordinary. Character does.
So who are some extraordinary people I know? Right away I think of a long-time teaching friend who died too soon. Her dedication to her students and to helping other teachers be successful was quiet and strong. It was a thread that stitched her life together. She took more classes, read voraciously anything that would help her teach better, provided information for teachers, parents, and students that would improve their educational and personal lives. She was extraordinary even though I didn't truly recognize this until she was gone. Isn't that always the way? You don't know what you have until it disappears. Very sad. (This brings up another topic, possibly fodder for a future discussion: we need to appreciate what we have while we have it.) My teacher-friend was a person who positively impacted so many people, but she didn't think this was anything out of the ordinary. It was her nature. Not that she didn't sacrifice for this impact. She sometimes felt guilty that she didn't spend more time with her daughters - although she was an active, involved, loving mother. She could have spent more time with her husband just traveling and enjoying each other. And she could have paid more attention to her health and visited the doctor in time to halt the condition that suddenly killed her. But she was too busy teaching and helping. What a loss we sustained when she left us.
Another extraordinary person of course, was Mother Teresa. No discussion needed. I always think of Margaret Meade as being outstanding, but, I don't know much about her which means I had better study her if I want her to remain on the list. The women who fought so that I may vote and not be considered property. Abraham Lincoln, Thomas Edison, Albert Einstein, Eli Whitney and their ilk, yes. Martin Luther and Martin Luther King, Jr., Ghandi. Jesus, not in a religious way, but what he proposed in his teachings, if the Bible can be believed, was extraordinary. Treat others in the same way you want to be treated? Profound. If we all did that....
Those are famous people, but if we look around, we can find outstanding people in our own lives. I challenge myself and any readers I may have to look for those people in our own lives. Appreciate them and learn from them. And maybe be one.
A Gary Soto poem about an ordinary, extraordinary person. Read it a couple of times, at least. It's a really good one.
A Red Palm
You're in this dream of cotton plants.
You raise a hoe, swing, and the first weeds
Fall with a sigh. You take another step,
Chop, and the sigh comes again,
Until you yourself are breathing that way
With each step, a sigh that will follow you into town.
That's hours later. The sun is a red blister
Coming up in your palm. Your back is strong,
Young, not yet the broken chair
In an abandoned school of dry spiders.
Dust settles on your forehead, dirt
Smiles under each fingernail.
You chop, step, and by the end of the first row,
You can buy one splendid fish for wife
And three sons. Another row, another fish,
Until you have enough and move on to milk,
Bread, meat. Ten hours and the cupboards creak.
You can rest in the back yard under a tree.
Your hands twitch on your lap,
Not unlike the fish on a pier or the bottom
Of a boat. You drink iced tea. The minutes jerk
Like flies.
It's dusk, now night,
And the lights in your home are on.
That costs money, yellow light
In the kitchen. That's thirty steps,
You say to your hands,
Now shaped into binoculars.
You could raise them to your eyes:
You were a fool in school, now look at you.
You're a giant among cotton plants.
Now you see your oldest boy, also running.
Papa, he says, it's time to come in.
You pull him into your lap
And ask, What's forty times nine?
He knows as well as you, and you smile.
The wind makes peace with the trees,
The stars strike themselves in the dark.
You get up and walk with the sigh of cotton plants.
You go to sleep with a red sun on your palm,
The sore light you see when you first stir in bed.
Gary Soto
That started me thinking about extraordinary people. What traits do I want in those I think are extraordinary and who do I think to be extraordinary? The traits are easier than selecting the people. An extraordinary person affects other people in a positive way, whether those people be the world, a nation, their community or acquaintances. An extraordinary person, in my opinion, shows strength of character. She does the right thing in each situation, and the right thing is usually the harder choice to make. An extraordinary person lives by ideals and stays true to them. This enables him to live straight and true and frees him up to accomplish things. What things? Things that are hard to do: write a book, build a company, invent something and carry it through to reality, teach children or adults who need teaching, negotiate peace, fight for a cause to the detriment of lifestyle, become so immersed in an idea that the idea actually becomes a reality that positively impacts others.
I suppose all this means that an extraordinary person carries through and does not give up when things get tough. A child who is subjected to a horrible youth and surmounts this to become a functioning adult, a positive member of society, is extraordinary. A mother who digs in Haitian ruins for over 70 hours to rescue her toddler is extraordinary. The man who several years ago, rescued fellow airline passengers from the freezing Potomac river and lost his life after going back in time and time again is truly extraordinary. A firefighter who enters a burning building; a father or mother who endures a grinding, uninspired job because that is the only way to support the family; a friend who brings another friend back from the brink of suicide; an artist who can create a work that provides beauty: these are all extraordinary people.
Being famous does not make one extraordinary. Think of some movie stars and singers whose lives are train wrecks. Their talent may be extraordinary, but they are not. They are destroyed by it and the fame that accompanies it. Being rich does not make a person extraordinary. What one does with the money may, but money may simply make you affluent, not extraordinary. Being smart, beautiful, or powerful does not lead to being extraordinary. Character does.
So who are some extraordinary people I know? Right away I think of a long-time teaching friend who died too soon. Her dedication to her students and to helping other teachers be successful was quiet and strong. It was a thread that stitched her life together. She took more classes, read voraciously anything that would help her teach better, provided information for teachers, parents, and students that would improve their educational and personal lives. She was extraordinary even though I didn't truly recognize this until she was gone. Isn't that always the way? You don't know what you have until it disappears. Very sad. (This brings up another topic, possibly fodder for a future discussion: we need to appreciate what we have while we have it.) My teacher-friend was a person who positively impacted so many people, but she didn't think this was anything out of the ordinary. It was her nature. Not that she didn't sacrifice for this impact. She sometimes felt guilty that she didn't spend more time with her daughters - although she was an active, involved, loving mother. She could have spent more time with her husband just traveling and enjoying each other. And she could have paid more attention to her health and visited the doctor in time to halt the condition that suddenly killed her. But she was too busy teaching and helping. What a loss we sustained when she left us.
Another extraordinary person of course, was Mother Teresa. No discussion needed. I always think of Margaret Meade as being outstanding, but, I don't know much about her which means I had better study her if I want her to remain on the list. The women who fought so that I may vote and not be considered property. Abraham Lincoln, Thomas Edison, Albert Einstein, Eli Whitney and their ilk, yes. Martin Luther and Martin Luther King, Jr., Ghandi. Jesus, not in a religious way, but what he proposed in his teachings, if the Bible can be believed, was extraordinary. Treat others in the same way you want to be treated? Profound. If we all did that....
Those are famous people, but if we look around, we can find outstanding people in our own lives. I challenge myself and any readers I may have to look for those people in our own lives. Appreciate them and learn from them. And maybe be one.
A Gary Soto poem about an ordinary, extraordinary person. Read it a couple of times, at least. It's a really good one.
A Red Palm
You're in this dream of cotton plants.
You raise a hoe, swing, and the first weeds
Fall with a sigh. You take another step,
Chop, and the sigh comes again,
Until you yourself are breathing that way
With each step, a sigh that will follow you into town.
That's hours later. The sun is a red blister
Coming up in your palm. Your back is strong,
Young, not yet the broken chair
In an abandoned school of dry spiders.
Dust settles on your forehead, dirt
Smiles under each fingernail.
You chop, step, and by the end of the first row,
You can buy one splendid fish for wife
And three sons. Another row, another fish,
Until you have enough and move on to milk,
Bread, meat. Ten hours and the cupboards creak.
You can rest in the back yard under a tree.
Your hands twitch on your lap,
Not unlike the fish on a pier or the bottom
Of a boat. You drink iced tea. The minutes jerk
Like flies.
It's dusk, now night,
And the lights in your home are on.
That costs money, yellow light
In the kitchen. That's thirty steps,
You say to your hands,
Now shaped into binoculars.
You could raise them to your eyes:
You were a fool in school, now look at you.
You're a giant among cotton plants.
Now you see your oldest boy, also running.
Papa, he says, it's time to come in.
You pull him into your lap
And ask, What's forty times nine?
He knows as well as you, and you smile.
The wind makes peace with the trees,
The stars strike themselves in the dark.
You get up and walk with the sigh of cotton plants.
You go to sleep with a red sun on your palm,
The sore light you see when you first stir in bed.
Gary Soto
Thursday, January 21, 2010
"Fluffy bunny + twitchy nose + big ears = great stew."
I like laughing. I think laughing is important for good mental health. I think Robin Williams, Lily Tomlin, Gildna Radnor, Carol Burnett and the like have helped millions of people who needed a laugh in order to step back from their troubles for a few minutes. Troubles that threatened to overwhelm them but became smaller because of the short laugh-vacation that allowed them to gain some perspective. Or perhaps laughing let them say to themselves, "I'll think about this tomorrow. Right now I'm taking a break." And with distance, the pressure was released just enough that they could get a handle on their situation and face it.
Laughter is just good fun sometimes. Being silly is a necessary part of the human condition. Laughing just plain feels good. Why else would we pay people to make us laugh? Why else are class clowns popular with their fellow students? Why is YouTube so popular?
Ever watch kids laugh? Their mouths open, their eyes crinkle; sometimes their entire body shakes and jiggles. It's fun to watch them. And how about charting the ability of a baby to laugh and chortle? How does a little baby know what's funny or pleasurable enough to make her smile? Sure, tickling can make a baby or toddler laugh, but the really interesting thing is to watch a sense of humor develop in a child. She starts out laughing at Daddy's funny faces and moves on to appreciate the cat's antics or a sibling's silly dance. When she gets a wicked little grin on her angelic face and runs away from Mommy when it's diaper-changing time, her sense of humor probably has something to do with power and escape and ending up in Mommy's arms. And so it goes, a sense of humor is developed and laughter ensues.
Why we laugh is the subject of scientific studies and is fascinating in itself, but why we laugh may not be as important as the laughing itself. We need to laugh. I had a few good laughs today when I discovered a blog called The Sleep Talkin' Man. It seems a guy in England talks in his sleep - a lot. And he says the craziest, funniest things. In fact, they are so funny that his wife set up a voice-activated recorder and in the morning she transcribes his bon mots onto the blog. They even sell T-shirts with some of his sayings. My partner, Mr. Cynical, says there is no way this guy is asleep, but I saw the couple on a British TV morning show courtesy of YouTube and they look legit to me.
What does Adam say? Here is a sample: "Fluffy bunny + twitchy nose + big ears = great stew." or "I've got a really terrible terrible feeling about this custard tart. Terrible." And,"Peeing standing up rules!" These are mild ones. Don't tell your kids about this Sleep Talkin' Man blog because some of the language is not suitable for young eyes. I like these:"Don't... Don't put the noodles and the dumplings together in the boat. They'll fight! The noodles are bullies. Poor dumplings." Imagine these in a British accent said by a guy with his eyes closed. Hilarious. I was really enjoying this stuff. Apparently he has a thing about badgers as these animals appear in his nighttime conversations with - well, who knows who he is talking to? He's asleep.
I've had my shot of laughter today, have you had yours?
Here is my "poem" for this post. It consists of some of his nightly proclamations artfully arranged to approximate free verse. I call it
"Skipping to work makes everything better."
"I'd rather peel off my skin
and bathe my weeping raw flesh in a
bath of vinegar
than spend any time with you.
But that's just my opinion.
Don't take it personally."
"Elephant trunks should be used for
elephant things only.
Nothing else."
"My vision of hell is a lentil casserole."
"Badger tickling: proceed with caution"
"Vampire penguins?
Zombie guinea pigs?
We're done for.... done for."
"I don't want to die! I love sex.
And furry animals."
"Put it down!
Step away from the yam.
Step away!"
"I've got a really
terrible
terrible
feeling about this custard tart.
Terrible."
"Be happy happy happy happy."
I leave you with the perfect reply to someone injudicious enough to remark upon your girth.
"I haven't put on weight.
Your eyes are fat."
Thank you Adam, your brain is a wondrous thing.
Here is the URL for Sleep Talkin' Man.
http://sleeptalkinman.blogspot.com/
Laughter is just good fun sometimes. Being silly is a necessary part of the human condition. Laughing just plain feels good. Why else would we pay people to make us laugh? Why else are class clowns popular with their fellow students? Why is YouTube so popular?
Ever watch kids laugh? Their mouths open, their eyes crinkle; sometimes their entire body shakes and jiggles. It's fun to watch them. And how about charting the ability of a baby to laugh and chortle? How does a little baby know what's funny or pleasurable enough to make her smile? Sure, tickling can make a baby or toddler laugh, but the really interesting thing is to watch a sense of humor develop in a child. She starts out laughing at Daddy's funny faces and moves on to appreciate the cat's antics or a sibling's silly dance. When she gets a wicked little grin on her angelic face and runs away from Mommy when it's diaper-changing time, her sense of humor probably has something to do with power and escape and ending up in Mommy's arms. And so it goes, a sense of humor is developed and laughter ensues.
Why we laugh is the subject of scientific studies and is fascinating in itself, but why we laugh may not be as important as the laughing itself. We need to laugh. I had a few good laughs today when I discovered a blog called The Sleep Talkin' Man. It seems a guy in England talks in his sleep - a lot. And he says the craziest, funniest things. In fact, they are so funny that his wife set up a voice-activated recorder and in the morning she transcribes his bon mots onto the blog. They even sell T-shirts with some of his sayings. My partner, Mr. Cynical, says there is no way this guy is asleep, but I saw the couple on a British TV morning show courtesy of YouTube and they look legit to me.
What does Adam say? Here is a sample: "Fluffy bunny + twitchy nose + big ears = great stew." or "I've got a really terrible terrible feeling about this custard tart. Terrible." And,"Peeing standing up rules!" These are mild ones. Don't tell your kids about this Sleep Talkin' Man blog because some of the language is not suitable for young eyes. I like these:"Don't... Don't put the noodles and the dumplings together in the boat. They'll fight! The noodles are bullies. Poor dumplings." Imagine these in a British accent said by a guy with his eyes closed. Hilarious. I was really enjoying this stuff. Apparently he has a thing about badgers as these animals appear in his nighttime conversations with - well, who knows who he is talking to? He's asleep.
I've had my shot of laughter today, have you had yours?
Here is my "poem" for this post. It consists of some of his nightly proclamations artfully arranged to approximate free verse. I call it
"Skipping to work makes everything better."
"I'd rather peel off my skin
and bathe my weeping raw flesh in a
bath of vinegar
than spend any time with you.
But that's just my opinion.
Don't take it personally."
"Elephant trunks should be used for
elephant things only.
Nothing else."
"My vision of hell is a lentil casserole."
"Badger tickling: proceed with caution"
"Vampire penguins?
Zombie guinea pigs?
We're done for.... done for."
"I don't want to die! I love sex.
And furry animals."
"Put it down!
Step away from the yam.
Step away!"
"I've got a really
terrible
terrible
feeling about this custard tart.
Terrible."
"Be happy happy happy happy."
I leave you with the perfect reply to someone injudicious enough to remark upon your girth.
"I haven't put on weight.
Your eyes are fat."
Thank you Adam, your brain is a wondrous thing.
Here is the URL for Sleep Talkin' Man.
http://sleeptalkinman.blogspot.com/
Tuesday, January 19, 2010
The Spark is Lit Once More
Many times in the past I have fallen off the write-something-every-day wagon, advice many aspiring writers try to follow. Often real life does get in the way of the life of the mind for most of us. I used to feel guilty about this. When I was teaching literature and writing to high school students, I found it ironic that by encouraging them to read and write I wasn't reading what I wanted or writing anything other than remarks on their papers and grocery lists. Or grades, which can hardly count as writing especially since they were inked into tiny squares in the gradebook to be transferred to the computer. No, that was not writing; neither were the comments I sprinkled their papers with. I used to fantasize my retirement: sunshine flowing through my windows, cup of tea by my side, writing for a couple of hours early in the morning, working out, riding my bike, preparing lovely gourmet meals and then more writing deep into the night. Ha! Now I am no longer in the classroom but not entirely retired. Retired enough to have a lot of time for good stretches, however, and not much of the fantasy has materialized. That's why this blog is important to me.
Finally, I am writing. Well, I did co-write a book with my cycling buddy so I suppose that counts as writing, but I haven't written much poetry except for a poem about the death of a good teaching friend who died too young. As for the daily journal or working on another book - not so much. Not at all. Real life has been fun and I do have time to just pick up and do something unplanned occasionally which is heavenly after 31 years of a working life divided into 57 minute time slots every day. And the guilt about not writing receded into the minutia in the back of my mind. I sometimes thought about the feminist writer whose name escapes me at the moment, who opined that after a lifetime of serving others as wife, mother, daughter, worker, many women writers lose that creative urge. They must indulge the urge to keep it alive. Or they just lose their spark, their creativity. I certainly understand that. I was sure that is what had happened to me. I had lost the light of creativity. I had the time but I didn't take it for writing. I did so many other things instead. And they were necessary or fun or educational. But they weren't writing.
I suppose I had fallen prey partly to the thought that 1) What could I say that hasn't been said before and said better? and 2) Who would want to listen to anything I had to say anyway? Those are deadly thoughts to a writer who has to have the confidence to write despite them. I keep telling a good friend to get rid of her internal editor who makes her try to write perfectly so much that she doesn't write at all. She was a real editor before her retirement so I am sure it is very hard for her to lose that judgmental devil on her shoulder as she writes. But I was under the influence of another devil when I listened to it saying, "You have nothing worthwhile to write about. No one is interested in what you have to say."
Here is where the blogging phenomenon did me a colossal favor. People are writing about everything, anything and nothing. Many are being read and many more don't care if they are ever read. Well, I can't quite believe that. I think the reason we write is to be heard as well as to express ourselves. I secretly hope that my blog catches on and spreads worldwide. I don't expect it, but it would be pretty cool. Writing a blog is an interesting way of expressing yourself - of finding your voice.
So I am writing again and it feels so good. Writing also makes me pay more attention to the details of life. I'm looking for things to think about and write about. I pay more attention to people and situations and colors and scenery and buildings and conversations. And lots of other stuff. Writing adds another dimension to my life. So even if no one reads my blog, it is making me more alert and interested in life. And that, as Martha Stewart says, is a good thing.
The following poem, not one of mine, seems appropriate.
you don't stop writing girl, go girl go
You don't stop writing girl
You cannot stop, It is part of your nerves now.
Each vein looks for the proper word.
Each red blood corpuscle has become a syllable
For an imaginary poem in your mind.
Each beat of your heart recites a rhyme
A rhythm. A sonnet. A couplet.
Each curl in your cerebellum thinks of
An imagery. Another metaphor comes
And you grasp them with each breath.
You are alive girl. Go girl stop watching
The snow and make your imagination
Run wild like a snowstorm.
The sound of a snowfall. A snowflake
Layering on the side of your window pane
Speaks to you about this coldness
This beautiful sound of a very lonely song
Harking for Love.
Far away from your homeland
You weep for a while and then recover
Compose yourself and see your face in that mirror.
You are strong. You are as vast as the ten thousand miles
Away from us.
Go girl. Another poem knocks at the door of your heart.
Write it. Write about a chaff. The grain. The wheat germ.
Go girl. You are one of us, chosen not to speak
But to write.
I am waiting for your next poem. Gladly, I am.
RIC S. BASTASA
http://www.poemhunter.com/
Finally, I am writing. Well, I did co-write a book with my cycling buddy so I suppose that counts as writing, but I haven't written much poetry except for a poem about the death of a good teaching friend who died too young. As for the daily journal or working on another book - not so much. Not at all. Real life has been fun and I do have time to just pick up and do something unplanned occasionally which is heavenly after 31 years of a working life divided into 57 minute time slots every day. And the guilt about not writing receded into the minutia in the back of my mind. I sometimes thought about the feminist writer whose name escapes me at the moment, who opined that after a lifetime of serving others as wife, mother, daughter, worker, many women writers lose that creative urge. They must indulge the urge to keep it alive. Or they just lose their spark, their creativity. I certainly understand that. I was sure that is what had happened to me. I had lost the light of creativity. I had the time but I didn't take it for writing. I did so many other things instead. And they were necessary or fun or educational. But they weren't writing.
I suppose I had fallen prey partly to the thought that 1) What could I say that hasn't been said before and said better? and 2) Who would want to listen to anything I had to say anyway? Those are deadly thoughts to a writer who has to have the confidence to write despite them. I keep telling a good friend to get rid of her internal editor who makes her try to write perfectly so much that she doesn't write at all. She was a real editor before her retirement so I am sure it is very hard for her to lose that judgmental devil on her shoulder as she writes. But I was under the influence of another devil when I listened to it saying, "You have nothing worthwhile to write about. No one is interested in what you have to say."
Here is where the blogging phenomenon did me a colossal favor. People are writing about everything, anything and nothing. Many are being read and many more don't care if they are ever read. Well, I can't quite believe that. I think the reason we write is to be heard as well as to express ourselves. I secretly hope that my blog catches on and spreads worldwide. I don't expect it, but it would be pretty cool. Writing a blog is an interesting way of expressing yourself - of finding your voice.
So I am writing again and it feels so good. Writing also makes me pay more attention to the details of life. I'm looking for things to think about and write about. I pay more attention to people and situations and colors and scenery and buildings and conversations. And lots of other stuff. Writing adds another dimension to my life. So even if no one reads my blog, it is making me more alert and interested in life. And that, as Martha Stewart says, is a good thing.
The following poem, not one of mine, seems appropriate.
you don't stop writing girl, go girl go
You don't stop writing girl
You cannot stop, It is part of your nerves now.
Each vein looks for the proper word.
Each red blood corpuscle has become a syllable
For an imaginary poem in your mind.
Each beat of your heart recites a rhyme
A rhythm. A sonnet. A couplet.
Each curl in your cerebellum thinks of
An imagery. Another metaphor comes
And you grasp them with each breath.
You are alive girl. Go girl stop watching
The snow and make your imagination
Run wild like a snowstorm.
The sound of a snowfall. A snowflake
Layering on the side of your window pane
Speaks to you about this coldness
This beautiful sound of a very lonely song
Harking for Love.
Far away from your homeland
You weep for a while and then recover
Compose yourself and see your face in that mirror.
You are strong. You are as vast as the ten thousand miles
Away from us.
Go girl. Another poem knocks at the door of your heart.
Write it. Write about a chaff. The grain. The wheat germ.
Go girl. You are one of us, chosen not to speak
But to write.
I am waiting for your next poem. Gladly, I am.
RIC S. BASTASA
http://www.poemhunter.com/
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