Wait a minute. What happened to summer? Seems like it was Memorial Day only last week, and now, Labor Day? I think it has something to do with my absence from the school scene. When you are going to school--as a student or a parent or a teacher--your life is defined by the quarter system and punctuated by vacations. Leave that system and you're like an eecummings poem--except even those have some internal structure. You can't even rely on the retail establishment to keep you on an even keel: the aisles are full of Halloween merchandise the day after the 4th of July, and I imagine Christmas stuff will arrive next week on the heels of the back-to-school clearances. The seasons have even disappeared from the grocery store. At this point we should be winding down from peaches and corn and tomatoes and moving into apple season, but, thanks to the wonders of modern technology and transportation, I can still buy strawberries and cantaloupes that should have disappeared in June.
I need to be grounded a little more in the real world. Establish more of a routine. Pay more attention. Slow things down enough that I can see the changes and not have the seasons zing by me like they've been fired from a slingshot. Maybe it's true what they say--that once you're over the hill, you pick up speed.
Sunday, August 31, 2008
Wednesday, August 27, 2008
Complexity
In the past 72 hours, I have popped like a kernel of Orville Redenbacher's finest all over the frying pan of my life. From the Democratic convention--Mark Warner and Hillary!! And the governor of Montana (what a guy!)-- to a marathon trip to Pennsylvania, joining my 88-year old mother in her monthly lunch reunion with her high school graduating class, fully 2/3 of whom are cousins. From lunch with my writing group to dinner at Acadiana, to the grocery store, to poet laureate stuff, to church committee, to a friend's birthday party plans, to where-can-I-get steamed-crabs in Baltimore (a question from a Californian friend)....pop, pop, pop. Nothing is related, nothing leads into the next event, and my entire life seems to be a monster non sequitur, a tale told by an idiot, signifying nothing. At least on the bad days.
And then I think of Georges Seurat and all his little dots. Maybe there's a picture in here somewhere and I just have to step back a little to see what's going on.
And then I think of Georges Seurat and all his little dots. Maybe there's a picture in here somewhere and I just have to step back a little to see what's going on.
Sunday, August 24, 2008
Library of Congress
All right. Raise your hands. How many of you have never visited the Library of Congress? (Seeing the Nicholas Cage "National Treasure" movie doesn't count.) We took a tour this weekend, and though I'd briefly visited when the great hall was finally restored, and also to get a reader's card this past year, I had not spent any serious time looking at the building or seeing what it had to offer till then. Wow.
Perhaps it was just that we'd spent two weeks photographing every building, statue, and scenic view in Italy this summer, but I wished throughout this tour that I'd had the brains to bring along my camera. The interior is simply gorgeous, and full of quotations (a weakness of mine) and symbolism, statues and mosaics and interesting details. And this is before you even get to the books. And the reading rooms. And the exhibits. (Did you know they have Bob Hope's complete joke file? Arranged by topic.) It is indeed a 'palace of books'--a temple of books-- and it speaks seductively to the booklover. Books of all shapes and sizes and subjects and provenance, arrayed in every direction. A place to stand in awe, overwhelmed by the power of words, worthy of devout pilgrimage.
Perhaps it was just that we'd spent two weeks photographing every building, statue, and scenic view in Italy this summer, but I wished throughout this tour that I'd had the brains to bring along my camera. The interior is simply gorgeous, and full of quotations (a weakness of mine) and symbolism, statues and mosaics and interesting details. And this is before you even get to the books. And the reading rooms. And the exhibits. (Did you know they have Bob Hope's complete joke file? Arranged by topic.) It is indeed a 'palace of books'--a temple of books-- and it speaks seductively to the booklover. Books of all shapes and sizes and subjects and provenance, arrayed in every direction. A place to stand in awe, overwhelmed by the power of words, worthy of devout pilgrimage.
Tuesday, August 19, 2008
"City of Songs" in City Hall
Update: my poem "City of Songs" has been hung in City Hall. I visited it this morning, and it is hanging right where the line starts for parking permits (on the left side of the back lobby, as you face the information desk.) In any case, none of my visiting friends or relations will be allowed to walk down King Street without being dragged across Market Square to see my piece of immortality. Consider yourselves warned.
Looking for Superman
It's dawned upon me in this election year--and also with the Olympics and the somewhat baffling love/hate relationship China has with its athletes--that what we have here is a Superman problem. When mild-mannered Clark Kent decided to go public with his superpowers, his mom stitched him up a blue and red costume that he donned whenever he launched himself at the world's crises. Likewise, billionaire Bruce Wayne had a signal that he was changing into his alter ego. When problems arose, he got out the flashy car and costume that showed he was stronger, smarter, faster than mortal men, not to mention morally superior.
It seems to me that we want a reverse process in politics. We seem to want a superhero, a card-carrying, costume-wearing, genuinely super-powered individual to adopt a mild-mannered persona, complete with business suit, red tie and flag lapel pin..someone who will then use his superpowers to solve all our thorny issues in a blast of super-speed. Likewise, in the Olympics, we seem to want our human athletes to be superheroes, redeeming all our failings (as individuals and as nations) in their triumphs. What we require is someone who looks like us, but can transcend all our faults and be all that we wish we were. A very different kind of superhero--perhaps even a savior.
The fact is, it ain't gonna happen. We may have candidates who dodge questions faster than a speeding bullet; politicians who think themselves more powerful than a locomotive, and others who can leap tall questions with a single bound. But, the bottom line is, they are only human, no matter what they wear or what they promise. It all comes down to the kind of human they are and the values they uphold. Rather than looking for supermen, we should be looking for people like us who hold the same values precious and who will work in their own human way to have those values inform our decisions as a nation. They should be humble enough--and smart enough--to know their own limits, and to surround themselves with advisers who are the best and brightest in their fields, rather than cronies and those to whom they are indebted politically or financially. They should represent not a bird, not a plane, not Superman--but our own high hopes and expectations. I'm looking for that in my candidates, be they running for national, state, or local office.
November is nearly here. Up, up, and away!
It seems to me that we want a reverse process in politics. We seem to want a superhero, a card-carrying, costume-wearing, genuinely super-powered individual to adopt a mild-mannered persona, complete with business suit, red tie and flag lapel pin..someone who will then use his superpowers to solve all our thorny issues in a blast of super-speed. Likewise, in the Olympics, we seem to want our human athletes to be superheroes, redeeming all our failings (as individuals and as nations) in their triumphs. What we require is someone who looks like us, but can transcend all our faults and be all that we wish we were. A very different kind of superhero--perhaps even a savior.
The fact is, it ain't gonna happen. We may have candidates who dodge questions faster than a speeding bullet; politicians who think themselves more powerful than a locomotive, and others who can leap tall questions with a single bound. But, the bottom line is, they are only human, no matter what they wear or what they promise. It all comes down to the kind of human they are and the values they uphold. Rather than looking for supermen, we should be looking for people like us who hold the same values precious and who will work in their own human way to have those values inform our decisions as a nation. They should be humble enough--and smart enough--to know their own limits, and to surround themselves with advisers who are the best and brightest in their fields, rather than cronies and those to whom they are indebted politically or financially. They should represent not a bird, not a plane, not Superman--but our own high hopes and expectations. I'm looking for that in my candidates, be they running for national, state, or local office.
November is nearly here. Up, up, and away!
Thursday, August 14, 2008
Growing old
This has been a summer of change. My 88-year-old mom had a bad episode (heat stroke, heart attack, hospitalization) and her recovery has been slow and fraught with difficult decisions. Suddenly it is blatantly apparent that she has grown old when I wasn't looking. It seems as if it happened overnight, but I know that's not true. I just didn't see the gradual slowdown, the hesitation in her step, the uncertainty...
Who is this cranky person who sits in my mother's chair, who lives in her apartment, who claims not to like vegetables (after doing everything but cram them down my throat when I was a child), who stubbornly insists that she will continue to drive when she feels a little stronger, who pleads utter boredom one minute, followed by a claim of exhaustion in the next? What happened to the energy she had for everything from washing her windows to ironing altar linens to her decorative painting and her unrelenting letters to friends and family? A load of laundry saps her strength, and a trip to the grocery store leaves her breathing hard and ready for a nap.
Gone. Lost, stolen, or strayed, but nevertheless, gone. Her step falters, her hand shakes, her memory fails her. Betrayed by the hard-working body she took for granted for so long, she is left with only her will to accomplish simple goals: to live independently, not to be a burden, to take care of her needs with a minimum of assistance, to spend time with friends and family, to be-- in whatever way-- a productive, contributing person. It's not that much to ask, but we can all see that she is deathly afraid that she won't be able to continue on her own. I don't think I've ever seen my mom afraid until now. And that fear takes the form of stubbornness and contrariness and complaint that no amount of rational discussion can diminish.
Scarier even than facing this sort of mortality in her is the knowledge that we're next. Sixty is not that far from eighty.
Who is this cranky person who sits in my mother's chair, who lives in her apartment, who claims not to like vegetables (after doing everything but cram them down my throat when I was a child), who stubbornly insists that she will continue to drive when she feels a little stronger, who pleads utter boredom one minute, followed by a claim of exhaustion in the next? What happened to the energy she had for everything from washing her windows to ironing altar linens to her decorative painting and her unrelenting letters to friends and family? A load of laundry saps her strength, and a trip to the grocery store leaves her breathing hard and ready for a nap.
Gone. Lost, stolen, or strayed, but nevertheless, gone. Her step falters, her hand shakes, her memory fails her. Betrayed by the hard-working body she took for granted for so long, she is left with only her will to accomplish simple goals: to live independently, not to be a burden, to take care of her needs with a minimum of assistance, to spend time with friends and family, to be-- in whatever way-- a productive, contributing person. It's not that much to ask, but we can all see that she is deathly afraid that she won't be able to continue on her own. I don't think I've ever seen my mom afraid until now. And that fear takes the form of stubbornness and contrariness and complaint that no amount of rational discussion can diminish.
Scarier even than facing this sort of mortality in her is the knowledge that we're next. Sixty is not that far from eighty.
Monday, August 11, 2008
Back to Inspiration Point
I did visit the Pen Show yesterday, and came home with all sorts of advice on pen care (and a couple new pens, of course..more on that later) and so, I started the morning unearthing my pens and cleaning the fountain pens, as they truly suffer when they are allowed to dry out (which I inevitably allow them to do.) About an hour (and several ink-stained fingers and towels) later, I had several spanking-clean fountain pens ready to fill and use. One of my favorites--the retractable Namiki fountain pen--actually had a few spare cartridges in the pen box, so I loaded it up and proceeded to write inanities repeatedly on a piece of paper until the ink started flowing freely and all the water had been purged from the mechanism.
It is only a matter of time, believe me, before anyone of a certain age, writing repetitious phrases, lapses into the tried and true "Now is the time for all good men to come to the aid of their country." Or "party", if you prefer that version. Just take a look at all the test writing pages at the pen show. If you're trying out a pen, and lack the ego to write your name repeatedly, the old typewriter exercise is one of the first things that comes to mind. I saw a lot of it yesterday. Obviously, I am no exception, as that is what I started writing to exercise my rediscovered pen. "Now is the time...now is the time..."
One school of writing says that, if you are stumped for how to start, or don't know what to write about, the best thing is to just sit down and start writing anything; that if you do this free writing every day, you WILL come up with something. I have never believed it. It always seemed to me to put an awful lot of faith in your subconscious, and even smacked a little of 'automatic writing' and a sort of spiritualistic belief.
However, this morning as I wrote and rewrote the old saw, completely as well as in bits and pieces, the rhythm of the words started battering on my brain. Before too long, I had the beginnings of a poem (see below) and have now determined that I can keep my pens in working order, be inspired, and impose some much-needed discipline on my writing efforts by simply sitting down each morning and copying bromides (or quotations) by hand for a half hour. It's at least a start. Who knows? Maybe even my handwriting will improve...
BTW--I found an 'antique pen'--an old blue marbleized Esterbrook fountain pen, identical to the one with which I learned to write in cursive in third grade. I also spoke with the designer of another pen, called Fat Boy (which I identified with for another, this time unfortunate, reason) and I bought a red Fat Boy Comet limited edition rollerball, which I love. It has such a serious heft to it that I can't help but write more seriously and more weightily with it. And besides, did I mention that it's red? (pictured, top to bottom: the Esterbrook, the Comet, and my Namiki)
Typewriter Exercise
Now is the time.
We have waited so long, too long
in this wilderness of scandal,
of war, of intrigue, of the sly and sleazy,
Now is the time
For all good men
(All of us, good men
and women, young and old,
black and white and in between)
to come together, to come forward,
to stand in the light
of our own good conscience,
To come to the aid
of those in need, who have no defense, no hope but us,
who trust in the strong and capable hands
Of our people, our dreamers, our do-ers,
Who trust in the hope, the faith, the courage
Of our country:
It is only a matter of time, believe me, before anyone of a certain age, writing repetitious phrases, lapses into the tried and true "Now is the time for all good men to come to the aid of their country." Or "party", if you prefer that version. Just take a look at all the test writing pages at the pen show. If you're trying out a pen, and lack the ego to write your name repeatedly, the old typewriter exercise is one of the first things that comes to mind. I saw a lot of it yesterday. Obviously, I am no exception, as that is what I started writing to exercise my rediscovered pen. "Now is the time...now is the time..."
One school of writing says that, if you are stumped for how to start, or don't know what to write about, the best thing is to just sit down and start writing anything; that if you do this free writing every day, you WILL come up with something. I have never believed it. It always seemed to me to put an awful lot of faith in your subconscious, and even smacked a little of 'automatic writing' and a sort of spiritualistic belief.
However, this morning as I wrote and rewrote the old saw, completely as well as in bits and pieces, the rhythm of the words started battering on my brain. Before too long, I had the beginnings of a poem (see below) and have now determined that I can keep my pens in working order, be inspired, and impose some much-needed discipline on my writing efforts by simply sitting down each morning and copying bromides (or quotations) by hand for a half hour. It's at least a start. Who knows? Maybe even my handwriting will improve...
BTW--I found an 'antique pen'--an old blue marbleized Esterbrook fountain pen, identical to the one with which I learned to write in cursive in third grade. I also spoke with the designer of another pen, called Fat Boy (which I identified with for another, this time unfortunate, reason) and I bought a red Fat Boy Comet limited edition rollerball, which I love. It has such a serious heft to it that I can't help but write more seriously and more weightily with it. And besides, did I mention that it's red? (pictured, top to bottom: the Esterbrook, the Comet, and my Namiki)
Typewriter Exercise
Now is the time.
We have waited so long, too long
in this wilderness of scandal,
of war, of intrigue, of the sly and sleazy,
Now is the time
For all good men
(All of us, good men
and women, young and old,
black and white and in between)
to come together, to come forward,
to stand in the light
of our own good conscience,
To come to the aid
of those in need, who have no defense, no hope but us,
who trust in the strong and capable hands
Of our people, our dreamers, our do-ers,
Who trust in the hope, the faith, the courage
Of our country:
one country, under God, indivisible,
with liberty and justice for all.
Now is the time.
Thursday, August 7, 2008
Pen Woman
It's that time of year again. About this time each year, the Pen Show comes to town, and I'm compelled to visit. Carrie Bradshaw has shoes. I have pens and paper. If one were to go through my house with a fine-toothed comb and remove all writing implements ...I'd probably have room for everything else and could retire my storage facility debt. But, like books, you can never have too many writing utensils or things to write on or in. At least in my estimation.
The idiocy of this is that most of my writing is done on my laptop. Hardly ever do I sit in my garret with pen in hand, consigning my deepest thoughts and insights to a leather-bound journal. Not that I don't HAVE that leather-bound journal (or its handmade paper-bound, or spiral-bound, or on-sale-at-Borders, or isn't-that-cute, or I-really-like-that-paper equivalents) or any number of fountain, roller-ball, ball-point, miniature, silver, resin, celluloid, or retractable pens to use. Open a drawer or purse or cabinet and they are there, ready and waiting.
BUT...the lure of the pen is there. I will no doubt make my way to Tysons Corner this weekend, park blocks away from the Sheraton Premiere, pay my admission and wander in awe past the thousand-dollar collector's pens, the works of art that one could barely imagine using. I will check out the latest and greatest in pen technology, ooh and ahh over the pretty colors and slim (or chunky) profiles. I will pick pens up and enjoy the weight and the feel of them--and imagine the deathless prose and poetry inside them, just waiting for my hand, my brain to release it.
Pens are souvenirs of my romance with words. They are a remembered first kiss, the pressed flower from a prom corsage, a fond recollection of a favorite dress. Long ago, I fell in love with the mystery and the texture and the magic of pen and paper, and I am still lost. I've embraced technology, but there is a corner of my heart that cherishes that first love and refuses to abandon it. The tactile pleasure of a special paper, the smooth luxuriant flow of ink, the sensory recognition of thought made tangible: these are the melody of my love song. And pens provide the words.
The idiocy of this is that most of my writing is done on my laptop. Hardly ever do I sit in my garret with pen in hand, consigning my deepest thoughts and insights to a leather-bound journal. Not that I don't HAVE that leather-bound journal (or its handmade paper-bound, or spiral-bound, or on-sale-at-Borders, or isn't-that-cute, or I-really-like-that-paper equivalents) or any number of fountain, roller-ball, ball-point, miniature, silver, resin, celluloid, or retractable pens to use. Open a drawer or purse or cabinet and they are there, ready and waiting.
BUT...the lure of the pen is there. I will no doubt make my way to Tysons Corner this weekend, park blocks away from the Sheraton Premiere, pay my admission and wander in awe past the thousand-dollar collector's pens, the works of art that one could barely imagine using. I will check out the latest and greatest in pen technology, ooh and ahh over the pretty colors and slim (or chunky) profiles. I will pick pens up and enjoy the weight and the feel of them--and imagine the deathless prose and poetry inside them, just waiting for my hand, my brain to release it.
Pens are souvenirs of my romance with words. They are a remembered first kiss, the pressed flower from a prom corsage, a fond recollection of a favorite dress. Long ago, I fell in love with the mystery and the texture and the magic of pen and paper, and I am still lost. I've embraced technology, but there is a corner of my heart that cherishes that first love and refuses to abandon it. The tactile pleasure of a special paper, the smooth luxuriant flow of ink, the sensory recognition of thought made tangible: these are the melody of my love song. And pens provide the words.
Tuesday, August 5, 2008
Jake the Flake strikes again
We were going away for the weekend and made the serious error of not checking on Jake's whereabouts before we left. Since it was only a brief trip, we'd just put out plenty of food, water and kitty litter and counted on Jake's resourcefulness. Wrong.
When we arrived home Sunday afternoon, there was no Jake-in-the-window, watching for squirrels. When we opened the door, there was no Jake rolling over on command, just to show us how much he missed us. In fact, there was no Jake at all--which was pretty alarming. Then we heard the faint meow of Jake-trapped-somewhere--a sound I'd heard before that had signified the total destruction of my leather jacket that had the misfortune of being trapped WITH Jake in the hall closet.
This time it was the bedroom closet-- fortunately the closet that holds all the things on hangers we don't use much, along with spare sheets and towels and blankets. Needless to say, it was a wreck. All hanging clothes had been separated from their hangers. All shelved items had been de-shelved. All hangers were bent and broken. And Jake was perched on the shelf, hoarsely meowing for all he was worth. Two days without food, drink, or kitty litter fortunately had had little effect on him, or at least, so it appeared.
On the other hand, we had the unwelcome task of removing all items from the closet, disentangling them from fallen hangers and shredded shoeboxes, and always, always, being on the lookout for anything that had been used as a litter substitute. Fortunately, this was not too difficult. The old blanket that had landed on top of the fallen clothing had borne the brunt of Jake's 'accidents', sparing JC's tux and my silk jacket (among other things) from everything but a heavy layer of cat hair and a lot of wrinkles. To be on the safe side, everything washable got washed; everything dry-cleanable went to the drycleaners. The closet was wiped clean and Febreze-d to a fare-thee-well. We're back to normal.
I'd like to say that Jake learned his lesson and now avoids closets like the plague. Not so. Within hours of our return, he had once again strolled into the same closet and had the door shut upon him by mistake. Mea culpa.
Now on the checklist for departures: say 'goodbye' to Jake--face-to-face!
Monday, August 4, 2008
The play's the thing...
Just got back from our marathon play weekend in West Virginia. I have often said (in other venues) that the main thing one has to pack for the Contemporary American Theater Festival is a full complement of anti-depressants. Seldom does one spend an entire weekend with successively more depressing accounts of American dysfunctional families. Four plays, four mood-crushing exercises in futility. The chief reasons we go are the friends we go with, the dinners we share, the milkshakes at Betty's (OMG!)...and the feeling that we are getting a sneak peek at what's ahead in American theater.
Good news. Last year we came home not wishing to slit our wrists, but we figured that might be a one-year fluke. This year, the trend is confirmed. While not exactly cheery, this year's offerings provided a little more balanced view. Dysfunction is still the malady du jour, but the overall attitude is lighter. The endings are still not happy, but one doesn't exit the theater calculating the closest route to oblivion. Entertaining, thought-provoking, sobering, well-acted...these are the words for this year's crop of new plays as presented in Shepherdstown.
I'd like to think we're emerging from the dark night of Sam Shepard's soul that has seemed to dominate all new plays and playwrights. I'm not a Pollyanna exactly, and I'd hate to emerge from every theater performance humming the equivalent of "Oh What a Beautiful Morning"...but I do occasionally enjoy seeing a play where blood and wreckage and betrayal are not prominent plot features. There's room for sunshine in my theater pantheon. I don't expect Shepherdstown to fill that void necessarily, but they are making progress in that direction.
Meanwhile, there ARE the milkshakes at Betty's.
Good news. Last year we came home not wishing to slit our wrists, but we figured that might be a one-year fluke. This year, the trend is confirmed. While not exactly cheery, this year's offerings provided a little more balanced view. Dysfunction is still the malady du jour, but the overall attitude is lighter. The endings are still not happy, but one doesn't exit the theater calculating the closest route to oblivion. Entertaining, thought-provoking, sobering, well-acted...these are the words for this year's crop of new plays as presented in Shepherdstown.
I'd like to think we're emerging from the dark night of Sam Shepard's soul that has seemed to dominate all new plays and playwrights. I'm not a Pollyanna exactly, and I'd hate to emerge from every theater performance humming the equivalent of "Oh What a Beautiful Morning"...but I do occasionally enjoy seeing a play where blood and wreckage and betrayal are not prominent plot features. There's room for sunshine in my theater pantheon. I don't expect Shepherdstown to fill that void necessarily, but they are making progress in that direction.
Meanwhile, there ARE the milkshakes at Betty's.
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