in January 2008 I made 12 resolutions which were to summarize (for more detailed list see archive) :
1) read 10 non-fiction books
2) read 10 books on Buddhism and Mediation
3) resee 10 film classics
4) Attend 10 live concerts
5) see live theatre when possible
6) Travel - see friends, wildlife refuges and nat'l parks
7) See 10 bird species
8) write 10 bad poems
9) Make CD compilations
10) laugh as much as possible (with of course not at)
11) lie less (except to produce laughs - see #10)
12) lose 30 pounds
I am happy, even proud to report that i accomplished 11 of the 12. That's 91.666 per cent. My only failure though it was an utterly complete failure was #11 .
Wednesday, December 31, 2008
Sunday, December 28, 2008
the history of forgetting
Man is the Only Animal that Blushes. Or needs to.
Mark Twain, Following the Equator (1897)
to paraphrase mark twain:
man is the only animal that forgets or needs to.
here is a good poem by lawrence raab:
The History of Forgetting
When Adam and Eve lived in the garden
they hadn't yet learned how to forget.
For them every day was the same day.
Flowers opened, then closed.
They went where the light told them to go.
They slept when it left, and did not dream.
What could they have remembered,
who had never been children? Sometimes
Adam felt a soreness in his side,
but if this was pain it didn't appear
to require a name, or suggest the idea
that anything else might be taken away.
The bright flowers unfolded,
swayed in the breeze.
It was the snake, of course, who knew
about the past—that such a place could exist.
He understood how people would yearn
for whatever they'd lost, and so to survive
they'd need to forget. Soon
the garden will be gone, the snake
thought, and in time God himself.
These were the last days—Adam and Eve
tending the luxurious plants, the snake
watching from above. He knew
what had to happen next, how persuasive
was the taste of that apple. And then
the history of forgetting would begin—
not at the moment of their leaving,
but the first time they looked back.
Lawrence Raab
New Ohio Review
Fall 2008
Mark Twain, Following the Equator (1897)
to paraphrase mark twain:
man is the only animal that forgets or needs to.
here is a good poem by lawrence raab:
The History of Forgetting
When Adam and Eve lived in the garden
they hadn't yet learned how to forget.
For them every day was the same day.
Flowers opened, then closed.
They went where the light told them to go.
They slept when it left, and did not dream.
What could they have remembered,
who had never been children? Sometimes
Adam felt a soreness in his side,
but if this was pain it didn't appear
to require a name, or suggest the idea
that anything else might be taken away.
The bright flowers unfolded,
swayed in the breeze.
It was the snake, of course, who knew
about the past—that such a place could exist.
He understood how people would yearn
for whatever they'd lost, and so to survive
they'd need to forget. Soon
the garden will be gone, the snake
thought, and in time God himself.
These were the last days—Adam and Eve
tending the luxurious plants, the snake
watching from above. He knew
what had to happen next, how persuasive
was the taste of that apple. And then
the history of forgetting would begin—
not at the moment of their leaving,
but the first time they looked back.
Lawrence Raab
New Ohio Review
Fall 2008
Sunday, November 30, 2008
alternative medicine
i've been trying some alternative remedies for some of my health issues: acupunture,
massage, chinese herbs and meditation. after reading this woody allen story i realize i need to be aware of the law of unintended consequences. i need to beware of getting too well.
Think Hard, It’Ll Come Back to You
by Woody Allen November 10, 2008
As health-food stores go, the Hardened Artery is as steady as any. Perusing its pricey nutrients last week in quest of some vitalizing herb or root to flush out a family of free radicals that had built their nest in my chassis, I came vis-à-vis a bottle of red fluid nestled like a krait between the ginseng and the echinacea and sporting the Ray Bradburyish title “Brainiac.” Plucked from its niche, it claimed to be a thirst quencher chockablock with gingko biloba and sundry antioxidants reputed to enhance memory. “Think quick,” the label copy spieled. “Where are your car keys? Cue television game-show music. The mind docs at Function developed Brainiac to help in these situations.” On the label, in letters clearly visible to anyone possessing an electron microscope, followed the sheepish admission that the claims of the miracle apéritif had not yet been examined by the Food and Drug Administration and “the product is not intended to diagnose, treat, cure, or prevent any disease.” Whether it might be used to remove gravy stains or unclog a drain remains untested. Still, this notion of a neuron-recharging elixir brought to mind thoughts of my esteemed colleague Murray Cipher, as he prepared to go out for dinner.Mustn’t be late to the Wasserfiends’ party. Classy crowd. No lungfish caviar tonight. Upward mobility? Vice-presidency for old Murray? Imagine—twenty-four exterminators working under me. Mind-boggling. How do I look? Only great. New necktie should wow ’em, although the pattern of multiple G clefs may be too hip for the room. Searched for the perfect birthday present for Mr. Wasserfiend. Amazing, but Hammacher Schlemmer is the only place in town that carries a Jarvik Heart with a compartment for fish hooks. But, look at this, in my haste to be on time I almost bolted out the door without his gift. Let’s see, where did I put it? Hmm. Was it on the foyer table? Not here in the drawer. Did I leave it in the bedroom? Check my night table—so damn cluttered. Reading lamp, alarm clock, Kleenex, shoe horn, my copy of Hui-Neng’s “Platform Sutra of the Sixth Patriarch.” Glove compartment of the Saab? Better race out and see. Raining. Oh, brother, a scratch on the fender. Damn rabbi on his unicycle. Wait a minute, where are my car keys? Could have sworn I left them in this pocket. No, just some loose change and ticket stubs from the all-black version of Elaine Stritch’ s one-woman show. Did I check my desk? Better go back inside. What’s in the top drawer here? Hmm. Envelopes, my paper clips, a loaded revolver in case the tenant in 2A begins yodelling again. O.K., let’s reconstruct. This morning I drove to Smallbone’s to have my toupee steamed, stopped off at Stebbins’s home to return his arch supports, then to my bagpipe lesson.
Hey, wait a minute, that little starlet I shacked up with who always took melatonin to prevent jet lag when we had sex—she used to nosh some kind of Buck Rogers health snack. Yes, Cranial Pops. Supposed to zap the memory. Could she have even left some in the cupboard? Ah, here—what does it say on the bag? “Untested by Food and Drug Administration—May cause drowsiness in men named Seymour.” I’ll just try a few. Hmm, nice flavor. I love the taste of soy phosphatidylserine. Have some more?
Now, where was I? Oh, yes, of course, I left Mr. Wasserfiend’s gift at the office. My secretary, Miss Facework, to meet me with it at the party. Car keys in gray cashmere cardigan on second hanger in hall closet. Remember the day I bought that cardigan, sixteen years ago. A Tuesday. I was wearing beige slacks and a Sulka button-down oxford shirt. Gray socks. Shoes from Flagg Brothers. Had lunch with Sol Kashflow, the hedge-fund whiz. Sol ordered the halibut with buttered peas and julienne potatoes. His beverage white wine, a ’64 Bâtard-Montrachet, which I recall was a tad fruity. Finished off with lime sorbet and two after-dinner mints—or was it three? Funny thing, he hardly touched his meal. Too excited because Amalgamated Permafrost had just merged with a company that had developed a process to make steel into henbane. To celebrate I got the check. Fifty-six dollars and ninety-eight cents. Hardly worth it, since my langoustines were overcooked.
To the Wasserfiends’ party at last. Just on time. Everybody well dressed. Champagne flowing. Cocktail pianist. “Avalon.” Same song playing that night in Vineyard Haven with Lillian Waterfowl. Slipped out of her bathing suit. Naked goddess. Tore off my clothes with her long nails. Our two bodies straining with desire. Moved in on her like a panther. About to consummate passion, when suddenly my leg cramped. Left calf? No, right. Let out piercing shriek, leaped off her. Hopped around room, face contorted with pain. What struck her so damn funny? Christ, the woman was doubled up with laughter. Accused me of ruining the moment. Schlemiel, she called me, nudnik. Couldn’t run to the phone fast enough to share the story with our friends. Let her rot with her embezzler husband. The man tries to hide six million dollars in small denominations in his shoe.
Brings to mind Hornblow evening. Haven’t thought of it in fifteen years. Watched Effluvia Hornblow baking in her kitchen. Asa Hornblow in the other room bombinating his chums about the Red Sox. They split a doubleheader with the Tigers that day, taking the opener, 6–2, then dropping the nightcap, 4–0. Heard their voices, good old boys arguing balls and strikes. Bent her over the sink to lance my tongue between her smoldering lips. Suddenly necktie caught in the Mixmaster. Switch jammed, wouldn’t turn off. Plug inaccessible behind refrigerator. Kept snapping my head against the marble backsplash. Remember witnessing birth of the great Crab Nebula. Emergency Squad. Taken away in an ambulance. For two weeks could speak only in rhymed couplets, smiled often, plus every ten minutes greased my body for a Channel swim. Hermès tie it was. Sixty-nine ninety-five, and that was then.
Look at Mrs. Wasserfiend sitting there, so elegant. Black Armani dress, simple pearls and those dramatic earrings—two Jivaro shrunken heads with their lips sewn together. Makes me think of Grandma. Always sitting there playing cards with Grandpa. Cheated him blind. Finally he went blind in one eye and she could only cheat half of him. Grandpa very brilliant, spent fifteen years translating “Anna Karenina” into pig Latin. Remember the day Grandpa collapsed, June 8th, 6:16 P.M. Misdiagnosed as dead and embalmed despite his clear ability to shimmy and sing “Rag Mop.” Grandma sold the house and devoted her life to serving God. Applied for sainthood but was turned down because she couldn’t parallel park.
Pianist is playing “You Made Me Love You.” Remember always hearing that song when Mom was pregnant with me. Dad used to sing it to himself in the mirror all day long. Recall Mom giving birth to me in a taxicab. Meter ran four-eighty. Cabbie was Israel Moscowitz. Talkative. Referred to his wife as a fat pot of kasha. Remember my parents expected twins. Crushed when there was only one of me. Couldn’t deal with it. First few years dressed me as twins. Two hats, four shoes. To this day they still inquire about Chester.
Thank you for a wonderful evening, Mrs. Wasserfiend. Oh, and the name you were trying to think of when we were discussing the life of Emily Dickinson before was Bronko Nagurski. Out of there just in time. Cranial Pops starting to wear off. Still, no question I was the hit of the party. Came up with Gouda cheese. Lava soap. Got Leo Gorcey and Julien Sorel. Managed to recite the Philippics verbatim. Recalled the Schrafft’s on Fifty-seventh and Third. Hummed Mousie Powell’s theme song. Got Menachem Schneerson, the Sons of the Pioneers. Gyp the Blood. Now, where the hell did I park my car? ♦
massage, chinese herbs and meditation. after reading this woody allen story i realize i need to be aware of the law of unintended consequences. i need to beware of getting too well.
Think Hard, It’Ll Come Back to You
by Woody Allen November 10, 2008
As health-food stores go, the Hardened Artery is as steady as any. Perusing its pricey nutrients last week in quest of some vitalizing herb or root to flush out a family of free radicals that had built their nest in my chassis, I came vis-à-vis a bottle of red fluid nestled like a krait between the ginseng and the echinacea and sporting the Ray Bradburyish title “Brainiac.” Plucked from its niche, it claimed to be a thirst quencher chockablock with gingko biloba and sundry antioxidants reputed to enhance memory. “Think quick,” the label copy spieled. “Where are your car keys? Cue television game-show music. The mind docs at Function developed Brainiac to help in these situations.” On the label, in letters clearly visible to anyone possessing an electron microscope, followed the sheepish admission that the claims of the miracle apéritif had not yet been examined by the Food and Drug Administration and “the product is not intended to diagnose, treat, cure, or prevent any disease.” Whether it might be used to remove gravy stains or unclog a drain remains untested. Still, this notion of a neuron-recharging elixir brought to mind thoughts of my esteemed colleague Murray Cipher, as he prepared to go out for dinner.Mustn’t be late to the Wasserfiends’ party. Classy crowd. No lungfish caviar tonight. Upward mobility? Vice-presidency for old Murray? Imagine—twenty-four exterminators working under me. Mind-boggling. How do I look? Only great. New necktie should wow ’em, although the pattern of multiple G clefs may be too hip for the room. Searched for the perfect birthday present for Mr. Wasserfiend. Amazing, but Hammacher Schlemmer is the only place in town that carries a Jarvik Heart with a compartment for fish hooks. But, look at this, in my haste to be on time I almost bolted out the door without his gift. Let’s see, where did I put it? Hmm. Was it on the foyer table? Not here in the drawer. Did I leave it in the bedroom? Check my night table—so damn cluttered. Reading lamp, alarm clock, Kleenex, shoe horn, my copy of Hui-Neng’s “Platform Sutra of the Sixth Patriarch.” Glove compartment of the Saab? Better race out and see. Raining. Oh, brother, a scratch on the fender. Damn rabbi on his unicycle. Wait a minute, where are my car keys? Could have sworn I left them in this pocket. No, just some loose change and ticket stubs from the all-black version of Elaine Stritch’ s one-woman show. Did I check my desk? Better go back inside. What’s in the top drawer here? Hmm. Envelopes, my paper clips, a loaded revolver in case the tenant in 2A begins yodelling again. O.K., let’s reconstruct. This morning I drove to Smallbone’s to have my toupee steamed, stopped off at Stebbins’s home to return his arch supports, then to my bagpipe lesson.
Hey, wait a minute, that little starlet I shacked up with who always took melatonin to prevent jet lag when we had sex—she used to nosh some kind of Buck Rogers health snack. Yes, Cranial Pops. Supposed to zap the memory. Could she have even left some in the cupboard? Ah, here—what does it say on the bag? “Untested by Food and Drug Administration—May cause drowsiness in men named Seymour.” I’ll just try a few. Hmm, nice flavor. I love the taste of soy phosphatidylserine. Have some more?
Now, where was I? Oh, yes, of course, I left Mr. Wasserfiend’s gift at the office. My secretary, Miss Facework, to meet me with it at the party. Car keys in gray cashmere cardigan on second hanger in hall closet. Remember the day I bought that cardigan, sixteen years ago. A Tuesday. I was wearing beige slacks and a Sulka button-down oxford shirt. Gray socks. Shoes from Flagg Brothers. Had lunch with Sol Kashflow, the hedge-fund whiz. Sol ordered the halibut with buttered peas and julienne potatoes. His beverage white wine, a ’64 Bâtard-Montrachet, which I recall was a tad fruity. Finished off with lime sorbet and two after-dinner mints—or was it three? Funny thing, he hardly touched his meal. Too excited because Amalgamated Permafrost had just merged with a company that had developed a process to make steel into henbane. To celebrate I got the check. Fifty-six dollars and ninety-eight cents. Hardly worth it, since my langoustines were overcooked.
To the Wasserfiends’ party at last. Just on time. Everybody well dressed. Champagne flowing. Cocktail pianist. “Avalon.” Same song playing that night in Vineyard Haven with Lillian Waterfowl. Slipped out of her bathing suit. Naked goddess. Tore off my clothes with her long nails. Our two bodies straining with desire. Moved in on her like a panther. About to consummate passion, when suddenly my leg cramped. Left calf? No, right. Let out piercing shriek, leaped off her. Hopped around room, face contorted with pain. What struck her so damn funny? Christ, the woman was doubled up with laughter. Accused me of ruining the moment. Schlemiel, she called me, nudnik. Couldn’t run to the phone fast enough to share the story with our friends. Let her rot with her embezzler husband. The man tries to hide six million dollars in small denominations in his shoe.
Brings to mind Hornblow evening. Haven’t thought of it in fifteen years. Watched Effluvia Hornblow baking in her kitchen. Asa Hornblow in the other room bombinating his chums about the Red Sox. They split a doubleheader with the Tigers that day, taking the opener, 6–2, then dropping the nightcap, 4–0. Heard their voices, good old boys arguing balls and strikes. Bent her over the sink to lance my tongue between her smoldering lips. Suddenly necktie caught in the Mixmaster. Switch jammed, wouldn’t turn off. Plug inaccessible behind refrigerator. Kept snapping my head against the marble backsplash. Remember witnessing birth of the great Crab Nebula. Emergency Squad. Taken away in an ambulance. For two weeks could speak only in rhymed couplets, smiled often, plus every ten minutes greased my body for a Channel swim. Hermès tie it was. Sixty-nine ninety-five, and that was then.
Look at Mrs. Wasserfiend sitting there, so elegant. Black Armani dress, simple pearls and those dramatic earrings—two Jivaro shrunken heads with their lips sewn together. Makes me think of Grandma. Always sitting there playing cards with Grandpa. Cheated him blind. Finally he went blind in one eye and she could only cheat half of him. Grandpa very brilliant, spent fifteen years translating “Anna Karenina” into pig Latin. Remember the day Grandpa collapsed, June 8th, 6:16 P.M. Misdiagnosed as dead and embalmed despite his clear ability to shimmy and sing “Rag Mop.” Grandma sold the house and devoted her life to serving God. Applied for sainthood but was turned down because she couldn’t parallel park.
Pianist is playing “You Made Me Love You.” Remember always hearing that song when Mom was pregnant with me. Dad used to sing it to himself in the mirror all day long. Recall Mom giving birth to me in a taxicab. Meter ran four-eighty. Cabbie was Israel Moscowitz. Talkative. Referred to his wife as a fat pot of kasha. Remember my parents expected twins. Crushed when there was only one of me. Couldn’t deal with it. First few years dressed me as twins. Two hats, four shoes. To this day they still inquire about Chester.
Thank you for a wonderful evening, Mrs. Wasserfiend. Oh, and the name you were trying to think of when we were discussing the life of Emily Dickinson before was Bronko Nagurski. Out of there just in time. Cranial Pops starting to wear off. Still, no question I was the hit of the party. Came up with Gouda cheese. Lava soap. Got Leo Gorcey and Julien Sorel. Managed to recite the Philippics verbatim. Recalled the Schrafft’s on Fifty-seventh and Third. Hummed Mousie Powell’s theme song. Got Menachem Schneerson, the Sons of the Pioneers. Gyp the Blood. Now, where the hell did I park my car? ♦
Saturday, November 22, 2008
education
i think this poem speaks more eloquently about education than i ever could.
note : Alexis Rotella is now a famous poet.
Purple by Alexis Rotella
In the first grade Mrs. Lohr
said my purple teepee
wasn't realistic enough,
that purple was no color
for a tent,
that purple was a color
for people who died,
that my drawing wasn't
good enough
to hang with the others.
I walked back to my seat
counting the swish swish swishes
of my baggy corduroy trousers.
With a black crayon
night fall came
to my purple tent
in the middle
of an afternoon.
In second grade Mr. Barta
said draw anything;
he didn't care what.
I left my paper blank
and when he came around
to my desk
my heart beat like a tom tom.
He touched my head
with his big hand
and in a soft voice said
the snowfall
how clean and white and beautiful.
note : Alexis Rotella is now a famous poet.
Purple by Alexis Rotella
In the first grade Mrs. Lohr
said my purple teepee
wasn't realistic enough,
that purple was no color
for a tent,
that purple was a color
for people who died,
that my drawing wasn't
good enough
to hang with the others.
I walked back to my seat
counting the swish swish swishes
of my baggy corduroy trousers.
With a black crayon
night fall came
to my purple tent
in the middle
of an afternoon.
In second grade Mr. Barta
said draw anything;
he didn't care what.
I left my paper blank
and when he came around
to my desk
my heart beat like a tom tom.
He touched my head
with his big hand
and in a soft voice said
the snowfall
how clean and white and beautiful.
Sunday, November 16, 2008
Wabi Sabi
Like Feng Shui, wabi sabi is an Eastern idea gaining popularity in the West. Unlike Feng Shui, wabi sabi is not a technique for increasing wealth, or tapping into some unseen mystical power. It is quite the opposite. It is an intuitive way of living that involves noticing the moments that make life rich and paying attention to the simple pleasures that can be over-shadowed by the bustle and excess of our consumer society.
It started with tea. In Japan, in the Middle Ages, nobles and military leaders strengthened political alliances by throwing elaborate tea parties in which expensive teapots and tea-making utensils were displayed and given as gifts. These ostentatious events focused on expensive Chinese art and tea objects and were the exclusive territory of the rich. Zen monks, who had brought tea to Japan in the first place, continued to develop a tea ceremony called wabi tea, which emphasized a different kind of wealth. Their ceremony used rustic Japanese pottery and focused on the natural elements used in making tea. It allowed participants to connect with the pleasure of drinking tea and provided a tranquil space in which to appreciate natural beauty.
The tea masters who preformed these ceremonies situated their tea huts in the middle of gardens and crafted their ceremonies to be rich in symbolic meaning. They practiced making tea until they could do it without thinking about it. Then, when they served tea to others, they were free to focus their attention entirely on their guests without being distracted by the preparation process. The most famous tea master was Sen no Rikyu who took wabi tea to a new level of subtlety thanks to the patronage of the Shogun Oda Nobunaga. Nobunaga used both forms of tea ceremony to unify Japan. Three of Rikyu's principle students were devout Christians: Furuta Oribe, Takayama Ukon, and Gamou Ujisato. They discovered that the way of tea enriched their own faith because it provided a concrete example of selfless attention to others. By learning to serve so well that you no longer need to think about what you are doing, you are free to focus on your guests.
Sabi is a word that originated in Japanese poetry. It expresses the feeling you get in the autumn when the geese are flying south and the leaves are falling. It is a sort of somber longing that is felt in the muted colors and earthy aroma of a forest preparing for winter. This melancholy ache is a sort of hopeful sadness that recognizes that nothing is perfect, nothing lasts, and nothing is finished, but that even so, life is full of meaning. The complete term 'wabi sabi' describes a way of life practiced by those who notice and appreciate the significant moments of each day, live fully in each change of season, and connect with nature and those around them in meaningful and gentle ways.(This article first appeared in the Nanaimo Daily News - Saturday, January 24, 2004.)
Here are some examples of wabi sabi in haiku :
the morning’s snow
I can chew dried salmon
alone
xxxxxxxxx- Basho
drifting snow
lambs inside the barn
inside the ewes
xxxxxxxxx-Harriot West
rumors of war
up into a darkening sky
— a child's newsprint kite
xxxx- Angelee Deodhar
the tom asleep
on the widow's porch
is losing his sun
xxxx- William Hart
It started with tea. In Japan, in the Middle Ages, nobles and military leaders strengthened political alliances by throwing elaborate tea parties in which expensive teapots and tea-making utensils were displayed and given as gifts. These ostentatious events focused on expensive Chinese art and tea objects and were the exclusive territory of the rich. Zen monks, who had brought tea to Japan in the first place, continued to develop a tea ceremony called wabi tea, which emphasized a different kind of wealth. Their ceremony used rustic Japanese pottery and focused on the natural elements used in making tea. It allowed participants to connect with the pleasure of drinking tea and provided a tranquil space in which to appreciate natural beauty.
The tea masters who preformed these ceremonies situated their tea huts in the middle of gardens and crafted their ceremonies to be rich in symbolic meaning. They practiced making tea until they could do it without thinking about it. Then, when they served tea to others, they were free to focus their attention entirely on their guests without being distracted by the preparation process. The most famous tea master was Sen no Rikyu who took wabi tea to a new level of subtlety thanks to the patronage of the Shogun Oda Nobunaga. Nobunaga used both forms of tea ceremony to unify Japan. Three of Rikyu's principle students were devout Christians: Furuta Oribe, Takayama Ukon, and Gamou Ujisato. They discovered that the way of tea enriched their own faith because it provided a concrete example of selfless attention to others. By learning to serve so well that you no longer need to think about what you are doing, you are free to focus on your guests.
Sabi is a word that originated in Japanese poetry. It expresses the feeling you get in the autumn when the geese are flying south and the leaves are falling. It is a sort of somber longing that is felt in the muted colors and earthy aroma of a forest preparing for winter. This melancholy ache is a sort of hopeful sadness that recognizes that nothing is perfect, nothing lasts, and nothing is finished, but that even so, life is full of meaning. The complete term 'wabi sabi' describes a way of life practiced by those who notice and appreciate the significant moments of each day, live fully in each change of season, and connect with nature and those around them in meaningful and gentle ways.(This article first appeared in the Nanaimo Daily News - Saturday, January 24, 2004.)
Here are some examples of wabi sabi in haiku :
the morning’s snow
I can chew dried salmon
alone
xxxxxxxxx- Basho
drifting snow
lambs inside the barn
inside the ewes
xxxxxxxxx-Harriot West
rumors of war
up into a darkening sky
— a child's newsprint kite
xxxx- Angelee Deodhar
the tom asleep
on the widow's porch
is losing his sun
xxxx- William Hart
Thursday, October 23, 2008
lovesickness
Evidently based on the spam i receive there is a rash of male love sickness going around ever since Sarah Palin came on the scene. However thanks to the
compassionate drug companies we do not have to suffer:
New study declares Love a disease; medication may be available
Doctors from the University of Allopath have announced that Love is a curable disease. It is characterized by abnormal heart rhythms, sweating, impaired brain function, incoherent speech patterns and loss of sleep, among other signs. Thanks to this pioneering work from researchers sponsored by the leading drug firm Pferck, researchers have learned that love is a common biochemical disorder affecting both men and women of all ages.
Fortunately, it is treatable with prescription drugs. A new drug, Miserexa, combines beta blockers and antidepressants to alleviate the symptoms of Love. This drug slows the heart and helps patients feel detached from reality, counteracting the unhealthy neediness of Love.
The Food and Drug Administration (FDA) approved the new drug this week. In a press conference, chief FDA drug approval scientist Dr. B. Fuddle said, "We are declaring war on Love, and doing everything in our power to eradicate Love from the world."
The market for Miserexa is expected to reach six billion dollars annually. "Love has reached epidemic proportions", explained a public relations representative of Pferk. "If we do not act immediately to thwart the spread of this disease, Love will run rampant, and we will be facing an epidemic of Love in the world."
Health researchers first became aware of the disease after being alerted to symptoms of Love by the psychiatry community, which has been instrumental in the detection and aggressive treatment of this dangerous condition with brain-altering drugs. "We were seeing it in an alarming number of patients", explained one psychiatrist, "and it was causing untold suffering in their lives. Fortunately, the condition can now be chemically corrected."
Further study revealed that Love is highly contagious. It can apparently spread from one person to another, although the mechanism of transmission is currently unknown. Love also spreads easily from mother to child, especially in newborns. Interestingly, Love has no effect on landlords and corporate CEOs, who seem to possess some unknown immunity to the disease.
Given the expanding threat of this disease, doctors stress it is important that all adults get screened for Love as soon as possible. Hospitals and clinics are now setting up Love screening programs in the hopes of catching the disease early and treating it aggressively with targeted pharmaceuticals. "Nearly half the population may now be suffering from Love", said Dr. Fuddle, "and we estimate more than 90% of the carriers are currently going without treatment. It is important that we provide screenings and treatment on a population-wide basis."
If Love is not detected and treated in its early stages, it can advance to the point where the only solution is surgery. In such severe cases of Love, skilled surgeons perform a cardiectomy (a surgical removal of the heart). The procedure is risky, and many patients have died on the operating table, but many more have been successfully saved from the ravages of Love by the skillful blade of a compassionate surgeon.
The American Misery Association (AMA), whose mission is to find the cure for Love, is working hard to help educate the general public to watch for early signs of Love. People are urged to conduct a Love self-examination in the privacy of their own homes, and to watch out for the classic symptoms of Love: racing pulse, sweaty palms, inability to speak in coherent sentences, or confusion around certain attractive individuals. People are also taught how to avoid giving Love to others - an important step in halting the spread of this disease.
If you suspect that you or someone you know might be suffering from Love, don't wait. Treatment is available. Don't let Loved ones suffer any longer.
This press release is brought to you by Pferck, where today's rip-off drug prices fund tomorrow's profit miracles.
compassionate drug companies we do not have to suffer:
New study declares Love a disease; medication may be available
Doctors from the University of Allopath have announced that Love is a curable disease. It is characterized by abnormal heart rhythms, sweating, impaired brain function, incoherent speech patterns and loss of sleep, among other signs. Thanks to this pioneering work from researchers sponsored by the leading drug firm Pferck, researchers have learned that love is a common biochemical disorder affecting both men and women of all ages.
Fortunately, it is treatable with prescription drugs. A new drug, Miserexa, combines beta blockers and antidepressants to alleviate the symptoms of Love. This drug slows the heart and helps patients feel detached from reality, counteracting the unhealthy neediness of Love.
The Food and Drug Administration (FDA) approved the new drug this week. In a press conference, chief FDA drug approval scientist Dr. B. Fuddle said, "We are declaring war on Love, and doing everything in our power to eradicate Love from the world."
The market for Miserexa is expected to reach six billion dollars annually. "Love has reached epidemic proportions", explained a public relations representative of Pferk. "If we do not act immediately to thwart the spread of this disease, Love will run rampant, and we will be facing an epidemic of Love in the world."
Health researchers first became aware of the disease after being alerted to symptoms of Love by the psychiatry community, which has been instrumental in the detection and aggressive treatment of this dangerous condition with brain-altering drugs. "We were seeing it in an alarming number of patients", explained one psychiatrist, "and it was causing untold suffering in their lives. Fortunately, the condition can now be chemically corrected."
Further study revealed that Love is highly contagious. It can apparently spread from one person to another, although the mechanism of transmission is currently unknown. Love also spreads easily from mother to child, especially in newborns. Interestingly, Love has no effect on landlords and corporate CEOs, who seem to possess some unknown immunity to the disease.
Given the expanding threat of this disease, doctors stress it is important that all adults get screened for Love as soon as possible. Hospitals and clinics are now setting up Love screening programs in the hopes of catching the disease early and treating it aggressively with targeted pharmaceuticals. "Nearly half the population may now be suffering from Love", said Dr. Fuddle, "and we estimate more than 90% of the carriers are currently going without treatment. It is important that we provide screenings and treatment on a population-wide basis."
If Love is not detected and treated in its early stages, it can advance to the point where the only solution is surgery. In such severe cases of Love, skilled surgeons perform a cardiectomy (a surgical removal of the heart). The procedure is risky, and many patients have died on the operating table, but many more have been successfully saved from the ravages of Love by the skillful blade of a compassionate surgeon.
The American Misery Association (AMA), whose mission is to find the cure for Love, is working hard to help educate the general public to watch for early signs of Love. People are urged to conduct a Love self-examination in the privacy of their own homes, and to watch out for the classic symptoms of Love: racing pulse, sweaty palms, inability to speak in coherent sentences, or confusion around certain attractive individuals. People are also taught how to avoid giving Love to others - an important step in halting the spread of this disease.
If you suspect that you or someone you know might be suffering from Love, don't wait. Treatment is available. Don't let Loved ones suffer any longer.
This press release is brought to you by Pferck, where today's rip-off drug prices fund tomorrow's profit miracles.
Friday, September 5, 2008
napping
I read a lot of poetry, mostly on the Writers Almanac and Poetry Daily. Once in awhile I find a poem that really hits home :
Afternoon Nap
for Stuart and Ali
The dishes washed, the plates stacked
Neatly in their cupboards, he scooped up a section
Of the Sunday paper and slipped into the lounge,
His belt stretched around a second slice of cake.
He dozed off over the picture of a scoring hero
And came to again at four, the house quiet,
And brightness gone from the sky. He felt weak,
Knowing that this day was done, or wasted,
And thought about his school, how they
Used to run for miles around a grass track
And never get tired. He thought of friends
Who had fallen into ambition, success
And failure. He should have written letters
But didn't. What was it that he had wanted,
Running around that circle? What would
He now say he had missed? Nothing. He felt
That day's paper slip from his hands,
His muscles loosen, and lids close over eyes
That still stared into the near-dark garden
Where small birds flitted about unnoticed.
James W. Wood
Southwest Review
Volume 93, Number 2 / 2008
James W. Wood
James W. Wood is the author of two short collections, Swingtime and The Theory of Everything. He reviews regularly for Scotland on Sunday and lives in Edinburgh. Poems, articles, and reviews have also appeared in The Times Literary Supplement, The Daily Telegraph, Poetry Review, The London Magazine, and many others. "Afternoon Nap" is included in a chapbook, Inextinguishable, published by Knucker Press.
Afternoon Nap
for Stuart and Ali
The dishes washed, the plates stacked
Neatly in their cupboards, he scooped up a section
Of the Sunday paper and slipped into the lounge,
His belt stretched around a second slice of cake.
He dozed off over the picture of a scoring hero
And came to again at four, the house quiet,
And brightness gone from the sky. He felt weak,
Knowing that this day was done, or wasted,
And thought about his school, how they
Used to run for miles around a grass track
And never get tired. He thought of friends
Who had fallen into ambition, success
And failure. He should have written letters
But didn't. What was it that he had wanted,
Running around that circle? What would
He now say he had missed? Nothing. He felt
That day's paper slip from his hands,
His muscles loosen, and lids close over eyes
That still stared into the near-dark garden
Where small birds flitted about unnoticed.
James W. Wood
Southwest Review
Volume 93, Number 2 / 2008
James W. Wood
James W. Wood is the author of two short collections, Swingtime and The Theory of Everything. He reviews regularly for Scotland on Sunday and lives in Edinburgh. Poems, articles, and reviews have also appeared in The Times Literary Supplement, The Daily Telegraph, Poetry Review, The London Magazine, and many others. "Afternoon Nap" is included in a chapbook, Inextinguishable, published by Knucker Press.
Thursday, July 31, 2008
What I Learned in High School
what i learned in high school
i was impelled to reminisce about my high school years upon hearing on NPR that todays high school curriculum's were so diverse across the nation
that it was difficult to devise a test to fairly measure the knowledge of potential college applicants. the story went on to say that until the counter culture flourished in the late 60's and early 70's what was taught was very similar across the nation. i guess the black power, women liberation, cultural relativism and the peace movements forever altered the landscape of high school studies.
consequently i came up with the idea of creating a cd compilation of music i listened to and excerpts of books that influenced me during my high school years(1962-1965).
included are cultural influences both inside and outside of school from church to tv and the movies.
the playlist:
1 charles dickens - it was the best of times(A Tale of Two Cities) : 58
2. The Beatles -- Yesterday (2 05)
3. mark twain -- jim bakers blue jay yarn (1.27}
4. Sha Na Na -- The Birds and the Bees (2:10)
5. john howard griffin - black like me (1:28)
6. Bob Dylan -- Blowin' in the Wind (2:49)
7. mark twain -- huck finn (:37)
8. harper lee -- to kill a mockingbird (3:10)
9. Paul Robeson -- Ol Man River (4:19)
10. robert frost - stopping by the woods (:58)
11 Gerry & The Pacemakers - Ferry Cross The Mersey (2:25)
12 shakesphere -- caesar eulogy (2:30)
13. The Mamas & the Papas -- California Dreamin' (2:40)
14. mary chase - harvey (3:31)
15 Petula Clark - Downtown (3:05)
16 Judy Collins - Amazing Grace (4:07)
17. st. matthew - sermon on the mount (2:09)
18. The Lettermen --1 Believe (2:11)
19. victor hugo --les miserables (2:17)
20. Shirley Jones -- You'll Never Walk Alone [From Carousel] (1:45)
21. edward fizgerald - rubaiyat of omar khayyam (1:44)
22. The Beatles -- Michelle (2:42)
23. The Beatles - Can't Buy Me Love (2:12)
24. george eliot -- silas marner (1:43)
25. Jackie DeShannon - What The World Needs Now Is Love 3:08
26. Barbara Lewis - Baby I'm Yours (2:33)
27. Barbara Cook - Till There Was You [From The Music Man] i2 4cigh
28. The Rolling Stones -- (I Can't Get No) Satisfaction (3:44)
29. shakesphere -- hamlet soliloquy (2:14)
30. Peter & Gordon - A World Without Love (2.40)
31. leo tolstoy - war and peace (1:30)
32 Barry McGuire -- Eve of Destruction (3:36)
Several of the books were assigned readings and some were mentioned in classes but many were discovered by unfettered curiosity outside the confines of
the school. Most of the music was heard on top-forty radio or on albums. I was especially fond of a record by the Lettermen of show tunes. Though musically
inept I was sometimes allowed to sing in the church choir at Parkview Baptist Church where I learned many hymns. My favorite being Amazing Grace. My senior
year my class did a performance of The Music Man by which I was amazed. It made a lasting impression.
Though I entitled the compilation What I Learned in High school it's not so much what i learned but what i experienced and had a lasting educational effect.
Its what was thrown up against the blank canvas of my mind and stuck like the splashed hues of a jackson pollock painting. A fragmented abstraction of memories
in a quilted undecipherable pattern.
In the 9th grade I remember reading Hamlet in Mr. Hadley's English class and the challenge of struggling to make sense of the weird words and then
the feeling of satisfaction in understanding and enjoying the rich language. In the summer after my sophomore year i read To Kill a Mockingbird as i laid
in bed with bronchitis coughing my way thru the pages emotionally engrossed. It was in high school i developed a love of film. Largely due to TV and
Saturday Night at the Movies where I was exhilarated to watch War and Peace with Henry Fonda as Pierre. It inspired me to read thre book my senior year.
There was also The Vikings with Tony Curtis and Kirk Douglas, Spartacus, and the Mountain with Spencer Tracy. There was of course the Beatles. my younger
sisters played their music continually after they were on the Ed Sullivan show in 1964. (which we watched every Sunday night).
There are many moments that I cringe to remember. It was four short years long ago, four years largely wasted during which I abandoned any dreams of
fame or fortune and all ambition to be anyone special. It was then I realized that I was just your average bloke. With a bit of torment i reluctantly accepted my
fate to be unique just like everybody else. That's just the way life is i learned. That's the way the snowflakes fall, that the way the cookies crumble.
I suspect that your compilation would be much different than mine even if you were my classmate but if you are so inclined and make one I'd love to see it.
If you would like a copy of my cd let me know- Normally its $99.99 but if you call now you can get the entire cd for only $9.99 (only 999 1 penny payments)
but wait... theres more....
i was impelled to reminisce about my high school years upon hearing on NPR that todays high school curriculum's were so diverse across the nation
that it was difficult to devise a test to fairly measure the knowledge of potential college applicants. the story went on to say that until the counter culture flourished in the late 60's and early 70's what was taught was very similar across the nation. i guess the black power, women liberation, cultural relativism and the peace movements forever altered the landscape of high school studies.
consequently i came up with the idea of creating a cd compilation of music i listened to and excerpts of books that influenced me during my high school years(1962-1965).
included are cultural influences both inside and outside of school from church to tv and the movies.
the playlist:
1 charles dickens - it was the best of times(A Tale of Two Cities) : 58
2. The Beatles -- Yesterday (2 05)
3. mark twain -- jim bakers blue jay yarn (1.27}
4. Sha Na Na -- The Birds and the Bees (2:10)
5. john howard griffin - black like me (1:28)
6. Bob Dylan -- Blowin' in the Wind (2:49)
7. mark twain -- huck finn (:37)
8. harper lee -- to kill a mockingbird (3:10)
9. Paul Robeson -- Ol Man River (4:19)
10. robert frost - stopping by the woods (:58)
11 Gerry & The Pacemakers - Ferry Cross The Mersey (2:25)
12 shakesphere -- caesar eulogy (2:30)
13. The Mamas & the Papas -- California Dreamin' (2:40)
14. mary chase - harvey (3:31)
15 Petula Clark - Downtown (3:05)
16 Judy Collins - Amazing Grace (4:07)
17. st. matthew - sermon on the mount (2:09)
18. The Lettermen --1 Believe (2:11)
19. victor hugo --les miserables (2:17)
20. Shirley Jones -- You'll Never Walk Alone [From Carousel] (1:45)
21. edward fizgerald - rubaiyat of omar khayyam (1:44)
22. The Beatles -- Michelle (2:42)
23. The Beatles - Can't Buy Me Love (2:12)
24. george eliot -- silas marner (1:43)
25. Jackie DeShannon - What The World Needs Now Is Love 3:08
26. Barbara Lewis - Baby I'm Yours (2:33)
27. Barbara Cook - Till There Was You [From The Music Man] i2 4cigh
28. The Rolling Stones -- (I Can't Get No) Satisfaction (3:44)
29. shakesphere -- hamlet soliloquy (2:14)
30. Peter & Gordon - A World Without Love (2.40)
31. leo tolstoy - war and peace (1:30)
32 Barry McGuire -- Eve of Destruction (3:36)
Several of the books were assigned readings and some were mentioned in classes but many were discovered by unfettered curiosity outside the confines of
the school. Most of the music was heard on top-forty radio or on albums. I was especially fond of a record by the Lettermen of show tunes. Though musically
inept I was sometimes allowed to sing in the church choir at Parkview Baptist Church where I learned many hymns. My favorite being Amazing Grace. My senior
year my class did a performance of The Music Man by which I was amazed. It made a lasting impression.
Though I entitled the compilation What I Learned in High school it's not so much what i learned but what i experienced and had a lasting educational effect.
Its what was thrown up against the blank canvas of my mind and stuck like the splashed hues of a jackson pollock painting. A fragmented abstraction of memories
in a quilted undecipherable pattern.
In the 9th grade I remember reading Hamlet in Mr. Hadley's English class and the challenge of struggling to make sense of the weird words and then
the feeling of satisfaction in understanding and enjoying the rich language. In the summer after my sophomore year i read To Kill a Mockingbird as i laid
in bed with bronchitis coughing my way thru the pages emotionally engrossed. It was in high school i developed a love of film. Largely due to TV and
Saturday Night at the Movies where I was exhilarated to watch War and Peace with Henry Fonda as Pierre. It inspired me to read thre book my senior year.
There was also The Vikings with Tony Curtis and Kirk Douglas, Spartacus, and the Mountain with Spencer Tracy. There was of course the Beatles. my younger
sisters played their music continually after they were on the Ed Sullivan show in 1964. (which we watched every Sunday night).
There are many moments that I cringe to remember. It was four short years long ago, four years largely wasted during which I abandoned any dreams of
fame or fortune and all ambition to be anyone special. It was then I realized that I was just your average bloke. With a bit of torment i reluctantly accepted my
fate to be unique just like everybody else. That's just the way life is i learned. That's the way the snowflakes fall, that the way the cookies crumble.
I suspect that your compilation would be much different than mine even if you were my classmate but if you are so inclined and make one I'd love to see it.
If you would like a copy of my cd let me know- Normally its $99.99 but if you call now you can get the entire cd for only $9.99 (only 999 1 penny payments)
but wait... theres more....
Thursday, May 1, 2008
reading
The question i asked last month regarding "do you read fiction or non-fiction" didn't
seem to generate much response. Of the 4 responses i did get 2 said they try for a
balance and 2 said they prefer nonfiction. i seem to prefer fiction in that last year i read 21 fiction and 8 nonfiction books. i found a couple of interesting polls on the internet that reading is not dead. the following is from a Harris poll:
"For years, people have been crying about the death of the book. While reading books may be declining, Americans are reading. Just one in ten (9%) say they typically read no books in an average year. About one-quarter (23%) read between 1 and 3 books, while one in five (19%) read between 4 and 6 books and 13 percent typically read between 7 and 10 books. And, over one-third (37%) of Americans say they read more then ten books in an average year.
There are certain groups who are more likely to read more than ten books in an average year. Looking at the generations, almost half (47%) of Matures (those aged 63 and older) say they read more than ten books compared to just one-third (33%) of Baby Boomers (those aged 44-62). Women are also more likely to read more than men – 44 percent of women read more than ten books a year compared to three in ten (29%) men. Candidates may not want to try books to reach their partisans, but they may be a good way to reach out to Independents"
a zogby poll examines whether what you like to read predicts your politics :
* Conservatives and liberals are more likely than moderates to read books.
* Liberals are almost twice as likely as conservatives to read
literary fiction (20% to 11%) and they're also more likely to read
science fiction/fantasy than moderates (13% to 8%).
* Moderates and conservatives favor mysteries and thrillers while
liberals (22%) and conservatives (20%) prefer books about politics and
current events.
* Liberals like non-fiction and fiction equally. Moderates and
conservatives prefer non-fiction.
* Moderates are more likely to read self-help books (7%) –
liberals are the least likely to read them (3%).
of course everyone i know falls outside any polling parameters.
Here is a list of the books i read in the past year:
FICTION
Blood Lure Nevada Barr
Skeleton Man tony Hillerman
Mission Song John Le Carre
One Good Turn Kate Atkinson
Arthur and George Julian Barnes
the Road Cormac McCarthy
Brooklyn Follies Paul Auster
What is What Dave Eggers
Echomaker Richard Powers
American Outrage Tim Green
HouseKeeping Maryanne Robinson
No Country for Old Men Cormac McCarthy
Bridge of Sighs Richard Russo
The Book Thief Markus Zusak
A Thousand Slendid Suns Khaled Hosseini
The Reluctant Fundamentalist Mohsin Hamid
The Appeal John Grisham
A Soldier of the Great War Mark Helprin
A Free Life Ha Jin
The Yiddish Policeman's Union Michael Chabon
Everyman Philip Roth
NONFICTION
The God Delusion Richard Dawkins
Into the Wild Jon Krakauer
Clapton Eric Clapton
The Beatles Bob Spitz
MoneyBall Michael Lewis
Truth and Beauty Ann Pacthett
Heart Breaking Work of Staggering Genius Dave Eggers
seem to generate much response. Of the 4 responses i did get 2 said they try for a
balance and 2 said they prefer nonfiction. i seem to prefer fiction in that last year i read 21 fiction and 8 nonfiction books. i found a couple of interesting polls on the internet that reading is not dead. the following is from a Harris poll:
"For years, people have been crying about the death of the book. While reading books may be declining, Americans are reading. Just one in ten (9%) say they typically read no books in an average year. About one-quarter (23%) read between 1 and 3 books, while one in five (19%) read between 4 and 6 books and 13 percent typically read between 7 and 10 books. And, over one-third (37%) of Americans say they read more then ten books in an average year.
There are certain groups who are more likely to read more than ten books in an average year. Looking at the generations, almost half (47%) of Matures (those aged 63 and older) say they read more than ten books compared to just one-third (33%) of Baby Boomers (those aged 44-62). Women are also more likely to read more than men – 44 percent of women read more than ten books a year compared to three in ten (29%) men. Candidates may not want to try books to reach their partisans, but they may be a good way to reach out to Independents"
a zogby poll examines whether what you like to read predicts your politics :
* Conservatives and liberals are more likely than moderates to read books.
* Liberals are almost twice as likely as conservatives to read
literary fiction (20% to 11%) and they're also more likely to read
science fiction/fantasy than moderates (13% to 8%).
* Moderates and conservatives favor mysteries and thrillers while
liberals (22%) and conservatives (20%) prefer books about politics and
current events.
* Liberals like non-fiction and fiction equally. Moderates and
conservatives prefer non-fiction.
* Moderates are more likely to read self-help books (7%) –
liberals are the least likely to read them (3%).
of course everyone i know falls outside any polling parameters.
Here is a list of the books i read in the past year:
FICTION
Blood Lure Nevada Barr
Skeleton Man tony Hillerman
Mission Song John Le Carre
One Good Turn Kate Atkinson
Arthur and George Julian Barnes
the Road Cormac McCarthy
Brooklyn Follies Paul Auster
What is What Dave Eggers
Echomaker Richard Powers
American Outrage Tim Green
HouseKeeping Maryanne Robinson
No Country for Old Men Cormac McCarthy
Bridge of Sighs Richard Russo
The Book Thief Markus Zusak
A Thousand Slendid Suns Khaled Hosseini
The Reluctant Fundamentalist Mohsin Hamid
The Appeal John Grisham
A Soldier of the Great War Mark Helprin
A Free Life Ha Jin
The Yiddish Policeman's Union Michael Chabon
Everyman Philip Roth
NONFICTION
The God Delusion Richard Dawkins
Into the Wild Jon Krakauer
Clapton Eric Clapton
The Beatles Bob Spitz
MoneyBall Michael Lewis
Truth and Beauty Ann Pacthett
Heart Breaking Work of Staggering Genius Dave Eggers
Wednesday, April 9, 2008
a question for readers
i recently read a review of a book of poems by laura kamasischke whose poems are
described as confessionally autobiographical like sylvia plath and robert lowell's
poems were in the 60's. the reviewer asks what should we read? who do we turn to
to help us understand our life? is it the fiction or non-fiction writer (or the poet). one writer has said that its experience we learn most from and that the fiction writer can create a story of internal and external events we can vicariously experience. and because "experience resists explanation" fiction comes closer to
the truth than non-fiction. who do you trust? the novelist or the journalist.
we might of turned to the poets in th 60's and 70's but in recent years its the memoirs that are getting the readers. there have been a couple of blantant examples
of memoirs full of lies as this quote points out (both highly touted by oprah before they were exposed as lies) :
"When James Frey approached publishers marketing his manuscript of “A Million Little Pieces” as fiction, none were interested. When he labeled it “memoir” Random House jumped.
Margaret Seltzer's excuse was that she really wanted to tell the stories of the life her gang-member ffriends lived, and she believed that they had a greater chance of being heard if she wrote them as her own story.
Seltzer and Frey both sold memoirs because that's what the publishers wanted. And the publishers wanted memoirs because readers crave them. Non-fiction books sell. Readers want the intimacy of a memoir and the sense of being allowed into another person's world – especially if that person has had a dramatic and harrowing life.
The process of memoir writing is fraught with the possibility of factual inaccuracy, being dependent as it is on memory and recollection. It is nearly impossible to guarantee that every detail of a creative non-fiction story is unquestionably accurate.
Still, readers are right to assume that memoirs are true, or at least as true as memory will allow."
(In her supposed memoir “Love and Consequences” (Riverhead Books, 2008), Margaret A. Jones writes about her life as a half-Native American, half-white girl growing up in a foster home in South Central Los Angeles. She describes her experiences as a drug-dealing gang member in L.A. watching friends and family die in gang violence.)
so my question to you is : what do you prefer fiction or non-fiction?
Kitchen Song by Laura Kasischke
The white bowls in the orderly
cupboards filled with nothing.
The sound
of applause in running water.
All those who've drowned in oceans, all
who've drowned in pools, in ponds, the small
family together in the car hit head on. The pantry
full of lilies, the lobsters scratching to get out of the pot, and God
being pulled across the heavens
in a burning car.
The recipes
like confessions.
The confessions like songs.
The sun. The bomb. The white
bowls in the orderly
cupboards filled with blood. I wanted
something simple, and domestic. A kitchen song.
They were just driving along. Dad
turned the radio off, and Mom
turned it back on.
described as confessionally autobiographical like sylvia plath and robert lowell's
poems were in the 60's. the reviewer asks what should we read? who do we turn to
to help us understand our life? is it the fiction or non-fiction writer (or the poet). one writer has said that its experience we learn most from and that the fiction writer can create a story of internal and external events we can vicariously experience. and because "experience resists explanation" fiction comes closer to
the truth than non-fiction. who do you trust? the novelist or the journalist.
we might of turned to the poets in th 60's and 70's but in recent years its the memoirs that are getting the readers. there have been a couple of blantant examples
of memoirs full of lies as this quote points out (both highly touted by oprah before they were exposed as lies) :
"When James Frey approached publishers marketing his manuscript of “A Million Little Pieces” as fiction, none were interested. When he labeled it “memoir” Random House jumped.
Margaret Seltzer's excuse was that she really wanted to tell the stories of the life her gang-member ffriends lived, and she believed that they had a greater chance of being heard if she wrote them as her own story.
Seltzer and Frey both sold memoirs because that's what the publishers wanted. And the publishers wanted memoirs because readers crave them. Non-fiction books sell. Readers want the intimacy of a memoir and the sense of being allowed into another person's world – especially if that person has had a dramatic and harrowing life.
The process of memoir writing is fraught with the possibility of factual inaccuracy, being dependent as it is on memory and recollection. It is nearly impossible to guarantee that every detail of a creative non-fiction story is unquestionably accurate.
Still, readers are right to assume that memoirs are true, or at least as true as memory will allow."
(In her supposed memoir “Love and Consequences” (Riverhead Books, 2008), Margaret A. Jones writes about her life as a half-Native American, half-white girl growing up in a foster home in South Central Los Angeles. She describes her experiences as a drug-dealing gang member in L.A. watching friends and family die in gang violence.)
so my question to you is : what do you prefer fiction or non-fiction?
Kitchen Song by Laura Kasischke
The white bowls in the orderly
cupboards filled with nothing.
The sound
of applause in running water.
All those who've drowned in oceans, all
who've drowned in pools, in ponds, the small
family together in the car hit head on. The pantry
full of lilies, the lobsters scratching to get out of the pot, and God
being pulled across the heavens
in a burning car.
The recipes
like confessions.
The confessions like songs.
The sun. The bomb. The white
bowls in the orderly
cupboards filled with blood. I wanted
something simple, and domestic. A kitchen song.
They were just driving along. Dad
turned the radio off, and Mom
turned it back on.
Saturday, April 5, 2008
arcade fire
recently i discovered a indie rock group from canada that i liked ( thanks to a friend who loaned me their newest cd Neon Bible). i found their lyrics to be magnetic (ie. they stuck rather than suck). than i remembered my favorite group during the 80's and
90's was Talking Heads a favorite song was Once in a Lifetime. i guess i haven't come so far. ...same as it ever was ...
Arcade Fire is an indie rock band based in Montreal, Quebec which is based around the husband and wife duo of Win Butler and Régine Chassagne. In 2004, their first full-length album Funeral was recorded. The group uses of a large number of musical instruments in addition to mainstays rock instruments of guitar, drums, and bass guitar, such as bowed string instruments, accordion, various brass and harp.
THE ARCADE FIRE LYRICS
"Keep The Car Running"
Every night my dream's the same
Same old city with a different name
Men are coming to take me away
I don't know why, but I know I can't stay
There's a weight that's pressing down
Late at night you can hear the sound
Even the noise you make when you sleep
Can't swim across a river so deep
They know my name cause I told it to them
But they don't know where and they don't know
When it's coming, when it's coming
There's a fear I keep so deep
Knew its name since before I could speak
Aaaaah Aaaaah Aaaaah Aaaaah
They know my name cause I told it to them
But they don't know where and they don't know
When its coming, oh when but its coming
Keep the car running
If some night I don't come home
Please don't think I've left you alone
The same place animals go when they die
You can't climb across a mountain so high
The same city where I go when I sleep
You can't swim across a river so deep
They know my name cause I told it to them
But they don't know where
And they don't know
When it's coming, oh when is it coming?
Keep the car running
Keep the car running
Keep the car running
ONCE in a Lifetime lyrics :
And you may find yourself living in a shotgun shack
And you may find yourself in another part of the world
And you may find yourself behind the wheel of a large automobile
And you may find yourself in a beautiful house, with a beautiful
Wife
And you may ask yourself-well...how did I get here?
Letting the days go by/let the water hold me down
Letting the days go by/water flowing underground
Into the blue again/after the moneys gone
Once in a lifetime/water flowing underground.
And you may ask yourself
How do I work this?
And you may ask yourself
Where is that large automobile?
And you may tell yourself
This is not my beautiful house!
And you may tell yourself
This is not my beautiful wife!
Letting the days go by/let the water hold me down
Letting the days go by/water flowing underground
Into the blue again/after the moneys gone
Once in a lifetime/water flowing underground.
Same as it ever was...same as it ever was...same as it ever was...
Same as it ever was...same as it ever was...same as it ever was...
Same as it ever was...same as it ever was...
90's was Talking Heads a favorite song was Once in a Lifetime. i guess i haven't come so far. ...same as it ever was ...
Arcade Fire is an indie rock band based in Montreal, Quebec which is based around the husband and wife duo of Win Butler and Régine Chassagne. In 2004, their first full-length album Funeral was recorded. The group uses of a large number of musical instruments in addition to mainstays rock instruments of guitar, drums, and bass guitar, such as bowed string instruments, accordion, various brass and harp.
THE ARCADE FIRE LYRICS
"Keep The Car Running"
Every night my dream's the same
Same old city with a different name
Men are coming to take me away
I don't know why, but I know I can't stay
There's a weight that's pressing down
Late at night you can hear the sound
Even the noise you make when you sleep
Can't swim across a river so deep
They know my name cause I told it to them
But they don't know where and they don't know
When it's coming, when it's coming
There's a fear I keep so deep
Knew its name since before I could speak
Aaaaah Aaaaah Aaaaah Aaaaah
They know my name cause I told it to them
But they don't know where and they don't know
When its coming, oh when but its coming
Keep the car running
If some night I don't come home
Please don't think I've left you alone
The same place animals go when they die
You can't climb across a mountain so high
The same city where I go when I sleep
You can't swim across a river so deep
They know my name cause I told it to them
But they don't know where
And they don't know
When it's coming, oh when is it coming?
Keep the car running
Keep the car running
Keep the car running
ONCE in a Lifetime lyrics :
And you may find yourself living in a shotgun shack
And you may find yourself in another part of the world
And you may find yourself behind the wheel of a large automobile
And you may find yourself in a beautiful house, with a beautiful
Wife
And you may ask yourself-well...how did I get here?
Letting the days go by/let the water hold me down
Letting the days go by/water flowing underground
Into the blue again/after the moneys gone
Once in a lifetime/water flowing underground.
And you may ask yourself
How do I work this?
And you may ask yourself
Where is that large automobile?
And you may tell yourself
This is not my beautiful house!
And you may tell yourself
This is not my beautiful wife!
Letting the days go by/let the water hold me down
Letting the days go by/water flowing underground
Into the blue again/after the moneys gone
Once in a lifetime/water flowing underground.
Same as it ever was...same as it ever was...same as it ever was...
Same as it ever was...same as it ever was...same as it ever was...
Same as it ever was...same as it ever was...
Sunday, March 30, 2008
a little humour and a little irony
1) irony
As i was driving around the backroads of nebraska last week i was turning thru the radio stations and i noticed russ limbaugh was on about four different channels. After listening a bit, the phrase "Nattering nabobs of negativism" came to mind. i
thought it ironic that a phrase popularized by spiro agnew as an insult to the press
would seem to fit russ so well who by all accounts would be a political bedfellow.?
Nattering nabobs of negativism" is one of the most popular turns of phrase associated with U.S. Vice President Spiro T. Agnew, who served under Richard Nixon until resigning in October 1974, after pleading no contest to charges of tax fraud. Agnew, who had a particularly acrimonious relationship with the press, used this term to refer to the members of the media, whom he also deemed "an effete corps of impudent snobs."
According to the Congressional Record, this term was first used during Agnew's address to the California Republican state convention in San Diego on September 11, 1970. In context, it was used together with another well-known Agnew alliteration: "In the United States today, we have more than our share of the nattering nabobs of negativism. They have formed their own 4-H Club -- the "hopeless, hysterical hypochondriacs of history."
Although this phrase is often credited to Agnew himself, it was actually written by William Safire, the legendary columnist for The New York Times, who was a speechwriter for Richard Nixon and Spiro Agnew. Some of Agnew's other pearls were actually written by Patrick Buchanan, another White House speechwriter at the time.
na·bob n.
1. A governor in India under the Mogul Empire. Also called nawab.
2. A person of wealth and prominence.
2) humour
when i was in highschool one might say after making a dumb joke: ' a little humour'
(which was stolen from johnny carson). a reply might be: ' yes, very little'.
consider the following "a little humour' :
How I Want To Be Remembered
by Jack Handey
March 31, 2008 Text Size:
We are gathered here, way far in the future, for the funeral of Jack Handey, the world’s oldest man. He died suddenly in bed, according to his wife, Miss France.
No one is really sure how old Jack was, but some think he may have been born as long ago as the twentieth century. He passed away after a long, courageous battle with honky-tonkin’ and alley-cattin’.
Even though Jack was incredibly old, he was amazingly healthy right up to the end. He attributed this to performing his funny cowboy dance for friends, relatives, and people waiting for buses. All agreed it was the most hilarious thing they had ever seen, and not at all stupid or annoying.
Jack’s death has thrown the whole world into mourning, and not in a fakey, sarcastic way. He was admired by people of all ages and stripes, and by all animals, including zebras. Even monsters liked him. He had his playful side and his serious side, but ninety-nine per cent of the time he had his “normal” side.
He started out life as a baby but worked his way up to an adult. But even when he was a full-grown adult he never forgot that he was a baby. His philosophy of life was a simple one. “I’m-a no look-a for trouble, because-a trouble, she’s-a no good,” he would often say, in his beloved fake Italian accent. He was quick with a laugh, but just as quick to point at what he was laughing at. Children loved him, but not in the way his teen-age niece claimed. He was always thinking of ways of helping people, and was wondering how he might do some of those things when he died.
Jack was an expert in so many fields, it’s hard to say what he was best at: the arts, the sciences, or the businesses. If you talked to him at a party, you couldn’t tell; he seemed to know it all. He has been compared to Captain James Cook, and not just because he was severely beaten by some Hawaiians, and to General Dwight D. Eisenhower, and not just because he liked to be driven around in a jeep.
As hard as it is to believe, he never sold a single painting during his lifetime, or even painted one. Some of the greatest advances in architecture, medicine, and theatre were not opposed by him, and he did little to sabotage them.
Although he lived in Paris, in a mansion famous for its many trapdoors, he was always proud to be an American. However, he was ashamed to be an earthling.
He was fabulously wealthy, but he would pretend to be broke, and often tried to borrow cigarettes and money from people. Little did they know that those who gave him stuff would later be rewarded in his will, with jewels and antigravity helmets. Women who refused to have sex with him are probably wishing that they could turn back the clock and say yes.
Generous even with his organs, he has asked that his eyes be donated to a blind person. Also his glasses. His skeleton, equipped with a spring that will suddenly propel it to a full standing position, will be used to educate kindergartners.
He has asked that no shrines be built to him. But he pointed out that this did not mean he didn’t like Shriners. According to our scientists, with their electronic soul trackers, Jack is in Heaven now. And not just regular Heaven, which any jerk can get into, but special secret Heaven, which even some angels don’t know about.
So let us celebrate his death, and not mourn. However, those who appear to be a little too happy will be asked to leave.
Perhaps the greatest tragedy is that a lot of the things Jack said and did seemed wrong at the time, but now we realize it wasn’t him; it was we who were wrong. Let us hope we don’t make the same mistake with his clones.
In closing, it is unfortunate that Jack’s friend Don could not be here. However, Don died many years ago, from a horrible fungus.
And now robot Elton John will sing “Candle in the Wind.”?
As i was driving around the backroads of nebraska last week i was turning thru the radio stations and i noticed russ limbaugh was on about four different channels. After listening a bit, the phrase "Nattering nabobs of negativism" came to mind. i
thought it ironic that a phrase popularized by spiro agnew as an insult to the press
would seem to fit russ so well who by all accounts would be a political bedfellow.?
Nattering nabobs of negativism" is one of the most popular turns of phrase associated with U.S. Vice President Spiro T. Agnew, who served under Richard Nixon until resigning in October 1974, after pleading no contest to charges of tax fraud. Agnew, who had a particularly acrimonious relationship with the press, used this term to refer to the members of the media, whom he also deemed "an effete corps of impudent snobs."
According to the Congressional Record, this term was first used during Agnew's address to the California Republican state convention in San Diego on September 11, 1970. In context, it was used together with another well-known Agnew alliteration: "In the United States today, we have more than our share of the nattering nabobs of negativism. They have formed their own 4-H Club -- the "hopeless, hysterical hypochondriacs of history."
Although this phrase is often credited to Agnew himself, it was actually written by William Safire, the legendary columnist for The New York Times, who was a speechwriter for Richard Nixon and Spiro Agnew. Some of Agnew's other pearls were actually written by Patrick Buchanan, another White House speechwriter at the time.
na·bob n.
1. A governor in India under the Mogul Empire. Also called nawab.
2. A person of wealth and prominence.
2) humour
when i was in highschool one might say after making a dumb joke: ' a little humour'
(which was stolen from johnny carson). a reply might be: ' yes, very little'.
consider the following "a little humour' :
How I Want To Be Remembered
by Jack Handey
March 31, 2008 Text Size:
We are gathered here, way far in the future, for the funeral of Jack Handey, the world’s oldest man. He died suddenly in bed, according to his wife, Miss France.
No one is really sure how old Jack was, but some think he may have been born as long ago as the twentieth century. He passed away after a long, courageous battle with honky-tonkin’ and alley-cattin’.
Even though Jack was incredibly old, he was amazingly healthy right up to the end. He attributed this to performing his funny cowboy dance for friends, relatives, and people waiting for buses. All agreed it was the most hilarious thing they had ever seen, and not at all stupid or annoying.
Jack’s death has thrown the whole world into mourning, and not in a fakey, sarcastic way. He was admired by people of all ages and stripes, and by all animals, including zebras. Even monsters liked him. He had his playful side and his serious side, but ninety-nine per cent of the time he had his “normal” side.
He started out life as a baby but worked his way up to an adult. But even when he was a full-grown adult he never forgot that he was a baby. His philosophy of life was a simple one. “I’m-a no look-a for trouble, because-a trouble, she’s-a no good,” he would often say, in his beloved fake Italian accent. He was quick with a laugh, but just as quick to point at what he was laughing at. Children loved him, but not in the way his teen-age niece claimed. He was always thinking of ways of helping people, and was wondering how he might do some of those things when he died.
Jack was an expert in so many fields, it’s hard to say what he was best at: the arts, the sciences, or the businesses. If you talked to him at a party, you couldn’t tell; he seemed to know it all. He has been compared to Captain James Cook, and not just because he was severely beaten by some Hawaiians, and to General Dwight D. Eisenhower, and not just because he liked to be driven around in a jeep.
As hard as it is to believe, he never sold a single painting during his lifetime, or even painted one. Some of the greatest advances in architecture, medicine, and theatre were not opposed by him, and he did little to sabotage them.
Although he lived in Paris, in a mansion famous for its many trapdoors, he was always proud to be an American. However, he was ashamed to be an earthling.
He was fabulously wealthy, but he would pretend to be broke, and often tried to borrow cigarettes and money from people. Little did they know that those who gave him stuff would later be rewarded in his will, with jewels and antigravity helmets. Women who refused to have sex with him are probably wishing that they could turn back the clock and say yes.
Generous even with his organs, he has asked that his eyes be donated to a blind person. Also his glasses. His skeleton, equipped with a spring that will suddenly propel it to a full standing position, will be used to educate kindergartners.
He has asked that no shrines be built to him. But he pointed out that this did not mean he didn’t like Shriners. According to our scientists, with their electronic soul trackers, Jack is in Heaven now. And not just regular Heaven, which any jerk can get into, but special secret Heaven, which even some angels don’t know about.
So let us celebrate his death, and not mourn. However, those who appear to be a little too happy will be asked to leave.
Perhaps the greatest tragedy is that a lot of the things Jack said and did seemed wrong at the time, but now we realize it wasn’t him; it was we who were wrong. Let us hope we don’t make the same mistake with his clones.
In closing, it is unfortunate that Jack’s friend Don could not be here. However, Don died many years ago, from a horrible fungus.
And now robot Elton John will sing “Candle in the Wind.”?
Tuesday, March 18, 2008
looking forward
in a 1996 film A Family Thing (written by billy bob thorton) a character played by robert duvall says "..the secret of happiness is always having something to look forward to" . i strongly suspect there is some truth to that.
now that my 6 month driving prohibition is up i can look forward to hitting the road
again this spring. my first trip will be to the platte river near grand island,nebraska
to see the sand hill crane migration. maybe i will reread the echo-maker to get me primed. being able to drive again is a real psychological boost. things tend to even
out as jack handy points out in the following new yorker story:
How Things Even Out
by Jack Handey March 3, 2008
Things tend to even out. Religion, some people say, has caused wars and fighting. Yes, but it’s also boring to sit through a church service, so it evens out. One moment you’re depressed because your doctor tells you that you have alcoholism. But then you cheer up when you go home and find a hidden bottle of vodka you had forgotten about.
Things are evening out all the time, if you take time to notice, like I do. Let’s say you want a big cupcake, with lots of icing, so you go buy one and eat it. But then you realize, I don’t have the cupcake anymore. Or maybe you take a bite of salsa that’s labelled “HOT,” and it doesn’t seem that hot, but then about a second later it seems really hot.
You might hear that some guy you know is having a party, so you call him up, but he says there’s no party. But then you call back, using a different voice, and suddenly there is a party.
One day, you ask people to take a look at a skin rash you have. Then, a few days later, you’re looking at their rashes. You send someone a death threat and then, mysteriously, the police come to your house and threaten you.
Maybe you find a nice flat pebble on a riverbank, and when you pick it up and throw it it skips across the water several times. But then the next pebble you can’t even pry loose because, what is this, glue mud? You notice an ant drifting away on a leaf in the water. Then you look up to see your aunt drifting away in a rowboat.
Eventually, I believe, everything evens out. Long ago, an asteroid hit our planet and killed our dinosaurs. But, in the future, maybe we’ll go to another planet and kill their dinosaurs.
Even in the afterlife things probably even out, although I can’t imagine how.
Still don’t believe that things even out? Try this simple test: flip a coin, over and over again, calling out “Heads!” or “Tails!” after each flip. Half the time people will ask you to please stop.
Once you realize that things even out, it’s like a light being turned on in your head, then being turned off, then being turned to “dim.”
Probably the perfect example of things evening out happened to me just last month. I was walking to the post office to mail a death threat. It was a beautiful day. I was happily singing away in my super-loud singing voice. I didn’t step on any chewing gum, like I usually do, and when I threw my gum down it didn’t stick to my fingertips. As I rounded the corner, there was a bum begging for change. I was feeling pretty good, so I gave him a five-dollar bill. At first I tried to make him do a little dance for the five dollars, but he wouldn’t do it, so I gave him the five dollars anyway.
Not long after that, I was reading the paper, and there was a picture of the bum. He had won the Nobel Prize in Chemistry! He had a little bigger nose and straighter teeth, but I’m pretty sure it was him. So, my five dollars had made him change his ways and become a chemistry guy.
A few days later, I was walking by the corner again, and there was the bum, back begging. So, things had evened out. He had gotten the Nobel Prize, but now he was a bum again. I asked him for the five dollars back, but he started saying weird stuff that I guess was chemistry formulas or something.
I told my friend Don the story, but he said it wasn’t an example of things evening out so much as just a stupid story. That’s interesting, Don, because you saying that evens out what I said to your mother that time.
I have a lot of stories about things evening out, but I think the one about the Nobel Prize-winning bum is the best. I’d say it would take about three of my other stories to even out that one.
now that my 6 month driving prohibition is up i can look forward to hitting the road
again this spring. my first trip will be to the platte river near grand island,nebraska
to see the sand hill crane migration. maybe i will reread the echo-maker to get me primed. being able to drive again is a real psychological boost. things tend to even
out as jack handy points out in the following new yorker story:
How Things Even Out
by Jack Handey March 3, 2008
Things tend to even out. Religion, some people say, has caused wars and fighting. Yes, but it’s also boring to sit through a church service, so it evens out. One moment you’re depressed because your doctor tells you that you have alcoholism. But then you cheer up when you go home and find a hidden bottle of vodka you had forgotten about.
Things are evening out all the time, if you take time to notice, like I do. Let’s say you want a big cupcake, with lots of icing, so you go buy one and eat it. But then you realize, I don’t have the cupcake anymore. Or maybe you take a bite of salsa that’s labelled “HOT,” and it doesn’t seem that hot, but then about a second later it seems really hot.
You might hear that some guy you know is having a party, so you call him up, but he says there’s no party. But then you call back, using a different voice, and suddenly there is a party.
One day, you ask people to take a look at a skin rash you have. Then, a few days later, you’re looking at their rashes. You send someone a death threat and then, mysteriously, the police come to your house and threaten you.
Maybe you find a nice flat pebble on a riverbank, and when you pick it up and throw it it skips across the water several times. But then the next pebble you can’t even pry loose because, what is this, glue mud? You notice an ant drifting away on a leaf in the water. Then you look up to see your aunt drifting away in a rowboat.
Eventually, I believe, everything evens out. Long ago, an asteroid hit our planet and killed our dinosaurs. But, in the future, maybe we’ll go to another planet and kill their dinosaurs.
Even in the afterlife things probably even out, although I can’t imagine how.
Still don’t believe that things even out? Try this simple test: flip a coin, over and over again, calling out “Heads!” or “Tails!” after each flip. Half the time people will ask you to please stop.
Once you realize that things even out, it’s like a light being turned on in your head, then being turned off, then being turned to “dim.”
Probably the perfect example of things evening out happened to me just last month. I was walking to the post office to mail a death threat. It was a beautiful day. I was happily singing away in my super-loud singing voice. I didn’t step on any chewing gum, like I usually do, and when I threw my gum down it didn’t stick to my fingertips. As I rounded the corner, there was a bum begging for change. I was feeling pretty good, so I gave him a five-dollar bill. At first I tried to make him do a little dance for the five dollars, but he wouldn’t do it, so I gave him the five dollars anyway.
Not long after that, I was reading the paper, and there was a picture of the bum. He had won the Nobel Prize in Chemistry! He had a little bigger nose and straighter teeth, but I’m pretty sure it was him. So, my five dollars had made him change his ways and become a chemistry guy.
A few days later, I was walking by the corner again, and there was the bum, back begging. So, things had evened out. He had gotten the Nobel Prize, but now he was a bum again. I asked him for the five dollars back, but he started saying weird stuff that I guess was chemistry formulas or something.
I told my friend Don the story, but he said it wasn’t an example of things evening out so much as just a stupid story. That’s interesting, Don, because you saying that evens out what I said to your mother that time.
I have a lot of stories about things evening out, but I think the one about the Nobel Prize-winning bum is the best. I’d say it would take about three of my other stories to even out that one.
Thursday, January 17, 2008
Mavis Gallant
Its always a great pleasure to discover a new writer that you like,
or an old writer that you hadn't paid attention to before. Such is the
case with Mavis Gallant. I was on the New Yorker web site where I found an audible short story selected and read by Antonya Nelson (whose father was a college professor of mine).
Online it was entitled Waiting but the real title is "When we were almost young". It was originally published in 1960. It stuck me as such a great story I had to rush to the library to
check out the complete Collected Stories.
Here is the abstract summary of the story:
Mavis Gallant, Fiction, "When We Were Nearly Young," The New Yorker,
October 15, 1960, p. 38 October 15, 1960 Issue
In Madrid, 9 years ago, the writer & her companions lived on the
thought of money. The re were four of them: two men & two girls. The
men, Pablo & Carlos, were cousins. Pilar was a relation of theirs. The
writer was not Spanish & not a relation, just an accidental friend.
The thing they had in common was waiting for money. Carlos & Pablo
shared a room in a flat; writer lived in another room in the same
house. Pilar had her own small flat. They were all in their 20's &
worried about approaching their thirties. Getting along on their
meagre funds was a constant challenge. The Spaniards' characteristic
trait was a certain passiveness. One day the writer received some
money, but it aroused bitterness. Carlos remarked that the difference
between them was that something would always come for the writer but
not for them.
(That doesn't do the story justice.) There are a couple of quotes I remember:
"Poverty is not a goad but a paralysis."
..."we were not afraid because after all, what was the worse that could happen. No one seemed to know."
Thats when I thought, that would be a good question for the Buddha.
Me: What is the worse that can happen?
Buddha: Life is suffering.
Biography
An only child, Gallant was born in Montreal, Quebec. Her father died when she was young, and her mother remarried. Gallant received her education at seventeen different public, convent, and French-language boarding schools. In her twenties, she worked as a reporter for the Montreal Standard (1944-1950). She married John Gallant, a Winnipeg musician in 1942. The couple divorced five years later in 1947. Gallant left journalism in 1950 to pursue fiction writing.
Gallant has been forthright about the protectiveness she feels towards her autonomy and privacy. In an interview with Geoff Hancock in Canadian Fiction magazine in 1978, she discussed her “life project” and her deliberate move to France to write by saying, “I have arranged matters so that I would be free to write. It's what I like doing.” In the preface to her collection of stories, Home Truths: Selected Canadian Stories (1981), she uses the words of Boris Pasternak as her epigraph: “Only personal independence matters.”
In 1981, Gallant was honoured by her native country and made an Officer of the Order of Canada for her contribution to literature; that year, she received the Governor General's Award for literature for her collection of stories, Home Truths. In 1983-84, she returned to Canada to be the writer-in-residence at the University of Toronto. Queen’s University awarded her an honorary LL.D. in 1991. She was promoted to Companion of the Order of Canada in 1993.
In 1989, Gallant was made a Foreign Honorary Member of the American Academy of Arts and Letters. In 2000, she won the Matt Cohen Prize, and in 2002 she received the Rea Award for the Short Story. The O. Henry Prize Stories of 2003 was dedicated to her.
With Alice Munro, Gallant is one of a few Canadian authors whose works regularly appear in The New Yorker. Many of Gallant’s stories have debuted in the magazine before subsequently being published in a collection.
[edit] Critical assessment
Grazia Merler observes in her book, Mavis Gallant: Narrative Patterns and Devices, that “Psychological character development is not the heart of Mavis Gallant’s stories, nor is plot. Specific situation development and reconstruction of the state of mind or of heart is, however, the main objective.” Frequently, Gallant’s stories focus on expatriate men and women who have come to feel lost or isolated; marriages that have grown flimsy or shabby; lives that have faltered and now hover in the shadowy area between illusion, self-delusion, and reality. As well, because of her heritage and understanding of Acadian history, she is often compared to Antonine Maillet, considered to be spokesperson for Acadian culture in Canada.
In a critical book, Reading Mavis Gallant, Janice Kulyk Keefer says, “Gallant is a writer who dazzles us with her command of the language, her innovative use of narrative forms, the acuity of her intelligence, and the incisiveness of her wit. Yet she also disconcerts us with her insistence on the constrictions and limitations that dominate human experience.”
In a review of her work in Books in Canada in 1978, Geoff Hancock asserts that “Mavis Gallant's fiction is among the finest ever written by a Canadian. But, like buried treasure, both the author and her writing are to discover.” In the Canadian Reader, Robert Fulford has said, “One begins comparing her best moments to those of major figures in literary history. Names like Henry James, Chekhov, and George Eliot dance across the mind.”
[edit] Major works
Gallant has written two novels, Green Water, Green Sky (1969) and A Fairly Good Time (1970); a play, What is to be Done? (1984); numerous celebrated collections of stories, The Other Paris (1953), My Heart is Broken (1964), The Pegnitz Junction (1973), The End of the World and Other Stories (1974), From the Fifteenth District (1978), Home Truths: Selected Canadian Stories (1981), Overhead in a Balloon: Stories of Paris (1985), and In Transit (1988); and a non-fiction work, Paris Journals: Selected Essays and Reviews (1986).
[edit] Current life
Although she maintains her Canadian citizenship, Gallant has lived in Paris, France since the 1950s.
or an old writer that you hadn't paid attention to before. Such is the
case with Mavis Gallant. I was on the New Yorker web site where I found an audible short story selected and read by Antonya Nelson (whose father was a college professor of mine).
Online it was entitled Waiting but the real title is "When we were almost young". It was originally published in 1960. It stuck me as such a great story I had to rush to the library to
check out the complete Collected Stories.
Here is the abstract summary of the story:
Mavis Gallant, Fiction, "When We Were Nearly Young," The New Yorker,
October 15, 1960, p. 38 October 15, 1960 Issue
In Madrid, 9 years ago, the writer & her companions lived on the
thought of money. The re were four of them: two men & two girls. The
men, Pablo & Carlos, were cousins. Pilar was a relation of theirs. The
writer was not Spanish & not a relation, just an accidental friend.
The thing they had in common was waiting for money. Carlos & Pablo
shared a room in a flat; writer lived in another room in the same
house. Pilar had her own small flat. They were all in their 20's &
worried about approaching their thirties. Getting along on their
meagre funds was a constant challenge. The Spaniards' characteristic
trait was a certain passiveness. One day the writer received some
money, but it aroused bitterness. Carlos remarked that the difference
between them was that something would always come for the writer but
not for them.
(That doesn't do the story justice.) There are a couple of quotes I remember:
"Poverty is not a goad but a paralysis."
..."we were not afraid because after all, what was the worse that could happen. No one seemed to know."
Thats when I thought, that would be a good question for the Buddha.
Me: What is the worse that can happen?
Buddha: Life is suffering.
Biography
An only child, Gallant was born in Montreal, Quebec. Her father died when she was young, and her mother remarried. Gallant received her education at seventeen different public, convent, and French-language boarding schools. In her twenties, she worked as a reporter for the Montreal Standard (1944-1950). She married John Gallant, a Winnipeg musician in 1942. The couple divorced five years later in 1947. Gallant left journalism in 1950 to pursue fiction writing.
Gallant has been forthright about the protectiveness she feels towards her autonomy and privacy. In an interview with Geoff Hancock in Canadian Fiction magazine in 1978, she discussed her “life project” and her deliberate move to France to write by saying, “I have arranged matters so that I would be free to write. It's what I like doing.” In the preface to her collection of stories, Home Truths: Selected Canadian Stories (1981), she uses the words of Boris Pasternak as her epigraph: “Only personal independence matters.”
In 1981, Gallant was honoured by her native country and made an Officer of the Order of Canada for her contribution to literature; that year, she received the Governor General's Award for literature for her collection of stories, Home Truths. In 1983-84, she returned to Canada to be the writer-in-residence at the University of Toronto. Queen’s University awarded her an honorary LL.D. in 1991. She was promoted to Companion of the Order of Canada in 1993.
In 1989, Gallant was made a Foreign Honorary Member of the American Academy of Arts and Letters. In 2000, she won the Matt Cohen Prize, and in 2002 she received the Rea Award for the Short Story. The O. Henry Prize Stories of 2003 was dedicated to her.
With Alice Munro, Gallant is one of a few Canadian authors whose works regularly appear in The New Yorker. Many of Gallant’s stories have debuted in the magazine before subsequently being published in a collection.
[edit] Critical assessment
Grazia Merler observes in her book, Mavis Gallant: Narrative Patterns and Devices, that “Psychological character development is not the heart of Mavis Gallant’s stories, nor is plot. Specific situation development and reconstruction of the state of mind or of heart is, however, the main objective.” Frequently, Gallant’s stories focus on expatriate men and women who have come to feel lost or isolated; marriages that have grown flimsy or shabby; lives that have faltered and now hover in the shadowy area between illusion, self-delusion, and reality. As well, because of her heritage and understanding of Acadian history, she is often compared to Antonine Maillet, considered to be spokesperson for Acadian culture in Canada.
In a critical book, Reading Mavis Gallant, Janice Kulyk Keefer says, “Gallant is a writer who dazzles us with her command of the language, her innovative use of narrative forms, the acuity of her intelligence, and the incisiveness of her wit. Yet she also disconcerts us with her insistence on the constrictions and limitations that dominate human experience.”
In a review of her work in Books in Canada in 1978, Geoff Hancock asserts that “Mavis Gallant's fiction is among the finest ever written by a Canadian. But, like buried treasure, both the author and her writing are to discover.” In the Canadian Reader, Robert Fulford has said, “One begins comparing her best moments to those of major figures in literary history. Names like Henry James, Chekhov, and George Eliot dance across the mind.”
[edit] Major works
Gallant has written two novels, Green Water, Green Sky (1969) and A Fairly Good Time (1970); a play, What is to be Done? (1984); numerous celebrated collections of stories, The Other Paris (1953), My Heart is Broken (1964), The Pegnitz Junction (1973), The End of the World and Other Stories (1974), From the Fifteenth District (1978), Home Truths: Selected Canadian Stories (1981), Overhead in a Balloon: Stories of Paris (1985), and In Transit (1988); and a non-fiction work, Paris Journals: Selected Essays and Reviews (1986).
[edit] Current life
Although she maintains her Canadian citizenship, Gallant has lived in Paris, France since the 1950s.
Ask the Buddha
For Christmas I received a "Ask the Buddha" plastic statue which
works like the "Magic 8 Ball" which was popular a few years ago.
To ask the Buddha a question you shake the statue then turn it over and read one of twenty possible Zen like responses. For example : Seek Enlightenment, or Live with Joy, or Where is my monkey, or Seek the truth etc. There is a little 20 sided geometric
figure that floats in some kind of liquid. A 20-sided flat figure (polygon) is called an icosagon. If it is a solid figure--three-dimensional--it is an icosahedron. You can have very in depth conversations with the Buddha or shallow if you prefer:
Me: What should I do today, Buddha?
Buddha: Live with Joy
Me: Should I go to the all you can eat buffet?
Buddha: You are not ready.
Me: Should i vote for a Democrat or Republican?
Buddha: You know the answer.
Me: But which one?
Buddha: Seek the truth
Me: maybe i should just go back to bed?
Buddha: Meditate on it
Me: Seriously, what should I do today?
Buddha: Rub my belly
... Such is the life of the retiree.
Tuesday, January 1, 2008
New Year Resoution - 7 months later
Realizing the folly of the previous post i'll copy this article by Andy Borowitz:
New Year’s Resolutions, Seven Months Later
by Andy Borowitz August 9, 2004
Resolution No. 1: I Will Quit Smoking
On New Year’s Day, I started using nicotine patches, nicotine gum, and nicotine lozenges but stopped when I began to hallucinate that I was a Lucky Strike. January 2nd brought a new, less arrogant resolution: “I will smoke only cigarettes I did not pay for.” Unfortunately, I hadn’t anticipated how easy it would be to steal them at the 7-Eleven, especially when the girl behind the counter was on her cell phone trying to cast a vote for “American Idol.” Seven months later, I’m actually smoking slightly more than I did last year, but that may be because I’m more focussed on trying to quit stealing.
Resolution No. 2: I Will Lose Thirty Pounds
Successful dieters say it’s not what you eat but how much you eat that counts, which is why, back in January, I resolved to eat only while driving. After all, there’s only so much you can shove into your mouth when one hand is on the wheel and the other is holding a cigarette. I guess we’ll never know whether my diet would have worked, since on January 3rd I drove my Sentra into the display window of a roofing-supply store in Long Island City. Since then, I’ve actually gained about five pounds, most of which I chalk up to the nervous eating I’ve been doing while awaiting my trial. On the positive side, now that I have to walk everywhere it’s only a matter of time before my unsightly love handles are ancient history.
Resolution No. 3: I Will Be Nicer to My Co-Workers
I’ve never exactly been Mr. Popularity at work, but I’ve never been Mr. Unpopularity, either. (That would be Dale, especially since I spread the rumor that he, and not I, was the one who had been stealing everyone’s yogurt out of the refrigerator.) Still, I resolved to be a little nicer around the office, as this January 4th exchange with my co-worker Barry demonstrates:
Me: Hey, Barry, how’s it going?
Barry: Real busy—got a big presentation tomorrow and I’m nowhere near ready.
Me: Oh, well, let’s have a pity party.
Barry: What did you say?
Me: See ya—wouldn’t want to be ya!
O.K., so maybe I could’ve been nicer than that, but if being nice means sucking up to self-important shits like Barry I’d just as soon ditch this dopey resolution altogether.
Resolution No. 4: I Will Stop Sneaking Up Behind People and Poking Them with a Sharp Wooden Stick
I did this only three times last year, so it’s a reach to call it a “habit.” And yet, those three incidents, plus the time I spent online shopping for just the right stick, constitute a troubling pattern of behavior. Here’s the good news: so far this year, I have sneaked up behind only one person and poked him (Barry, on January 5th), so, at that rate, I will do it only twice this year—well off last year’s pace. The bad news is that these incidents could pick up in frequency during the cold-weather months, when it’s easier to conceal a sharp wooden stick under a heavy overcoat. But even if I wind up poking, say, four or five people, total, this year, I’m not going to beat myself up about it. What with all the other resolutions I’ve made, this is one of the few simple pleasures I have left. ♦
New Year’s Resolutions, Seven Months Later
by Andy Borowitz August 9, 2004
Resolution No. 1: I Will Quit Smoking
On New Year’s Day, I started using nicotine patches, nicotine gum, and nicotine lozenges but stopped when I began to hallucinate that I was a Lucky Strike. January 2nd brought a new, less arrogant resolution: “I will smoke only cigarettes I did not pay for.” Unfortunately, I hadn’t anticipated how easy it would be to steal them at the 7-Eleven, especially when the girl behind the counter was on her cell phone trying to cast a vote for “American Idol.” Seven months later, I’m actually smoking slightly more than I did last year, but that may be because I’m more focussed on trying to quit stealing.
Resolution No. 2: I Will Lose Thirty Pounds
Successful dieters say it’s not what you eat but how much you eat that counts, which is why, back in January, I resolved to eat only while driving. After all, there’s only so much you can shove into your mouth when one hand is on the wheel and the other is holding a cigarette. I guess we’ll never know whether my diet would have worked, since on January 3rd I drove my Sentra into the display window of a roofing-supply store in Long Island City. Since then, I’ve actually gained about five pounds, most of which I chalk up to the nervous eating I’ve been doing while awaiting my trial. On the positive side, now that I have to walk everywhere it’s only a matter of time before my unsightly love handles are ancient history.
Resolution No. 3: I Will Be Nicer to My Co-Workers
I’ve never exactly been Mr. Popularity at work, but I’ve never been Mr. Unpopularity, either. (That would be Dale, especially since I spread the rumor that he, and not I, was the one who had been stealing everyone’s yogurt out of the refrigerator.) Still, I resolved to be a little nicer around the office, as this January 4th exchange with my co-worker Barry demonstrates:
Me: Hey, Barry, how’s it going?
Barry: Real busy—got a big presentation tomorrow and I’m nowhere near ready.
Me: Oh, well, let’s have a pity party.
Barry: What did you say?
Me: See ya—wouldn’t want to be ya!
O.K., so maybe I could’ve been nicer than that, but if being nice means sucking up to self-important shits like Barry I’d just as soon ditch this dopey resolution altogether.
Resolution No. 4: I Will Stop Sneaking Up Behind People and Poking Them with a Sharp Wooden Stick
I did this only three times last year, so it’s a reach to call it a “habit.” And yet, those three incidents, plus the time I spent online shopping for just the right stick, constitute a troubling pattern of behavior. Here’s the good news: so far this year, I have sneaked up behind only one person and poked him (Barry, on January 5th), so, at that rate, I will do it only twice this year—well off last year’s pace. The bad news is that these incidents could pick up in frequency during the cold-weather months, when it’s easier to conceal a sharp wooden stick under a heavy overcoat. But even if I wind up poking, say, four or five people, total, this year, I’m not going to beat myself up about it. What with all the other resolutions I’ve made, this is one of the few simple pleasures I have left. ♦
New Years Resolutions
I heard this morning on NPR that one out of ten people actually
accomplish their new year resolutions. I think about one out of
ten years i actually achieve mine. With that in mind and realizing
their likely failure here are my 2008 resolutions:
New Years Resolutions 2008
1) read 10 non-fiction books - biographies and history)
possiblities : The Beatles by Spitz, Einstein, Will in the World ,
Truman, Battle Cry of Freedom, Peoples History of U.S., Biographies
of Kant, Whitman, Edison, World is not my Home by Michener
2) read 10 books on Buddhism and Mediation
possibilities : Best Buddhist wrintings of 2007, Buddhist Bible,
Wheel of Life and Death, Seeking Heart of Wisdom, One Dharma,
Enlightened Mind , Zen Keys
3) resee 10 film classics,
possibilities: Amacord,Wild Strawberries, Fanny and Alexander, McCabe and Mrs. Miller, Nashville, Dr Strangelove, Citizen Kane,
To Kill a Mockingbird, Apocalypse Now, Everyone says I love,you,
Annie Hall
4) Attend 10 live concerts:
eg.: Wilco,DM Symphony, Bues Festivals in Davenport and Wintrop Wa., SXSW in Austin, any String Quartets, NiteFall on River
5) see live theatre when possible
6) Travel - see friends, wildlife refuges and nat'l parks:
Arizona,Texas, Minneapplosis,Omaha,KC, Ohio -rock and roll museum in Clevland,Kentucky, Vermont, Georgia, Carolinas
7) See 10 bird species i have never seen before
8) write 10 bad poems - including haiku
9) Make CD compilations : eg. favorite songs and poems of 2007,
compilation of songs and excerpts from books that i was exposed to in high school(62-65)
10) laugh as much as possible (with of course not at)
11) lie less (except to produce laughs - see #10)
12) lose 30 pounds
accomplish their new year resolutions. I think about one out of
ten years i actually achieve mine. With that in mind and realizing
their likely failure here are my 2008 resolutions:
New Years Resolutions 2008
1) read 10 non-fiction books - biographies and history)
possiblities : The Beatles by Spitz, Einstein, Will in the World ,
Truman, Battle Cry of Freedom, Peoples History of U.S., Biographies
of Kant, Whitman, Edison, World is not my Home by Michener
2) read 10 books on Buddhism and Mediation
possibilities : Best Buddhist wrintings of 2007, Buddhist Bible,
Wheel of Life and Death, Seeking Heart of Wisdom, One Dharma,
Enlightened Mind , Zen Keys
3) resee 10 film classics,
possibilities: Amacord,Wild Strawberries, Fanny and Alexander, McCabe and Mrs. Miller, Nashville, Dr Strangelove, Citizen Kane,
To Kill a Mockingbird, Apocalypse Now, Everyone says I love,you,
Annie Hall
4) Attend 10 live concerts:
eg.: Wilco,DM Symphony, Bues Festivals in Davenport and Wintrop Wa., SXSW in Austin, any String Quartets, NiteFall on River
5) see live theatre when possible
6) Travel - see friends, wildlife refuges and nat'l parks:
Arizona,Texas, Minneapplosis,Omaha,KC, Ohio -rock and roll museum in Clevland,Kentucky, Vermont, Georgia, Carolinas
7) See 10 bird species i have never seen before
8) write 10 bad poems - including haiku
9) Make CD compilations : eg. favorite songs and poems of 2007,
compilation of songs and excerpts from books that i was exposed to in high school(62-65)
10) laugh as much as possible (with of course not at)
11) lie less (except to produce laughs - see #10)
12) lose 30 pounds
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