I finished my first volume of poetry, Ink, this weekend.
Though I would like to say here that it was published, I can claim only to have assembled fifteen of my most recent poems and printed them in a hand-made book. There was a time, I suppose, in the history of books and book-making, when what I have done would qualify as 'publication', but even that broad categorisation requires some qualification. I think that, besides simply making the first copy, in order for it to be published, I have to a) make more copies, and b) disseminate them.
My goal in writing poetry is expression; my goal in publishing poetry is permanence.
I would be lying if I said that I don't care what happens to my work. I don't think I would even write if I thought it wasn't going to last; if I had no desire for it to represent me in the world after I am gone. It's not fame but persistence that I seek. There is ambition in my work, arrogance in the assumption of genius, hubris after all. But why not? Without the folly would anything ever emerge from this chaotic dance? Who among us creates but those without the sense to know better or the humilty to refrain from the desire to be God?
To the poet belong the spoils, for no greater act of courage won a battle nor a war averted. If, that is, said poet can manage to get published.
Monday, November 24, 2008
Friday, November 21, 2008
Driving to South Central LA
(Yeats comes to Amerika)
That is not a city for old men. The young
Men are armed, children in the street
--those dying generations--rap beat riding
The boulevards, and in the body-filled bars where
Crack, bullets or aids conspire all summer long.
Many are conceived, some are born, all die.
Trapped in that deadly dance they disparage
Treasure of their intellectual heritage.
An old man gets no respect.
Worn out values stuck to pride, unless
He goes to church and sings and sings louder
For every murder his children leave on the street
Abandoning the schools where all that is taught
Is that the System takes care of itself.
So I got in my car and drove today,
To the violent city of South Central LA.
O homeless mercenaries living on the street
Lost in the shadows around the neon,
Leave your cardboard box, stand by the curb
And come clean out that shit behind my garage.
Fill my heart with guilt; fat from indulgence
And inserted into an atrophied frame,
It has no feeling; let me just pretend
That I am helping you.
When I die I don't want to be
Brought back as a living being,
But with a Madonna body made by Chinese slaves
Of moulded plastic and pink lead paint
To keep a drowsy housewife awake;
Or set upon a taxi dashboard and wave
To the men and women of South Central LA
While the driver tells them all what it is, or what it
aint, or
How it ought to be.
12/18/92
That is not a city for old men. The young
Men are armed, children in the street
--those dying generations--rap beat riding
The boulevards, and in the body-filled bars where
Crack, bullets or aids conspire all summer long.
Many are conceived, some are born, all die.
Trapped in that deadly dance they disparage
Treasure of their intellectual heritage.
An old man gets no respect.
Worn out values stuck to pride, unless
He goes to church and sings and sings louder
For every murder his children leave on the street
Abandoning the schools where all that is taught
Is that the System takes care of itself.
So I got in my car and drove today,
To the violent city of South Central LA.
O homeless mercenaries living on the street
Lost in the shadows around the neon,
Leave your cardboard box, stand by the curb
And come clean out that shit behind my garage.
Fill my heart with guilt; fat from indulgence
And inserted into an atrophied frame,
It has no feeling; let me just pretend
That I am helping you.
When I die I don't want to be
Brought back as a living being,
But with a Madonna body made by Chinese slaves
Of moulded plastic and pink lead paint
To keep a drowsy housewife awake;
Or set upon a taxi dashboard and wave
To the men and women of South Central LA
While the driver tells them all what it is, or what it
aint, or
How it ought to be.
12/18/92
Night
Words fall from my eyes
like charcoal.
Black ink leaks from my heart,
Staining the page with blood.
Cataracts cloud my eye,
Salt coats my tongue;
Now too barren,
too shallow for words.
Shadows fall but are lost
in my eye.
Do not come back.
Turn from this desert.
Le me wander till night falls
And I am gathered up
To fill the space between the stars.
07.31.08
like charcoal.
Black ink leaks from my heart,
Staining the page with blood.
Cataracts cloud my eye,
Salt coats my tongue;
Now too barren,
too shallow for words.
Shadows fall but are lost
in my eye.
Do not come back.
Turn from this desert.
Le me wander till night falls
And I am gathered up
To fill the space between the stars.
07.31.08
Shadows
Bring me
A mountain of paper;
An ocean of ink.
A billion more words.
Will it make people think?
To shout down the tyrant
Don't act the fool.
Shut up. Pay rent.
Don't piss in the pool.
Words are mere shadows
Cast on the wall
Clever allusions,
Vapors, that's all.
A mountain of paper;
An ocean of ink.
A billion more words.
Will it make people think?
To shout down the tyrant
Don't act the fool.
Shut up. Pay rent.
Don't piss in the pool.
Words are mere shadows
Cast on the wall
Clever allusions,
Vapors, that's all.
Grief
Like meat
Dragged across concrete.
Like meat
Shriveled on the grill.
Pulse pounding still,
Like meat.
Dragged across concrete.
Like meat
Shriveled on the grill.
Pulse pounding still,
Like meat.
Thursday, November 20, 2008
Mementos
Henry and I were talking about our dads last night, thinking of what we had saved, as mementos of their presence now passed.
I showed him what turns out to be the only object of his that I keep on display in my room, a small carved cufflink box that sits on my dresser next to the clay mask of Agamemnon and the crude little figurative clay statuette that still bear the fingerprints of Lynda. If Bill's imprint on my life is yet visible, it is most obvious in the mirror and the viewfinder, but an observant visitor would find it also in the eclectic collection of objects o n my dresser and my desks, all carefully arranged for my convenience and aesthetic pleasure.
He asked if it was ivory, which, though I told him it was not, it is. I stumbled on the answer because it's actually from an animal that one would not ordinarily expect to harvest the now politically incorrect material known as ivory: a whale.
One of the most interesting and possibly the grandest adventures upon which Bill embarked--literally--was his trip on a whaling expedition to the Antarctic as a free-lance photographer for LIFE magazine when he was in his early twenties. The carved ivory box, which sat on his dresser until I picked it up the day after he died, was just one of the mementos he had from that trip. He also had a piece of baleen--the krill filter in their mouth--and a bizarre looking shell-shaped piece of ceramic-looking material that was actually the inner ear of a sperm whale. He also had a lot of photographs, of course, and a yellowed copy of the magazine in which they appeared.
Now LIFE magazine is still around, I guess, but in the sixties, it was still a very famous and even important magazine, perhaps even the most read and loved by Americans--though LOOK was a stiff competitor--at the time. This made my dad, by association as a photographer, somewhat of a celebrity for me during those middle school years when I could, and did, bring my Dad in to talk about his adventure for show and tell. He would bring all the stuff, including a sperm whale tooth that was inscribed with skrimshaw and the little cufflink box carved from an even larger tooth. He'd answer every question, too, from facts about whales to the goriest details that the teacher would let him get away with. The stories at home were uncensored, thankfully.
His photographs of the expedition were quite good. Over the years, he would retell the adventure as we looked through the magazine or perhaps reviewing old slides one day, and I honestly never tired of it. I learned, first of all, that it was Ant-arc-tica, with the hard 'c' before the 't'. He told me about toilets flushing the opposite way below the equator. He talked about the equator crossing ceremony, the penguins that came to visit the boat and, mostly, about the hard work and rough conditions that the men who called themselves whalers endured.
I saw--over and over again--the bloody and brutal pictures of the whales being cut up and shoved into tiny--compared to their once majestic girths--holes in the deck of the ship and cannot still forget the grim faces of the men who did the hacking and slicing with long-handled knives, ropes and winches.
This was no modern day factory ship. It resembled, in many regards, what it really was: the last of the American whaling fleet to ever set to sea; a vessel not too far removed in time or size from the original Yankee whalers. The methods for catching, killing and cutting up these giants changed but little up to the end. Harpoons were not thrown by hand, but fired from a crude gun, and the final death blow was often not delivered till the ship drew up alongside. Bill took pictures of the whole process, but he concentrated on the faces.
When he talked about it years later in front of groups of gaping mouthed middle schoolers, we were interested in the blood and gore, but he was most interested in relating what it had been like to work with these tough and dedicated sea-going workmen. His photos resembled those of Weston's New York or Brassai's Paris; studies in dark and light, images of sharp contrast in the form of powerful human portraits.
He was, even then, outspoken in his opposition to whaling, and used his experience as a cautionary tale. This was long before 'Save the Whales' ever entered the American consciousness, and from his point of view, one that had little to do with saving the planet and everything to do with simply being humane. In some ways, his was an experience not unlike Upton Sinclair's, and he was never hesitant to speak about the injustice that he felt was being perpetrated on these wonderful animals.
I don't know what happened to the inner ear, not the scrimshawed tooth or the baleen or even the original copy of LIFE that he saved, but I do know where the cufflink box is, and, more important, where the photographs are. It's time I brought them out and collected them in a book. As the curator of these items, it is up to me to see that they are both preserved and documented, for his sake as well as mine. After all, my interest in photography links me directly to Bill, more than a mere memento on the dresser.
I showed him what turns out to be the only object of his that I keep on display in my room, a small carved cufflink box that sits on my dresser next to the clay mask of Agamemnon and the crude little figurative clay statuette that still bear the fingerprints of Lynda. If Bill's imprint on my life is yet visible, it is most obvious in the mirror and the viewfinder, but an observant visitor would find it also in the eclectic collection of objects o n my dresser and my desks, all carefully arranged for my convenience and aesthetic pleasure.
He asked if it was ivory, which, though I told him it was not, it is. I stumbled on the answer because it's actually from an animal that one would not ordinarily expect to harvest the now politically incorrect material known as ivory: a whale.
One of the most interesting and possibly the grandest adventures upon which Bill embarked--literally--was his trip on a whaling expedition to the Antarctic as a free-lance photographer for LIFE magazine when he was in his early twenties. The carved ivory box, which sat on his dresser until I picked it up the day after he died, was just one of the mementos he had from that trip. He also had a piece of baleen--the krill filter in their mouth--and a bizarre looking shell-shaped piece of ceramic-looking material that was actually the inner ear of a sperm whale. He also had a lot of photographs, of course, and a yellowed copy of the magazine in which they appeared.
Now LIFE magazine is still around, I guess, but in the sixties, it was still a very famous and even important magazine, perhaps even the most read and loved by Americans--though LOOK was a stiff competitor--at the time. This made my dad, by association as a photographer, somewhat of a celebrity for me during those middle school years when I could, and did, bring my Dad in to talk about his adventure for show and tell. He would bring all the stuff, including a sperm whale tooth that was inscribed with skrimshaw and the little cufflink box carved from an even larger tooth. He'd answer every question, too, from facts about whales to the goriest details that the teacher would let him get away with. The stories at home were uncensored, thankfully.
His photographs of the expedition were quite good. Over the years, he would retell the adventure as we looked through the magazine or perhaps reviewing old slides one day, and I honestly never tired of it. I learned, first of all, that it was Ant-arc-tica, with the hard 'c' before the 't'. He told me about toilets flushing the opposite way below the equator. He talked about the equator crossing ceremony, the penguins that came to visit the boat and, mostly, about the hard work and rough conditions that the men who called themselves whalers endured.
I saw--over and over again--the bloody and brutal pictures of the whales being cut up and shoved into tiny--compared to their once majestic girths--holes in the deck of the ship and cannot still forget the grim faces of the men who did the hacking and slicing with long-handled knives, ropes and winches.
This was no modern day factory ship. It resembled, in many regards, what it really was: the last of the American whaling fleet to ever set to sea; a vessel not too far removed in time or size from the original Yankee whalers. The methods for catching, killing and cutting up these giants changed but little up to the end. Harpoons were not thrown by hand, but fired from a crude gun, and the final death blow was often not delivered till the ship drew up alongside. Bill took pictures of the whole process, but he concentrated on the faces.
When he talked about it years later in front of groups of gaping mouthed middle schoolers, we were interested in the blood and gore, but he was most interested in relating what it had been like to work with these tough and dedicated sea-going workmen. His photos resembled those of Weston's New York or Brassai's Paris; studies in dark and light, images of sharp contrast in the form of powerful human portraits.
He was, even then, outspoken in his opposition to whaling, and used his experience as a cautionary tale. This was long before 'Save the Whales' ever entered the American consciousness, and from his point of view, one that had little to do with saving the planet and everything to do with simply being humane. In some ways, his was an experience not unlike Upton Sinclair's, and he was never hesitant to speak about the injustice that he felt was being perpetrated on these wonderful animals.
I don't know what happened to the inner ear, not the scrimshawed tooth or the baleen or even the original copy of LIFE that he saved, but I do know where the cufflink box is, and, more important, where the photographs are. It's time I brought them out and collected them in a book. As the curator of these items, it is up to me to see that they are both preserved and documented, for his sake as well as mine. After all, my interest in photography links me directly to Bill, more than a mere memento on the dresser.
Wednesday, November 19, 2008
Once in a Lifetime
Three million people?
What does that look like? How can that many people come together in one place at one time? Where will they all stand? Sit? Eat? Erm...go to the bathroom, to use that most American of euphamisms?
We are going to the inauguration. These are just a few of the questions I've been asking myself.
Why, for crying out loud, would I want to be in the middle of that crowd? Well, for starters, it's no rock concert I'm talking about here. This event can accurately be described as something often ascribed to movies and television programs; a "Once in a lifetime event", but unlike mere entertainment, this event is one of some actual historical significance. The number of people at this event will be a powerful and delightfully tangible proof of the change that will finally come to our country and thus, to our belief that the political system, rife though it certainly is with difficulties and ripe though it is for fraud, as we have seen as never before, is both sound from a philosophical standpoint and self-correcting, from an emperical point of view, as we have, in fact often seen before in our history.
I find it both remarkable and inspiring to think that this country, this grand and humbly simple system, concieved by enlightened philosophers and indegefatigable pioneers and industrious rejects from Europe's stifling economic caste system and embodied in that elegant document we know as our Constitution, is so organic, so adaptable and humane that, despite the long odds, we find ourselves today in the remarkable situation of having elected a President who would have been ineligible to vote when that noble creed was written, simply because he wouldn't even have been considered to be a man at the time!
This alone is reason to hope, but there are many others. Thinking back to stories I've read about Andrew Jackson's inauguration, when the 'common people' were invited to, and subsequently ran amuck in the White House, I am tempted to believe that this will be one very wild party-- perhaps more than I really hoped for--but I also know that it will be a moment to express the relief and joy and optimism I feel with, literally, millions of others.
What does that look like? How can that many people come together in one place at one time? Where will they all stand? Sit? Eat? Erm...go to the bathroom, to use that most American of euphamisms?
We are going to the inauguration. These are just a few of the questions I've been asking myself.
Why, for crying out loud, would I want to be in the middle of that crowd? Well, for starters, it's no rock concert I'm talking about here. This event can accurately be described as something often ascribed to movies and television programs; a "Once in a lifetime event", but unlike mere entertainment, this event is one of some actual historical significance. The number of people at this event will be a powerful and delightfully tangible proof of the change that will finally come to our country and thus, to our belief that the political system, rife though it certainly is with difficulties and ripe though it is for fraud, as we have seen as never before, is both sound from a philosophical standpoint and self-correcting, from an emperical point of view, as we have, in fact often seen before in our history.
I find it both remarkable and inspiring to think that this country, this grand and humbly simple system, concieved by enlightened philosophers and indegefatigable pioneers and industrious rejects from Europe's stifling economic caste system and embodied in that elegant document we know as our Constitution, is so organic, so adaptable and humane that, despite the long odds, we find ourselves today in the remarkable situation of having elected a President who would have been ineligible to vote when that noble creed was written, simply because he wouldn't even have been considered to be a man at the time!
This alone is reason to hope, but there are many others. Thinking back to stories I've read about Andrew Jackson's inauguration, when the 'common people' were invited to, and subsequently ran amuck in the White House, I am tempted to believe that this will be one very wild party-- perhaps more than I really hoped for--but I also know that it will be a moment to express the relief and joy and optimism I feel with, literally, millions of others.
Monday, November 17, 2008
Making it Look Hard
He makes it look so hard!
A colleague recently reminded me of this observation I made during a basketball game long ago, referring to the free throw shooting 'style' if I may here briefly abuse that word, of the legendary Shaquille O'Neil.
My friend remembered this telling remark because, he said, it was to him a fitting metaphor useful for describing many forms of human behavior that transcended mere sports. Of course, professional sport is always a good metaphor for life, as we all know from advertisements and any corporate training sessions for self-esteem and team building that you've been unfortunate enough to endure, but wait, for the message is not always positive.
As usual, I am ahead of myself. The metaphorical implications notwithstanding, the actual incident was indeed 'a sports moment' if you will. Now, I am not a basketball fan, be advised lest you think I routinely watch the NBA, which I do not, of course, but I am also a not-so-closeted sports junkie and trvia collector and thus have the usual smattering of knowledge of the dilletant; enough to know a little something about whatever game, match or race is on the television in the restaurant kitchen on a given night.
Now this is usually football, of both the American and World varieties, which I still stubbornly and un-politically correctly refer to as 'soccer' but we watch any sport. Tennis, golf, horse racing, even, gulp, NASCAR. This all 'all sport all the time' even includes Ultimate Fighting Champions, which, to me, is simply at the level of nude mud wrestling, there's no other way to say it. It's obviously staged, in the manner of boxing and wrestling. Both of these testosterone-laden types of contests between sweaty men simply turn me off for that reason alone; sadly, for cable anyway, the entertainment value of boys wrasslin' just isn't up there on the charts for me. Of course I see plenty of that in the NFL, which has it's butt-patting male moments, to be sure, but I accept that because is still my favorite sport.
But to watch Shaquille O'Neil attempt a free throw in the course of a game, especially a playoff game, where the consequences for failure are magnified, is just plain painful. I mean, it looks like it hurts, the way he strains to put the ball up in a simple ten to twelve foot arc. Not to brag, or anything, but this is even something I can do. In fact, though I am still more likely to miss than make it on any given try, I would bet that over the course of even ten free throws, I could at least tie, if not beat Shaquille. Realistically, your thirteen-year-old girl cousin could beat him at HORSE in the driveway if he were to show up for a pick up game one Sunday afternoon while you are working around the house. She might not even get to HOR before he dinks the iron and backboard enough times to spell out FAILURE.
But my intent here is not to trash Shaquile, who could not only outplay me at basketball but likely every other sport as well, to say nothing of the damage he could inflict with but a tap of his little finger should I go around publicly calling him out for his lousy free throwing ability. Nor is it my intent to brag about my own prowess, obviously as one may not argue in favor of an absence of such an ability, but I do feel the point that my friend made about how some people manage to take the easiest things in the world and make them look hard is worth considering, especially since I seem to be one of those most afflicted by this degenerate condition.
We have all heard how some people make hard things look easy, by virtue of their talent, hard work or both, but have you ever considered how many people make the easy things look hard? In fact, we'd be hard pressed, any of us, to claim that this was not us, every day, making a mess out of what should have been an easy ans straightforward task. I know I do this often enough, but I tend not to notice it so much in myself as in others. For those things that I find hard--like math, and finishing task around the house, for example--I realize now that it is because I make them so, not necessarily because the tasks are hard in and of themselves.
So, it would seem that the biggest stumbling block would be my own preconceptions and tendencies to over-analyze my life and work. Introspection can be a good thing, but I have to learn to balance it with action. In other words, simply getting something done every day shouldn't be all that hard. Wish me luck, mockingbird.
A colleague recently reminded me of this observation I made during a basketball game long ago, referring to the free throw shooting 'style' if I may here briefly abuse that word, of the legendary Shaquille O'Neil.
My friend remembered this telling remark because, he said, it was to him a fitting metaphor useful for describing many forms of human behavior that transcended mere sports. Of course, professional sport is always a good metaphor for life, as we all know from advertisements and any corporate training sessions for self-esteem and team building that you've been unfortunate enough to endure, but wait, for the message is not always positive.
As usual, I am ahead of myself. The metaphorical implications notwithstanding, the actual incident was indeed 'a sports moment' if you will. Now, I am not a basketball fan, be advised lest you think I routinely watch the NBA, which I do not, of course, but I am also a not-so-closeted sports junkie and trvia collector and thus have the usual smattering of knowledge of the dilletant; enough to know a little something about whatever game, match or race is on the television in the restaurant kitchen on a given night.
Now this is usually football, of both the American and World varieties, which I still stubbornly and un-politically correctly refer to as 'soccer' but we watch any sport. Tennis, golf, horse racing, even, gulp, NASCAR. This all 'all sport all the time' even includes Ultimate Fighting Champions, which, to me, is simply at the level of nude mud wrestling, there's no other way to say it. It's obviously staged, in the manner of boxing and wrestling. Both of these testosterone-laden types of contests between sweaty men simply turn me off for that reason alone; sadly, for cable anyway, the entertainment value of boys wrasslin' just isn't up there on the charts for me. Of course I see plenty of that in the NFL, which has it's butt-patting male moments, to be sure, but I accept that because is still my favorite sport.
But to watch Shaquille O'Neil attempt a free throw in the course of a game, especially a playoff game, where the consequences for failure are magnified, is just plain painful. I mean, it looks like it hurts, the way he strains to put the ball up in a simple ten to twelve foot arc. Not to brag, or anything, but this is even something I can do. In fact, though I am still more likely to miss than make it on any given try, I would bet that over the course of even ten free throws, I could at least tie, if not beat Shaquille. Realistically, your thirteen-year-old girl cousin could beat him at HORSE in the driveway if he were to show up for a pick up game one Sunday afternoon while you are working around the house. She might not even get to HOR before he dinks the iron and backboard enough times to spell out FAILURE.
But my intent here is not to trash Shaquile, who could not only outplay me at basketball but likely every other sport as well, to say nothing of the damage he could inflict with but a tap of his little finger should I go around publicly calling him out for his lousy free throwing ability. Nor is it my intent to brag about my own prowess, obviously as one may not argue in favor of an absence of such an ability, but I do feel the point that my friend made about how some people manage to take the easiest things in the world and make them look hard is worth considering, especially since I seem to be one of those most afflicted by this degenerate condition.
We have all heard how some people make hard things look easy, by virtue of their talent, hard work or both, but have you ever considered how many people make the easy things look hard? In fact, we'd be hard pressed, any of us, to claim that this was not us, every day, making a mess out of what should have been an easy ans straightforward task. I know I do this often enough, but I tend not to notice it so much in myself as in others. For those things that I find hard--like math, and finishing task around the house, for example--I realize now that it is because I make them so, not necessarily because the tasks are hard in and of themselves.
So, it would seem that the biggest stumbling block would be my own preconceptions and tendencies to over-analyze my life and work. Introspection can be a good thing, but I have to learn to balance it with action. In other words, simply getting something done every day shouldn't be all that hard. Wish me luck, mockingbird.
Your Best Table
Although I have promised not to rant about the restaurant here because it is simply self indulgent to complain about what I choose to do for a living, there are moments when a situation has so aggrieved me that I am unable to escape it even the next day, so I write about it to in some way clear the awful vision from my head. So it is, today, a Sunday, and I have to tell the story about the folks from the big city.
Now, I could have called them something much worse, and, in fact, I did, shortly after my first encounter with them, even knowing that I would have to rid myself of this resentment because I still had face them again later in the evening. Of course, thanks to a combination of their personalities and my on-the-edge-of-burnout attitude, I was not able to accomplish this feat, and my second encounter with them went only slightly better than the first. But I am ahead of myself as, always.
Saturdays are my long day at the restaurant, often ten or twelve hours--beginning at noon. When I arrive, I immediately take responsibility for answering the phone and tending to guests who wander into the lobby, as did the foursome from H-Town that this story is about. I was packing cases of wine from the office up to the lobby when, on kicking open the door about two o'clock, I found my 'friends' waiting for me at the host stand.
Hey!
A large man with obviously blow dried hair and a thick mustache that reminded me of the seventies greeted me with the kind of artificial enthusiasm and aggressive posture that makes the hair on the back of my neck stand up; call it my 'waiter-sense'. With just a single word and his look, with a scan of the other three gathered round the stand I knew this was not going to be pleasant.
Can I help y'all?
We want to make a reservation. We want your best table.
Oh, now that's one of my favorite phrases, and a darn fine way to begin our interaction, but they have no way of knowing this is, so I will have to set them straight. I begin by setting down my case of wine and assuming my post at the reservation screen. At this point, the two women have a menu out and are perusing it, but one of them doesn't even have her glasses on, so I know she's just pretending to look.
Well, I begin, it's going to be a busy night. What time were you thinking about coming in?
Sensing my stiffness, this large seventies throwback decides to push to see how far he can go.
We've come a long way to eat in your restaurant. We want the best table you have. But not in with the crows.
Now, there is a crow 'theme' to one of our dining rooms. There are several bare varnished branches emerging from the wall on either side of the fireplace, and on the branches are several stuffed crows. There are some paper-mache crows that look fairly realistic on the mantel and a couple of paintings of crows by the Chef's ex-wife. Chef says it's for good luck; it creeped me out a bit at first but now I'm used it it, of course.
Now though mustache man and I may this this one thing in common, I am no ally. I do not like it when people tell me where they do or do not want to sit. I understand that people have preferences and we do try to accommodate them, but ultimately, for it's own sake, the restaurant has to set people when and where it must in order to maximize the space and time.
This whole thing about demanding--or even requesting politely--the best table in the house is something I've written about before, so I'll not belabor the point, but if it is simply annoying on the phone, dealing with the an individual who would ask for such a favor in person is downright maddening.
And, I think, they felt this. I have long known that mine is no poker face. I may control my words perfectly, but the eyes do not lie. Nor do I wish them to. I hope that sometimes people will read my thoughts beamed directly into their brains via the blue eye and act accordingly, but in this case, I don't think the jedi mind trick worked.
What time were you thinking about coming in? I repeated, ignoring, for the moment, the best table ploy.
Oh, I don't know. What do you think? He turns to his big buddy, who is eyeing me suspisciouly; he see my UT cap.
Don't matter to me, says buddy, in his best Texas country boy accent.
How bout 7:30.
Great, I say. I tap the computer screen to start the process that will, in the short term at least, get them out of my presence. Last name?
Say, where are you going to seat us? Inside I hope?
Yes, I say, but we have a big party coming in this evening, so two of the dining rooms--I gesture to the majority of the restaurant behind me--are occupied. the three rooms we will be using including this one--I point to the fireplace room, a la crow--and I am afraid I cannot promise any particular table.
He looks surprised, so I press on. We have the patio reserved as well, and quite a crowd on top of that, so let's go ahead and get you in the book.
We'll take this one! One of the women calls from the back room, having chosen a prime table in the middle of the dining room.
I cannot promise any particular table, I repeat, but I can make sure you are inside. Now, what was the name?
He gives me his name and phone number, but asks for my name in return.
Phillip. Thanks for asking. I smile, giving him the blue eye.
You the owner? He asks with just a hint of respect.
No, I just work here. Now a thoughtful person might wonder if in fact I was just being modest, but my mustache man sensed that he was in the presence of a minor player in his league and decided to press.
Well, we've eaten in some might fine restaurants. Your's seems good.
It is. I am in no mood to 'sell' them on the reservation. In fact...no, that's not going to happen. He is not reading my mind, but he does back down.
What time's the game, asked the oblivious buddy, proving that wasn't paying attention and worse, he had no idea nor interest in said game.
It's already on, I shot back. Now, I've got you down for four at seven-thirty, I say. We look forward to seeing you tonight!
Their departure is none to quick for me, as my blood pressure is skyrocketing by this point. The assumptions that the pseudo wealthy make about their position in society relative to those who serve them is just warmed-over and barely disguised antebellum elitism. At a time when that word carries more than a hint of pejorative subtext, I believe that use it fairly here to describe the sense of entitlement that allowed reasonable men and women to own slaves with a 'good' conscience.
Never one to give an entire village a bad rap for one of it's members, I'll nonetheless not resist the temptation to give an oily city a hit for producing and exporting something more pollutant than hydrocarbons and call them out for propagating a culture the racist undertones of Southern gentility with the most obvious materialistic morals of the carpetbaggers they pretend to hate but whom they secretly admire and not so secretly imitate.
Lynda once told me that she was eighteen before she realized that the South was not going to rise again. I think some of these folks have never grown up.
Now, I could have called them something much worse, and, in fact, I did, shortly after my first encounter with them, even knowing that I would have to rid myself of this resentment because I still had face them again later in the evening. Of course, thanks to a combination of their personalities and my on-the-edge-of-burnout attitude, I was not able to accomplish this feat, and my second encounter with them went only slightly better than the first. But I am ahead of myself as, always.
Saturdays are my long day at the restaurant, often ten or twelve hours--beginning at noon. When I arrive, I immediately take responsibility for answering the phone and tending to guests who wander into the lobby, as did the foursome from H-Town that this story is about. I was packing cases of wine from the office up to the lobby when, on kicking open the door about two o'clock, I found my 'friends' waiting for me at the host stand.
Hey!
A large man with obviously blow dried hair and a thick mustache that reminded me of the seventies greeted me with the kind of artificial enthusiasm and aggressive posture that makes the hair on the back of my neck stand up; call it my 'waiter-sense'. With just a single word and his look, with a scan of the other three gathered round the stand I knew this was not going to be pleasant.
Can I help y'all?
We want to make a reservation. We want your best table.
Oh, now that's one of my favorite phrases, and a darn fine way to begin our interaction, but they have no way of knowing this is, so I will have to set them straight. I begin by setting down my case of wine and assuming my post at the reservation screen. At this point, the two women have a menu out and are perusing it, but one of them doesn't even have her glasses on, so I know she's just pretending to look.
Well, I begin, it's going to be a busy night. What time were you thinking about coming in?
Sensing my stiffness, this large seventies throwback decides to push to see how far he can go.
We've come a long way to eat in your restaurant. We want the best table you have. But not in with the crows.
Now, there is a crow 'theme' to one of our dining rooms. There are several bare varnished branches emerging from the wall on either side of the fireplace, and on the branches are several stuffed crows. There are some paper-mache crows that look fairly realistic on the mantel and a couple of paintings of crows by the Chef's ex-wife. Chef says it's for good luck; it creeped me out a bit at first but now I'm used it it, of course.
Now though mustache man and I may this this one thing in common, I am no ally. I do not like it when people tell me where they do or do not want to sit. I understand that people have preferences and we do try to accommodate them, but ultimately, for it's own sake, the restaurant has to set people when and where it must in order to maximize the space and time.
This whole thing about demanding--or even requesting politely--the best table in the house is something I've written about before, so I'll not belabor the point, but if it is simply annoying on the phone, dealing with the an individual who would ask for such a favor in person is downright maddening.
And, I think, they felt this. I have long known that mine is no poker face. I may control my words perfectly, but the eyes do not lie. Nor do I wish them to. I hope that sometimes people will read my thoughts beamed directly into their brains via the blue eye and act accordingly, but in this case, I don't think the jedi mind trick worked.
What time were you thinking about coming in? I repeated, ignoring, for the moment, the best table ploy.
Oh, I don't know. What do you think? He turns to his big buddy, who is eyeing me suspisciouly; he see my UT cap.
Don't matter to me, says buddy, in his best Texas country boy accent.
How bout 7:30.
Great, I say. I tap the computer screen to start the process that will, in the short term at least, get them out of my presence. Last name?
Say, where are you going to seat us? Inside I hope?
Yes, I say, but we have a big party coming in this evening, so two of the dining rooms--I gesture to the majority of the restaurant behind me--are occupied. the three rooms we will be using including this one--I point to the fireplace room, a la crow--and I am afraid I cannot promise any particular table.
He looks surprised, so I press on. We have the patio reserved as well, and quite a crowd on top of that, so let's go ahead and get you in the book.
We'll take this one! One of the women calls from the back room, having chosen a prime table in the middle of the dining room.
I cannot promise any particular table, I repeat, but I can make sure you are inside. Now, what was the name?
He gives me his name and phone number, but asks for my name in return.
Phillip. Thanks for asking. I smile, giving him the blue eye.
You the owner? He asks with just a hint of respect.
No, I just work here. Now a thoughtful person might wonder if in fact I was just being modest, but my mustache man sensed that he was in the presence of a minor player in his league and decided to press.
Well, we've eaten in some might fine restaurants. Your's seems good.
It is. I am in no mood to 'sell' them on the reservation. In fact...no, that's not going to happen. He is not reading my mind, but he does back down.
What time's the game, asked the oblivious buddy, proving that wasn't paying attention and worse, he had no idea nor interest in said game.
It's already on, I shot back. Now, I've got you down for four at seven-thirty, I say. We look forward to seeing you tonight!
Their departure is none to quick for me, as my blood pressure is skyrocketing by this point. The assumptions that the pseudo wealthy make about their position in society relative to those who serve them is just warmed-over and barely disguised antebellum elitism. At a time when that word carries more than a hint of pejorative subtext, I believe that use it fairly here to describe the sense of entitlement that allowed reasonable men and women to own slaves with a 'good' conscience.
Never one to give an entire village a bad rap for one of it's members, I'll nonetheless not resist the temptation to give an oily city a hit for producing and exporting something more pollutant than hydrocarbons and call them out for propagating a culture the racist undertones of Southern gentility with the most obvious materialistic morals of the carpetbaggers they pretend to hate but whom they secretly admire and not so secretly imitate.
Lynda once told me that she was eighteen before she realized that the South was not going to rise again. I think some of these folks have never grown up.
Sunday, November 16, 2008
Friday, November 14, 2008
Fall is Here
This is about as much as we get, when it comes to fall colors. And, sadly, this camera phone has a blue cast that distorts the true color, so I must add that these leaves were actually red.
Taken at Waller Creek.
Thursday, November 13, 2008
Spam
This from the BBC news wire:
"A recent study by computer scientists from the University of California, Berkeley and UC, San Diego (UCSD) found that spammers manage to turn a profit despite only getting one response to every 12.5m emails they send."
12.5 million? Damn, those are some amazing numbers! That makes cold calling look a bit weak!
"A recent study by computer scientists from the University of California, Berkeley and UC, San Diego (UCSD) found that spammers manage to turn a profit despite only getting one response to every 12.5m emails they send."
12.5 million? Damn, those are some amazing numbers! That makes cold calling look a bit weak!
Bit by the Devil
So, today I do not feel well, and I know exactly why. One of our cats, appropriately named Diablo, bit me--twice--on the right wrist Monday night. Of course, it hurt pretty bad right after he attacked me; his bite, when delivered with intent, is very forceful. His teeth broke the skin in three places, and one tooth penetrated to deep muscle.
That night, it was hard to sleep because it hurt so much, and all the next day I tried to shake it off, to no avail. It just kept swelling and the infection was obviously spreading. So much so, that when I went to a long-standing dentist appointment Tuesday afternoon, he advised me to go straight to a doctor, which I did. The doctor at the minor emergency clinic told me that ninety percent of cat bites become infected, so it was almost inevitable, even if I'd cleaned the wound properly, which I had not.
I took the day off from work yesterday and though I expected to be active and not allow the injury to slow me down, in fact the infection has dragged me down further than I ever expected to go, especially considering that I got treatment fairly quickly. Last night was still a bad one, full of crazy dreams and fears, like I literally have bugs running around in my brain.
This is not the first time that Diablo has bit me, or others. He has bit us all at one point or another, and he doesn't stop with us. He regularly ambushes the other cats--especially the youngest, Peaches--who avoid him at best and are downright afraid of him at worst. In short, he is a bully. And, I think, he knows it.
I can't help wondering why he would attack me. The act was deliberate, even though the doctor was required to indicate that the attack was 'provoked' by me because I was petting him at the time. Had he crossed the room to attack me for no reason, it would be considered 'unprovoked', but to me the distinction is a false one. This cat really had no reason to bite me, especially twice, for we were not 'playing' nor was I teasing him. I sat down on the floor and he came over to let me pet him. No sooner than I touched his head, he turned over and seized my wrist with a force that would surely end the life of a small bird or rodent.
But I am not a bird or--depending on whom you ask--a rodent, so it seems to me that he had to know what he was doing. It is not enough to absolve him by say, 'Oh he didn't know what he was doing' because, I think, he did know what he was doing. It wasn't a simple scratch or warning; in fact it came without the warning I needed to protect myself.
So, I have a new way to keep from getting hurt; I will not touch him again for some time. It's his loss, really, but I haven't any choice.
Wednesday, November 12, 2008
Half
As Zeno's arrow falls
Short by half,
We are dancing round
A Golden Calf.
Zeno, let your arrow fly
Logic does good sense defy.
A million mouths have been fed
Ten million more hungry went to bed.
Ten billion souls with no place to go.
Tell me, then, your tale of woe.
04.19.08
Short by half,
We are dancing round
A Golden Calf.
Zeno, let your arrow fly
Logic does good sense defy.
A million mouths have been fed
Ten million more hungry went to bed.
Ten billion souls with no place to go.
Tell me, then, your tale of woe.
04.19.08
Beam
Razor saw ripped
From the Earth
The beam now raised over head.
Water-stretched fibers
Once reached for the Sun;
Now for the stud
On opposite wall.
Stained, nailed but
Not long enough dead
To forget.
It knows yet what it is
And longs to sag;
Corrupting the pure line
Of the saw's awful will.
04.21.08
From the Earth
The beam now raised over head.
Water-stretched fibers
Once reached for the Sun;
Now for the stud
On opposite wall.
Stained, nailed but
Not long enough dead
To forget.
It knows yet what it is
And longs to sag;
Corrupting the pure line
Of the saw's awful will.
04.21.08
Twist
It's the Helix
Not the Spire
Brought us in
From the Fire.
But why the twist?
Is that why Space and Time exist?
Truth is neither
Particle nor Wave
Cast the shadows in
Plato's Cave.
04.18.08
Not the Spire
Brought us in
From the Fire.
But why the twist?
Is that why Space and Time exist?
Truth is neither
Particle nor Wave
Cast the shadows in
Plato's Cave.
04.18.08
Beg Not
Death does not make us proud.
The Shadow falls and
Bargaining begins.
What do you want?
More Time?
Less Pain?
More Love?
What will you give?
More Money?
Less Suffering?
More Sex?
The game is over.
Beg not
How nor why
Lest you lose the rest.
08.13.08
The Shadow falls and
Bargaining begins.
What do you want?
More Time?
Less Pain?
More Love?
What will you give?
More Money?
Less Suffering?
More Sex?
The game is over.
Beg not
How nor why
Lest you lose the rest.
08.13.08
Death Abundant
Savage seas
Are ripe with Life.
Clear waters disguise
Death abundant with
Prismatic raiments.
Hide in plain sight.
Still, it stalks you.
08.15.08
Are ripe with Life.
Clear waters disguise
Death abundant with
Prismatic raiments.
Hide in plain sight.
Still, it stalks you.
08.15.08
April
Come in young poet!
Dust the snow off
Precious April, and
Hear from me about
Winter's call.
Summer has yet to appear on
Your horizon, while
I am set.
Sit by the fire with me,
For what it takes
Read not words but
Meaning take from
Nimble old hands.
Cut out your words and
Dry them in the furnace Sun;
If you'll feed me in old age,
Though toothless I will still
Eat your Poems.
09.13.08
Dust the snow off
Precious April, and
Hear from me about
Winter's call.
Summer has yet to appear on
Your horizon, while
I am set.
Sit by the fire with me,
For what it takes
Read not words but
Meaning take from
Nimble old hands.
Cut out your words and
Dry them in the furnace Sun;
If you'll feed me in old age,
Though toothless I will still
Eat your Poems.
09.13.08
Tapestry
One hundred eleven and one half kilos.
This one weighs more
Than the morbidly obese
Englishman munching salad.
Our tapestry is woven with
But a single golden thread.
To me it is seamless
But to all others a
Disjunction of face.
We piece together the
Whole, and smile
To keep it blurry.
9.22.08
This one weighs more
Than the morbidly obese
Englishman munching salad.
Our tapestry is woven with
But a single golden thread.
To me it is seamless
But to all others a
Disjunction of face.
We piece together the
Whole, and smile
To keep it blurry.
9.22.08
Tuesday, November 11, 2008
Hope
As I reveled in the optimism spawned by Obama's election, it occurred to me that he is the first president in my lifetime who is actually younger than me.
At 47, Barak Obmama is also the first President who is of my generation, so to speak. Bill Clinton, while fairly young, was still from a generation just prior to my own, and thus, though he was cool, he did not, alas for us, 'inhale'. Obama, on the other hand, is more than young and cool, in the way that has nothing to do with inhaling, but everything to do with hope for change. This, I suspect, was the same hope that President Kennedy represented for my parent's generation.
I know, of course, that there were plenty of Americans who despised Kennedy, because now I know how polarized our country is and has been for many generations now, and that his margin of victory was slim at best. But as a child whose parents clearly respected and admired Kennedy, I had the impression that he was a popular, if not the most popular President, an impression actually formed well after his death.
In some ways it was because of his death--or the way he died--that this political consciousness was born in my brain. The day was November 22, 1963, and I was in my second grade classroom when the Principal came on the loudspeaker and announced to the class that the President had been shot and killed. School was out that day, and I do not recall much more about it on going home. I do recall how my teacher began to cry, and how upset my parents, particularly my Mother was. I was seven at the time, and understood well enough what it meant to die, though I had no sense of how devastating this was for the idealists like my parents, whose time it seemed had come and gone in all too brief a moment.
The fact that it was a Texan in the White House mattered little other than to drive home the differences between Kennedy and Johnson. Though he was a good man, with what my parents considered to be good intent--where have I heard this one before?--Johnson did not have the grace, the excitement or the optimism that Kennedy represented to intellectuals like them.
Ironically, after his death, they remembered Kennedy not so much for what he did, but for the vast potential for change that they had lost. In death, to Lynda in particular, his was the perfect Presidency, a 'fact' I only later learned to be false in the larger political context that emerged in the Sixties.
Now, since I came of age in the early seventies, Nixon's presidency was for me the 'Anti-Presidency'. This was to stand until Bush, Jr. ascended to that title, and though Clinton gave us some change and reason to hope, his peculiar blunders cost him, and us, more than it ought to have.
But hope has returned to my horizon. I know now what my parents must have felt now nearly a half-century ago. How time flies!
So, now we have another President cut from the same cloth in Obama. At a time in my life when it is at such a premium, I am pleased to feel again s sense of hope.
At 47, Barak Obmama is also the first President who is of my generation, so to speak. Bill Clinton, while fairly young, was still from a generation just prior to my own, and thus, though he was cool, he did not, alas for us, 'inhale'. Obama, on the other hand, is more than young and cool, in the way that has nothing to do with inhaling, but everything to do with hope for change. This, I suspect, was the same hope that President Kennedy represented for my parent's generation.
I know, of course, that there were plenty of Americans who despised Kennedy, because now I know how polarized our country is and has been for many generations now, and that his margin of victory was slim at best. But as a child whose parents clearly respected and admired Kennedy, I had the impression that he was a popular, if not the most popular President, an impression actually formed well after his death.
In some ways it was because of his death--or the way he died--that this political consciousness was born in my brain. The day was November 22, 1963, and I was in my second grade classroom when the Principal came on the loudspeaker and announced to the class that the President had been shot and killed. School was out that day, and I do not recall much more about it on going home. I do recall how my teacher began to cry, and how upset my parents, particularly my Mother was. I was seven at the time, and understood well enough what it meant to die, though I had no sense of how devastating this was for the idealists like my parents, whose time it seemed had come and gone in all too brief a moment.
The fact that it was a Texan in the White House mattered little other than to drive home the differences between Kennedy and Johnson. Though he was a good man, with what my parents considered to be good intent--where have I heard this one before?--Johnson did not have the grace, the excitement or the optimism that Kennedy represented to intellectuals like them.
Ironically, after his death, they remembered Kennedy not so much for what he did, but for the vast potential for change that they had lost. In death, to Lynda in particular, his was the perfect Presidency, a 'fact' I only later learned to be false in the larger political context that emerged in the Sixties.
Now, since I came of age in the early seventies, Nixon's presidency was for me the 'Anti-Presidency'. This was to stand until Bush, Jr. ascended to that title, and though Clinton gave us some change and reason to hope, his peculiar blunders cost him, and us, more than it ought to have.
But hope has returned to my horizon. I know now what my parents must have felt now nearly a half-century ago. How time flies!
So, now we have another President cut from the same cloth in Obama. At a time in my life when it is at such a premium, I am pleased to feel again s sense of hope.
Friday, November 7, 2008
Sugar
I am back on sugar. I bought a candy bar again today, and it's not the first. I've also been drinking Dr. Pepper and Coke again regularly, almost, but not quite, to the exclusion of water.
Though I have no doubt this this is unhealthy, I have managed to convince myself equally logically, that this is a rightful response to the depression I've experienced as a result of Pierre's death. In other words, even though I attempted to quit consuming so much sugar, especially since the illness that almost literally consumed me during the months leading up to Lynda's death, my reliance on sugar for the metabolic energy I need to get through the day is actually a beneficial return to the lifestyle that proved productive for me for so many years prior to the deaths of Lynda and Pierre.
Is it folly to think that what worked for me then could work for me now? When I was younger, it seemed easy to dismiss the damage done with the substance, yet now it seems somehow vital, literally. My understanding of biology is so crude that I cannot explain why this should be so, yet I think that the peculiarities of my own metabolism are skewed towards a high sugar, low calorie diet.
It seems now like my efforts to reverse those polarities for the sake of my health were misguided, and that trust in the diet that has gotten me this far is not unreasonable.
Though I have no doubt this this is unhealthy, I have managed to convince myself equally logically, that this is a rightful response to the depression I've experienced as a result of Pierre's death. In other words, even though I attempted to quit consuming so much sugar, especially since the illness that almost literally consumed me during the months leading up to Lynda's death, my reliance on sugar for the metabolic energy I need to get through the day is actually a beneficial return to the lifestyle that proved productive for me for so many years prior to the deaths of Lynda and Pierre.
Is it folly to think that what worked for me then could work for me now? When I was younger, it seemed easy to dismiss the damage done with the substance, yet now it seems somehow vital, literally. My understanding of biology is so crude that I cannot explain why this should be so, yet I think that the peculiarities of my own metabolism are skewed towards a high sugar, low calorie diet.
It seems now like my efforts to reverse those polarities for the sake of my health were misguided, and that trust in the diet that has gotten me this far is not unreasonable.
Waller Creek
And, I can even annote these pictures! So, I guess this would be 1003 words! Ok that's enough for the day, yes?
On the go...
Well, keeping up with the latest in gadgetry and the web enables me to post pictures as well as words, so if you thought there were already too many words in this journal, you will be dismayed to see them being added in increments of one thousand.
If, however, you cannot get enough Greyghost, well now you can enjoy some of the sights that I find shareworthy. It's your lucky day!
This is a shot of the fountain at Jester circle, right outside the building where I work, taken with my phone, the G1.
Greyghost a Genius?
Watching a television program on 'Genius' last night, one gifted young pianist, when asked if he thought he was a genius, responded, "Not yet, but I plan to be."
Well, I have to tell you, that about sums it up for me too. I'm working on it.
Granted, this is a rather arrogant, coming from a 52 year old, rather than an eight year old, but it describes perfectly the sense of becoming that is shared, not just between precocious youth and wistful middle-age, but by all thoughtful individuals. I should add the word hopeful as a descriptor as well, for in fact, it is a function of hope that I still believe I have the potential to be a genius.
Ok, maybe that's a little extreme, but the point here is that, battered and bruised by the events of the past year, I have somehow managed to hold onto some shed of hope. This I have for my life and dreams of being a thinker and a writer; of seeing Madelaine find her way through school and into the stream of life; of securing my love and relationship with Valery as we grow older together.
On a beautiful crisp fall day like today, it is not difficult to imagine and hope for the future, reminded, even as I am, that this crest is merely that, and the trough below is not simply an invention of my battered psyche. It is there, waiting, but I am here delicately balanced on the edge, enjoying the view for the moment, thank you very much.
Well, I have to tell you, that about sums it up for me too. I'm working on it.
Granted, this is a rather arrogant, coming from a 52 year old, rather than an eight year old, but it describes perfectly the sense of becoming that is shared, not just between precocious youth and wistful middle-age, but by all thoughtful individuals. I should add the word hopeful as a descriptor as well, for in fact, it is a function of hope that I still believe I have the potential to be a genius.
Ok, maybe that's a little extreme, but the point here is that, battered and bruised by the events of the past year, I have somehow managed to hold onto some shed of hope. This I have for my life and dreams of being a thinker and a writer; of seeing Madelaine find her way through school and into the stream of life; of securing my love and relationship with Valery as we grow older together.
On a beautiful crisp fall day like today, it is not difficult to imagine and hope for the future, reminded, even as I am, that this crest is merely that, and the trough below is not simply an invention of my battered psyche. It is there, waiting, but I am here delicately balanced on the edge, enjoying the view for the moment, thank you very much.
Wednesday, November 5, 2008
A Cool Drink of Water
Hot salty tears ran down my face last night as the words of President-elect Obama--eloquent, intelligent and emotional--cooled and refreshed my long-parched pride in this amazing and wonderful social experiment we know as the United States.
Although I have had to hang my head for eight years now, listening to a man who always managed to sound less intelligent and thoughtful than he surely is or was, at last we have a leader in whom I can be proud because he is intelligent, thoughtful and articulate.
He has also sense of history, and this, to me, is particularly important quality for a leader, one that has been sorely missing from the awareness and therefore, the agenda of Mr. Bush. In a historical sense, then, Mr. Obama's statement that "The government of the people...has not perished from this Earth" was more than an appropriation of the word of Lincoln.
In a very real sense--and obviously I am merely picking up on the inference--Obama is Lincoln's successor. Now, it is of course premature and unfair to make assumptions about the nature of Obama's presidency, but it is fair to note that it is by virtue of Lincoln's vision that another junior senator from Illinois has in fact become President, despite his age and race.
The man got it right last night. If we do indeed still need proof that Mr. Lincoln was right to engage in war to preserve the Union, Mr. Obama should be it.
Although I have had to hang my head for eight years now, listening to a man who always managed to sound less intelligent and thoughtful than he surely is or was, at last we have a leader in whom I can be proud because he is intelligent, thoughtful and articulate.
He has also sense of history, and this, to me, is particularly important quality for a leader, one that has been sorely missing from the awareness and therefore, the agenda of Mr. Bush. In a historical sense, then, Mr. Obama's statement that "The government of the people...has not perished from this Earth" was more than an appropriation of the word of Lincoln.
In a very real sense--and obviously I am merely picking up on the inference--Obama is Lincoln's successor. Now, it is of course premature and unfair to make assumptions about the nature of Obama's presidency, but it is fair to note that it is by virtue of Lincoln's vision that another junior senator from Illinois has in fact become President, despite his age and race.
The man got it right last night. If we do indeed still need proof that Mr. Lincoln was right to engage in war to preserve the Union, Mr. Obama should be it.
Tuesday, November 4, 2008
Vote
Well, today is election day, of course, and I can't let it go by without a comment. Since the purpose of this journal, ostensibly, is to record for Maddie and others what my experiences and thoughts are/were, this entry is not therefore about politics but voting, specifically what it means to me.
It is symbolic to me that I wait until the Election Day to actually cast my vote. The threat of long lines--much as I, typical American, detest waiting for anything--is no deterrence. For one thing, as many times as I have voted, I have never once had to wait on line longer than a half an hour. This is simply low voter turnout defined.
Of course, if everyone in my neighborhood decides to get up and go down to the middle school at the end of the block, we could indeed have a long line. But if only those who are self aware and conscientious enough to vote get up and go down there, suffice it to say that the numbers are greatly reduced. If the numbers from past elections are any guide, less than half of those eligible will get out and vote today.
So we are now back from the polling place and sure enough, there was no wait. No line but there was what looked like a steady stream of folks going in and out. Certainly the booths were for the most part occupied when I stepped up, so I guess that over the course of a day, perhaps more than half of us will make the effort.
Politics is an overworked topic, especially by this time, but the culmination of the many months that led up to this day is personal and tactile. It is something that I get to do, at long last, in response to the whole show and charade. This small act of casting my ballot isn't much, by many standards, but by others it is the single most important act of a responsible citizen. I feel privileged to be allowed to act as as a citizen of the United States, and, even if part of me says that it is simply symbolic, or even futile (here in Texas), I will not allow negativity to overcome my sense of pride.
My most fervent hope is that whoever is elected President, he will validate that pride with responsible and positive action.
It is symbolic to me that I wait until the Election Day to actually cast my vote. The threat of long lines--much as I, typical American, detest waiting for anything--is no deterrence. For one thing, as many times as I have voted, I have never once had to wait on line longer than a half an hour. This is simply low voter turnout defined.
Of course, if everyone in my neighborhood decides to get up and go down to the middle school at the end of the block, we could indeed have a long line. But if only those who are self aware and conscientious enough to vote get up and go down there, suffice it to say that the numbers are greatly reduced. If the numbers from past elections are any guide, less than half of those eligible will get out and vote today.
So we are now back from the polling place and sure enough, there was no wait. No line but there was what looked like a steady stream of folks going in and out. Certainly the booths were for the most part occupied when I stepped up, so I guess that over the course of a day, perhaps more than half of us will make the effort.
Politics is an overworked topic, especially by this time, but the culmination of the many months that led up to this day is personal and tactile. It is something that I get to do, at long last, in response to the whole show and charade. This small act of casting my ballot isn't much, by many standards, but by others it is the single most important act of a responsible citizen. I feel privileged to be allowed to act as as a citizen of the United States, and, even if part of me says that it is simply symbolic, or even futile (here in Texas), I will not allow negativity to overcome my sense of pride.
My most fervent hope is that whoever is elected President, he will validate that pride with responsible and positive action.
Sunday, November 2, 2008
Thanks, Mom!
A friend of mine wrote me from Europe yesterday and she inquired, quite naturally, if I was being affected by the financial crisis. She advised me to stay in for the long term.
Fortunately, this is easy advice to follow, for we haven't any stocks, and our investments, if they may be called that, are in such forms as do not seem to be threatened as yet. Does anyone else just keep their money in a savings account or bonds? I guess we are not sophisticated enough to have made the move to more profitable assets, but then, we are now the beneficiaries of the simple approach. In many ways, I have Mom--both Billie and Lynda--to thank for this fundamental attitude. It is Billie, however, whose example has for me been more influential.
Early in our marriage, she gave us a small embroidered motto which hung in a small wooden frame next to the stove in our house for many years; in many kitchens, many houses.
"Live within Your Means" it reminded us, and though some would argue that we could do no more, I am thoughtful of the way that Billie lived this same advice, as an example for us to follow. Generous to a fault, especially when we were younger and struggling a bit, Billie nonetheless helped me always to think about conservation and recycling. In other words, use what you have and don't be wasteful! Simple advice from the voice of experience. Having this direct connection with the generation who really knew the effects of the Depression has been good for me, and now more than ever.
This reminder, that there was a time when good men could not find work and families went hungry--and it hasn't been so long ago--is useful now when it seem like conditions are returning to that dreadful time. But it was especially useful in times of profit and security, as we experienced for many years up until this past one. Now it is more practical than ever. At the point in our lives where we no longer need or desire more things, we are reaping the benefits of that long held advice from who else but Mom.
Lynda had her influence on me in this regard, but I am particularly grateful to have had Billie's counterbalance to her rather severe responses to the same or similar experiences. The investment in which we have placed the most 'assets' is in each other and reward is the modest, comfortable home that we now enjoy thanks to both of them.
Thanks, Mom!
Fortunately, this is easy advice to follow, for we haven't any stocks, and our investments, if they may be called that, are in such forms as do not seem to be threatened as yet. Does anyone else just keep their money in a savings account or bonds? I guess we are not sophisticated enough to have made the move to more profitable assets, but then, we are now the beneficiaries of the simple approach. In many ways, I have Mom--both Billie and Lynda--to thank for this fundamental attitude. It is Billie, however, whose example has for me been more influential.
Early in our marriage, she gave us a small embroidered motto which hung in a small wooden frame next to the stove in our house for many years; in many kitchens, many houses.
"Live within Your Means" it reminded us, and though some would argue that we could do no more, I am thoughtful of the way that Billie lived this same advice, as an example for us to follow. Generous to a fault, especially when we were younger and struggling a bit, Billie nonetheless helped me always to think about conservation and recycling. In other words, use what you have and don't be wasteful! Simple advice from the voice of experience. Having this direct connection with the generation who really knew the effects of the Depression has been good for me, and now more than ever.
This reminder, that there was a time when good men could not find work and families went hungry--and it hasn't been so long ago--is useful now when it seem like conditions are returning to that dreadful time. But it was especially useful in times of profit and security, as we experienced for many years up until this past one. Now it is more practical than ever. At the point in our lives where we no longer need or desire more things, we are reaping the benefits of that long held advice from who else but Mom.
Lynda had her influence on me in this regard, but I am particularly grateful to have had Billie's counterbalance to her rather severe responses to the same or similar experiences. The investment in which we have placed the most 'assets' is in each other and reward is the modest, comfortable home that we now enjoy thanks to both of them.
Thanks, Mom!
Sunday, Sunday, Sunday!
Today is Sunday, and that means the NFL.
I know, it's contradictory to my appearance, if only because so many people have expressed surprise on hearing that I not only follow a team but follow the League from week to week. It's as if I just don't look the part, but when the batos in the kitchen hear me hollerin' for the Horns, they nod their heads and marvel at the old egghead who, believe it or not, actually watches football.
I confess, I've been watching football on Sundays since my parents bought our first TV in 1967. While my father listened to Opera--Sunday Afternoon at the Met--on the radio in the living room as he stamped gold leaf letters on black leather Bibles in the adjoining den, I would turn on the TV in the room next to the kitchen (where it was relegated in our 'book' house)and watch tiny, grainy black and white images of the game of the day. With the sound turned down to just above zero so the opera could be heard in every corner of the house, I had to sit six inches from the screen to hear and see the action.
The Dallas Cowboys and the Los Angeles Rams were my favorite teams, but LA only because I loved their quarterback at the time, Roman Gabriel. Dallas was and always has been 'my' team.
I am a great fan of quarterbacks, as, I suppose, most NFL fans are. It makes sense to me because more than any other player on the team, they define the game on the field each week. No other team sport (save sailing) requires the skill and charisma of a leader like the NFL quarterback. Don Meredith was the QB for the 'Boys back then, and then came Craig Morton and Roger Staubach. I particularly enjoy watching the great passing quarterbacks, like Aikman and Staubach, but I also like the guys who can scramble, like Vince Young and Tony Romo. Both types have the ability to orchestrate the actions of big men, flying around at full speed and doing their best to execute a series of pre-planned yet entirely spontaneous physical actions. Each man is in his own world in the moment of live action, covering his own territory or running his own route, so it is the quarterback who must unite them, often in just less than three or four seconds.
This is the magic of the 'play'; 'the' moment that millions hold their breaths for a thousand times or more every Sunday. The play is a dance, really, but unlike dance, where the perfect execution of the plan is expected as a measure for the quality of the performance, the football play deviates from the plan in the first millisecond after the ball moves. By the time of the exchange between center and quarterback, chaos reigns on the stage; perfect execution is never achieved nor expected. It is assumed that even the best performance by either offense or defense will disrupt the other. It's like ballet with consequences. And I love it.
So, if you are looking for me on a Sunday afternoon, and you drop by my house and see the ladder up on the outside of the house but no paint being applied, come inside. I am in the bedroom, in front of the flat screen TV--about twelve inches, now--with the sound turned way up. No opera here.
I know, it's contradictory to my appearance, if only because so many people have expressed surprise on hearing that I not only follow a team but follow the League from week to week. It's as if I just don't look the part, but when the batos in the kitchen hear me hollerin' for the Horns, they nod their heads and marvel at the old egghead who, believe it or not, actually watches football.
I confess, I've been watching football on Sundays since my parents bought our first TV in 1967. While my father listened to Opera--Sunday Afternoon at the Met--on the radio in the living room as he stamped gold leaf letters on black leather Bibles in the adjoining den, I would turn on the TV in the room next to the kitchen (where it was relegated in our 'book' house)and watch tiny, grainy black and white images of the game of the day. With the sound turned down to just above zero so the opera could be heard in every corner of the house, I had to sit six inches from the screen to hear and see the action.
The Dallas Cowboys and the Los Angeles Rams were my favorite teams, but LA only because I loved their quarterback at the time, Roman Gabriel. Dallas was and always has been 'my' team.
I am a great fan of quarterbacks, as, I suppose, most NFL fans are. It makes sense to me because more than any other player on the team, they define the game on the field each week. No other team sport (save sailing) requires the skill and charisma of a leader like the NFL quarterback. Don Meredith was the QB for the 'Boys back then, and then came Craig Morton and Roger Staubach. I particularly enjoy watching the great passing quarterbacks, like Aikman and Staubach, but I also like the guys who can scramble, like Vince Young and Tony Romo. Both types have the ability to orchestrate the actions of big men, flying around at full speed and doing their best to execute a series of pre-planned yet entirely spontaneous physical actions. Each man is in his own world in the moment of live action, covering his own territory or running his own route, so it is the quarterback who must unite them, often in just less than three or four seconds.
This is the magic of the 'play'; 'the' moment that millions hold their breaths for a thousand times or more every Sunday. The play is a dance, really, but unlike dance, where the perfect execution of the plan is expected as a measure for the quality of the performance, the football play deviates from the plan in the first millisecond after the ball moves. By the time of the exchange between center and quarterback, chaos reigns on the stage; perfect execution is never achieved nor expected. It is assumed that even the best performance by either offense or defense will disrupt the other. It's like ballet with consequences. And I love it.
So, if you are looking for me on a Sunday afternoon, and you drop by my house and see the ladder up on the outside of the house but no paint being applied, come inside. I am in the bedroom, in front of the flat screen TV--about twelve inches, now--with the sound turned way up. No opera here.
Friday, October 31, 2008
Call me if you need me
Well, I had a tough couple of days in a row lately, so I haven't written because the words were too dark.
I took the day off from work yesterday and, with Valery's love and guidance, was restored to that fragile state of being I've grown accustomed to of late. It so resembles me but which is not me but an act, played daily for the benefit of those in the audience. Today, I write again on the bus, on my way to work, present and alive, but still a little raw.
One reason for the nosedive into depression was physical; as I recovered yesterday, I could feel my body replenishing a supply of some chemical that had somehow become depleted in the course of two days of inexorable toxic thoughts. It's not good science, I know, but I believe there is a connection between thoughts and the brain chemistry that allows for and accompanies them. So I poisoned myself, culminating in a migraine and a day off.
During that time of recovery, I thought often of Lynda, and this morning when I awoke I realized what had happened; how the absence of her presence as a 'circuit breaker' for the overwhelming wave of negative emotion building in me is more noticeable only now, when the shade of grief has lifted just enough to realize and really feel that absence acutely.
She used to tell me at the close of every conversation, "Call me if you need me." Of course I thought that as she got older, this sentence ought have been "I'll call you if I need you." And it did come to that, but never did I lose the sense that I could call her when I needed her, until I actually lost her.
Now I close my conversations with Maddie with the same line. I hope that I can be for her what Lynda was to me for so many years; what Valery is to me today, strength and hope personified.
I took the day off from work yesterday and, with Valery's love and guidance, was restored to that fragile state of being I've grown accustomed to of late. It so resembles me but which is not me but an act, played daily for the benefit of those in the audience. Today, I write again on the bus, on my way to work, present and alive, but still a little raw.
One reason for the nosedive into depression was physical; as I recovered yesterday, I could feel my body replenishing a supply of some chemical that had somehow become depleted in the course of two days of inexorable toxic thoughts. It's not good science, I know, but I believe there is a connection between thoughts and the brain chemistry that allows for and accompanies them. So I poisoned myself, culminating in a migraine and a day off.
During that time of recovery, I thought often of Lynda, and this morning when I awoke I realized what had happened; how the absence of her presence as a 'circuit breaker' for the overwhelming wave of negative emotion building in me is more noticeable only now, when the shade of grief has lifted just enough to realize and really feel that absence acutely.
She used to tell me at the close of every conversation, "Call me if you need me." Of course I thought that as she got older, this sentence ought have been "I'll call you if I need you." And it did come to that, but never did I lose the sense that I could call her when I needed her, until I actually lost her.
Now I close my conversations with Maddie with the same line. I hope that I can be for her what Lynda was to me for so many years; what Valery is to me today, strength and hope personified.
Tuesday, October 28, 2008
Quantum Morphometrics
Although I am out of my league here, I nonetheless feel like I am obliged to write out these thoughts about physics, specifically the field that I call quantum morphometrics.
The central question is this: what is the shape of a quantum? Does it matter? How does shape affect matter and how does the shape of matter affect the dark matter which envelops it?
I will posit here at the outset that the shape of dark matter is the inverse of the matter it envelops, and the relationship between the two fields is dependent on the shared shape interaction.
In other words, the effect of dark matter on the shape of most ordinary things--that is, things that are on the order of size that we can see and touch is negligible, but at the nano level, where the distance between particles of matter is the same or smaller than the particles themselves, the effect of the matter/dark matter interaction is sufficient to render pre-biotic matter into biotic matter.
This is not all purely conjecture. I have been researching the subject, and while I've yet found no papers addressing the exact topic, I have found numerous studies of the phenomena of matter at the nano level.
One of these, written by chemists at Washington University in St. Louis, Yu and Buhro in 2003, looks at the physical distance between nano particles--in this case, nanowires that are from 3 to 6 nanos wide whose physical properties are determined by the size of the wires and their proximity to one another.
http://www.physlink.com/News/101303QuantumWires.cfm
This study sought to determine if there was such a relationship and they found that there was. It is in the measurement of the very small that the physical evidence for the relationship will be found; it is unlikely, though, that this will be more than the evidence of the evidence, the path itself is changing.
The central question is this: what is the shape of a quantum? Does it matter? How does shape affect matter and how does the shape of matter affect the dark matter which envelops it?
I will posit here at the outset that the shape of dark matter is the inverse of the matter it envelops, and the relationship between the two fields is dependent on the shared shape interaction.
In other words, the effect of dark matter on the shape of most ordinary things--that is, things that are on the order of size that we can see and touch is negligible, but at the nano level, where the distance between particles of matter is the same or smaller than the particles themselves, the effect of the matter/dark matter interaction is sufficient to render pre-biotic matter into biotic matter.
This is not all purely conjecture. I have been researching the subject, and while I've yet found no papers addressing the exact topic, I have found numerous studies of the phenomena of matter at the nano level.
One of these, written by chemists at Washington University in St. Louis, Yu and Buhro in 2003, looks at the physical distance between nano particles--in this case, nanowires that are from 3 to 6 nanos wide whose physical properties are determined by the size of the wires and their proximity to one another.
http://www.physlink.com/News/101303QuantumWires.cfm
This study sought to determine if there was such a relationship and they found that there was. It is in the measurement of the very small that the physical evidence for the relationship will be found; it is unlikely, though, that this will be more than the evidence of the evidence, the path itself is changing.
Saturday, October 25, 2008
G Phone
I am going to get my G phone today. This is the Google phone, and I am thrilled to get it because I am the ultimate Google fanboi, and that is for a whole host of reasons that I won't detail here. I have been looking forward to getting this new toy with an enthusiasm that far outstrips the reasonable potential of the device to be life changing, so I ask myself, why? I think that my acquisitive desire for high tech toys is linked to my stress coping mechanisms. It's fair to say that it may be second only to writing among those methods I have used to deal with those parts of life that would otherwise paralyze me. So, when the going gets tough, the tough go shopping.
Looking back, I have other examples of this behavior to serve as evidence of this observation, beginning with the first model I bought with my own money, but the most egregious of these consumerist reponses to a significant event in my life came after the death of my father Bill in 1981. Shortly after getting the news from my mother on the phone at the receptionist's desk at the American College, I stumbled out into bright February sun on the Avenue Bosquet and threw up. I took the bus home, but didn't go home. Instead, I got off at Montparnasse and went into FNAC, which was the place that wealthy Parisians went to buy the latest, and priciest, books, music, and electronic gadgets. At this time, the music was being sold as records and cassettes; cd's were still a thing of the future, and books were still something people liked to buy instead of download. Even vcrs were so new they hadn't decided between the Sony beta-max or the Panasonic VHS. So, the only real hot consumer electronic gadget available was the Walkman.
I had for several months been envious of those affluent city dwellers who could afford the luxury of shutting out the rest of the world in a self-contained 'pod' while on the bus or street. The social implications were clear enough, but I had no trouble with the idea of using the device as a way to insulate oneself from the surrounding world. I could easily overlook the fact that it seemed rude to listen to music while others around had to be content with the usual noises of man and machine because, quite honestly, I wanted one so much it just didn't matter.
It also didn't matter that I have never been a frequent listener of music. This topic got me into a bit of trouble with my sister-in-law, who is a professional musician. When I admitted to her that I do not often listen to music because I find it slightly disturbing, she was understandably hurt by the implication, though it was merely my intent to express how powerful the effect of music is on me, and how I resist allowing anything with such power to interfere with my consciousness. This doesn't mean that I dislike music, merely that I am not the kind of person who listens to it often, and when I do, I like to pay attention to it, not use it as a sound track to my life, or worse, as background noise. I'd like to think of it as having respect for the music, but it's also true that I am perhaps too sensitive to the emotion it carries and choose to remain aloof; distant from the bubbling core.
No, what mattered to me in that time of crisis was some sort of consumerist cosmetic balm, a patch for the pain that I could buy and own carry and lose myself in. Of course, no such device actually exists, but that day, I decided to give a Panasonic cassette player/FM radio a chance to counter the grief I was forced to feel. The cost was no object, though it should have been, for I had nothing but my rent and food money with which to play, and I did. I don't recall the sum, but I do know that it left me with only enough for but two cassette tapes.
One was EmmyLou Harris, who I thought would remind me of home, Austin, and the other was Gerry Rafferty, whose album City to City contains some of the best songs of my late youth. As it turns out, I hardly listened to EmmmyLou, because I never listened to her before, so it reminded me not at all of Austin, but I still listen to Rafferty today. It reminds me, of course, of that poignant moment in my life, but isn't necessarily a reminder to refrain from indulging in consumerism when I am distressed, but in fact it is just the opposite. Today I follow the same pattern, using spending as a response to anxiety, but at least the money is my own.
Looking back, I have other examples of this behavior to serve as evidence of this observation, beginning with the first model I bought with my own money, but the most egregious of these consumerist reponses to a significant event in my life came after the death of my father Bill in 1981. Shortly after getting the news from my mother on the phone at the receptionist's desk at the American College, I stumbled out into bright February sun on the Avenue Bosquet and threw up. I took the bus home, but didn't go home. Instead, I got off at Montparnasse and went into FNAC, which was the place that wealthy Parisians went to buy the latest, and priciest, books, music, and electronic gadgets. At this time, the music was being sold as records and cassettes; cd's were still a thing of the future, and books were still something people liked to buy instead of download. Even vcrs were so new they hadn't decided between the Sony beta-max or the Panasonic VHS. So, the only real hot consumer electronic gadget available was the Walkman.
I had for several months been envious of those affluent city dwellers who could afford the luxury of shutting out the rest of the world in a self-contained 'pod' while on the bus or street. The social implications were clear enough, but I had no trouble with the idea of using the device as a way to insulate oneself from the surrounding world. I could easily overlook the fact that it seemed rude to listen to music while others around had to be content with the usual noises of man and machine because, quite honestly, I wanted one so much it just didn't matter.
It also didn't matter that I have never been a frequent listener of music. This topic got me into a bit of trouble with my sister-in-law, who is a professional musician. When I admitted to her that I do not often listen to music because I find it slightly disturbing, she was understandably hurt by the implication, though it was merely my intent to express how powerful the effect of music is on me, and how I resist allowing anything with such power to interfere with my consciousness. This doesn't mean that I dislike music, merely that I am not the kind of person who listens to it often, and when I do, I like to pay attention to it, not use it as a sound track to my life, or worse, as background noise. I'd like to think of it as having respect for the music, but it's also true that I am perhaps too sensitive to the emotion it carries and choose to remain aloof; distant from the bubbling core.
No, what mattered to me in that time of crisis was some sort of consumerist cosmetic balm, a patch for the pain that I could buy and own carry and lose myself in. Of course, no such device actually exists, but that day, I decided to give a Panasonic cassette player/FM radio a chance to counter the grief I was forced to feel. The cost was no object, though it should have been, for I had nothing but my rent and food money with which to play, and I did. I don't recall the sum, but I do know that it left me with only enough for but two cassette tapes.
One was EmmyLou Harris, who I thought would remind me of home, Austin, and the other was Gerry Rafferty, whose album City to City contains some of the best songs of my late youth. As it turns out, I hardly listened to EmmmyLou, because I never listened to her before, so it reminded me not at all of Austin, but I still listen to Rafferty today. It reminds me, of course, of that poignant moment in my life, but isn't necessarily a reminder to refrain from indulging in consumerism when I am distressed, but in fact it is just the opposite. Today I follow the same pattern, using spending as a response to anxiety, but at least the money is my own.
Friday, October 24, 2008
W
Valery and I went to see 'W' at the Alamo Draft House yesterday, and it was better than I expected.
That's faint if not damning praise without some explanation, so I must begin by observing that this is the first movie I've been to see in quite some time. I admit I'm not quite sure why this is. Certainly there are, and have been, plenty of movies that are more exciting visually and dramatic this biopic of W. Certainly, after eight years of political torture and with only a few more bruising weeks before Obama's shocking defeat, I should be tired of all this shit.
Why go in for more? Why not just get another root canal?
After all, I really need the root canal.
The fact is, I guess, that I really want to understand how we got here. Since I obviously didn't vote for him, I did not know his story well enough to characterize him as something other than stupid, evil or both. Giving Bush the benefit of the doubt, I've always guessed that it was Cheney that deserved the tag, 'evil'.
That's faint if not damning praise without some explanation, so I must begin by observing that this is the first movie I've been to see in quite some time. I admit I'm not quite sure why this is. Certainly there are, and have been, plenty of movies that are more exciting visually and dramatic this biopic of W. Certainly, after eight years of political torture and with only a few more bruising weeks before Obama's shocking defeat, I should be tired of all this shit.
Why go in for more? Why not just get another root canal?
After all, I really need the root canal.
The fact is, I guess, that I really want to understand how we got here. Since I obviously didn't vote for him, I did not know his story well enough to characterize him as something other than stupid, evil or both. Giving Bush the benefit of the doubt, I've always guessed that it was Cheney that deserved the tag, 'evil'.
Stone really reinforced that notion with his portrayal of 'Vice' as W calls him, apparently, and in the service of history, Richard Dreyfuss really nails the role. So does Josh Brolin, who so well imitated the President's walk and talk in situations other than his so-well-known Presidential swagger, that I felt, for the first time, definitely, a certain degree of compassion for him.
There, then, is the tribute to Stone and the writers, for if I can register some sympathetic resonance with George W. Bush, then the film has overcome some serious predjudices and obstacles to understanding the times in which we live. So, even though I am certain that the legacy of George W. Bush will be as the worst president this country has ever had, including the most corrupt and ignorant among that elite group, thanks to Stone, I now have at least a grain of sympathy for him. Go figure.
There, then, is the tribute to Stone and the writers, for if I can register some sympathetic resonance with George W. Bush, then the film has overcome some serious predjudices and obstacles to understanding the times in which we live. So, even though I am certain that the legacy of George W. Bush will be as the worst president this country has ever had, including the most corrupt and ignorant among that elite group, thanks to Stone, I now have at least a grain of sympathy for him. Go figure.
Thursday, October 23, 2008
Calling Home
Madelaine called again last night to let me know that she got my letter.
I'm delighted that she made the effort to call, especially because I know that I'm not likely to get a letter from her anytime soon. Alas, she does not have the desire to write the way I do, but then I recall that I wrote very few letters to my parents while in college, or at any time, for that matter, prior to Pierre's death, when I began to experience the hypergraphia that has increased my output exponentially.
Madelaine is part of a new generation, obviously, so when it comes to communication my expectations are different than were those of my parents when I moved away. Now, I have no concern that she will not stay in touch, nor that she will avoid telling me when things aren't going so well, but you never know. My heart always leaps, therefore, when I see her name on my phone's caller-id in the early evening. Yesterday was no exception.
I should know by now, though, that Maddie doesn't call when she gets a hangnail (or a cut or a burn) or even when she's had a bad day, though she would if it were bad enough, but she is mature enough not to whine and complain about the small things and sensitive enough to call with good news and a positive attitude to affirm my faith in her.
Her report yesterday was particularly positive. She's been meeting weekly with the Dean of Academics, Chef Wendy, to monitor her progress and help her stay on track for graduation next spring. Wendy told Maddie that she is impressed with her work ethic--she comes to class an hour early, at 6am, stays in the classroom for an hour and a half after class then goes to the library to read and study for another hour or two before she heads home. That makes for an eight, and sometimes ten-hour day.
Her classroom Chef, Bruce, has also been at these weekly meetings and he and Wendy agreed this week that her improvement has been remarkable and that her prospects for successfully completing the pastry program are now very good!
Practically speaking, Maddie is approaching the 'safe zone' as they call it at the WCI. This means she no longer in danger of failing, but more importantly, it's a sign that she has gotten past her fear of the unknown and she's headed in the right direction.
I'm delighted that she made the effort to call, especially because I know that I'm not likely to get a letter from her anytime soon. Alas, she does not have the desire to write the way I do, but then I recall that I wrote very few letters to my parents while in college, or at any time, for that matter, prior to Pierre's death, when I began to experience the hypergraphia that has increased my output exponentially.
Madelaine is part of a new generation, obviously, so when it comes to communication my expectations are different than were those of my parents when I moved away. Now, I have no concern that she will not stay in touch, nor that she will avoid telling me when things aren't going so well, but you never know. My heart always leaps, therefore, when I see her name on my phone's caller-id in the early evening. Yesterday was no exception.
I should know by now, though, that Maddie doesn't call when she gets a hangnail (or a cut or a burn) or even when she's had a bad day, though she would if it were bad enough, but she is mature enough not to whine and complain about the small things and sensitive enough to call with good news and a positive attitude to affirm my faith in her.
Her report yesterday was particularly positive. She's been meeting weekly with the Dean of Academics, Chef Wendy, to monitor her progress and help her stay on track for graduation next spring. Wendy told Maddie that she is impressed with her work ethic--she comes to class an hour early, at 6am, stays in the classroom for an hour and a half after class then goes to the library to read and study for another hour or two before she heads home. That makes for an eight, and sometimes ten-hour day.
Her classroom Chef, Bruce, has also been at these weekly meetings and he and Wendy agreed this week that her improvement has been remarkable and that her prospects for successfully completing the pastry program are now very good!
Practically speaking, Maddie is approaching the 'safe zone' as they call it at the WCI. This means she no longer in danger of failing, but more importantly, it's a sign that she has gotten past her fear of the unknown and she's headed in the right direction.
Wednesday, October 22, 2008
A Good Day
Yesterday was a good day. I was productive and creative, using my time for recreation as well as work; writing as well as golf. I enjoy these kinds of days the most.
I got up at 6 am which is quite early, even for me. I was the taxi service, so I was out the door at 6:20 to pick up Blake, who lives north, then we headed south to get Tom, who lives, not coincidentally, near the Riverside golf course. We had the first tee time of the day, at 7:30, and it was just barely light enough to see the balls we hit into the early morning mist.
I enjoy playing golf with Tom because he is so relaxed and calm, even when he's obviously upset with the results of his effort. Of course, he has his frustration with the game; we all do; it's why we play, but he doesn't allow it to poison his experience. Rather, I should say that I do not really know how he feels, but I do know what I feel when playing with him, and that is a sense of calm, very zen-like openness to the moment.
Would that I had that same inner-calm, even though it doesn't seem to favor low scores in golf, for it is the very reason I play the game. Although I was never serious about keeping score because I have never been good enough for it to really matter and I've always taken extra shots to get a feel for the right way to approach various situations, after Pierre's death, the relevance of the activity has been both questioned and affirmed. Now I know that it just doesn't matter, and I know that it really does.
Blake has a different attitude toward the sport and the game. He too has a relaxed attitude but for him, the game is more serious affair than it is for Tom or me. Blake is younger than us by almost thirty years, so he has some realistic hope of not only improving his game, but actually competing with other serious golfers. Now this hope is necessarily out of reach for both Tom and myself, as we cannot be called 'serious' or even 'golfers' for that matter. It is, I suspect, of some slight frustration to Blake that we do not take our stances, our swings, or even our scores into consideration when deciding if we are enjoying ourselves.
I know that Blake would like to change this dynamic if he could, for he is forever focused on the mechanics of the game, exhorting us to hold our wrists or to keep our left arms straight, our heads down and a whole host of similar 'swing thoughts' to which we always listen patiently but do not absorb because we can barely hit the ball at all, let alone hit it with any sort of certainty or, heaven forbid, accuracy. It helps, him, I think, to know that he is being a positive influence; a kind of coach that we would never seek out but whom we secretly need.
I cannot speak for Tom, but I do not have a secret need to be coached. I do, however, enjoy Blake's enthusiasm and energy. I have no doubt but that without his relentless effort to get me back out on the golf course after Pierre's death, I likely would not have played again. That would have been a shame, since there is nothing at which I am so bad as golf that I love so much as golf. Further, although my attitude toward the 'micro' aspect of the game on which Blake seems to focus is less than adequate to the task of improving my score, Blake and Tom and I all share the 'macro' view, which is that any time spent on the course is good, in that it is similar to an exercise in 'zen' meditation and is thus healthy for the mind and body.
It's a peculiar conclusion, I guess, because the sport is associated with so much more than this sort of pseudo-philosophy. Yet, I would bet that the notion that golf is like meditation is a common thought for many golfers. With each swing, we are really seeking to release ourselves from the requites of physics and play (hopefully:)with gravity. When I play golf, time and space and body are integrated in a way that is unique. I am lost to the world for four short hours. That's why it was good day.
Oh, and for the first time ever--which is hard to believe considering how many rounds of golf he's played in the past two years--Blake 'holed out' a shot from the fairway on a par five for an eagle! Talk about your zen!
I got up at 6 am which is quite early, even for me. I was the taxi service, so I was out the door at 6:20 to pick up Blake, who lives north, then we headed south to get Tom, who lives, not coincidentally, near the Riverside golf course. We had the first tee time of the day, at 7:30, and it was just barely light enough to see the balls we hit into the early morning mist.
I enjoy playing golf with Tom because he is so relaxed and calm, even when he's obviously upset with the results of his effort. Of course, he has his frustration with the game; we all do; it's why we play, but he doesn't allow it to poison his experience. Rather, I should say that I do not really know how he feels, but I do know what I feel when playing with him, and that is a sense of calm, very zen-like openness to the moment.
Would that I had that same inner-calm, even though it doesn't seem to favor low scores in golf, for it is the very reason I play the game. Although I was never serious about keeping score because I have never been good enough for it to really matter and I've always taken extra shots to get a feel for the right way to approach various situations, after Pierre's death, the relevance of the activity has been both questioned and affirmed. Now I know that it just doesn't matter, and I know that it really does.
Blake has a different attitude toward the sport and the game. He too has a relaxed attitude but for him, the game is more serious affair than it is for Tom or me. Blake is younger than us by almost thirty years, so he has some realistic hope of not only improving his game, but actually competing with other serious golfers. Now this hope is necessarily out of reach for both Tom and myself, as we cannot be called 'serious' or even 'golfers' for that matter. It is, I suspect, of some slight frustration to Blake that we do not take our stances, our swings, or even our scores into consideration when deciding if we are enjoying ourselves.
I know that Blake would like to change this dynamic if he could, for he is forever focused on the mechanics of the game, exhorting us to hold our wrists or to keep our left arms straight, our heads down and a whole host of similar 'swing thoughts' to which we always listen patiently but do not absorb because we can barely hit the ball at all, let alone hit it with any sort of certainty or, heaven forbid, accuracy. It helps, him, I think, to know that he is being a positive influence; a kind of coach that we would never seek out but whom we secretly need.
I cannot speak for Tom, but I do not have a secret need to be coached. I do, however, enjoy Blake's enthusiasm and energy. I have no doubt but that without his relentless effort to get me back out on the golf course after Pierre's death, I likely would not have played again. That would have been a shame, since there is nothing at which I am so bad as golf that I love so much as golf. Further, although my attitude toward the 'micro' aspect of the game on which Blake seems to focus is less than adequate to the task of improving my score, Blake and Tom and I all share the 'macro' view, which is that any time spent on the course is good, in that it is similar to an exercise in 'zen' meditation and is thus healthy for the mind and body.
It's a peculiar conclusion, I guess, because the sport is associated with so much more than this sort of pseudo-philosophy. Yet, I would bet that the notion that golf is like meditation is a common thought for many golfers. With each swing, we are really seeking to release ourselves from the requites of physics and play (hopefully:)with gravity. When I play golf, time and space and body are integrated in a way that is unique. I am lost to the world for four short hours. That's why it was good day.
Oh, and for the first time ever--which is hard to believe considering how many rounds of golf he's played in the past two years--Blake 'holed out' a shot from the fairway on a par five for an eagle! Talk about your zen!
Tuesday, October 21, 2008
The Third Course: Plated Desserts
Well, this is the day that Madelaine begins her third course at the Western Culinary Institute, 'Plated Desserts'. I've no firm idea of what this entails, other than the fact that a plate will somehow be involved. Further fueling the mystery is the fact that, despite my most fervent entreaties, it looks doubtful that I'll find out what a plated dessert is from an example sent to me in the mail. Thus, I'll have to rely on Maddie's word as to what she's making and why.
I have no trouble with this state of affairs, mostly because Maddie has already proved that she is capable of making her way through the process without needing close oversight from me, May I say simply, thanks goodness for that, for her sake as well as mine. Amazingly, without my oversight, she's now finished both beginning pastry and bread courses. Ok, so it's not really amazing that she did so with out my help because the credit is hers and hers alone. Though her start was a bit rocky, she's made steady improvement over the course of the past sixteen weeks, and is now on pace to graduate in April of next year.
As a reward for this achievement, I'll be traveling to Portland just after Thanksgiving, to spend some time with her. Actually, it's not fair to call it an achievement yet. Maddie would agree with this, for I am too quick to puff up with pride. Nonetheless, I have no cause to shrink from from the feeling, for, though it is perhaps premature praise for my daughter is well deserved indeed.
Why? Well, to say that Maddie has come a long way already is a considerable understatement, since most folks do not know just how much of a challenge the task of completing high school actually was for her. Given the nature of secondary schooling these days, Madelaine's recent keen observation that she has learned more in the last four months in Portland than she learned in four years of high school is not unexpected, since the superficiality of the experience is obvious to all but those who actually enjoyed their high school years.
However, most people do not have the added burden of overcoming dyslexia in addition to questioning the relevancy of their 'studies', so for Madelaine, just getting through high school was a significant accomplishment. Honestly, the diploma 'earned' from Crockett, was simply a reward for endurance, nothing at all like the experience she is getting from Culinary School and by living on her own.
It is really quite true to say that Madelaine is learning more than a trade.
She is learning how to live, and doing quite well at it, thank you very much.
I have no trouble with this state of affairs, mostly because Maddie has already proved that she is capable of making her way through the process without needing close oversight from me, May I say simply, thanks goodness for that, for her sake as well as mine. Amazingly, without my oversight, she's now finished both beginning pastry and bread courses. Ok, so it's not really amazing that she did so with out my help because the credit is hers and hers alone. Though her start was a bit rocky, she's made steady improvement over the course of the past sixteen weeks, and is now on pace to graduate in April of next year.
As a reward for this achievement, I'll be traveling to Portland just after Thanksgiving, to spend some time with her. Actually, it's not fair to call it an achievement yet. Maddie would agree with this, for I am too quick to puff up with pride. Nonetheless, I have no cause to shrink from from the feeling, for, though it is perhaps premature praise for my daughter is well deserved indeed.
Why? Well, to say that Maddie has come a long way already is a considerable understatement, since most folks do not know just how much of a challenge the task of completing high school actually was for her. Given the nature of secondary schooling these days, Madelaine's recent keen observation that she has learned more in the last four months in Portland than she learned in four years of high school is not unexpected, since the superficiality of the experience is obvious to all but those who actually enjoyed their high school years.
However, most people do not have the added burden of overcoming dyslexia in addition to questioning the relevancy of their 'studies', so for Madelaine, just getting through high school was a significant accomplishment. Honestly, the diploma 'earned' from Crockett, was simply a reward for endurance, nothing at all like the experience she is getting from Culinary School and by living on her own.
It is really quite true to say that Madelaine is learning more than a trade.
She is learning how to live, and doing quite well at it, thank you very much.
Monday, October 20, 2008
Appetite
I tasted.
Yesterday,
the sulphur in an egg.
Today,
the life-laden brine bearing an oyster.
I am a predator.
I love the taste of death.
No lament diminishes
the pleasure of
consuming Life itself.
06.20.08
Yesterday,
the sulphur in an egg.
Today,
the life-laden brine bearing an oyster.
I am a predator.
I love the taste of death.
No lament diminishes
the pleasure of
consuming Life itself.
06.20.08
Ink
Take these words to
Blot out the sun.
Steal the last breath from old men;
The first lust from the loins of youth.
Let this black ink
Leak from my heart;
Stain every page with darkness.
In through my nostrils
Out through my eyes
Leaving a void where solid had been.
When in your heart
Weeds will not grow
In soil salty so
Nor fall shadows
For fear of being lost forever,
You will know.
09.01.08
Blot out the sun.
Steal the last breath from old men;
The first lust from the loins of youth.
Let this black ink
Leak from my heart;
Stain every page with darkness.
In through my nostrils
Out through my eyes
Leaving a void where solid had been.
When in your heart
Weeds will not grow
In soil salty so
Nor fall shadows
For fear of being lost forever,
You will know.
09.01.08
A Song For My Coat
Notes to myself,
Words passed through time.
Words full of meaning,
vain, absent meter and rime.
Words for the lector
Songs for the throat
Notes to myself
Stick with a coat.
Plays with no ending
Doors left ajar.
I can see what needs rendering
I can't get that far.
What's missing is tragic
Though not want for loss
I've no faith in Magic
Nor in the Cross.
The unknown I'm seeking
Is not in the past.
I've hope for the future;
The Ocean is vast.
03.20.08
Words passed through time.
Words full of meaning,
vain, absent meter and rime.
Words for the lector
Songs for the throat
Notes to myself
Stick with a coat.
Plays with no ending
Doors left ajar.
I can see what needs rendering
I can't get that far.
What's missing is tragic
Though not want for loss
I've no faith in Magic
Nor in the Cross.
The unknown I'm seeking
Is not in the past.
I've hope for the future;
The Ocean is vast.
03.20.08
Chromosome
Curved
Callous
Chromosome.
Birthed from hubris
Heartbreak
This alone
I have reaped in measure
What was sown.
03.28.08
Callous
Chromosome.
Birthed from hubris
Heartbreak
This alone
I have reaped in measure
What was sown.
03.28.08
Blade
Where is the blade
That cuts through Time?
Who makes the steel
With an edge so designed
For the hand of a surgeon
With a skill so refined
It can cut
Without feeling
These thoughts from my mind?
04.02.08
That cuts through Time?
Who makes the steel
With an edge so designed
For the hand of a surgeon
With a skill so refined
It can cut
Without feeling
These thoughts from my mind?
04.02.08
No More Essays
I have come to the conclusion that for me, limited as I am by both the quantity and quality of reading I have done over the years, my recent pursuit of thoughts about physics is essentially a philosophical endeavor.
Now, even though I have such a limited knowledge of science and math in general, I can safely state, in numerical terms, that my expectations for any sort of contribution to the field of theoretical (or for that matter, any variety of) physics would be very small, yet still non-zero.
Why? Why can't I just give up? What is it that fascinates me about the incredibly difficult concepts that seem to be embodied in that particular field? I have struggled, lately, to decide how I can best approach this feeling. It's a need of mine, really, to think about the most intensely difficult and challenging concepts available to me.
Obviously, one of the activities I can engage in to satisfy this urge is to read. More. Another strategy would be to seek the company of others who share this urge to think about incredibly complex subjects. Certainly thoughts of this type and on this scale are widespread among us; yet we rarely speak of them because we know not where they are going. And who can blame us?
The fact is, it's just plain boring to talk about big ideas with someone like me, can't even decide if space is real, let alone make a good set of picks in the weekly football pool. I see people's eyes glaze over and I can't blame them. So it's natural, I guess that these thoughts remained undiscussed. I know why. Who cares?
Well, I do. Furthermore, as a writer, my desire is do more than generate them; I wish to capture these thoughts, make something of them. Poetry perhaps? I don't know what I will do with them, but I do know that they'll come out and I've got to make use of the words.
Endless conversations over coffee and cigarettes do not for a coherent or memorable thought make. Though conversation is perhaps the ground in which these thoughts germinate, they take root in the linearity of words, and at the mercy of the writer.
Thus my goal as a writer will be to open a new line of inquiry for myself; open to the possible and restrained only by the impossible, which is to say, if readers here recall, not at all.
Practically speaking, this means, I believe, that it is time to split up this journal. For some reason, writing in the blog and seeing my words 'published' gives me a sense of satisfaction on which I can build to write again, so the journal has served this function better than I could have hoped.
However, for too long now I have mixed together personal news and family goings-on with these less interesting and more tedious introspective essays. I will continue to write these for my own sake, but by moving them to another journal, I can explore these ideas without cluttering up these pages.
Now, even though I have such a limited knowledge of science and math in general, I can safely state, in numerical terms, that my expectations for any sort of contribution to the field of theoretical (or for that matter, any variety of) physics would be very small, yet still non-zero.
Why? Why can't I just give up? What is it that fascinates me about the incredibly difficult concepts that seem to be embodied in that particular field? I have struggled, lately, to decide how I can best approach this feeling. It's a need of mine, really, to think about the most intensely difficult and challenging concepts available to me.
Obviously, one of the activities I can engage in to satisfy this urge is to read. More. Another strategy would be to seek the company of others who share this urge to think about incredibly complex subjects. Certainly thoughts of this type and on this scale are widespread among us; yet we rarely speak of them because we know not where they are going. And who can blame us?
The fact is, it's just plain boring to talk about big ideas with someone like me, can't even decide if space is real, let alone make a good set of picks in the weekly football pool. I see people's eyes glaze over and I can't blame them. So it's natural, I guess that these thoughts remained undiscussed. I know why. Who cares?
Well, I do. Furthermore, as a writer, my desire is do more than generate them; I wish to capture these thoughts, make something of them. Poetry perhaps? I don't know what I will do with them, but I do know that they'll come out and I've got to make use of the words.
Endless conversations over coffee and cigarettes do not for a coherent or memorable thought make. Though conversation is perhaps the ground in which these thoughts germinate, they take root in the linearity of words, and at the mercy of the writer.
Thus my goal as a writer will be to open a new line of inquiry for myself; open to the possible and restrained only by the impossible, which is to say, if readers here recall, not at all.
Practically speaking, this means, I believe, that it is time to split up this journal. For some reason, writing in the blog and seeing my words 'published' gives me a sense of satisfaction on which I can build to write again, so the journal has served this function better than I could have hoped.
However, for too long now I have mixed together personal news and family goings-on with these less interesting and more tedious introspective essays. I will continue to write these for my own sake, but by moving them to another journal, I can explore these ideas without cluttering up these pages.
Friday, October 17, 2008
RNA Computers
Now we are on the right path. Today I read on the net about how researchers are finally exploring my idea of using organic forms as the model for 'computers'.Of course, I didn't think of this, though I wish I had. While on the surface it appears that it is simply obvious enough to occur to a dilettante, it's also evidence of the sort of common sense logic that underlies the thought. That is, making use of the structures given to us in natural forms as models for the processing and utilization of energy and information on a very small scale makes sense.
Using RNA as a physical model for a device that could process information like a 'computer' is quite logical. It seems ideally suited to the development of small-scale but extremely efficient and thus 'powerful' processors . The creation of these devices is hindered only by the pace of the technology needed to manipulate the world of the very very small, and the way things are going, I may even get to see this in my lifetime.
Wednesday, October 15, 2008
Who Needs Math?
These days I find myself wondering how I got to be 52 and can't do the easiest of math problems (or even, it seems recall a number written on page for more than a minute), but it isn't really a mystery, given my background. It is, however, nothing to be proud of and something I'd really like to change about myself.My 'disability' is not something I cannot overcome, but it does have very deep roots. From the first through the sixth grades of my primary schooling, I attended the St. John's Episcopal Day School in Abilene. Although my parents were ostensibly Jewish, they were committed to the idea that a good education was more important than religious practice, so I drew the natural conclusion that both of the ideologies to which I was being exposed, though fascinating for a young mind inclined toward poetry and philosophy rather than math and science were nonetheless somehow suspect.
I could and did ponder the philosophical questions raised by the reading of the Parables in Wednesday morning chapel and I could and did consider similar questions on Friday evenings in the synagogue when hearing readings from the Torah about the power of Moses's ability to reason with the King of Egypt, but in the classroom on Monday morning, I really could not see why a+b should =c, always and forever. Despite knowing the logic of the equation is sound, I still cannot 'see' it in the same way that I can 'see' meaning in words.
I can recall the scores on my first 'achievement' test, which the schoolm adminstered to all pupils in all grades once a year because my parents, particularly Lynda, made a very big deal of it, and once the first results were in, they served as the measures of my intellect as well as my personality for them and me.
So, scoring a 99 on the verbal portion of the test was natural enough; expected of an articulate child growing up in a bookstore. The 33 that I scored on the math portion of the test, however, evoked a different response from my parents, more nuanced and less forgiving than the pride they showed for my verbal 'success'.
Nuanced it was because, while they expected me to to do better than that on subsequent exams, and, to that end, my parents alternately focused on pushing me to do better in math by giving me books (Trachtenberg), and making me feel resigned to the inevitability of being one of those people who are just no good at arithmetic.
Now, from the former response, I got the idea that math could be both taught and learned, but the latter response resonated more with me, and I simply became convinced that I just couldn't do it. Ever. Now, to overcome a literal lifetime of self-fulfilling agonies endured in math classes (ending, not so mercifully with a C- Algebra II), I realize that I have to reform my negative response to mathematics if I am ever to advance my knowledge and understanding of physics.
I can, and do read about physics in popular books, and from this I derive great pleasure from the process of learning the basics, but of course I am immediately swamped by even the most elementary math, and have little hope that I will ever master enough of it to get to chapter two with a coherent understanding of the underlying mathematical principles.
So, whether I have come to this point because I was genetically predisposed to forever flunking math, or because I simply made of this defect a self-fulfilling handicap, I do not have, at this point in my life, the necessary tools or even the underlying self-confidence I need to advance very far. This does not deter me, however, in my pursuit of exceedingly challenging and difficult thoughts; it has me thinking that I perhaps should begin to explore philosophy. This with the hope that through words, however more difficult it may make the task of understanding, I may at least be able to approach the massive questions that have so long dominated my thoughts.
At long last I am able to answer a close friend's question about the "Top Five Things I Think About" by saying that although I do not yet know what the other two might be, I am always thinking about 1) the Future, 2) the Past, and, more infrequently because of the challenge it poses to my brain, 3) the Present.
So, big questions though these may indeed be, given my natural inclination toward intellectual arrogance and the easy self-aggrandizement of my abilities, I still have the belief that I can and will contribute to the progression of human knowledge, if not in physics, then in thought itself.
Tuesday, October 14, 2008
No More Autographs
In the way that big banks follow one another when hiking and lowering interest rates on the money they lend one another, celebrities often play follow-the-leader in making announcements and I, dear reader, am no different.
So, following the lead of Ringo Starr, I will no longer sign objects sent to me by fans, nor will I sign things like hats, shirts, or underwear when confronted with them in public.
Now, to be fair to those who camp outside my house and follow me everywhere, I will consider continuing signing body parts, but can no longer sign those sent to me by fans. Also in the interest of fairness, I will, in fact continue to read the letters of affection that you shower me with daily, as well as to slog through the numerous comments you leave on every post here on this blog, but like my man Ringo, I too no longer have the time nor, alas, even the inclination to indulge in my heretofore routine and lengthy personal responses; this despite knowing how dependant you have become on them. Sorry.
The Truth of the matter is, we only have so much time here on this Earth, and the amount of money we celebs get from satisfying the petty demands of you fans is just not worth the time spent doing it. Keep in mind that I have greater ambitions than simply being the highly-sought-after celebrity that I am at present, and I need my space to do it, man.
I mean honestly, how is a guy supposed to write the greatest epic poem of the Twentieth century when he's gotta stop and sign autographs for heaven's sake?
Hello? With the Reaper already at the door, I am writing as fast as I can, so don't expect me to waste my words on anything so trivial as a t-shirt or as time consuming as my signature.
So, following the lead of Ringo Starr, I will no longer sign objects sent to me by fans, nor will I sign things like hats, shirts, or underwear when confronted with them in public.
Now, to be fair to those who camp outside my house and follow me everywhere, I will consider continuing signing body parts, but can no longer sign those sent to me by fans. Also in the interest of fairness, I will, in fact continue to read the letters of affection that you shower me with daily, as well as to slog through the numerous comments you leave on every post here on this blog, but like my man Ringo, I too no longer have the time nor, alas, even the inclination to indulge in my heretofore routine and lengthy personal responses; this despite knowing how dependant you have become on them. Sorry.
The Truth of the matter is, we only have so much time here on this Earth, and the amount of money we celebs get from satisfying the petty demands of you fans is just not worth the time spent doing it. Keep in mind that I have greater ambitions than simply being the highly-sought-after celebrity that I am at present, and I need my space to do it, man.
I mean honestly, how is a guy supposed to write the greatest epic poem of the Twentieth century when he's gotta stop and sign autographs for heaven's sake?
Hello? With the Reaper already at the door, I am writing as fast as I can, so don't expect me to waste my words on anything so trivial as a t-shirt or as time consuming as my signature.
Monday, October 13, 2008
The Waiter Index
So, when looking for 'real world' examples of how the 'credit crisis' is affecting 'real people' NPR turned to a mailwoman this morning who, naturally enough, knows a lot about her 'clients' and their financial status simply by the color of the envelopes and the magazine subscriptions that they receive. This got me to thinking about another economic index, one that is no more scientific, but in many ways, as sophisticated. I do, in fact, think that 'apocryphal' indicators like these have considerable value when trying to make sense of something as complicated as political theory and economic practice, since there is a 'reality' factor missing from stock derivative equations that is required for actual understanding of the marketplace. Greenspan understood this; Bernanke does not.
Of course my indicator is the 'Waiter Index' (WI) and the scale is anything but numeric. As such, it's best illustrated with a restaurant story.
Last Saturday night, we had a group of, shall we say, 'well off' people sitting a one of the prime tables in the restaurant. Oh hell, I'll just say it, they were some fat (literally) cats from Dallas or Houston who were in town for the game and were staying at their second (or third) home in Lakeway. These guys are the ones whose asses are in the fire right now, and the way their semi-blocked hearts are doubtless pounding these days, I am sure they'd have rather been at home drinking beer and eating burgers than dropping a few more dimes at H______.
Nonetheless, they found themselves at table 14 on a Saturday night, facing the ever-difficult dilemma for the rich these days: what wine to choose.
"He's only got a couple of things here that are not on Main street", said fat cat number one to fat cat number two as he passed him the wine list. Standing right beside him, I listened despite being ignored.
"Well," I offered helpfully, introducing myself to the table this time, since he hadn't bothered to look up and/or even acknowledge my presence so far. "I have a lot of wines that are not very well known but I can assure you, they are quite good." I said.
"The Neal Cabernet, for example, isn't a 'Main Street' wine, but I think you'll be impressed with it." I was making eye contact with a woman across the table when the host--I'm being generous--finally looked up at me and warned, with a raised eyebrow and his most indignant-with-the-help posture, "Don't be condescending, now. Would you bet your tip on it?"
First of all, I found it telling that he considered my comment to be condescending, as he clearly intended to corner the market on that commodity all evening, and obviously would brook no insubordination from a servant. Whether or not he realized that his guests could see the irony of his position was immaterial, for this lord of the manor, the important part of the exchange from his perspective is to show that he know how to keep these people in their place. It's a common phenomenon, known quite well to servants in every walk, and it just comes with the territory. We keep our cool and our jobs.
Telling too, was his comment about the tip, since he also clearly regarded his perception of the quality of my service as the determining factor for his largesse.
This too is typical of rich people who have never been taught how to properly interact with servants, especially waiters. They still think, as do most people, to be honest, that they have the right to determine how much I will will make based on how well they perceive my service to have been.
Now, it's doubtful that my host would have allowed his 'clients' (or whatever he may call them) to decide how much they would pay him for his services (and everyone services someone, do not forget) based solely on their perceptions of his effectiveness, or he wouldn't even have been at the table at H______ on a Saturday night.
The host eventually chose a bottle of Jordan Cabernet, a wine right off Main Street. This is likely due to the fact that it cost ten dollars less than the wine I'd recommended, but also I think, more fundamentally, because he was trying his best to associate himself with the more common wine. How ridiculous is that? A safe choice in these uncertain times. Decisions like these are at the heart of the financial crisis. Is it any wonder that this thing is melting down?
Individuals with no more heart and or common sense than the pompous fool at my table are trying to save their sorry asses by saving ten dollars on a bottle of wine and stiffing the waiter to boot.
The WI shows Obama leading by the narrowest of margins.
Thursday, October 9, 2008
On Not Reading the OED
Now I'll admit that reading the Oxford English Dictionary is not something I have on my agenda in the near or even distant future. Nor do I have plans to read the Abridged New American Dictionary or even parts of Roget's Thesaurus this weekend, but I cannot claim to be entirely unsympathetic to Ammon Shea, for I too, share a peculiar fascination with and even, yes, love for words.
I really do love a good word. I really love the fact that each word exists because it does something that no other word can. Even though many words may indeed serve multiple purposes, there is no doubt that each word is crafted to serve meaning itself, and our desire to transfer it from and to one another across time and space. I particularly love words that have layers of meaning or can be used many ways, but that doesn't deter my affection for longer and less used expressions. I love it all.
And yet, I am not a reader. It's not the reading of words that I love so much, but the writing of them. A friend recently told me that they had not time to read all the memoirs of all the people who are writing blogs these days, and I certainly concur. I write, but I do not read. Oh certainly, I read the news, and the news of the Weired most of all, but that doesn't count. I've been fortunately obliged to revisit some classic American poetry of late, but that doesn't mean I've been reading Frost, or Stevens or Eliot so much as I've stumbled on them in my path. Reading ragged letters in the streetlight doesn't make me exactly literate.
But I am, of course, also arrogant enough to believe that I really haven't time for both reading and writing. Simply knowing that I should read more doesn't make it so, nor is it any more likely as I grow older. I'm not pleased with this sort of calcification, and know I have to do something to correct it, sooner rather than later.
However, as a UT employee, I can take advantage of program here called the Staff Educational Benefit. This program allows all UT staff members to take one class per semester free of charge. So, to that end, I've decided that this spring, I will take a literature class that will again force me to read, if not freely, at least for my own benefit. Of course, I could also take a philosophy class or even a physics class. So, the question remains, what to read?
What say you, readers of this journal?
I really do love a good word. I really love the fact that each word exists because it does something that no other word can. Even though many words may indeed serve multiple purposes, there is no doubt that each word is crafted to serve meaning itself, and our desire to transfer it from and to one another across time and space. I particularly love words that have layers of meaning or can be used many ways, but that doesn't deter my affection for longer and less used expressions. I love it all.
And yet, I am not a reader. It's not the reading of words that I love so much, but the writing of them. A friend recently told me that they had not time to read all the memoirs of all the people who are writing blogs these days, and I certainly concur. I write, but I do not read. Oh certainly, I read the news, and the news of the Weired most of all, but that doesn't count. I've been fortunately obliged to revisit some classic American poetry of late, but that doesn't mean I've been reading Frost, or Stevens or Eliot so much as I've stumbled on them in my path. Reading ragged letters in the streetlight doesn't make me exactly literate.
But I am, of course, also arrogant enough to believe that I really haven't time for both reading and writing. Simply knowing that I should read more doesn't make it so, nor is it any more likely as I grow older. I'm not pleased with this sort of calcification, and know I have to do something to correct it, sooner rather than later.
However, as a UT employee, I can take advantage of program here called the Staff Educational Benefit. This program allows all UT staff members to take one class per semester free of charge. So, to that end, I've decided that this spring, I will take a literature class that will again force me to read, if not freely, at least for my own benefit. Of course, I could also take a philosophy class or even a physics class. So, the question remains, what to read?
What say you, readers of this journal?
Wednesday, October 8, 2008
Micro or Macro?
As the stock market continues to melt down, and the affairs of the 'middle class' seem to be thrown into disarray, I have begun to wonder about what strategy for financial survival is best, and why. Since I do not feel personally threatened by the economic troubles of people wealthier and less risk-averse than I am and have been, I cannot say whether or not a change in strategy would have averted the 'crisis' that these people are experiencing, because, fundamentally, it's all a gamble, a big bet, and even knowing that the odds were longer at the time that they 'bought in' to this mess, I don't think they would have bet less or less often. These 'fools' would simply have told themselves exactly what they did: "It looks good to me. It'll be alright."
That's the micro-view.
The macro view, despite having the advantage during bad times like these, doesn't guarantee financial 'success' or 'security' or anything other than the relative safety of the absence of excessive risk. In other words, playing it safe may look good when everyone is losing their shirt, but how often does that happen and for how long? Who really is the 'fool'?
Lynda lived through the Great Depression and, of course, never let me forget it. In a very real way, she had no choice. The experience of living in a world when no one, not even the best and brightest or hardest working had any money convinced her that wealth was but an illusion; groceries mattered more. And so, though a glass darkly, I have for my whole life looked skeptically at wealth and the pursuit of it.
That sounds facile, now, because it also sounds like an excuse for financial failure, or at the least, a failure to cash in on the economic boom of the Clinton years. But it is the truth. I have never had the stomach for much risk, especially after I had a family to support. Sure, I have wasted a lot of money, no doubt, and it might be easier to acknowledge this fact if I had in fact made risky investments that failed, but in fact I simply frittered the hard-earned money away. This is a regret, to be sure, but not a serious one, since we always had food on the table; that grocery index' never found us wanting.
As an example of this practice, we never moved from the little cracker-box we call home for the very reasons I named above. In spite of a rising income, especially in the last seven or eight years, we never felt comfortable with the idea of selling our house and 'trading up' for a larger, more expensive house. In fact, we often drove by new neighborhoods where houses that cost two and three times what ours did stood cheek to jowl on tree-less streets and wondered, "Who is buying these houses? What do they do for a living and how can they afford it?"
Well, we're about to find out. Ironically, it seems likely that the risk we never took may actually pay off in the long run. But was it worth it? Goodness knows, Valery has endured a life harder and a house smaller than she deserved. Who knows, maybe we'll be the ones buying when all the 'For Sale' signs go up.
Not likely, though, as I continue to hold to the macro view.
Monday, October 6, 2008
Pierre's Birthday
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| From P's Tree |
Today we buried Pierre, on what would have been his twenty-first birthday. I know, it's odd, backwards, even, being buried not on one's death day, but on the anniversary of one's birth. It is, however, an appropriately symbolic event to honor Pierre, who would have, at the very least, appreciated the irony. He'd also have loved the tree that we planted for him; a tall thin newly emerging Pecan. It has a slight bend in the middle and a twist overall as it reaches up for the open sky.
My hands and back hurt from the labor of the day. We not only planted the tree, but also built a low retaining wall around it in the back yard, defining the space and leveling the yard from the back of the house out. We will plant a garden around the tree and set up a flagstone patio below the wall to place the hammock where Valery can enjoy a view of the greenbelt with the shade of Pierre's tree overhead.
The pain of hard labor is good for me, however. It blocks from my mind the pain of my heart, though on such a day I have no reason to hold back my emotions and did not. We had a couple of good cries, if you can call them that, for the tears come not in torrents or waves, but in pulses of thick feelings, like molten magma forcing its way through the hardened crust. The will of the earth is strong, but the force of liquid rock is stronger. The annealing power of pain is repeated, pounded and folded into the blade of my heart. Each pass through the fire readies me for a new shape, but nothing can prepare me for hurt of the hammer as it strikes again and again.
Even knowing that I will emerge stronger from the experience has no palliative power; little wonder it is, knowing as I do that we all succumb to the transformative force of death. For most of us, death comes but a little at a time. Pierre, in his way, simply took his entire dose at once. Never one to turn from the truth, he has gone to meet it, while I will wait a while longer if I can.
To say that miss him is to understate that truth, so in keeping with my philosophy of taking only what I need and can digest, for now, I will miss him only as much as I can today, and leave the rest for tomorrow.
Pierre, my beautiful and lost child, I love you.
Friday, October 3, 2008
Death is No Excuse
The wages of poetry may be low, but apparently even for the famous, death is no excuse for not paying your bills.
Bad news for poets in these troubling times.
Bad news for poets in these troubling times.
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