One winter evening, I was starting a fire in the living room fireplace. I'd put music on, soulful music, when Mary suddenly danced in from the next room. She glided smoothly, but it wasn't because of her stockinged feet nor the well-buffed wood... it was she - her arms and legs, her breasts and her hips - which danced across and around the room, back and forth, suspended in air, suspended in time - not heedless of me, but regardless of me - around and back and forth, like a satyr.
If I wasn't already in love by then, I fell in love with her in that moment, when she surprised me with her dancing - she was a 51 year old mother of 3 grown children who danced like a wood sprite, a nymph - who made me want to be a puddle of melted ice water rippling at her feet, who made me as happy as I will ever be, that evening...at least. After the day's chores and travels were done...she danced for me...she danced before me...like a garlanded queen of times long gone.
Tuesday, November 24, 2009
In ancient Mali the people told stories of the great deeds of the legendary (though once very real) King Sundiata. In these tales Sundiata faced seemingly overwhelming challenges, and through wisdom, bravery, cunning, and strength, he always won out, usually over tremendous odds.
Mostly of the time the telling of these tales was idle recreation, but in times of trouble or indecision, the griots (a role akin to bard or shaman or shanichee) would gather the people and ritually recite one particular tale or another, as it fit the situation. The ritual tales of the griots were mostly true, though they also contained "additional" and sometimes fantastical embellishments, and they evolved over the years (Sundiata lived, I believe, in the 14th centuryCE). These tellings were treated as virtually sacred, and often took several days, with competing versions of details being offered, and with considerable debate also.
Such part-real, part-embroidered tales would, in such times, help to inform the people about what the wise and great Sundiata might do in such troubled times, and how they might follow his example. In a non-literate society this process played a legal and/or political role; the tales were a sort of "constitution" to be guided by.... Read More
I think stories like those above play a similar role for us today - in that they give us an almost idealized - though true enough - role model to follow. If the times in the stories weren't tragic or troubled, they would have less to teach us.
Mostly of the time the telling of these tales was idle recreation, but in times of trouble or indecision, the griots (a role akin to bard or shaman or shanichee) would gather the people and ritually recite one particular tale or another, as it fit the situation. The ritual tales of the griots were mostly true, though they also contained "additional" and sometimes fantastical embellishments, and they evolved over the years (Sundiata lived, I believe, in the 14th centuryCE). These tellings were treated as virtually sacred, and often took several days, with competing versions of details being offered, and with considerable debate also.
Such part-real, part-embroidered tales would, in such times, help to inform the people about what the wise and great Sundiata might do in such troubled times, and how they might follow his example. In a non-literate society this process played a legal and/or political role; the tales were a sort of "constitution" to be guided by.... Read More
I think stories like those above play a similar role for us today - in that they give us an almost idealized - though true enough - role model to follow. If the times in the stories weren't tragic or troubled, they would have less to teach us.
late last night I watched a documentary on the immediate aftermath of the Kennedy assassination. Though no one's behavior was inexcusable, the men involved acted in sometimes animalistic ways...RFK, LBJ...all of them. The women, on the other hand, were all the paragons of class.
Though Kennedy's shattered body was in a casket in the rear of the same plane, with Jackie sitting nearby still wearing clothing stained with her murdered husband's blood and brains, Lyndon Johnson refused to allow Air Force One to leave Dallas until he had been sworn in as President. He also wanted Jackie standing next to him as the oath was being administered (he may have been cold and calculating, loose-limbed and shambling, but he was anything but stupid). Despite her sorrow, when an aide told her of Johnson's request, Jackie responded, "Of course, it's the least I can do."
After the plane departed Lady Bird Johnson walked past all of the angry and suspicious Kennedy staffers gathered in the plane's rear and sat with Jackie, comforting her in a way no other person present - perhaps no other person in the world - could have at that moment.
When Johnson called Rose Kennedy - from Air Force One flying from Dallas to Washington - to offer his condolences, Mrs. Kennedy answered the call by saying "Hello, Mr. President..." Though he'd been surrounded by hundreds of people in the past few hours, she was the first person to call him that. Though she must've been inconsolable, at that moment she remembered who he was now - and, more importantly, who SHE was.
When JFK lay in state at the White House, a military honor guard was stationed around his catafalque. When Jackie saw the men arranged with their backs to their dead commander (thereby symbolizing their place as his guardians in death, though they could not protect him when he was alive), she asked them to turn around and face the casket, so her dead husband wouldn't be so lonely. Though it represented a unique and immense contradiction of protocol, of course they did as she asked.
These things symbolize why, if forced to choose, I'd prefer the company of women to that of men at almost any time. They are simply more humane.
Though Kennedy's shattered body was in a casket in the rear of the same plane, with Jackie sitting nearby still wearing clothing stained with her murdered husband's blood and brains, Lyndon Johnson refused to allow Air Force One to leave Dallas until he had been sworn in as President. He also wanted Jackie standing next to him as the oath was being administered (he may have been cold and calculating, loose-limbed and shambling, but he was anything but stupid). Despite her sorrow, when an aide told her of Johnson's request, Jackie responded, "Of course, it's the least I can do."
After the plane departed Lady Bird Johnson walked past all of the angry and suspicious Kennedy staffers gathered in the plane's rear and sat with Jackie, comforting her in a way no other person present - perhaps no other person in the world - could have at that moment.
When Johnson called Rose Kennedy - from Air Force One flying from Dallas to Washington - to offer his condolences, Mrs. Kennedy answered the call by saying "Hello, Mr. President..." Though he'd been surrounded by hundreds of people in the past few hours, she was the first person to call him that. Though she must've been inconsolable, at that moment she remembered who he was now - and, more importantly, who SHE was.
When JFK lay in state at the White House, a military honor guard was stationed around his catafalque. When Jackie saw the men arranged with their backs to their dead commander (thereby symbolizing their place as his guardians in death, though they could not protect him when he was alive), she asked them to turn around and face the casket, so her dead husband wouldn't be so lonely. Though it represented a unique and immense contradiction of protocol, of course they did as she asked.
These things symbolize why, if forced to choose, I'd prefer the company of women to that of men at almost any time. They are simply more humane.
Monday, October 19, 2009
Is Same the Opposite of Opposite?
It’s an axiom among many thoughtful people in our culture that our world is a collection of opposites. We’ve all heard it said that for every action there’s a reaction; for there to be up there must be down. In implies out; day, of course, has night; on has off. Black is paired with white; bad with good. Yin is entwined with yang. It seems intuitive.
But a question occurred to me this morning: what's the opposite of a mountain? The first, reflexive answer is, of course: a valley, but that’s plainly untrue. Valleys and mountains aren’t created by opposite (or even similar) geological forces. Some valleys cut through flat plains; in many cases mountains are crisscrossed by brooks and creeks that carve valleys from the mountainside, but that’s hardly what we’d consider an “opposite” relationship.
Is earth the opposite of sky? If so, when we look into the night sky we can see millions of miles into the sky, but we can’t see a foot into the earth (if we dig a hole we can see some small distance, but the deepest holes we've ever made only go maybe a couple of miles - the earth is 25,000 miles wide). And even if we could see through the earth, at some point we’d start seeing sky again on the other side. That hardly seems like an opposite to me.
Do we consider our friends opposites of our enemies? Not really. What’s the opposite of old? Young? How can that be? Doesn’t the concept of opposites imply that it works in both directions? Young is a step on the path to old, but the opposite isn’t true. The opposite of broken isn't fixed, is it?
And what’s the opposite of dog? If we lived in the world of 1940s and 50s cartoon movies, the opposite of dog would be cat. But we live in a different, less sensible world, where dog and cat can’t be considered opposites any more than birds and humans can. One could ask: is a white dog the opposite of a black dog? But then, what would a border collie’s opposite be? Or a zebra’s? Or a greyhound’s? By the way: what is the opposite of bird? Fish?
And here's a big one...what is the opposite of me? You?
But a question occurred to me this morning: what's the opposite of a mountain? The first, reflexive answer is, of course: a valley, but that’s plainly untrue. Valleys and mountains aren’t created by opposite (or even similar) geological forces. Some valleys cut through flat plains; in many cases mountains are crisscrossed by brooks and creeks that carve valleys from the mountainside, but that’s hardly what we’d consider an “opposite” relationship.
Is earth the opposite of sky? If so, when we look into the night sky we can see millions of miles into the sky, but we can’t see a foot into the earth (if we dig a hole we can see some small distance, but the deepest holes we've ever made only go maybe a couple of miles - the earth is 25,000 miles wide). And even if we could see through the earth, at some point we’d start seeing sky again on the other side. That hardly seems like an opposite to me.
Do we consider our friends opposites of our enemies? Not really. What’s the opposite of old? Young? How can that be? Doesn’t the concept of opposites imply that it works in both directions? Young is a step on the path to old, but the opposite isn’t true. The opposite of broken isn't fixed, is it?
And what’s the opposite of dog? If we lived in the world of 1940s and 50s cartoon movies, the opposite of dog would be cat. But we live in a different, less sensible world, where dog and cat can’t be considered opposites any more than birds and humans can. One could ask: is a white dog the opposite of a black dog? But then, what would a border collie’s opposite be? Or a zebra’s? Or a greyhound’s? By the way: what is the opposite of bird? Fish?
And here's a big one...what is the opposite of me? You?
Two Seasons by Galway Kinnell
I
The stars were wild that summer evening
As on the low lake shore stood you and I
And every time I caught your flashing eye
Or heard your voice discourse on anything
It seemed a star went burning down the sky.
I looked into your heart that dying summer
And found your silent woman's heart grown wild
Whereupon you turned to me and smiled
Saying you felt afraid but that you were
Weary of being mute and undefiled
II
I spoke to you that last winter morning
Watching the wind smoke snow across the ice
Told of how the beauty of your spirit, flesh,
And smile had made day break at night and spring
Burst beauty in the wasting winter's place.
You did not answer when I spoke, but stood
As if that wistful part of you, your sorrow,
Were blown about in fitful winds below;
Your eyes replied your worn heart wished it could
Again be white and silent as the snow.
Galway Kinnell
The stars were wild that summer evening
As on the low lake shore stood you and I
And every time I caught your flashing eye
Or heard your voice discourse on anything
It seemed a star went burning down the sky.
I looked into your heart that dying summer
And found your silent woman's heart grown wild
Whereupon you turned to me and smiled
Saying you felt afraid but that you were
Weary of being mute and undefiled
II
I spoke to you that last winter morning
Watching the wind smoke snow across the ice
Told of how the beauty of your spirit, flesh,
And smile had made day break at night and spring
Burst beauty in the wasting winter's place.
You did not answer when I spoke, but stood
As if that wistful part of you, your sorrow,
Were blown about in fitful winds below;
Your eyes replied your worn heart wished it could
Again be white and silent as the snow.
Galway Kinnell
Spicy
Shovel chew dip shovel chew chew pause oh I thought this was the medium salsa oh that’s where’s the water has the waiter brought the water yet oh thanks gulp gulp oh that’s better no it only went away for a while gulp gulp could you ask him for more water I wish they were clearer about which is spicy my mouth is on fire can I drink your water until gulp glug (I’m gonna have trouble tomorrow morning) you’re right eating some chips might help I’m not usually such a baby but I usually like it milder gulp glug.
Thursday, September 3, 2009
Life's Rich Pageant - III
When I moved into my first house there was a couple who lived next door named K and M. They were pretty old-fashioned, and argued with each other more than they conversed, but each was wonderful in unique and special ways. We were in our early thirties, K & M in their sixties, and they took us under their wing. They shared neighborhood gossip and history. They took in packages for us, I shoveled their sidewalk. We'd sometimes meet in one driveway or the other on summer evenings and discuss the news of the day. M was planning on retiring soon and they talked about all the things they wanted to do.
Then, K got sick. Real sick. I've not seen too many old Russian men cry, but M sobbed when he stopped me in the driveway to tell me. He said it was inoperable, and she had maybe a month, more likely a couple weeks. I said anything I could think of.
The next day he stopped me again and told me the doctors had offered them an option: a new surgical procedure that just might save her life. He was cautiously elated, and I said all the right things.
A couple of days later he said the operation had been a success and K would be home in a couple of weeks. He was having the back room on their house renovated so she didn't have to climb stairs. I told him how happy I was.
When K came home I went over to visit. She didn't look very well, but who would, right? In the following weeks I went over to do some chores for them, and once or twice I had to lift K because she'd fallen out of bed. She seemed to be getting better some of the time, but not all the time. I told M she looked good.
Within a few months K started to slide downhill again. She went back into the hospital, and M had no good driveway news this time. K died about a month later.
At her funeral M was sobbing. I said all the right things, if there are right things at a moment like that.
The months rolled on and life returned to normal. We'd wave to M and he'd wave back, but there were no more driveway chats. Until one evening, when he looked particularly ragged and I stopped to ask him if he was okay. He said he was tired of working, that his company was trying to push him out and bring in a younger salesman, but that he couldn't let them do that. I asked why he didn't just retire, relax a little, like he'd planned. He turned to look at me and said, "The insurance fuckers wouldn't pay for K's operation - they said it was experimental and not worth the cost...well, I couldn't do that. If there was a chance for my K I had to take it...so I took all my retirement money and paid the fucking hospital and fucking doctors. It gave her four fucking months, but if I had it to do over again I'd do the same. There's nothing left. All I have is this house. I gotta keep working."
I didn't say anything. I didn't want an old Russian man to see me cry, so I hugged his shoulder and saying nothing at all hurried across the driveway into my house. I think he understood.
M died about six months later.
Then, K got sick. Real sick. I've not seen too many old Russian men cry, but M sobbed when he stopped me in the driveway to tell me. He said it was inoperable, and she had maybe a month, more likely a couple weeks. I said anything I could think of.
The next day he stopped me again and told me the doctors had offered them an option: a new surgical procedure that just might save her life. He was cautiously elated, and I said all the right things.
A couple of days later he said the operation had been a success and K would be home in a couple of weeks. He was having the back room on their house renovated so she didn't have to climb stairs. I told him how happy I was.
When K came home I went over to visit. She didn't look very well, but who would, right? In the following weeks I went over to do some chores for them, and once or twice I had to lift K because she'd fallen out of bed. She seemed to be getting better some of the time, but not all the time. I told M she looked good.
Within a few months K started to slide downhill again. She went back into the hospital, and M had no good driveway news this time. K died about a month later.
At her funeral M was sobbing. I said all the right things, if there are right things at a moment like that.
The months rolled on and life returned to normal. We'd wave to M and he'd wave back, but there were no more driveway chats. Until one evening, when he looked particularly ragged and I stopped to ask him if he was okay. He said he was tired of working, that his company was trying to push him out and bring in a younger salesman, but that he couldn't let them do that. I asked why he didn't just retire, relax a little, like he'd planned. He turned to look at me and said, "The insurance fuckers wouldn't pay for K's operation - they said it was experimental and not worth the cost...well, I couldn't do that. If there was a chance for my K I had to take it...so I took all my retirement money and paid the fucking hospital and fucking doctors. It gave her four fucking months, but if I had it to do over again I'd do the same. There's nothing left. All I have is this house. I gotta keep working."
I didn't say anything. I didn't want an old Russian man to see me cry, so I hugged his shoulder and saying nothing at all hurried across the driveway into my house. I think he understood.
M died about six months later.
Friday, July 31, 2009
Missing Memories
It’s seven in the evening.
Does she remember?
Can she hear the tock
of her grandfather clock that
I was supposed to rewind twice a week?
Does she recall the secretive sound of our
sentences after we’d made love?
When she turns on the shower
Is she reminded of how
I was astounded by
The music she made, and the
Way water beaded on her skin?
When the sun rises,
And her new lover leaves
Does her mind recall the times she
Opened the door for one more goodbye
Before she returned to her tumble-down bed?
I have the chair we used to share,
But is there another she can
Sit in with him, together?
Does she ever wake up, dreaming that
We are still talking on the phone
Making love using just our voices?
Can she pass through a highway rest stop,
Or stay in a cheesy motel
Without thinking of me?
Does she remember the woman in the airport bar
Who told us we looked perfect together?
She wondered where I’d been all her life
And I puzzled about how lucky
I’d suddenly become
Does she remember?
Can she hear the tock
of her grandfather clock that
I was supposed to rewind twice a week?
Does she recall the secretive sound of our
sentences after we’d made love?
When she turns on the shower
Is she reminded of how
I was astounded by
The music she made, and the
Way water beaded on her skin?
When the sun rises,
And her new lover leaves
Does her mind recall the times she
Opened the door for one more goodbye
Before she returned to her tumble-down bed?
I have the chair we used to share,
But is there another she can
Sit in with him, together?
Does she ever wake up, dreaming that
We are still talking on the phone
Making love using just our voices?
Can she pass through a highway rest stop,
Or stay in a cheesy motel
Without thinking of me?
Does she remember the woman in the airport bar
Who told us we looked perfect together?
She wondered where I’d been all her life
And I puzzled about how lucky
I’d suddenly become
Tuesday, June 2, 2009
Life's Rich Pageant - II
The woman who lives in the apartment below mine spends nearly every night screaming at her pre-teen son; don't sigh with regret...he gives her back as good as he gets. Usually what they are saying is pretty unintelligible except for the anger, which comes across clearly.
Tonight, though, I heard her words plainly as she screamed: "I'm taking a shower, I'm taking a shower!"
The building I live in is 150 years old, and recently someone told me it once housed a stage coach terminal. My little suburban town was at one time served by two different interurban railroad lines and a traction trolley...and, apparently, there was a stage coach route that stopped here, too.
This house has strange acoustics. Sometimes I don't hear another soul in the building all day, though there are eight units, and my apartment is next to the front door; at other times I can hear a neighbor screaming over the sound of her shower. The house stands alone on a low hill, surrounded only by traffic and crabgrass. I moved here last July, but immediately recognized it had been a mistake. When my lease is up this July, I think I'll move again. I just can't take the silence and the screaming.
On and on.
Tonight, though, I heard her words plainly as she screamed: "I'm taking a shower, I'm taking a shower!"
The building I live in is 150 years old, and recently someone told me it once housed a stage coach terminal. My little suburban town was at one time served by two different interurban railroad lines and a traction trolley...and, apparently, there was a stage coach route that stopped here, too.
This house has strange acoustics. Sometimes I don't hear another soul in the building all day, though there are eight units, and my apartment is next to the front door; at other times I can hear a neighbor screaming over the sound of her shower. The house stands alone on a low hill, surrounded only by traffic and crabgrass. I moved here last July, but immediately recognized it had been a mistake. When my lease is up this July, I think I'll move again. I just can't take the silence and the screaming.
On and on.
Tuesday, May 26, 2009
Life's Rich Pageant - I
I was walking with my daughter down my little suburban town's little suburban main street, and we passed a coffee shop with a couple of tables outside on the sidewalk. At one of the tables sat two women, both of whom were nicely dressed, and for whatever reason had an air of "middle-class security" around them. As we walked past I overheard one of the women said to the other, "...and now I have to protect my daughter, 'cause he's beating the crap out of me, and I don't know what he'll do next..." By that point we'd walked passed and their conversation was drowned out by distance and traffic.
I hadn't tried to eavesdrop, but because she'd spoken in a matter-of-fact tone at a normal volume I couldn't help but hear her very clearly.
Last Friday, I walked up Eighth Avenue to Penn Station having just left a dinner with friends in Greenwich Village/Chelsea. The sidewalk was crowded, as it will be in that neighborhood on a Friday night, but then for a moment the crowd cleared and all I saw were two young people facing each other, a few feet apart, about fifteen feet in front of me. They were well-dressed, looking as if they'd just been at a party or a family dinner. As I got closer I realized that the young man was yelling - screaming, really - at the young woman, gesticulating in the air between them with his hands cupped and upturned, as if begging. Though I couldn't make out what he was saying, he was clearly very angry.
The young woman just stood there, staring at him, saying nothing; when I went to pass them by, I looked directly at her and saw that she was weeping uncontrollably. Her jaw hung slack and she seemed - well, she seemed "defeated." I'll never know what the young man was yelling about; but the young woman clearly sensed that she would never be able to make him understand...if she'd been trying to talk to him, to make him hear her side, by then she'd given up. The look on her face was one of utter loneliness and defeat.
Life's rich pageant plays on and on.
I hadn't tried to eavesdrop, but because she'd spoken in a matter-of-fact tone at a normal volume I couldn't help but hear her very clearly.
Last Friday, I walked up Eighth Avenue to Penn Station having just left a dinner with friends in Greenwich Village/Chelsea. The sidewalk was crowded, as it will be in that neighborhood on a Friday night, but then for a moment the crowd cleared and all I saw were two young people facing each other, a few feet apart, about fifteen feet in front of me. They were well-dressed, looking as if they'd just been at a party or a family dinner. As I got closer I realized that the young man was yelling - screaming, really - at the young woman, gesticulating in the air between them with his hands cupped and upturned, as if begging. Though I couldn't make out what he was saying, he was clearly very angry.
The young woman just stood there, staring at him, saying nothing; when I went to pass them by, I looked directly at her and saw that she was weeping uncontrollably. Her jaw hung slack and she seemed - well, she seemed "defeated." I'll never know what the young man was yelling about; but the young woman clearly sensed that she would never be able to make him understand...if she'd been trying to talk to him, to make him hear her side, by then she'd given up. The look on her face was one of utter loneliness and defeat.
Life's rich pageant plays on and on.
Absolute Zero
The coldest place in the universe
Isn’t a point of interstellar space
Just to the right of Antares.
It’s a physics lab in Helsinki, Finland
The electrons sit quietly
Indecisive and uncertain
Waiting to be observed
No motion, no spin, no interactions
No strong force, no weak
Gravity has no rainbow
No up, no down, no charm
The center holds, but only from ennui
Is the color of cold
A shade of deepest blue?
One of the hues of hydrogen?
Or simply the absence of red?
Isn’t a point of interstellar space
Just to the right of Antares.
It’s a physics lab in Helsinki, Finland
The electrons sit quietly
Indecisive and uncertain
Waiting to be observed
No motion, no spin, no interactions
No strong force, no weak
Gravity has no rainbow
No up, no down, no charm
The center holds, but only from ennui
Is the color of cold
A shade of deepest blue?
One of the hues of hydrogen?
Or simply the absence of red?
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