Kingston
No photograph does justice, etc.,
but what does a photograph care
for justice? It wants to be clear,
the way an angel need not mean,
but be, duty enough for an angel.
No angels here. Hovels seen from far
enough away they look picturesque.
The blatant blue sky so cool in pictures
is gritty with heat. The long day stings.
We squint at the lens. Though the lines
in our faces are engraved by the acids
of muscle-habits, not by tears.
Sympathy we have to learn. Here's
a family of three living in a dead car.
The guidebooks warned us away
from this, and so we came,
ungainly, spreading
our understandings of sorrow like wet wings.
We turn and turn, but everywhere is here,
a blurred circle of wing scuffs.
William Matthews, Rising and Falling
______
First class last night--I did not get a chance to talk to any of the other writers. It's going to be awesome. We have as our first reading Yeats. I have been quoting "The Second Coming" and driving my family and cats bonkers.
I have met a few people at MSU this summer who were interested in writing, and almost none of the people I've met had read the works of any of my teachers. I'm going to post something written by every teacher this week, since I have nothing to say, anyway.
One of my teachers, Mark Jarman, is coming to read at MSU in October. I think they'll be awed, and I will have to say nothing but I told ya'll so.
______
The Red Cross has finally notified my sister's son of his travel arrangements. He'll be in OK next week, and we will be traveling there after Labor Day to honor my sister's courage and celebrate her life.
Wednesday, August 31, 2005
Tuesday, August 30, 2005
"Give Them Here!"
The ruby slippers worn by Judy Garland in The Wizard of Oz and insured for a million dollars have been stolen from a museum in Grand Rapids.
Here's a quote from the police chief: ''There's not a whole lot of evidence. We're hoping that someone in the community has seen something."
A falling house? Flying monkeys? Munchkins peering out from pergolas?
___________
Everything I think and write leads me to memories of my sister. Good ones.
I will miss Karen desperately. She had had a long remission, and then she was sick 2 days, unresponsive in the hospital for 12 days, and then gone. All in a fortnight...I last talked to her 2 weeks from today, on the phone. She had a slight headache but was feeling fine otherwise. Then, 36 hours later she was in the hospital, miles away, and there was nothing I could do here except pray and call my parents to update me. She'd been free of cancer for about a year, then on routine MRI was found to have cancer back everywhere. A last attempt by her doctors with RAD and MRI was unsuccessful in bringing her. They helped her have 3 more years than she was told at her initial diagnosis. I'm grateful for that time.
The Wizard of Oz reminds me of Karen because when we were kids, we moved around constantly. Three-schools-in-a-year constantly. We were home a lot of times for each other. Unless you had a peripatetic life, this may not make sense. We fought constantly but defended each other from all outsiders. We drifted apart, then bumped back into each other like ships moored at the same dock. The drifting was never far.
_____________
First class today. I really dread it and look forward to it in equal amounts.
Here's a quote from the police chief: ''There's not a whole lot of evidence. We're hoping that someone in the community has seen something."
A falling house? Flying monkeys? Munchkins peering out from pergolas?
___________
Everything I think and write leads me to memories of my sister. Good ones.
I will miss Karen desperately. She had had a long remission, and then she was sick 2 days, unresponsive in the hospital for 12 days, and then gone. All in a fortnight...I last talked to her 2 weeks from today, on the phone. She had a slight headache but was feeling fine otherwise. Then, 36 hours later she was in the hospital, miles away, and there was nothing I could do here except pray and call my parents to update me. She'd been free of cancer for about a year, then on routine MRI was found to have cancer back everywhere. A last attempt by her doctors with RAD and MRI was unsuccessful in bringing her. They helped her have 3 more years than she was told at her initial diagnosis. I'm grateful for that time.
The Wizard of Oz reminds me of Karen because when we were kids, we moved around constantly. Three-schools-in-a-year constantly. We were home a lot of times for each other. Unless you had a peripatetic life, this may not make sense. We fought constantly but defended each other from all outsiders. We drifted apart, then bumped back into each other like ships moored at the same dock. The drifting was never far.
_____________
First class today. I really dread it and look forward to it in equal amounts.
Sunday, August 28, 2005
I've Lost My Touchstone
My only sister Karen died today at 1:20 p.m. of terminal breast cancer. She was 46.
"As through a wood, shadows and light between birches,
gliding a moment in open glades, hidden by thickets of holly
your life winds in me."
Denise Levertov, "The Olga Poems"
"As through a wood, shadows and light between birches,
gliding a moment in open glades, hidden by thickets of holly
your life winds in me."
Denise Levertov, "The Olga Poems"
Saturday, August 27, 2005
Peagravel Pocked My Pontiac--This and That
Pilates--I hurt my neck so took the week off. I miss the giant ball and my encouraging instructor. Total weight loss in 1 month: 18 pounds. Over halfway there. Walking without pain. Walking 1 mile 5 times a week (major strides for me). When standing, I can put my hands on the floor. Middle-aged miracle: No anti-inflammatories or muscle relaxants since the end of July. I'm back to work 40 hours a week but not back to 15,000 lines a week yet. I'll get there, though. UPDATE: Harv just walked in with a giant Danskin ball. And creme de caramel coffee. And a car repair total of only 40 dollars. I love him and also love Otto the wonder-mechanic, who keeps my pink car going for pennies.
Powerless--Yesterday, tired of waiting by the phone, I ran to the roadside stand for tomatoes and came back to 8 electricians in three cherry-pickers in front of my house. Apparently the power company had not run the wires to my house correctly and they had pulled my meter box from the wall. Love the neighbor (well, it's biblical) who must have called them immediately when seeing the drooping wires. Love the city who had to pay for this. Didn't like 6 hours with no power--no work--no phone. Did like sitting with my daughter by candlelight (our house is so shady) and telling stories. Dreading working the makeup time today so procrastinating.
Powerless, Take 2: My sister's unresponsive for over a week...I cannot think how to say goodbye to someone who's your touchstone to the past...
Poking: I've only been to one yard sale this week, but what a find! Four Bakelite bangles--one two-tone turquoise-sky blue (have never seen this shade in American Bakelite before, so it may be French); one black-white end-of-day style bracelet squared off corners; one four-color bangle in a grey-green, mocha, grey-blue (Bar Harbor grey in the paintset), and celadon (this one may be French, as well, as American multicolors are usually that lovely gaudy color of old Fiesta dishes); one green as a luna moth and oddly shaped--it's round, has a center edge and then rounds out again. They all pass the hot-water test for Bakelite.
Poetry: I enrolled in a workshop after not having had a poetry class since the 1980s: Tuesday afternoons, 2:30 to 5:30. Norton Anthology, fifth edition (I think the second edition was the one I used in grad school). Library pass for all the books I can carry. My son to entertain daughter from 3:30 bus arrival till husband gets home at 6. I couldn't pass up a poetry workshop that let me come home to my family at night. I'll be home no later than 6:30. It will feel weird to come home to my family instead of them coming home to me. The instructor is Daniel Anderson, whom I heard read this summer and immediately wanted to study with him.
Proud: To have provoked Lorna Dee Cervantes' response to my beeswax post below. (I wonder if this is the origin of the cliche none of your beeswax). If I write the Odysseus/Siren poem that's singing to me, I will dedicate it to you, Ms. Cervantes. I've been a fan since Fooling with Words.
PS: Anne, this is just for you: At a yardsale down the block, I just found a turquoise t-shirt with two humpback whales cresting out of the water. It even matches my bakelite bracelet. I think this will be my lucky back to college after nearly 20 years shirt.
Powerless--Yesterday, tired of waiting by the phone, I ran to the roadside stand for tomatoes and came back to 8 electricians in three cherry-pickers in front of my house. Apparently the power company had not run the wires to my house correctly and they had pulled my meter box from the wall. Love the neighbor (well, it's biblical) who must have called them immediately when seeing the drooping wires. Love the city who had to pay for this. Didn't like 6 hours with no power--no work--no phone. Did like sitting with my daughter by candlelight (our house is so shady) and telling stories. Dreading working the makeup time today so procrastinating.
Powerless, Take 2: My sister's unresponsive for over a week...I cannot think how to say goodbye to someone who's your touchstone to the past...
Poking: I've only been to one yard sale this week, but what a find! Four Bakelite bangles--one two-tone turquoise-sky blue (have never seen this shade in American Bakelite before, so it may be French); one black-white end-of-day style bracelet squared off corners; one four-color bangle in a grey-green, mocha, grey-blue (Bar Harbor grey in the paintset), and celadon (this one may be French, as well, as American multicolors are usually that lovely gaudy color of old Fiesta dishes); one green as a luna moth and oddly shaped--it's round, has a center edge and then rounds out again. They all pass the hot-water test for Bakelite.
Poetry: I enrolled in a workshop after not having had a poetry class since the 1980s: Tuesday afternoons, 2:30 to 5:30. Norton Anthology, fifth edition (I think the second edition was the one I used in grad school). Library pass for all the books I can carry. My son to entertain daughter from 3:30 bus arrival till husband gets home at 6. I couldn't pass up a poetry workshop that let me come home to my family at night. I'll be home no later than 6:30. It will feel weird to come home to my family instead of them coming home to me. The instructor is Daniel Anderson, whom I heard read this summer and immediately wanted to study with him.
Proud: To have provoked Lorna Dee Cervantes' response to my beeswax post below. (I wonder if this is the origin of the cliche none of your beeswax). If I write the Odysseus/Siren poem that's singing to me, I will dedicate it to you, Ms. Cervantes. I've been a fan since Fooling with Words.
PS: Anne, this is just for you: At a yardsale down the block, I just found a turquoise t-shirt with two humpback whales cresting out of the water. It even matches my bakelite bracelet. I think this will be my lucky back to college after nearly 20 years shirt.
Wednesday, August 24, 2005
The New Sincerity--Waxing with Odysseus
Without wax--sine cera. Here's a quote from the link above.
Sincere: The theory you've heard about "sincere" and Roman columns is actually a mutation of a very popular story based on tracing "sincere" back to the Latin words "sine" (without) and "cera" (wax). Unscrupulous Roman stoneworkers, the story goes, would sometimes cut corners by applying a thick coating of shiny wax to marble rather than taking the time to polish it properly. So widespread was this shabby practice, it is said, that honest stoneworkers had to advertise their wares as being "sine cera," without wax, to reassure their customers. "Sincere," the story goes, eventually came to be used more generally to mean "honest" and "straightforward."
While this lovely story is not absolutely impossible, it turns out to be something worse -- unnecessary. Most authorities trace "sincere" back to a different Latin word -- "sincerus," meaning "whole" or "pure." Probably based on the roots "sin" (one) and "crescere" (to grow), "sincerus" originally referred to a plant which was of pure stock -- not a mixture or hybrid -- and later came to mean anything which was genuine and not adulterated.
_____________________________
I dunno--I think I like the waxless version better. It reminds me of Odysseus longing to hear the sirens' song, which is about as sincere as one can get.
Sincere: The theory you've heard about "sincere" and Roman columns is actually a mutation of a very popular story based on tracing "sincere" back to the Latin words "sine" (without) and "cera" (wax). Unscrupulous Roman stoneworkers, the story goes, would sometimes cut corners by applying a thick coating of shiny wax to marble rather than taking the time to polish it properly. So widespread was this shabby practice, it is said, that honest stoneworkers had to advertise their wares as being "sine cera," without wax, to reassure their customers. "Sincere," the story goes, eventually came to be used more generally to mean "honest" and "straightforward."
While this lovely story is not absolutely impossible, it turns out to be something worse -- unnecessary. Most authorities trace "sincere" back to a different Latin word -- "sincerus," meaning "whole" or "pure." Probably based on the roots "sin" (one) and "crescere" (to grow), "sincerus" originally referred to a plant which was of pure stock -- not a mixture or hybrid -- and later came to mean anything which was genuine and not adulterated.
_____________________________
I dunno--I think I like the waxless version better. It reminds me of Odysseus longing to hear the sirens' song, which is about as sincere as one can get.
Monday, August 22, 2005
The Bluegrass of Dublin (Nickel Creek)
"Eveline"
Eveline grips the railing
As her lover calls her to the sea
Aah, won't you sail with me
She can't hear him just a step away
>From happiness and sanity bliss
Drives her crazy
"Eveline, take care of your father,
I care for you."
Her dying mother spoke to her too
Aah, Eveline
Eveline grips the railing
As her lover calls her to the sea
Aah, won't you sail with me
She can't hear him just a step away
>From happiness and sanity bliss
Drives her crazy
"Eveline, take care of your father,
I care for you."
Her dying mother spoke to her too
Aah, Eveline
I Can't Believe It's Not Butter--Oops, a Love Song
The One I Love - R.E.M.
This one goes out to the one I love
This one goes out to the one I've left behind
A simple prop to occupy my time
This one goes out to the one I love
Fire (she's comin' down on her own, now)
This one goes out to the one I love
This one goes out to the one I've left behind
Another prop has occupied my time
This one goes out to the one I love
_____________________
My friend and I have an ongoing debate about whether this is a love song. "Every Breath You Take" isn't about love (to me, anyway). My friend had "Every Breath You Take" played at her wedding. It's obvious to me that this song is just as deviously deviant.
This one goes out to the one I love
This one goes out to the one I've left behind
A simple prop to occupy my time
This one goes out to the one I love
Fire (she's comin' down on her own, now)
This one goes out to the one I love
This one goes out to the one I've left behind
Another prop has occupied my time
This one goes out to the one I love
_____________________
My friend and I have an ongoing debate about whether this is a love song. "Every Breath You Take" isn't about love (to me, anyway). My friend had "Every Breath You Take" played at her wedding. It's obvious to me that this song is just as deviously deviant.
Sunday, August 21, 2005
Backstory
Always there will be something to marvel—the light that spills through the matchstick blinds in an irregular rosary—telling the beads—as a girl I always wondered as the women murmured—what did you tell the beads?
(Latin. Ferrule. Nuns with their stinging nettles).
And what do you tell the beads—what can you tell to whatever slips through your fingers—rosary beads, grains of sand, the phosphorescent glimmer of fireflies?
(Keats. Epitaph. Name writ in water).
I even wonder about Wonder Bread, with its evocative brand name. Was it the singular loaf with the fishes? Why is its plastic wrapper the colors of an old Barnum and Bailey Circus poster?
(Juggler. Balls in the air. Rising like yeast).
And I wonder about plastic furniture covers with their pox? Is there a secret message in Braille there that someone sightless could decode?
(Mundy, Mundy. So bad to me. Cover it up).
I wonder why tomatoes smell so scrumptious on the vine, and why catsup smells so slick-bad? Is catsup merely a lubricant? Why is Del Monte catsup off the market?
(Name for tomatoes: Heirloom. Real Wonder).
I wonder about the Soul and Penance, about Big Boy and Big Girl.
(“They are bad boats and they love their anchors.”)
I wonder about Wonder and about winning—what are winning ways? The way to win’s usually not winsome. Is the root word the same?
(Isn’t Winn-Dixie an oxymoron, historically? Is Lautrec’s tattoo Born-Toulouse?)
I wonder about roots. “I know the bottom, she says. I know it with my great taproot.” Root word. Root system.
(Root to ruts in how many steps? (Dell: Pencil Puzzles and Word Games).
I wonder about the origin of things—about not so much the beginning as the original—think sin. I wonder what’s the similarity in original and origami? Folding—poems in envelopes—insert in SASE.
(Wedding cranes. Bottle Trees).
I wonder about Cavafy—“Che Fece…Il Gran Rifiuto”
To certain people
there comes a day
when they must say
the great Yes
or the great No.
He who has the Yes
on his lips betrays
himself; saying yes,
frees him from honor,
unfetters him from fervor.
He who refuses doesn’t
look back. Asked again,
he'd say no again,
again and again.
And yet that no--
the right no--
it's a yoke that's heavy,
it breaks his shoulders.
I wonder at the right No. I wonder at Cavafy and the beautiful wound. I wonder at scars and catalogue mine.
(All things lead me to love—Robert Penn Warren).
· Cesarean section scar.
· Crescent cut in left eyebrow.
· Cat-claw on left fourth finger (cicatrix hidden under my wedding ring).
· Circle on my left wrist, small as a cigarette burn from a candy cigarette.
· Stigmata on my right palm—landing on a glass Coke bottle, when a college friend pushed me to the ground, in gravel, when a car backfired and he was transported to Vung Tau. PTSD. Glass splinters still rise like floaters in spring.
· Left calf—caterpillar-shaped scar when I fell out of the old oak, landing on a roll of barbed wire. Butterflied, not sutured, because it was cheaper. (The French for caterpillar is chenille).
· Tiny vermiform left knee scar inflicted in gym class after falling from a rope onto the basketball court.
· Scars on either side of my waist like rope burns. Almost invisible, shot silk. My husband has never commented on them.
· Episiotomy.
I could swear I had more than these 10 scars. Over how many decades--
and I wonder about decade and decayed and decade again—and I'm back to the rosary and scars and how all things lead me to love.
(Nothing is ever lost. RPW again).
(Latin. Ferrule. Nuns with their stinging nettles).
And what do you tell the beads—what can you tell to whatever slips through your fingers—rosary beads, grains of sand, the phosphorescent glimmer of fireflies?
(Keats. Epitaph. Name writ in water).
I even wonder about Wonder Bread, with its evocative brand name. Was it the singular loaf with the fishes? Why is its plastic wrapper the colors of an old Barnum and Bailey Circus poster?
(Juggler. Balls in the air. Rising like yeast).
And I wonder about plastic furniture covers with their pox? Is there a secret message in Braille there that someone sightless could decode?
(Mundy, Mundy. So bad to me. Cover it up).
I wonder why tomatoes smell so scrumptious on the vine, and why catsup smells so slick-bad? Is catsup merely a lubricant? Why is Del Monte catsup off the market?
(Name for tomatoes: Heirloom. Real Wonder).
I wonder about the Soul and Penance, about Big Boy and Big Girl.
(“They are bad boats and they love their anchors.”)
I wonder about Wonder and about winning—what are winning ways? The way to win’s usually not winsome. Is the root word the same?
(Isn’t Winn-Dixie an oxymoron, historically? Is Lautrec’s tattoo Born-Toulouse?)
I wonder about roots. “I know the bottom, she says. I know it with my great taproot.” Root word. Root system.
(Root to ruts in how many steps? (Dell: Pencil Puzzles and Word Games).
I wonder about the origin of things—about not so much the beginning as the original—think sin. I wonder what’s the similarity in original and origami? Folding—poems in envelopes—insert in SASE.
(Wedding cranes. Bottle Trees).
I wonder about Cavafy—“Che Fece…Il Gran Rifiuto”
To certain people
there comes a day
when they must say
the great Yes
or the great No.
He who has the Yes
on his lips betrays
himself; saying yes,
frees him from honor,
unfetters him from fervor.
He who refuses doesn’t
look back. Asked again,
he'd say no again,
again and again.
And yet that no--
the right no--
it's a yoke that's heavy,
it breaks his shoulders.
I wonder at the right No. I wonder at Cavafy and the beautiful wound. I wonder at scars and catalogue mine.
(All things lead me to love—Robert Penn Warren).
· Cesarean section scar.
· Crescent cut in left eyebrow.
· Cat-claw on left fourth finger (cicatrix hidden under my wedding ring).
· Circle on my left wrist, small as a cigarette burn from a candy cigarette.
· Stigmata on my right palm—landing on a glass Coke bottle, when a college friend pushed me to the ground, in gravel, when a car backfired and he was transported to Vung Tau. PTSD. Glass splinters still rise like floaters in spring.
· Left calf—caterpillar-shaped scar when I fell out of the old oak, landing on a roll of barbed wire. Butterflied, not sutured, because it was cheaper. (The French for caterpillar is chenille).
· Tiny vermiform left knee scar inflicted in gym class after falling from a rope onto the basketball court.
· Scars on either side of my waist like rope burns. Almost invisible, shot silk. My husband has never commented on them.
· Episiotomy.
I could swear I had more than these 10 scars. Over how many decades--
and I wonder about decade and decayed and decade again—and I'm back to the rosary and scars and how all things lead me to love.
(Nothing is ever lost. RPW again).
C.V. (from Didi's survey)
From Didi: Why don't you guys answer these questions on your blogs too?
3 Songs from the soundtrack of your life:
Shattered--Rolling Stones
Sexual Healing--Marvin Gaye
In My Life--Beatles
Favourite book[s]:
The Ambassadors--Henry James
Favourite film[s]:
The Bicycle Thief.
The Wizard of Oz.
Favourite poem[s]:
"I Knew a Woman" Roethke. Hands down.
Favourite quote
"I want to be a thorn in the side of everything as long as possible."
The Beatles or Marvin Gaye?
Patti Smith (who's the author of the quote above).
Favourite Comfort Food
Roast chicken with turnip stuffing.
What fuels your drive?
My husband. My children. Estate sales. The B52s.
What Inspires you
My husband. A slow walk. A slow dance. Our house.
Bio:
Pamela Johnson Parker is a language specialist who lives with her family amidst sundry kitschy collectibles and a few actual antiques in western Kentucky. Sometimes she writes poetry. She is at work on a novel about gardens. Most of it is compost.
3 Songs from the soundtrack of your life:
Shattered--Rolling Stones
Sexual Healing--Marvin Gaye
In My Life--Beatles
Favourite book[s]:
The Ambassadors--Henry James
Favourite film[s]:
The Bicycle Thief.
The Wizard of Oz.
Favourite poem[s]:
"I Knew a Woman" Roethke. Hands down.
Favourite quote
"I want to be a thorn in the side of everything as long as possible."
The Beatles or Marvin Gaye?
Patti Smith (who's the author of the quote above).
Favourite Comfort Food
Roast chicken with turnip stuffing.
What fuels your drive?
My husband. My children. Estate sales. The B52s.
What Inspires you
My husband. A slow walk. A slow dance. Our house.
Bio:
Pamela Johnson Parker is a language specialist who lives with her family amidst sundry kitschy collectibles and a few actual antiques in western Kentucky. Sometimes she writes poetry. She is at work on a novel about gardens. Most of it is compost.
Hatfield versus McCoy--Feuding in Beowulf
Wrecend: One who will drive, impel, push; press forward, advance; fulfill, accomplish; utter, deliver, pronounce; expel, banish, persecute
Ge-wreccan: To wreak, avenge, revenge, punish.
Angelina Jolie as Grendel's mother? (A home-wrecend?) Maybe it
is straight from central casting.
Ge-wreccan: To wreak, avenge, revenge, punish.
Angelina Jolie as Grendel's mother? (A home-wrecend?) Maybe it
is straight from central casting.
Friday, August 19, 2005
Aphorism from Ammons
"The quickest way to change the world
is to like it the way it is."
How true this is.
is to like it the way it is."
How true this is.
Thursday, August 18, 2005
Right Upper Quadrant
Very Well-Rounded
The graph on the right represents your place in Intuition 2-Space. As you can see, you scored above average on emotional intuition and above average on scientific intuition. (Weirdly, your emotional and scientific intuitions are equally strong.)
Your Emotional Intuition score is a measure of how well you understand people, especially their unspoken needs and sympathies. A high score score usually indicates social grace and persuasiveness. A low score usually means you're good at Quake.Your Scientific Intuition score tells you how in tune you are with the world around you; how well you understand your physical and intellectual environment. People with high scores here are apt to succeed in business and, of course, the sciences.
Your Emotional Intuition score is a measure of how well you understand people, especially their unspoken needs and sympathies. A high score score usually indicates social grace and persuasiveness. A low score usually means you're good at Quake.Your Scientific Intuition score tells you how in tune you are with the world around you; how well you understand your physical and intellectual environment. People with high scores here are apt to succeed in business and, of course, the sciences.
Happy Birthday, Humbert!
On this day in 1958, Lolita was published. Nabokov had written this book on index cards, in a car, as his wife chauffeured him. He wrote the beginnings and ends of his novels first, and filled in the middle with the index cards, like laying out a patience.
Nabokov is my one of my heroes. He's in my muse collage, along with Henry James, Robert Louis Stevenson, Sargent's Carnation, Lily, Lily, Rose, Bob Dylan, Botticelli's Birth of Venus, and the Mapplethorpe photo of Patti Smith.
(Oh no more horses horses
We're gonna swim like a fish
Into the hole, in which you planned to ditch me
My lovely Vera Gemini).
Nabokov is my one of my heroes. He's in my muse collage, along with Henry James, Robert Louis Stevenson, Sargent's Carnation, Lily, Lily, Rose, Bob Dylan, Botticelli's Birth of Venus, and the Mapplethorpe photo of Patti Smith.
(Oh no more horses horses
We're gonna swim like a fish
Into the hole, in which you planned to ditch me
My lovely Vera Gemini).
Wednesday, August 17, 2005
Rejections 101, 102, 103, and 104--Self-Indulgency--and Little Emerson Makes 105
Number 103's ink read, "The final lines in this poem are trite." Number 104's comment was that the piece was "marred by the lines." I guess that means all of them.
All four came in today's post, along with five bills and an MT flier that announces: "It Pays to Increase Your Word Power--Order These Dictionaries Today."
I think I am ready to decrease my word power--I give up! (Not really, but I am surely, sorely tempted. I've not been this discouraged since a woman's magazine sent me a congratulatory letter and a check for one of my stories, then told me later it was a mistake, that they wanted the OTHER story they'd received, which had the same title. I have also had rejections that that read, "Sorry this took so long. We accidentally filed this with articles that we intend to publish.")
I also received my rejection from Little Emerson today, which was positively effulgent compared to the above, since "no" is only a 2-letter word.
All four came in today's post, along with five bills and an MT flier that announces: "It Pays to Increase Your Word Power--Order These Dictionaries Today."
I think I am ready to decrease my word power--I give up! (Not really, but I am surely, sorely tempted. I've not been this discouraged since a woman's magazine sent me a congratulatory letter and a check for one of my stories, then told me later it was a mistake, that they wanted the OTHER story they'd received, which had the same title. I have also had rejections that that read, "Sorry this took so long. We accidentally filed this with articles that we intend to publish.")
I also received my rejection from Little Emerson today, which was positively effulgent compared to the above, since "no" is only a 2-letter word.
Tuesday, August 16, 2005
Hiatus/Raleigh's Birthday
My sister has stage IV breast cancer, which is the stage at which her cancer was diagnosed. The physicians didn't expect her to leave the hospital at the time of her diagnosis, but she had beaten cancer for the last 3 years. Six weeks ago, she was here, rearranging my kitchen cabinets. Six days ago, she found out the cancer had returned to her brain and liver--where it had been completely cleared. Six hours ago, I was told she was in the hospital and is not expected to rally.
Please remember my sister's family in your thoughts and prayers at this time. Thanks.
_______________________
On a happier note, today's my daughter's eighth birthday. She was born after Harvey and I had suffered 5 miscarriages, and she was a thrill.
Here's a little fragment I'm posting for her birthday; she wanted "a new poem on the internet, Mom. And don't forget the Hello Kitty stationery." (And maybe I should mention that the screen for the exam was green.
Six-Week Ultrasound: After Five Attempts
for I have eaten
the ostrich fern
and it's been
bitter, bitter, but
o not this
time, little fiddlehead,
coiled and uncoiled
tightly, my shady
small ammonite, o
little green girl
furling, unfurling, grow
Please remember my sister's family in your thoughts and prayers at this time. Thanks.
_______________________
On a happier note, today's my daughter's eighth birthday. She was born after Harvey and I had suffered 5 miscarriages, and she was a thrill.
Here's a little fragment I'm posting for her birthday; she wanted "a new poem on the internet, Mom. And don't forget the Hello Kitty stationery." (And maybe I should mention that the screen for the exam was green.
Six-Week Ultrasound: After Five Attempts
for I have eaten
the ostrich fern
and it's been
bitter, bitter, but
o not this
time, little fiddlehead,
coiled and uncoiled
tightly, my shady
small ammonite, o
little green girl
furling, unfurling, grow
Monday, August 15, 2005
OneWord: Map
In the room I use
for reference, I've
fallen asleep
over a map
of the world, drifting
from continent
to continent, salt
ocean to salt ocean…
there are tears
on my face
when I awaken,
cheek flat against
the table's topography...
for reference, I've
fallen asleep
over a map
of the world, drifting
from continent
to continent, salt
ocean to salt ocean…
there are tears
on my face
when I awaken,
cheek flat against
the table's topography...
Defining Satori in Kinnell
Here's a new definition I found this morning: Experience of awakening, enlightenment; the word derives from the verb satoru: "understand"; it does not indicate a cognition in the common or philosophical sense because in the Satori experience there is no difference between the subject and the object. (italics added)
I'm still working on memorizing this poem--think about this definition in terms of "The Fundamental Project of Technology."
The children go away. By nature they do. And by memory,
in scorched uniforms, holding tiny crushed lunch tins.
All the ecstasy-groans of each night call them back, satori
their ghostliness back into the ashes, in the momentary shrines,
the thankfulness of arms, from which they will go
again and again, until the day flashes and no one lives
to look back and say, a flash, a white flash sparkled.
Wow. Kinnell has something new for me every day, every time I read this poem.
I'm still working on memorizing this poem--think about this definition in terms of "The Fundamental Project of Technology."
The children go away. By nature they do. And by memory,
in scorched uniforms, holding tiny crushed lunch tins.
All the ecstasy-groans of each night call them back, satori
their ghostliness back into the ashes, in the momentary shrines,
the thankfulness of arms, from which they will go
again and again, until the day flashes and no one lives
to look back and say, a flash, a white flash sparkled.
Wow. Kinnell has something new for me every day, every time I read this poem.
Sunday, August 14, 2005
No Antiquing Lately--Gripes of a Landlord
I've not done any junking lately--no money. Well, I did make one good find--first edition of Studs Lonigan, for a quarter. I'm going to try to sell it. It's probably a good to fine book.
The reason for no antiquing--with my recent MD bills, we're too broke--and does anyone want to rent a 2-bedroom Arts/Crafts bungalow in Kentucky? (Major discount on the rent if you do your own yardwork--and even more of a discount if you'll do part of ours till my back gets better).
We've just finished up our first (bad) experience with renters. They didn't pay us the rent on time and half the time didn't pay their utilities on time. I'm grateful the pipes didn't burst this winter. We asked them to leave in April and gave them a free month's stay if they'd move out by the end of May. They were supposed to be out June 1. They finally moved out--today. We've spent nearly $1500.00 we don't have budgeted to cover the lack of rent versus house payment, utilities that were left unpaid (which they'd transferred to our name without permission), yard cleanup, et cetera. And we still have to paint over the 4 holes that have patched in the master bedroom, clean the carpets and repair the front door. This house is so cute and has the best walk-in closet I've ever seen. At least, they didn't damage the woodwork. I'm looking for small favors here, because they have really trashed the yard, left the house (except for the kitchen) in a mess, and ripped off all our lawn tools (rake, lawnmower, et cetera).
If we rent again, we'll definitely ask for a BIG deposit. We'd tried to help this couple out but found that many people are much more capable of helping themselves--to our belongings. AARGH.
On the good side, husband's tuition for his Gifted/Talented certification is free, my son's expense for college is only $350 per month--very cheap--and his books are all bought--and I think I may still be able to come up with tuition for my poetry workshop. It's $600 (including books). I've cut my work back by 15 hours a week, so it's a little bit pinched here. August, not April, is the cruelest month here.
The reason for no antiquing--with my recent MD bills, we're too broke--and does anyone want to rent a 2-bedroom Arts/Crafts bungalow in Kentucky? (Major discount on the rent if you do your own yardwork--and even more of a discount if you'll do part of ours till my back gets better).
We've just finished up our first (bad) experience with renters. They didn't pay us the rent on time and half the time didn't pay their utilities on time. I'm grateful the pipes didn't burst this winter. We asked them to leave in April and gave them a free month's stay if they'd move out by the end of May. They were supposed to be out June 1. They finally moved out--today. We've spent nearly $1500.00 we don't have budgeted to cover the lack of rent versus house payment, utilities that were left unpaid (which they'd transferred to our name without permission), yard cleanup, et cetera. And we still have to paint over the 4 holes that have patched in the master bedroom, clean the carpets and repair the front door. This house is so cute and has the best walk-in closet I've ever seen. At least, they didn't damage the woodwork. I'm looking for small favors here, because they have really trashed the yard, left the house (except for the kitchen) in a mess, and ripped off all our lawn tools (rake, lawnmower, et cetera).
If we rent again, we'll definitely ask for a BIG deposit. We'd tried to help this couple out but found that many people are much more capable of helping themselves--to our belongings. AARGH.
On the good side, husband's tuition for his Gifted/Talented certification is free, my son's expense for college is only $350 per month--very cheap--and his books are all bought--and I think I may still be able to come up with tuition for my poetry workshop. It's $600 (including books). I've cut my work back by 15 hours a week, so it's a little bit pinched here. August, not April, is the cruelest month here.
Cine-meme-a
Total Number of Films I Own on DVD And Video:
300-plus (most of these are part of my husband's vast animation/Disney collection).
The Last Film I Bought:
LTR gift set for my husband/son/daughter--I am not a fan.
Five Films Which I Watch a Lot / Mean a Lot to Me:
1. The Bicycle Thief: Poignant.
2. Million Dollar Baby: Swank, Eastwood, Freeman. There's a trinity.
3. The Wizard of Oz: I am Miss Gulch in all her incarnations.
4. Say Anything: My major John Cusack crush began with this movie and has only intensified over ensuing decades.
5. Under the Tuscan Sun: I enjoy Diane Lane's "I knew it" dance, Sandra Oh is marvelous, we've restored an old house (though not in Tuscany), and if I could change appearances with anyone, I'd like to look like Lindsay Duncan. (I have the hats).
300-plus (most of these are part of my husband's vast animation/Disney collection).
The Last Film I Bought:
LTR gift set for my husband/son/daughter--I am not a fan.
Five Films Which I Watch a Lot / Mean a Lot to Me:
1. The Bicycle Thief: Poignant.
2. Million Dollar Baby: Swank, Eastwood, Freeman. There's a trinity.
3. The Wizard of Oz: I am Miss Gulch in all her incarnations.
4. Say Anything: My major John Cusack crush began with this movie and has only intensified over ensuing decades.
5. Under the Tuscan Sun: I enjoy Diane Lane's "I knew it" dance, Sandra Oh is marvelous, we've restored an old house (though not in Tuscany), and if I could change appearances with anyone, I'd like to look like Lindsay Duncan. (I have the hats).
Not Even a Bridesmaid
Well, the mail today brings my 100th straight rejection. What doesn't kill you may make you stronger, but today it just feels like an unnecessary waste of postage.
I entered the Salon contest for country music haiku. Oh, well, at least that one didn't require any postage!
COUNTRY MUSIC HAIKU
The Girl Who Spurned Hank Has a Bad Dream
How all the hearts she’s
ever broke pile up against
her trailer door
Cruisin’ Around, With Bluegrass: One Pure Note
That high lonesome sound:
Is it Bill Monroe, or a fan
belt on its last fray?
I entered the Salon contest for country music haiku. Oh, well, at least that one didn't require any postage!
COUNTRY MUSIC HAIKU
The Girl Who Spurned Hank Has a Bad Dream
How all the hearts she’s
ever broke pile up against
her trailer door
Cruisin’ Around, With Bluegrass: One Pure Note
That high lonesome sound:
Is it Bill Monroe, or a fan
belt on its last fray?
Saturday, August 13, 2005
Poem for My Favorite Author
The Death Mask of Henry James
“To read between the lines was easier than to follow the text.”
The Portrait of a Lady
His brow’s a passport
Stamped by where he’s been, refined
as sugar or Isabel
Archer’s lie. This
master’s near his final tour
abroad--and what has
he for toll? The fare
for Psyche’s journey is one
way, two coins, each eye.
“To read between the lines was easier than to follow the text.”
The Portrait of a Lady
His brow’s a passport
Stamped by where he’s been, refined
as sugar or Isabel
Archer’s lie. This
master’s near his final tour
abroad--and what has
he for toll? The fare
for Psyche’s journey is one
way, two coins, each eye.
Friday, August 12, 2005
Update on My Back--Good News
I can get dressed without agony. I can sit for two hours without feeling a blowtorch blast up and down my spine. I can sleep through the night. I can arch my back. I can lift my arms over my head and hold them there. I can brush my hair without tears. I can bend over and put my hands flat on the floor without the proddings of Torquemada. When I arise from a prone position, my knees and neck no longer sound like firecrackers popping.
I cannot do all the balancing yet, but I'm getting better, and I feel taller. It doesn't even hurt to drive.
God bless my Pilates instructor for her patience.
All you other transcriptionists: Try Pilates! It works.
Still sticking it out on the Perricone diet. (I miss eggs over easy, grits, country ham, red-eye gravy over biscuits. I'm sort of Southern: I've even fried chicken for breakfast before. It is a delight with perfectly boiled omelets).
So far I haven't made much progress on the swimming--I'm aiming eventually for a mile. That's 98 laps in our small YMCA pool. I always get distracted by something and lose count.
I cannot do all the balancing yet, but I'm getting better, and I feel taller. It doesn't even hurt to drive.
God bless my Pilates instructor for her patience.
All you other transcriptionists: Try Pilates! It works.
Still sticking it out on the Perricone diet. (I miss eggs over easy, grits, country ham, red-eye gravy over biscuits. I'm sort of Southern: I've even fried chicken for breakfast before. It is a delight with perfectly boiled omelets).
So far I haven't made much progress on the swimming--I'm aiming eventually for a mile. That's 98 laps in our small YMCA pool. I always get distracted by something and lose count.
Thursday, August 11, 2005
This Draft Came out of Emily's Library Book--It's a First Draft Unexpurgated
Natural Childbirth: O You Were Glad
when your water broke and you
first contracted, glad till the midwife
had her hand in a place
you didn’t feel part of (your
husband won’t be in there again,
ever--he threw up minutes ago)
and you threw up your hands
and you wanted to throttle him
and you wanted no part of
this and you were not built
for this--you were the ring
in the three-ring circus and
an animal pulled you--you knew
you were part animal--slippery objects
were against you; a number of
objects were in you--your legs
shot up in the air out
of the candycane stirrups; your husband
recited the alphabet--he couldn't remember
to breathe with you, so he
rubbed your hands and you just
wanted to claw him; the breath
was hissing out of you, like
a kettle scalding over, (your husband
asked aren’t they supposed to boil
water?) you still wanted to throttle
him till he and your membranes
were swept aside, one big breath
and one shove and it's over,
o you were happy to see
the pretty midwife, happy to goggle
the just-crowned baby; happy to
have your breath back again
your husband might just be somebody
you could like again as he
hastened to you with a rose
_________________
My aim is to get this to 9 lines...but this is what I came up with. And Harvey wants it on the record that he did not throw up. And I want it on the record that I
did want to throttle him.
when your water broke and you
first contracted, glad till the midwife
had her hand in a place
you didn’t feel part of (your
husband won’t be in there again,
ever--he threw up minutes ago)
and you threw up your hands
and you wanted to throttle him
and you wanted no part of
this and you were not built
for this--you were the ring
in the three-ring circus and
an animal pulled you--you knew
you were part animal--slippery objects
were against you; a number of
objects were in you--your legs
shot up in the air out
of the candycane stirrups; your husband
recited the alphabet--he couldn't remember
to breathe with you, so he
rubbed your hands and you just
wanted to claw him; the breath
was hissing out of you, like
a kettle scalding over, (your husband
asked aren’t they supposed to boil
water?) you still wanted to throttle
him till he and your membranes
were swept aside, one big breath
and one shove and it's over,
o you were happy to see
the pretty midwife, happy to goggle
the just-crowned baby; happy to
have your breath back again
your husband might just be somebody
you could like again as he
hastened to you with a rose
_________________
My aim is to get this to 9 lines...but this is what I came up with. And Harvey wants it on the record that he did not throw up. And I want it on the record that I
did want to throttle him.
Rant
A friend of mine brought me a book--if you can call it a book--The Proper Care and Feeding of Husbands. Who IS this Dr. Laura? I don't listen to talk radio, so I have apparently missed one of the great minds of our time.
Dr. Laura iterates and reiterates the need for a man to have a triple-A relationship, and, of course, it's all up to the wife to achieve that 4.0 GPA (or is triple A the battery for the cellphone? I forget).
What Dr. Laura doesn't seem to get is that marriage/serious relationships are WORK by two people. All partnerships involve WORK and at least TWO PEOPLE. Most of that work for me involves keeping my mouth shut 99% of the time when I want to nag my husband and kids. Most of that work for my family is listening to me when it's the 1% I do vent, because I MEAN IT. I don't want Harvey to solve or even answer my problems. I just want him not to create too many of them and to listen to a few of them.
(I don't know why Dr. Laura doesn't include the 5-minute rule. If it will cease to matter five minutes after it's mentioned/fixed, why bring it up again? That will save more relationships than any home-cooked meal or batted eyelashes. And I cook and have been known, on occasion, to flirt.)
Marriage is about giving and not taking--including not taking crap from your significant other. You give to your spouse, you give to your children, you give to your spiritual relationship, and you give to yourself. It's all an investment in an artful life. You also have to know how to take what's offered. Dr. Laura doesn't focus on this at all.
What really slays me about this book is that Dr. Laura feels required to tell her readers every 6 pages that men want sex. That, folks, is a brand-new concept.
Maybe when she writes the sequel, Dr. Laura will realize men and women both want admiration, affection, and appreciation. (Right now I'd settle for a cup of coffee). Maybe she'll realize that some men actually do listen. She'll realize that some women actually know how to change their own oil. She might even realize that some women--egads--like sex. Even--shock--perhaps with each other.
I'm really curious as to why my friend gave me this book, which kept me busy fuming during the entire 45-minute wait at the doctor's office (one of the shorter ones on record). I'm sure the receptionist appreciated me NOT venting at her. But I had my revenge--I left the book in the waiting room.
Dr. Laura iterates and reiterates the need for a man to have a triple-A relationship, and, of course, it's all up to the wife to achieve that 4.0 GPA (or is triple A the battery for the cellphone? I forget).
What Dr. Laura doesn't seem to get is that marriage/serious relationships are WORK by two people. All partnerships involve WORK and at least TWO PEOPLE. Most of that work for me involves keeping my mouth shut 99% of the time when I want to nag my husband and kids. Most of that work for my family is listening to me when it's the 1% I do vent, because I MEAN IT. I don't want Harvey to solve or even answer my problems. I just want him not to create too many of them and to listen to a few of them.
(I don't know why Dr. Laura doesn't include the 5-minute rule. If it will cease to matter five minutes after it's mentioned/fixed, why bring it up again? That will save more relationships than any home-cooked meal or batted eyelashes. And I cook and have been known, on occasion, to flirt.)
Marriage is about giving and not taking--including not taking crap from your significant other. You give to your spouse, you give to your children, you give to your spiritual relationship, and you give to yourself. It's all an investment in an artful life. You also have to know how to take what's offered. Dr. Laura doesn't focus on this at all.
What really slays me about this book is that Dr. Laura feels required to tell her readers every 6 pages that men want sex. That, folks, is a brand-new concept.
Maybe when she writes the sequel, Dr. Laura will realize men and women both want admiration, affection, and appreciation. (Right now I'd settle for a cup of coffee). Maybe she'll realize that some men actually do listen. She'll realize that some women actually know how to change their own oil. She might even realize that some women--egads--like sex. Even--shock--perhaps with each other.
I'm really curious as to why my friend gave me this book, which kept me busy fuming during the entire 45-minute wait at the doctor's office (one of the shorter ones on record). I'm sure the receptionist appreciated me NOT venting at her. But I had my revenge--I left the book in the waiting room.
I'm Crankster, Really
| the Prankster |
CLEAN | COMPLEX | LIGHT Your humor has an intellectual, even conceptual slant to it. You're not pretentious, but you're not into what some would call 'low humor' either. You'll laugh at a good dirty joke, but you definitely prefer something clever to something moist. You probably like well-thought-out pranks and/or spoofs and it's highly likely you've tried one of these things yourself. In a lot of ways, yours is the most entertaining type of humor because it's smart without being mean-spirited. PEOPLE LIKE YOU: Conan O'Brian - Ashton Kutcher |
 |
My test tracked 3 variables How you compared to other people your age and gender:
|
| Link: The 3 Variable Funny Test written by jason_bateman on OkCupid Free Online Dating |
Wednesday, August 10, 2005
"Look homeward, angel, now, and melt with ruth."
Here's another recovered page from my journal: I don't know why I am posting this, except my husband wanted to see it, and it's his birthday, after all. Happy 41st, Harvey. Here goes:
"No one knew how fond he was of the angel. Publicly he called it his White Elephant. He cursed it and said he had been a fool to order it. For six years it had stood on the porch, weathering, in all the wind and the rain. It was now brown and fly-specked. But it came from Carrara in Italy, and it held a stone lily delicately in one hand. The other hand was lifted in benediction, it was poised clumsily upon the ball of one phthisic foot, and its stupid white face wore the look of some soft stone idiocy."
This passage from Wolfe (stolen from Lycidas) may precipitated my fondness for cemetery angels. I can remember reading this and thinking, "Hey, there's one of those at my family cemetery (the Strong and Cryer cemetery--no kidding--there was a funeral parlor with the same name).
The angel, poised on a plinth, towered 20 feet above me; I could see no lily. I always thought, instead of petals, she held a tiny flailing person.
That's the first line of my shortest story ever--and one of my worst--how Gothic in a bad way.
Update: This story was definitely not on a par with Gurganus' "It Had Wings," which, if you haven't read I urge you to find it and read it--it's in immediately. He's a master and the only reason I continue to subscribe to the New Yorker is that occasionally I'll find something by him or a poetry like Spencer Reece's debuting there.
__________________
There's a wonderful poem on Octopus Garden's blog, which was actually quite stunning and included garden slugs. I have a poem with slugs, too, but it's nothing like as good as hers. Go to her blog immediately (even before Gurganus), and read her poem!
I'm trying to excavate from my Musings journals every poem and story (good bad or indifferent,that I've written. What an undertaking. So many of these journals are waterlogged from an apartment fire years ago. I don't know why I've saved them. I should have them scanned and they'd be more permanent.
"No one knew how fond he was of the angel. Publicly he called it his White Elephant. He cursed it and said he had been a fool to order it. For six years it had stood on the porch, weathering, in all the wind and the rain. It was now brown and fly-specked. But it came from Carrara in Italy, and it held a stone lily delicately in one hand. The other hand was lifted in benediction, it was poised clumsily upon the ball of one phthisic foot, and its stupid white face wore the look of some soft stone idiocy."
This passage from Wolfe (stolen from Lycidas) may precipitated my fondness for cemetery angels. I can remember reading this and thinking, "Hey, there's one of those at my family cemetery (the Strong and Cryer cemetery--no kidding--there was a funeral parlor with the same name).
The angel, poised on a plinth, towered 20 feet above me; I could see no lily. I always thought, instead of petals, she held a tiny flailing person.
That's the first line of my shortest story ever--and one of my worst--how Gothic in a bad way.
Update: This story was definitely not on a par with Gurganus' "It Had Wings," which, if you haven't read I urge you to find it and read it--it's in immediately. He's a master and the only reason I continue to subscribe to the New Yorker is that occasionally I'll find something by him or a poetry like Spencer Reece's debuting there.
__________________
There's a wonderful poem on Octopus Garden's blog, which was actually quite stunning and included garden slugs. I have a poem with slugs, too, but it's nothing like as good as hers. Go to her blog immediately (even before Gurganus), and read her poem!
I'm trying to excavate from my Musings journals every poem and story (good bad or indifferent,that I've written. What an undertaking. So many of these journals are waterlogged from an apartment fire years ago. I don't know why I've saved them. I should have them scanned and they'd be more permanent.
Tuesday, August 09, 2005
Excavating Journals from the Early 90s: They're Playing Our Song
Daniel thinks that the Beach Boys had written a song about me--"Come on pretty mama--that's you." (Update: That's still the best compliment I'll ever received).
He also runs around the house singing the following EXTREME song EXTREMELY loud:
Then you couldn't make things new/Just by saying I love you/More than worms"
Update: "More than Worms" is still a popular saying between my husband and me. In a John-Donneish sort of way, it's rather romantic.
He also runs around the house singing the following EXTREME song EXTREMELY loud:
Then you couldn't make things new/Just by saying I love you/More than worms"
Update: "More than Worms" is still a popular saying between my husband and me. In a John-Donneish sort of way, it's rather romantic.
From Editors and Publishers--And Direct to You from the Bluegrass State
Man Kills Another in Dispute Over War -- Press Calls It a First
By E&P Staff
Published: August 06, 2005 6:30 PM ET
NEW YORK It was bound to happen sooner or later, and in what newspapers in Kentucky are calling a first, one American has killed another in a dispute over the Iraq war.
It happened at Floyd County flea market on Thursday, when two friends, who were firearms vendors there, drew guns after quarreling about the war. Douglas Moore, 65, of Martin, who backs the war, shot and killed Harold Wayne Smith, 56, of Manchester, who opposed it, according to investigators.
Moore was released without being charged after he convinced police he had acted in self-defense. A grand jury may yet hear evidence in the case.
Commonwealth's Attorney Brent Turner said the episode might mark the first death in the U.S. due to a dispute over the war.
One witness, Sam Hamman of Prestonsburg, told the Lexington Herald-Leader, "Harold was talking about the 14 people that were killed in Iraq the other day and Doug said that just as many people were killed on the highways here.”
This quickly escalated into an argument, then to a scuffle, and finally both men drew pistols outside a snack shed. The dead man was apparently just a little slower in firing. Witnesses said he stood for about five seconds before toppling on the walkway.
In a telephone interview with the Lexington paper yesterday, Moore said police had told him not to discuss his feelings about the Iraq war.
"I'm sorry this has happened," Moore, a retired railroad worker, said. "But then what's done can't be undone." Moore told the Lexington reporter he thinks Smith and his family knew him well enough "to know what my thoughts are, his family does, because me and Harold was friends. That's all I'll say."
The daughter of the dead man said the two men were friends and had discussed Iraq before. She said her father "had different opinions than everybody. He felt it was wrong that all of these young people were losing their lives over what was going on. It was just a political disagreement, like a whole lot of people have."
By E&P Staff
Published: August 06, 2005 6:30 PM ET
NEW YORK It was bound to happen sooner or later, and in what newspapers in Kentucky are calling a first, one American has killed another in a dispute over the Iraq war.
It happened at Floyd County flea market on Thursday, when two friends, who were firearms vendors there, drew guns after quarreling about the war. Douglas Moore, 65, of Martin, who backs the war, shot and killed Harold Wayne Smith, 56, of Manchester, who opposed it, according to investigators.
Moore was released without being charged after he convinced police he had acted in self-defense. A grand jury may yet hear evidence in the case.
Commonwealth's Attorney Brent Turner said the episode might mark the first death in the U.S. due to a dispute over the war.
One witness, Sam Hamman of Prestonsburg, told the Lexington Herald-Leader, "Harold was talking about the 14 people that were killed in Iraq the other day and Doug said that just as many people were killed on the highways here.”
This quickly escalated into an argument, then to a scuffle, and finally both men drew pistols outside a snack shed. The dead man was apparently just a little slower in firing. Witnesses said he stood for about five seconds before toppling on the walkway.
In a telephone interview with the Lexington paper yesterday, Moore said police had told him not to discuss his feelings about the Iraq war.
"I'm sorry this has happened," Moore, a retired railroad worker, said. "But then what's done can't be undone." Moore told the Lexington reporter he thinks Smith and his family knew him well enough "to know what my thoughts are, his family does, because me and Harold was friends. That's all I'll say."
The daughter of the dead man said the two men were friends and had discussed Iraq before. She said her father "had different opinions than everybody. He felt it was wrong that all of these young people were losing their lives over what was going on. It was just a political disagreement, like a whole lot of people have."
Trinity in Kinnell--More on this Later
The Fundamental Project of Technology--Galway Kinnell
A flash! A white flash sparkled!—Tatsuichiro Akizuki, Concentric Circles of Death
Under glass: glass dishes that changed
in color; pieces of transformed beer bottles;
a household iron; bundles of wire become solid
lumps of iron; a pair of pliers; a ring of skull-
bone fused to the inside of a helmet; a pair of eyeglasses
taken off the eyes of an eyewitness, without glass,
which vanished, when a white flash sparkled.
An old man, possibly a soldier back then,
now reduced down to one who soon will die,
sucks at the cigarette dangling from his lip, peers
at the uniform, scorched, of some tiniest schoolboy,
sighs out bluish mists of his own ashes over
a pressed tin lunch box well crushed back then when
the future first learned, in a white flash, to jerk tears.
On the bridge outside, in navy black, a group
of schoolchildren line up, hold it, grin at a flash-pop,
scatter like pigeons across grass, see a stranger, cry
hello! hello! hello! and soon bye-bye! bye-bye!
having pecked up the greetings that fell half unspoken
and the going-sayings that those who went the day
it happened a white flash sparkled did not get to say.
If all a city's faces were to shrink back all at once
from their skulls, would a new sound come into existence,
audible above moans eaves extract from wind that smooths
the grass on graves, or rasping heart's-blood greases still,
or wails infants trill born already skillful at the grandpa's rattle,
or infra-screams bitter-knowledge's speechlessness
memorized, at that white flash, inside closed-forever mouths?
To de-animalize human mentality, to purge it of obsolete
evolutionary characteristics, in particular of death,
which foreknowledge terrorizes the contents of skulls with,
is the fundamental project of technology; however,
pseudologica fantastica's mechanisms require:
to establish deathlessness it is necessary to eliminate
those who die; a task become conceivable, when a white flash sparkled.
Unlike the trees of home, which continuously evaporate
along the skyline, these trees have been enticed down
into eternity here. No one knows which gods they enshrine.
Does it matter? Awareness of ignorance is as devout
as knowledge of knowledge. Or more so. Even though not knowing,
sometimes we weep, from surplus of gratitude, even though knowing,
twice already on earth sparkled a flash, a white flash.
The children go away. By nature they do. And by memory,
in scorched uniforms, holding tiny crushed lunch tins.
All the ecstasy-groans of each night call them back, satori
their ghostliness back into the ashes, in the momentary shrines,
the thankfulness of arms, from which they will go
again and again, until the day flashes and no one lives
to look back and say, a flash, a white flash sparkled.
________________________
I have given myself the task of trying to learn this poem by heart, and it's so difficult even to read aloud that I might not be able to memorize it. The syntax is a a series of pops just like the camera's flashbulbs and the white flash that echoes as a refrain through the poem. (How does he get away with all those monosyllables)? It's impossible for me to read this without it becoming a chant. This poem shows the beautiful becoming the terrible. (I also wonder why this is written in 7-line stanzas).
I've heard Kinnell read once and it was a high point of my poetic life. (He is as good at readings as Jared Carter, and that is high praise from me). He didn't read this poem, though he read many of my other favorites from his works. Spiritual, natural, political--it's all there in Kinnell's poems.
BTW, Jared Carter, whom I've raved about many times before, has a new book coming out this fall, and Mark Jarman is coming to read in my neck of the woods in October. I am excited.
A flash! A white flash sparkled!—Tatsuichiro Akizuki, Concentric Circles of Death
Under glass: glass dishes that changed
in color; pieces of transformed beer bottles;
a household iron; bundles of wire become solid
lumps of iron; a pair of pliers; a ring of skull-
bone fused to the inside of a helmet; a pair of eyeglasses
taken off the eyes of an eyewitness, without glass,
which vanished, when a white flash sparkled.
An old man, possibly a soldier back then,
now reduced down to one who soon will die,
sucks at the cigarette dangling from his lip, peers
at the uniform, scorched, of some tiniest schoolboy,
sighs out bluish mists of his own ashes over
a pressed tin lunch box well crushed back then when
the future first learned, in a white flash, to jerk tears.
On the bridge outside, in navy black, a group
of schoolchildren line up, hold it, grin at a flash-pop,
scatter like pigeons across grass, see a stranger, cry
hello! hello! hello! and soon bye-bye! bye-bye!
having pecked up the greetings that fell half unspoken
and the going-sayings that those who went the day
it happened a white flash sparkled did not get to say.
If all a city's faces were to shrink back all at once
from their skulls, would a new sound come into existence,
audible above moans eaves extract from wind that smooths
the grass on graves, or rasping heart's-blood greases still,
or wails infants trill born already skillful at the grandpa's rattle,
or infra-screams bitter-knowledge's speechlessness
memorized, at that white flash, inside closed-forever mouths?
To de-animalize human mentality, to purge it of obsolete
evolutionary characteristics, in particular of death,
which foreknowledge terrorizes the contents of skulls with,
is the fundamental project of technology; however,
pseudologica fantastica's mechanisms require:
to establish deathlessness it is necessary to eliminate
those who die; a task become conceivable, when a white flash sparkled.
Unlike the trees of home, which continuously evaporate
along the skyline, these trees have been enticed down
into eternity here. No one knows which gods they enshrine.
Does it matter? Awareness of ignorance is as devout
as knowledge of knowledge. Or more so. Even though not knowing,
sometimes we weep, from surplus of gratitude, even though knowing,
twice already on earth sparkled a flash, a white flash.
The children go away. By nature they do. And by memory,
in scorched uniforms, holding tiny crushed lunch tins.
All the ecstasy-groans of each night call them back, satori
their ghostliness back into the ashes, in the momentary shrines,
the thankfulness of arms, from which they will go
again and again, until the day flashes and no one lives
to look back and say, a flash, a white flash sparkled.
________________________
I have given myself the task of trying to learn this poem by heart, and it's so difficult even to read aloud that I might not be able to memorize it. The syntax is a a series of pops just like the camera's flashbulbs and the white flash that echoes as a refrain through the poem. (How does he get away with all those monosyllables)? It's impossible for me to read this without it becoming a chant. This poem shows the beautiful becoming the terrible. (I also wonder why this is written in 7-line stanzas).
I've heard Kinnell read once and it was a high point of my poetic life. (He is as good at readings as Jared Carter, and that is high praise from me). He didn't read this poem, though he read many of my other favorites from his works. Spiritual, natural, political--it's all there in Kinnell's poems.
BTW, Jared Carter, whom I've raved about many times before, has a new book coming out this fall, and Mark Jarman is coming to read in my neck of the woods in October. I am excited.
Monday, August 08, 2005
Keats' Warmup Poem, from Endymion
A thing of beauty is a joy for ever:
Its loveliness increases, it will never
Pass into nothingness; but still will keep
A bower quiet for us, and a sleep
Full of sweet dreams, and health, and quiet breathing.
Therefore, on every morrow, are we wreathing
A flowery band to bind us to the earth,
Spite of despondence, of the inhuman dearth
Of noble natures, of the gloomy days,
Of all the unhealthy and o'er—darkened ways
Made of our searching; yes, in spite of all
Some shape of beauty moves away the pall
From our dark spirits.
________________
Keats went on walkabout after writing this poem.
Its loveliness increases, it will never
Pass into nothingness; but still will keep
A bower quiet for us, and a sleep
Full of sweet dreams, and health, and quiet breathing.
Therefore, on every morrow, are we wreathing
A flowery band to bind us to the earth,
Spite of despondence, of the inhuman dearth
Of noble natures, of the gloomy days,
Of all the unhealthy and o'er—darkened ways
Made of our searching; yes, in spite of all
Some shape of beauty moves away the pall
From our dark spirits.
________________
Keats went on walkabout after writing this poem.
Saturday, August 06, 2005
Excited
The walking and Pilates regimen has been effective, but not so effective as keeping my mouth shut--not snacking. I've lost 7 pounds so far on the Perricone diet (10 days, and some of it is probably from not drinking so many sodas--in fact, any sodas). I'm weary of salmon, but I guess I'll keep going. I never thought I'd burn out on fish. And I miss my Sundrops. I'm still waiting for the radiant skin, but I am pale (just realized that AM PALE is anagrammatical of PAMELA), and I probably wouldn't glow unless I were irradiated.
At this rate, I may reach my pre-baby jeans goal faster than 3 months, although realistically I think a pound a week will be the plateau. At least it's the goal.
And it's a bad goal to want to fit in your old Levis when your baby is nearly 8, and the other baby is nearly 21. (I told you I procrastinate).
At this rate, I may reach my pre-baby jeans goal faster than 3 months, although realistically I think a pound a week will be the plateau. At least it's the goal.
And it's a bad goal to want to fit in your old Levis when your baby is nearly 8, and the other baby is nearly 21. (I told you I procrastinate).
Mile a Minute, Foot a Night, Eight Dollars an Acre
I just unearthed two prose-y poems that I wrote for a fiction class. (Did anyone else ever do that? Every time I've taken a poetry workshop, I've written more fiction than poetry).
I apparently had a whole series in mind:
Here were the projected titles:
Vanity/Pride Hair
Envy/Jealousy Kudzu (Maybe is gluttony, instead)
Gluttony Pig (Time Don't Mean Nothing to a Pig)
Lust Sunburn
Anger Stiffed (Two-Penny Waitress Opera)
Avarice/Greed Frogs
Sloth Slow Loris
This is just too funny. I don't remember any of these.
I apparently had a whole series in mind:
Here were the projected titles:
Vanity/Pride Hair
Envy/Jealousy Kudzu (Maybe is gluttony, instead)
Gluttony Pig (Time Don't Mean Nothing to a Pig)
Lust Sunburn
Anger Stiffed (Two-Penny Waitress Opera)
Avarice/Greed Frogs
Sloth Slow Loris
This is just too funny. I don't remember any of these.
Friday, August 05, 2005
A Meme-rable Feast
"Name five foods, dishes or otherwise, that were a part of your childhood, and that you sometimes miss when nostalgia gets to you..."
1. Buttermilk with cornbread or crackers. No kidding. Straight out of the jar and cold as an ex-wife's heart.
2. Chicken and dumplings, real dumplings and real chicken.
3. Pizza crackers. This is genuine redneck cuisine: Catsup on a saltine, covered with Parmesan cheese. Broil in oven until boiling. A dozen will serve two hungry children. (I made these for my sister and me all the time--it was about the only thing I could cook until I was married the first time--and my German-born mother-in-law took me firmly in hand).
4. Country ham, redeye gravy on biscuits, and fried eggs. No apostolic gravy, either--it's got to have coffee and Frank's Red Hot Sauce in the grease.
5. Butter, real butter, on sourdough bread or the aforementioned biscuits.
Sad to say, #3 is the only one I have given up in adulthood. Yet, my total cholesterol is 93. Go figure.
1. Buttermilk with cornbread or crackers. No kidding. Straight out of the jar and cold as an ex-wife's heart.
2. Chicken and dumplings, real dumplings and real chicken.
3. Pizza crackers. This is genuine redneck cuisine: Catsup on a saltine, covered with Parmesan cheese. Broil in oven until boiling. A dozen will serve two hungry children. (I made these for my sister and me all the time--it was about the only thing I could cook until I was married the first time--and my German-born mother-in-law took me firmly in hand).
4. Country ham, redeye gravy on biscuits, and fried eggs. No apostolic gravy, either--it's got to have coffee and Frank's Red Hot Sauce in the grease.
5. Butter, real butter, on sourdough bread or the aforementioned biscuits.
Sad to say, #3 is the only one I have given up in adulthood. Yet, my total cholesterol is 93. Go figure.
Thursday, August 04, 2005
My Secret Blog Name
Since Peter posted anagrams of various blog sites, I've been clicking around the Scrabble tiles to rearrange my blog title.
Because I've been The Devil twice on two separate quizzes, as well as being "Acquainted with the Night," I'm plumping for the following:
AM SIN'S PLUMAGES.
There are several much more blatant ones, but this gets my vote.
Because I've been The Devil twice on two separate quizzes, as well as being "Acquainted with the Night," I'm plumping for the following:
AM SIN'S PLUMAGES.
There are several much more blatant ones, but this gets my vote.
Wednesday, August 03, 2005
Blogoview Weekly Q/A
"What's your favorite poem...that you've written?"
My favorite poem? I love them like children, the same amount in different ways...I guess the title from my manuscript, "Anything in the Thicket," because of the cigarettes in ashtrays.
My favorite thing I've written? Hands down, my short story, "Horses," which is an homage to Patti Smith and to Charles Dickens and also to shoplifting. I really hope that someone will publish it, because it needs to leave home and go out into the world.
My favorite poem? I love them like children, the same amount in different ways...I guess the title from my manuscript, "Anything in the Thicket," because of the cigarettes in ashtrays.
My favorite thing I've written? Hands down, my short story, "Horses," which is an homage to Patti Smith and to Charles Dickens and also to shoplifting. I really hope that someone will publish it, because it needs to leave home and go out into the world.
Second Pilates Class
I keep telling myself, If Star Jones can balance on her butt, with her arms and legs in the air, then so can I. Well, at least I keep telling myself that. I do like the ball exercises, and maybe Star Jones is a better fitness example than Raphael.
Tuesday, August 02, 2005
Happy Birthday, Mr. Baldwin!
Today's the birthday of James Baldwin, one of my favorite writers. I think I love him most because of his two styles: Go Tell it on the Mountain and Giovanni's Room (which is one of the most structurally perfected novels I've ever read, and the point of view is so good, I get the chills just thinking about it). Read them together, one after the other, and then tell me that this man is not the best writer of sentences and sensibility since Henry James. Both books to me are reminiscent of James' style, in different ways: the cadences of the former, the sensibility and point of view in the latter. (Also, Baldwin's style is reminiscent of two other James--The King James Bible and James Joyce, but that's another blog topic, for another time).
Here's what J. Baldwin had to say about H. James in a famous essay:
"A man is a man, a woman is a woman, and a child is a child. To deny these facts is to open the doors on a chaos deeper and deadlier, and, within the space of a man's lifetime, more timeless, more eternal, than the medieval vision of Hell. And we have arrived at this unspeakable blasphemy in order to acquire things, in order to make money. We cannot endure the things we acquire-the only reason we continually acquire them, like junkies on a hundred dollar a day habit-and our money exists mainly on paper. God help us on that day when the population demands to know what is behind the paper. But, beyond all this, it is terrifying to consider the precise nature of the things we buy with the flesh we sell.
In Henry James' novel The Ambassadors published not long before World War I, and not long before his death, he recounts the story of a middle-aged New Englander, assigned by his middle-aged bride-to-be-a widow-the task of rescuing from the flesh-pots of Paris her only son. She wants him to come home to take over the direction of the family factory. In the event, it is the middle-aged New Englander-The Ambassador-who is seduced, not so much by Paris, as by a new and less utilitarian view of life. He counsels the young man to "live. Live all you can. It is a mistake not to." Which I translate as meaning "Trust life, and it will teach you, in joy and sorrow, all you need to know." Jazz musicians know this. Those old men and women who waved and sang and wept as we marched in Montgomery know this. White Americans, in the main, do not know this. They are still trapped in that factory to which, in Henry James' novel, the son returns. We never know what this factory produces, for James never tells us. He only conveys to us that the factory, at an unbelievable human expense, produces unnameable objects."
And doesn't Baldwin tell us exactly this in both novels? (And doesn't Wordsworth, also--"we have given our hearts away/a sordid boon")?
I have to read these two books again, in order. At least restricted work hours will be coming in good for something.
ADDENDUM: Here's another one of the quotes I love from Baldwin:
"Joyce is right about history being a nightmare - but it may be the nightmare from which no one can awaken. People are trapped in history and history is trapped in them." (from Stranger in the Village)
Here's what J. Baldwin had to say about H. James in a famous essay:
"A man is a man, a woman is a woman, and a child is a child. To deny these facts is to open the doors on a chaos deeper and deadlier, and, within the space of a man's lifetime, more timeless, more eternal, than the medieval vision of Hell. And we have arrived at this unspeakable blasphemy in order to acquire things, in order to make money. We cannot endure the things we acquire-the only reason we continually acquire them, like junkies on a hundred dollar a day habit-and our money exists mainly on paper. God help us on that day when the population demands to know what is behind the paper. But, beyond all this, it is terrifying to consider the precise nature of the things we buy with the flesh we sell.
In Henry James' novel The Ambassadors published not long before World War I, and not long before his death, he recounts the story of a middle-aged New Englander, assigned by his middle-aged bride-to-be-a widow-the task of rescuing from the flesh-pots of Paris her only son. She wants him to come home to take over the direction of the family factory. In the event, it is the middle-aged New Englander-The Ambassador-who is seduced, not so much by Paris, as by a new and less utilitarian view of life. He counsels the young man to "live. Live all you can. It is a mistake not to." Which I translate as meaning "Trust life, and it will teach you, in joy and sorrow, all you need to know." Jazz musicians know this. Those old men and women who waved and sang and wept as we marched in Montgomery know this. White Americans, in the main, do not know this. They are still trapped in that factory to which, in Henry James' novel, the son returns. We never know what this factory produces, for James never tells us. He only conveys to us that the factory, at an unbelievable human expense, produces unnameable objects."
And doesn't Baldwin tell us exactly this in both novels? (And doesn't Wordsworth, also--"we have given our hearts away/a sordid boon")?
I have to read these two books again, in order. At least restricted work hours will be coming in good for something.
ADDENDUM: Here's another one of the quotes I love from Baldwin:
"Joyce is right about history being a nightmare - but it may be the nightmare from which no one can awaken. People are trapped in history and history is trapped in them." (from Stranger in the Village)
Monday, August 01, 2005
A Sentence I Could Never Write
He piled upon the whale's white hump the sum of all the general rage and hate felt by his whole race from Adam down; and then, as if his chest had been a mortar, he burst his hot heart's shell upon it.
Herman Melville
Happy Birthday, Herman! Your sentences are sublime.
Herman Melville
Happy Birthday, Herman! Your sentences are sublime.
First Pilates Class
This was disconcertingly simple--until it was time to be a crane and balance on one leg. I could not do this. I loved the rest of it, though, so I guess I'll have to improve my balance.
I don't really think I should call it a class, because there were only the instructor and I present. It was free for the first time. I think I can afford the $25.00 for the next 12 classes. Yes, that's 2.50 per class. I've been telling you all along no one else finds bargains the way I do.
I have pictures to upload onto this blog--what's the best photo host? Thanks.
I don't really think I should call it a class, because there were only the instructor and I present. It was free for the first time. I think I can afford the $25.00 for the next 12 classes. Yes, that's 2.50 per class. I've been telling you all along no one else finds bargains the way I do.
I have pictures to upload onto this blog--what's the best photo host? Thanks.
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