old broom : an elegy

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y o u r t h a t c h e d
n e e e d l e s w i t h
e a c h s t r o k e y
o u r s t u m p o f s t
r a w l i t t e r s a n d
b e g s f o r c l e a n e r
s w e e p i n g s y o u
a r e r e t i r e d t o a

c o r n e r a s a n a n c h

o r f o r w e b s a n d

d u s t y s e t t l e m e n t s

My Urushiol phobia

If I had a nemesis, it'd have to be this little green flora...

I wonder if there's some kind of patron saint related to poison ivy. The way St. Patrick reputedly drove the snakes out of Ireland, maybe someone drove poison ivy out of Manhattan (most likely it was a result of over populating an island), out of...? I do not really know how many places in the world are truly poison-ivy free. But when one has a front and back yard rife with such stuff for the scratching and itching, one begins to wonder about such things.

And my urushiol phobia is not completely unfounded: CO2 levels have made the plant hardier and in some cases the oil, urushiol, more potent. Ugh.

http://online.wsj.com/article/SB118281532052547766.html?mod=home_personal_journal_left

FDNY

I called S. when I was liberated I said I was not going to make the 2.14 train, and would catch the 3.14 instead.

"You were where?!"
"I'm not kidding. It's the honest truth."

Even to me, my excuse for missing the earlier train sounded preposterous, like an artfully contrived excuse I might hear from one of my students.

Well, I do not lie well, and S. had no reason to doubt my explanation.

On Saturday I ventured in to the city to see my friend D. for brunch and whatever meanderings we chose. A return to the Hollywood diner on 6th Ave where we could sit out on the still-shady sidewalk without grilling ourselves. Somewhere between the steady flow of java-juice and our omelettes, a furious parade of fire trucks--say 4 or 5 of them--made their way to our block. Curiously we didn't smell smoke and joked about a cat situation (no trees in sight though). Or maybe a filming of Dennis Leary's "Rescue Me." Or I thought, maybe someone got locked in a room?

Wandering, we end up in the thick of shoe heaven--more like hell, we thought, with the too-loud-music and too-wacked-out salesmen, yelling bar codes into their garthbrookheadsets and cajoling 'you wanna try this one?' Maybe it was aptly called shoe mania? Pandemonium in the Milton sense... At one point, the converse-shod D. was donning the Chiquita-espadrille-heel-summer-trend. And I was with a pal who knew how to navigate the retail restrooms of Union Square...

Time was a-flyin. Time to head back up toward Penn, but we ducked into an Old Navy on 6th Avenue. For a pit stop of course.

The two women's rooms were at the end of the hall, both bearing 'vacant' signs and like a homing pigeon we veer off to our respective destination. Turning right, D. is successful, but I turning to the left, jiggle the handle and realize that 'vacant' is misleading--'Use the men's room!' D says. So I do. I choose the one on the same wall.

Here's the thing, if that first misleading vacancy was an omen for what was to follow, I missed it. With bladder-emptying on the brain, it would have taken a dozen circling hawks to get me thinking twice... to see the tell-tale sign.

Mission accomplished. Hands washed, yes, I grabbed the door handle in one hand and the upper dead bolt in the other, expecting a swift exit. I turned over the dead bold a few times before I heard myself saying, oh no, and uh-oh. Hearing D. exit, I yelled that I could not unlock my door. She helped, I played with the dead bolt some more. I tried the old plastic card trick with an old library card. To no avail.

I don't know when it hit her, but it was clear to me that I was locked in a pipi men's room --indefinitely.

Savvy and certainly swifter than I could be, D. calls the sales people over for help...She's got 4 or 5 of them working on the door, jiggling, they're even kicking,... From the echoey-tiled cubicle that could be my unheimlich home the din of chattering seemed like a cacophony of imperatives and question marks. So I called D. on her cell phone to get the scoop from her side of the door. And I asked her if she would kindly hang about to ensure my release. So no one would forget about me. Knowing she had other possible outings I was uncertain of her afternoon plans. And as good-humored as ever she said, "Oh, yeah, I'm just going to shop around. See you in a bit." Somewhere between that line, another, and the fit of nervous giggles that ensued, her battery died.

And so, there I was. Nothing to do but stare at the door, watch the lock move, and stare fiercely at the immobile deadbolt, telepathically willing it to click. Now, I am usually with a book, but I confess, I didn't feel much like reading. I usually have a pad and a pen. Guess I emptied out my bag for this urban foray--not a writing implement to me name. So I cannot document this crisis. And of late, I usually have a Phillips screw driver handy. And I cannot unscrew my way out of this microbe crawling farm. The room is hermetically sealed--no one could pass me a note or a screwdriver under the door. Not a hairbreadth of space. And I am sans tools.

Well, I'm in there for a good 15 minutes when I catch wind of who has been called in to assist. No, not the locksmith. That'd be too obvious, right. But the FDNY. (For you out of town and out of continent readers, that's the Fire Department of New York.) They called the freakin' fire department to my rescue. Can you imagine my surprise at being the cause for a FDNY call? The fire department.

For a few seconds I feel a panic. Yes, all of a sudden, adrenaline inspired fear kicked right in. Only then did it occur to me, that should this building catch fire, I could be in true peril. Sure, the door was tighter than airport security.... but the fear of asphyxiating in a germy men's room sent a knee shaking panic down to my entrails.

Well, in a matter of minutes they have me standing back, so they can try and bust the door down. I'm still in the pipi bathroom, remember? Porcelain and tile could shatter and shards could fly. And there does happen to be a sort of titled-buttress I can stand behind, been standing there since the sales people were kicking the door.

And soon, an eye framed in dewy sweat appears in the hole where the deadbolt lock used to be. Stepping forward, I spoke to confirm that there was no other lock on the door handle. The guy fiddled some more, using a thin metal tool he slowly rotated the mechanism.

I was freed.

And the door has opened on 5 fully uniformed, sweating firemen. All of them seemed rather cute, but again this is coming from me--the me who was locked in an airtight pipi bathroom. I may not be the most objective narrator. Nonetheless, in that moment, they could be cute because they were my liberators.

A chorus of are-you-all-right? from them. Nodding, I exited with,"So much for discreetly using the men's room." A chorus of laughter. After all that was the one thing I had time to think about---riding on optimism--what would my witty exit remark be?

I had to provide the store with my particulars--maybe they were going to call me as a follow-up to make sure that (a) I would not sue them or (b) have their corporate shrink call me. Who knows. The store made out pretty well with me--I was not a claustrophobic, high maintenance shrieker type of captive and they got the opportunity to gawk at the firemen on the clock. The store manager on duty gave me a meager $25 in gift cards, and encouraged me to shop awhile. D. and I looked at each other and made for the escalator that would get us to the door and to the open sidewalks of Gotham.

"Honey, I'm not gonna make the 2.14 train. I was trapped in a men's room at Old Navy and FDNY had to get me out."

Who wouldn't believe me now?

That which touches me...

It seems as though a spot of intensive teaching (4xs week at 2.5 hours a pop) does not really give me the reflective-thought-processing time I need to write.
So be it.
I was in the car last week with a Sony discman on its way out, but it has the battery power and basic 'playing' power, listening to a Chris Whitley song I hadn't heard in a while. I probably had not listened to it since I got wind of his death nearly a year after the fact.
Something haunting about the nasally-twang of its singer and the dobro strumming hand that went with the voice. While its singer has died, there is something haunting about a voice that survives and outwits the grave. So it is with most musicians. So it is with the poets and their verse. And so it is with other artists who leave their mark. Their progeny rings eternal... and bequeaths a certain anxiety.
For some reason, this particular song,--I know not why, but it just is so--more than any other of Whitley's, drives it home that its voice and hand create no more.
Just like one of O'Hara's quotidian poems (why not a Yeats? why not a Shelley?) captures sentiments of love and an appreciation for ephemeral beauty so clearly to me.
The gamut of sentiments for these pieces (and other affective creations...) speak often on an intuitive--not overly intellectualized--plane of appreciation and common experience.
Perhaps an advantage of highly scheduled time is that there are still moments for observations and intuitiveness:
smelling Russian olives at my exit that would elsewhere graze on river banks...
passing a little girl in her this-is-my-Sunday-best-dress on her tricycle---on any old day...
wincing at the day's sky ---a saturated aegean acrylic blue released onto a canvas...
drinking in a song's dobro chords and vocals that could revive the dead...
kissing the beloved--very much in love...

la morena

I have--for as long as I can remember-- been intrigued with the labels and packaging of canned goods...
Shouldn't there always be some attempt at digestive appeal?
Maybe it began with Spam...And evolved to undesireable looking labels for their contents. I might have bought several such cans, but never ingested their 'preserved' libations...
My favorites are the painted-enamel-ware vessels--i.e. some kind of chestnut butter from France.
And sometimes it's the Warholian togetherness on the store's shelves that draw me in.
Here's one from the latter category: those seductively packaged pickled jalapeno peppers!

DRW: September 3, 1965-May 7, 2007

Dave:
Words have been borrowed by the token priest at the bier, and more heart-felt ones uttered by the charismatic squinting Baptist. And from what I knew of you through Steve, this would have not been neither your exit of choice, nor your chosen send off... But you loved your family --who chose to honor you in this way, their way--because you loved your family, you would have accepted that these rites were what they needed to do to go on...
More words....
In dying, we do not have to change how we live but we must let the living act on our behalf, "just in case" there is something more.
And in a time where we say, "there are no words..." or "I am at a loss for words..." I find myself uttering--somewhere--more words. Still.
And I offer you another type of epitaph... something--which in its simple end rhymes-- resembles a secular chant.
So, in borrowed lexicon, I offer you another woman's poem in the spirit of one more friendship cut short by your passing...

INCANTATION
A white well
In a black cave;
A bright shell
In a dark wave.

A white rose
Black brambles hood;
Smooth bright snows
In a dark wood.

A flung white glove
In a dark fight;
A white dove
On a wild black night.

A white door
In a dark lane;
A bright core
To bitter black pain.

A white hand
Waved from dark walls;
In a burnt black land
Bright waterfalls.

A bright spark
Where black ashes are;
In the smothering dark
One white star.

--Elinor Wylie (1921)

Sometimes things are just *wrong*...

One of my love's oldest friends, D, has been in the hospital since April 17th. And although I haven't known D long or all that well yet, he is my friend too because he is dear to my S. Maybe it was a cold that developed into pneumonia because the AML was progressing so quickly? As soon as he was admitted to the hospital he was in ICU faster than you could say, "huh? D?" Shortly after his admittance into ICU his organs were compromised: AML was discovered. The doctors wanted to start on the chemo with his immune system so shot to hell...Understandably they had to. And understandably D's liver and kidneys were not successfully filtering out blood impurities like mutant blood cells because those WBC still had his DNA. Damn those rogue white blood cells.

But outside cells and human physiology--it really all is incomprehensible.

If you look back, it really was a week where all seemed wrong with the world: NJ was officially being governed without a governor; the spring rains brought serious flooding to an area that had just recovered from Floyd (1999); the Virginia Tech shootings resulted in absurd, in the Camusian sense, murders. And I could continue on like we thought the rain would... Yes, well, some of us already knew that the world is wrong, has been wrong for a while now.

But then, like the homecoming of the prodigal child, the vernal equinox just waltzed in and stunned us with its splendor. The great tree of treaty lore seemed to transform overnight: buds, flowers, and leaves in quick succession, leaving a lawn of fierce pollen yellow confetti-blossoms like the morning after a parade. And soon the humus earth could breathe again.

This is the season of marked perennial rejuvenation, not life support and a tangle of tubes. Sometimes, more than others, we feel like we're hanging on by a thread--financially, emotionally, or the symptoms of the week. Sure, we do dramatize our doldrums into ailments--but if we're not hanging on with the aid of morphine, tubes and machines, we're doing quite well, aren't we? Grateful, should we be, but not at the expense of those dear to us. We the survivors of this life do seek respite from the all-too-frequent reminders of Death's sly, eely act.

We are only survivors
until...
the vine snaps,
the marble rolls into a floorboard,
and until...
the watering hole is poisoned,
the night swallows the shadows..

but my life is neither sitcom nor drama...

Friends. We're all in our 30s, some have embarked on their 40s. Many are married--or, like me, "almost" or "practically" married--, some have been married, some are in "serious relationships, and then there are those still "looking" for their One.

So, we, my generation, represent the gamut of statuses in the realm of the "r" word. That word, relationship, seems to blur the boundaries of private and public knowledge because we're a complex, complicated lot. In all likelihood, we've been around the block a few times, we are proud of our cultivated friendships, and we've learned the hard way to not to settle for less than our perceived worth.

We, as is it for each generation, find ourselves betwixt and between our parents' generation. A generation that when tying the knot espoused to the idea of privacy--you do not have to talk about your salary, sex life, politics, and religion: it's personal. Then there's the generation after us raised on reality shows and Bill Clinton's "oral sex is not sex"; they seem to openly talk about who does what well as if it were Derek Jeter's field performance. A shrug and a "whatever, dude, it's just sex." We are betwixt the rigid vertebrae of the sacred-privacy and the gumby-esque "nothing is sacred." And perhaps it is good to be somewhere in between..to find a balance between a privacy that teeters on repression and the younger generation's performed (even risky!) self-confidence that comes with flippancy.

If we have friends we can talk to, count on, and confide in, we're feeding our soul; from a materialist perspective, we're saving money. That's more money in my pocket and less in the "trained licensed" psychologist's pocket. (And if you don't already know how I feel about shrinks and the discipline known as the "science" of human behavior---this is a dead giveaway.)

But back to this notion of age, we're in our 30s and 40s, and so as 'adults' not all of us have attained an understanding that being an adult means things change. We, active agents of our lives, make those changes; we do have some free will, folks.

In our 20s my generation was ingesting 90210, Felicity, and Friends as if they were the Symposium of the 1990s (working full-time jobs we would gather and plan our viewings of 90210. Ma cousine, do you remember those days?). So we learned about 3 basic categories of "relationships"-- same sex friendships, 'dating' (though none of us really 'dated'...), and opposite sex friendships. Instead of dealing with someone's potentially hurt feelings, you had your friends screen calls. You didn't care about Joey's or Rachel's lack of integrity--it was a bond, an understanding that friends help friends...Or, maybe your circle of friends took turns dating its members, as as Brandon and Brenda did. All too familiar.

See, here is where my generation gets befuddled and hangs on to the 20s, the way station to adulthood. Maybe Carrie Bradshaw and her entourage of "successful" friends have found the 21st century's Limbo. (And I'd be the first to say--I blossomed in my 20s, especially once I left the TVland of my Eastern origins for the mountainous interior...) Many of us opted to stay and linger there (as if the 20s were a beach resort or a cozy B&B), not noticing that holding on to an idea of our younger selves is a lot like too many alcohol soaked nights. While I might have bloomed in cycles, I must confes that I too spent a bit of time in a burning building (sometimes fanning the flames...), digging and trying to find decent ground for anchoring and stretching my roots. Eventually, I got out of the soot, splinters, rubble and ash. And so I think that coming of age means recognizing that change is necessary--first, when we have found the One, we acknowledge that we are not just responsible for ourselves. From there, we must decide how we want to be responsible to the Other who is our One. And while the list is a voluntary and infinite one, it comes down to two basic things: (1) making certain that we treat the One well and love him/her unconditionally and (2) making sure our actions abet those feelings of love. The little proliferate mundane joys of helping each other out... Doing laundry, making meals on a hot plate, paying bills... Sometimes helping means refusing to hold her by the legs so she can lean out the attic window to clean the gutters.

While Carrie, Charlotte, Miranda and Samantha keep searching for the bigger, better deal, they miss out on those little things.

He keeps her out of a plaster cast.... Now that's some thing.

Me and my dang proclamations!

It seems as though I am the queen of proclamations; of course, I allow myself to change my mind or stance on former proclamations. Proclamations, like argot, are not fixed or static, but dynamic.. Some past proclamatory utterances are: "I despise daytime t.v.", "I do not believe in pyjamas or sweats,"or "I never get sick!" And believe me you, my sexton has heard me utter a litany of such sassy declarations--some in all seriousness and others in a tizzy of giggles.

And, perhaps I've jinx myself, if we believe in such things as jinxes. (If high jinks in Buffyverse exists, and jinx is the base for high jinx, then I'll give some credence to the power of the Jinx...). For just the other day on the drive back from a fun family visit I made the third statement (see above's "I never..."), the giddy irony of it--see, I have retained a sense of humor amid a torrent of what I would consider "migraines for the weak", lethargy, and sore glandular throatiness--is that I feel like wearing sweats and, although disinterested, find myself watching daytime t.v.

Perhaps I am just psychically connecting to the daytime t.v. watching population... I am ready to desist connecting!

an ode to vapor

The clouds:

a text

s t r e t c h e d

across

a scroll of

blue vellum...

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

http://www.geocraft.com/WVFossils/greenhouse_data.html

Graphic Novels: Isn't it about time the "underground" surfaced?

Students-- the ones I know are the only ones I can speak to-- seem to really revel in the reading and discussion of graphic novels. One even dared me, well, she suggested I do a course in the graphic novel..."I would take it," she said. Three more chimed in with, "I would too," and "You really should, Dr. X."

The thing is we're so dang busy (see an earlier blog from this week..) assessing ourselves that there is little, if any, residual energy for creative course proposals. Yet I know I could match up the standards to the American Library Association's and to the accreditation body's standards... It would also be a great addition to my 'outside' the canon aggregate of courses.

I "taught" Satrapi's Persepolis last week in a gender studies class; we discussed Maus I in this evening's class. They, meaning the students, have loads to say about both. I had only given them an excerpt from Spiegleman's Pulitzer text, and we could have gone on for hours (a typical lit prof's hyperbole? Me thinks so.) But a goal of the course is exposure--exposure to non-canonical literature, and its omnifarious genres and perspectives.

See, the dialogue doesn't begin in the classroom, the dialogue as I would call it, begins in the brain. Right-brain & left-brain firing synapses to decode the alphabetic and visual texts. Some 'text' or captions are provided, and direct speech makes its way in the cartoon bubble. And although the author-illustrator dictates what you will read and illustrates what she wants you to see--how she sees it, her p.o.v., if you will, it does not necessarily mean that it's easier to read pictures. For example, Satrapi introduces her uncle in a frame; she shows us her elevated view of this man not with her diction but in the halo-like light behind him. We are not told but shown that he is an honorable man--the image is crucial to meaning, on the connotative vs. denotative level.

The culture of the Academy is slow to change...it is not always as open, or liberal as the "right" fears it is...

http://www.smh.com.au/news/opinion/small-fry-in-irans-big-picture/2007/04/01/1175366077772.html

The General Public: I'm not 'Judging Amy' or Anyone Else...

I realize I run the risk of sounding like an elitist prig, but I'm really not. After all I was running on the treadmill at the gym today watching TNT's Judging Amy; nothing snooty about that right? Mr. Clean was walking on the 'mill next to mine.

The scene: 30-something Amy has moved out of her mother's house, living in a New Haven ghetto apartment; she has invited a new beau over for wine and dinner.

Septegenarian-Pilgarlic-Harley-Dude (aka Mr. Clean): Didn't they just make love? Why did she put her dress back on if they made love? She should be in a slip or something, right?

ME: Uh, I don't know, think they just had some wine. And the room is really pretty dark...[my voice trails off]

SPHD: I'm mad! She should be like in a slip or somethin' if they just made love.

ME: [silence--my inside thoughts are: "what can I possibly say back to this guy? this is absurd!"]

SPHD: Does she [Judge Amy] like girls? I think she's a female homo.

ME: [stepping out of myself, thinking "am I really having this conversation? If so, where's the transition from his earlier inquires to this crazy notion?!"] Uh, I don't think so. And even if she were, I don't really mind.

The straight Amy dumps her judge-beau who won't go to Spain with her...She sheds a few tears, sniffling--as crying folk are wont to do...

SPHD: Oh, Amy, stop your sniveling! [sic]

The rest of the dialogue was so inane, I cannot waste your time... But according to Mr. Clean, Amy's brother was gay (because he was cute); and her CSO was good-looking guy who "didn't talk like a black guy."

This, my friends, sums up the petty, innocuous, vapid conversations occurring daily in this free nation of ours...

Perspective

Today, less than an hour ago, I was able to stand on the edge of the continent, trace a strand line, expel the day's thoughts, and dissipate into the din of the surf.... The edge of a continent--this continent--where the land mass ends and the green begins.

All cantankerous tendencies dissolved and turned into ellipses. For I was greeted--no, nudged by 4 very sandy-briny dogs this evening...Could they tell--did they know that I had evolved into a cat person---maybe they sensed me teetering on the brink of declaring myself a cat person? (Oh, Kitty Stilts! you could be attacking the beloved's leg right about now...only I'm not there!!) If such categories of cat- and dog-people exist. And if dogs can smell fear, surely they could smell pet-favoritism, no? Well, I rejoiced for these slap-happy mammals---they were making the best of their 49 days; in 49 days, they are banned from this elitist beach.

The outing was my panacea for to-day, which in itself was a diversion (an unwelcomed one?) from the usually long teaching day that is my Tuesday: I had spent the day with my colleagues and we gleaned from administrative imperatives and from educational strategies for assessing our respective programs! (Will you permit me an "oysh!"?) And while I am--I think--equally adept at socializing with my peers and steering impressionable minds, I am not adept at enduring alternating jabs and pricks from one sharp, acidic individual in a sea of potentially thoughtful, highly passionate folks. The vampiric-tactics of this particular person had me volleying saucy repartees...

And dodge the rain of pinpricks I did!

As if this weren't enough to drain my life blood! (Remember--I'm a bookish type of gal, whose people time is generally limited to discussing literature and ideas!) But I found myself in a room of fellow wordsmiths, we had turned the simplest statements of our program's goals and objectives into artful prose. We had transformed "simple tasks" into exercises in frustration, nitpicking over diction. Some of us collectively justified it with, "it's what we do--word work is our medium," or "clearly, we think too much," playing the we're-intellectuals-and-not-administrators card.

By 3 o'clock, I had an assessment hang-over. And, at the end of the day, when it was all said and done, it boiled down to this:
(1) a handful of adults behaving like rebellious, back-talking teenagers;
(2) I am grateful--this is just one of two such days in my work year;
(3) and such a day gets me to the beach and nudges from canines;
(4) I will soon be living with my love!!

Economics (for Christian Schools)

No joke, this is a text-book title. My eye spotted the said title held between the digits of a high school-aged girl in the wash-o-mat. It had me wondering: did Jesus have advanced economic theories? What were they and did they offer some eternal truth? (I jest.)

Mainly, it had me wondering: what exactly was it protecting its green readers from? I mean a science textbook that espouses to Intelligent Design and dismisses that silly, wayward Darwinism, I can understand--it protects the youth from the point of view that a god doesn't have anything to do with the Universe and its perceived Order. (I know, I sound more like a disciple of Meursault...)

I wondered how a girl, who read such a book, would be...

If the frightful mother weren't there, I might have asked the girl a question or two...

Tim

Early one morning, I had a dream about my friend Tim Williams who died far too young at the cradle-esque age of 31. My beloved said the dream was like a visitation.
On my drive home, I thought, he did not have time to become. The sensitivity and beauty of a poetess Anne Sexton, the vision of a Frank Lloyd Wright, the quirky genius of Miles Davis, and the imagination and aspirations of a Howard Roark... We all got gypped. All over again, that morning, his short life and sudden death hit me like what I imagine a truck- bed full of granite would feel like...

The Etiquette of Street Parking

We know that the vernacular changes from region to region, even within a state. Well, I have recently been privvy to the local mores of a city I frequent.
It has to do with snowfall, the sweat generated from shoveling, street parking and one's right to all the above. If you have spent some time and energy digging your car out with a shovel--made for snow or for the coal-bin--or even a soup spoon, you are in the right to claim that spot until the snow melts. See, if you have an all-weather chair, or that week's trash, you can save your cleared parking spot!
This harkens back, I mused, to those grammar school days when you would get your pal to save you a seat on the bus if he got on before you to claim the coveted very backseat! Or, if you wanted to sit with someone at lunch... But, should I really liken the mindset of this hood to children? Doesn't seem fair, when, afterall, they've managed to get driver's licences and successfully mastered the art of parallel parking... Maybe it's a wise-subcultural practice: if you're working 2-3 jobs, you don't really feel like shoveling ad nauseum for others at the end of a long day...Or, if you're on the dole, you still don't feel like shoveling...
Though I must wonder what it's like at rush hour--returning home and finding a doofus has taken your hard-earned, sweat-dried spot. Does a brawl ensue? If you're Mr. Mancini, do you stand guard all day and shake your stick at the offending motorist?

People of the cloth...

Been thinking about folks who, literally, wear their faith on their sleeves--on their backs and on their heads... In one of my courses, for the next three novels, we're talking about women who take the veil in Islam. A dialogue turns to an interior monologue today:

for faith is a foreign language I do not speak.

I see holymen-in-training almost everyday. Well, I do not witness their training proper, only those who are in training. Makes me think of training wheels, trykes...Yesterday, I saw the same two gents as they arrived as Yeshiva and as they departed it. Where do they all go from here? Not just home, but as holy men. Do they all become rabbis? Do they spend their days reading and debating the Torah? Do they yell at their children, their wives? Do holymen think they are of that other world, or are they of this mortal coil? Do they say "thank you" and "please"?

I work with sisters, as in nuns. I often wonder how they made their choices to serve God, to be the bride of Jesus---sometimes, when I'm in the mood, I poll the occasional soeur. Sometimes it was for His divine love, sometimes it was an opportunity... I wonder how fiercely independent, yet community-minded women reconcile themselves to bit parts in the Popes' successful scheme. (Ah, the patriarchy!) They cannot be priests, or perform a proper mass. Perhaps not all share Sor Juana's sentiments--her "antipathy for marriage" and her desire to study. But, ...while those who chose the Church, in principle, chose (latent or manifest choices) to keep men out of their beds, they still opted to 'marry' into a male trinity. Sounds almost polygamous, from the woman's position, and polygynous, from the Godhead's point of view. Maybe that's the spiritual community's way of meshing, belonging to each other--a simulacrum of intermarrying? Although these sisters seem charitable and committed to social justice---thus potentially sound Marxists in practice, they surrender their rights of property and wealth to the Top Dog, rendering them totally dependent on the two Hims--- the Benevolent Father or Rome's papa. And they're all educated...

Perhaps faith is the caulking of what one knows to be true and what one wants for the world...

Mythmaking

She thinks--or, so she says--in terms of myths and legends.
If she says that she thinks in such terms it is because she is in
this world, but often not of this world... This too becomes,...
even abets her mythmaking process.
What are the origin tales of Love? It's got nothing to do with
a cherub volleying arrows or the Symposium, she thinks, but
with the held gaze.
The gaze belongs in that realm of the Mythical. Unequivocally
aggrandized and tangible because it is the stuff of human narrative.
A glance may pass, or it may evolve into an intense stare, a wordless,
continued dialogue. The gazers, for there can only be two, both
are versed in the atoms of silence and the connective tissue of
shared time.

Days without misanthropy

an older couple sit bundled up on the beach:

they are a catalog of fleece, scarves, hats, vests personified
she, working on a crossword, in pencil
he, taking drags off his fag and reading some print-out

an ageing Fillippina walks her? bmx-tricks-bike across the intersection:

when she reaches the sidewalk
she hops on and pedals away

an orthodox boy eats a slice of pizza while waiting for the bus:

it is not yet 8 a.m.

a man at the laundromat studies his stack of 3x5 cards:

a nearby birdguide suggests he is a budding ornithologist
a man with a purpose to know

Post-Modern Coquettes

I think of myself as something of a neophyte to the cyber-cliques of myspace.com.
An observer on the inside, perhaps a post-modern ethnographer. Only thing, unlike Winnemucca of the Piutes or Hurston in rural Florida, I lack a certain cyber-culture insider status. Or, let's say I lack certain technologically enhanced social skills? Perhaps the equivalent to the bull in the china shop...no, actually the plundering, aggressive forward thrust is the very m.o. of cyber socialization.
Technological distance allows for that creation of a persona. It also promotes predatory strategies for self-advancement and "friend" recruitment. Vehicles such as Facebook and Myspace blur the boundaries between teens' quest for high school popularity and adults' intrigue with the topic of the at their office's water-cooler. Both entertain a certain level of omphaloskepsis that did not get thrown by the wayside after graduation... It's like a neo-Neverneverland, no one has to grow up and everyone can be desirable!
But part of attaining that desired inside status of being desired means flirting. You flirt in order to become desirable. Simple pimple: we like people who make us feel good about ourselves. And what about when that heavy cyber-petting, ego stroking, is a means to narcissistic ends? (Aw, hell, why do you have to bring ethical questions into it? We all just want to have fun...) But then why must we self-aggrandize and self-promote through such extroverted channels? A former friend once spoke of lattes and gore-tex as created needs... Well, one's hotness-status is another created need, right?
And, oh, the time it takes to create oneself! When we could be learning something new, planting trees, (hell, even working to earn money--what a concept!), saving manatees, cleaning the gutters, holding the door for someone, reading something outside our norm, walking to the store, .... we-as-first-worlders (not that I like the hierarchy of such terms, but I cannot ignore the social reality of wealth and leisure time..) have so many choices, so much freedom in how we use our time, really.
It is, indeed, all a little "creepy," as Ivan said. Especially when flirting is non-specific, it's a generic littering of "hey, sexy!" And the absurdity of the corny graphic inserts on a Wednesday, "Happy Hump Day!", which invite a variety of graphics pimped to your "humping" taste--the fantasy Xena-esque amazon, a dominatrix, a mud-flap-trucker chick....
But who am I to judge? After all, I can now post my blathering online, anonymously, instead of conversing with some kind of eye contact? You'd never think I'd be versed in "Courtesy 101" if this was all you knew of me...

Loss...

A life of interruptions--any life,
and any interruptions--
moments of loss become
a litany of colons
the independent minded semi-colon
quiet ellipses
and even a series of exclamations points
maybe even an unexpected interobang...

Bad grammar makes one [sic], doesn't it?

She wrote, "I am a woman hear my rawer [sic]!" Not a Harlequin title, not a NOW slogan, not the circus's freak-show-lion-woman's yelp...
I was reading through the first round of essays, a set of informal papers to get the writer's-juices a-flowing, and I came across the above title. The students were writing on a Molière play, and the saucy maid Dorine proved--and rightfully so! --a favored topic among many. (She's the iconoclastic servant girl to whom the playwright gives a fair amount of 'air' time....). I always encourage a catchy title, something of a hook to draw the reader's eye in... Well, this sure did grab my attention--and I'm not really a plain-clothes grammar police, but if you're my student, and you turn in a paper that acts as an extension of yourself and your ability to use your native language..Well, that's a whole 'nother tale.
A few digressive thoughts--digressions within digressions, I fear--indulge me. I find rawer to be an interesting modification of roar. It makes me think of drawer (then the giggly, but outdated drawers), and just how wacky the English language is. (Over in the Queen's country, they pronounce flaw exactly as they pronounce floor. That was a wild bit of trivia.) So then I must consider this: how many teens or 20somethings were raised on "hooked on fonics" [sic], and it would be natural to sound things out, carry on that practice. However, the same generation was probably able to type before they studied penmanship (makes me sound old!), which would follow that they would have access to Word's spell check. And last I looked, rawer was not in that dictionary.
From this I move to another observation: presentation. Anything with your name on it--a painting, a business card, an essay, etc.--is an extension of your self. It is how you put yourself out in the world, how you want the world to see you... If you misspell the prof's name, a word in your title, ad nauseum, you're saying that you don't really care about the assignment. You don't really care about how you will be perceived: a conscientious student or a lax one. Appearances do matter in today's world---not just in one's height or cup size---but the world in which we want to earn our dough. But perhaps it really doesn't anymore?
The next point is that this particular paper comes from a "special needs" student. A student who has a very real learning disability. Moreover, at the college level, she clearly is not getting the help she needs. She is determined to be highly qualified in English and teach special education. Now, while I admire her drive and determination, I must wonder how she continues to fall through the academic cracks. Colleges, especially private ones, are tuition driven institutions; like a good thriving business, they want your money, and, like a good consumer, you want your purchased product--your degree or credentials. Special services for students with special needs require that students pay additional funds (on top of that beefy tuition check) for additional services required. So, if this student does not opt for these services, which she does not, she will continue to earn barely-passing grades. In the end, she will not meet the state's standards for her special education credentials... if that's the case, should this student be teaching or aiding special needs kids?
Do we live in a world, or maybe a culture, where we feel that if we have experienced something (i.e. a learning disability) that makes us qualified to serve a population going through similar experiences? Empathy qualifications... Or, should we have results-oriented professionals working with special needs individuals so that they can get the knack of using spell-check or putting a subject in their sentences? People who can do more than provide hugs? Because, let's face it, children who hug their teachers these days could be in for a sexual harassment suit...
So, the next time you see WOMENS [sic] room, get out your sharpie and consider correcting it to WOMEN'S!

At one time...

At one time, I imagine, the prostitute acted as the priest, hearing confessions. (And the courtezan confessed and cleared the consciences of the cardinals...) To whom do people now confess? Perhaps I posed the wrong question: where --and when--do we not confess and prattle on?

Spannungsbogen

Spannungsbogen
In the world that is Frank Herbert's Dune there are, to name a few, the ruthless Herkonnen, the feminine Bene Gesserits, the Arrakeens--and the Fremen.
Now, the Fremen have a quality called spannungsbogen. A word for "the self-imposed delay between desire for a thing and the act of reaching out to grasp that thing." A kind of restraint or discipline. An anti-impulse...
But to coin such a word speaks to a cultural value. Do we have such a word in English for this kind of self-control?

Moi et les Québecois: Thoughts from the Thruway

Friday, January 12, 2007

There's nothing like a good drive that can, in one stretch, quell new term anxieties or embrace a profound solitude. And, while I mean no disrespect to the Garden State Parkway (we need it, we use it…), I do not consider it the kind of driving that clears the head. But, it is the connective tissue to the New York State Thruway, which, as I've recently discovered, can do the job.

Perhaps driving suggests flight, and escapism, but for me, it ensures focus. For while driving I cannot create distractions, i.e. browsing on Amazon.com, TNT ruruns, or a cleaning fix. Believe me you—I am easily distracted and could reign as Queen of Procrastination. And my job requires a lot of take-home prepping and planning—to think without interruptions or distractions (or "invented tasks", a.k.a. procrastinating). So, I found that while heading north on 87 my thoughts could see themselves through a logical, sequential process. They were much like the white dots that separated my lane from the Québecois trucker's lane: thoughts could be consistent and sequential--a lot like lane dividers. (And there are the orange lines that you must pertly observe lest you hit those alarming butt-massaging grooves! )

When I lived out West, I loved driving through southern Colorado to New Mexico, or westward into Utah. And we, my friends and I, never thought twice about driving 300+ miles for the weekend. Or even alone. I must admit that I never did care much for those high altitude serpentine climbs into ski country. I'm an open plains-big sky driver, if such a category existed. Don't get me wrong, I love the mountains, but with the mountains came the bumper-to-bumper weekend forays. There was one road in and one road out.

But the plains? There is always a horizon. High clouds were indulgences. The sighting of hawks and kestrels…To be able to see out...

We adapt. I've adapted to--and developed affection for--my environment. I can still see hawks in the Catskills. And, while these parts are heavily forested--you're enclosed and enveloped, I feel less claustrophobic than I did 4 years ago…

And if I want to see the horizon now, I just drive to the sea...