The two couplets beginning "forgive the cold" now occupy a pivot point for the poem. I'm quite fond of these two couplets. Following the Kill Your Babies advice I suppose these would be the obvious ones to eliminate.
I haven't worked on a title yet. "cake the walk" was never a title, just a name for the Word document.
Sunday, July 06, 2008
"cake the walk" version 5
in hedges gusts rat
from lonesome scatter leaves
scurry to clump under that
just beyond the diamond
a stone bench waits for the cloud
which straggles from the splintery bleachers
trails along fences
touches bases
at the far end of the outfield swarms
the sponsors’
painted boards and tumbles over
into bushes
forgive the cold
its hold
who wouldn’t want
my hand
there’s cloud enough left in the oaks
to drop a drop on my sleeve
two, you say, for you
I appreciate this dark
on that shoulder
all the way up
link by link by link
ching ching
ching
to the backstop’s eave
the ringing I pat out
of the hand you warmed for me
in the crowded pocket
of the jacket you put on
not wanting to
from lonesome scatter leaves
scurry to clump under that
just beyond the diamond
a stone bench waits for the cloud
which straggles from the splintery bleachers
trails along fences
touches bases
at the far end of the outfield swarms
the sponsors’
painted boards and tumbles over
into bushes
forgive the cold
its hold
who wouldn’t want
my hand
there’s cloud enough left in the oaks
to drop a drop on my sleeve
two, you say, for you
I appreciate this dark
on that shoulder
all the way up
link by link by link
ching ching
ching
to the backstop’s eave
the ringing I pat out
of the hand you warmed for me
in the crowded pocket
of the jacket you put on
not wanting to
Saturday, July 05, 2008
Friday, July 04, 2008
comments on “cake the walk”, version four
The stanza I’m closest to excising is the duck one. While I like the way the pond places the baseball diamond in a town park, thus helping prevent the reader from seeing some gigantic sports complex, the duck isn’t doing anything much. Not that he’s gotta exactly. I’m still thinking.
“cake the walk”, version four
forgive the cold
its hold
who wouldn’t want
my hand
just beyond the diamond
a stone bench waits for the cloud
which straggles from the splintery bleachers
trails along fences
even bases
at the end of the outfield swarms
the sponsors’
painted boards and tumbles over
into bushes
we passed the mallard
making his quiet circle in the pond
while among reeds his mate
tucked yellow bill under dun wing
in hedges gusts rat
from lonesome scatter leaves
scurry to clump under that
there’s cloud enough left in the oaks
to drop a drop on my sleeve
two, you say, for you
I appreciate this dark
on that shoulder
all the way up
link by link by link
ching ching
ching
to the backstop’s eave
the ringing I pat out
of the hand you warmed for me
in the crowded pocket
of the jacket you put on
not wanting to
its hold
who wouldn’t want
my hand
just beyond the diamond
a stone bench waits for the cloud
which straggles from the splintery bleachers
trails along fences
even bases
at the end of the outfield swarms
the sponsors’
painted boards and tumbles over
into bushes
we passed the mallard
making his quiet circle in the pond
while among reeds his mate
tucked yellow bill under dun wing
in hedges gusts rat
from lonesome scatter leaves
scurry to clump under that
there’s cloud enough left in the oaks
to drop a drop on my sleeve
two, you say, for you
I appreciate this dark
on that shoulder
all the way up
link by link by link
ching ching
ching
to the backstop’s eave
the ringing I pat out
of the hand you warmed for me
in the crowded pocket
of the jacket you put on
not wanting to
Friday, June 27, 2008
comments on “cake the walk”, version three
No longer sticking to couplets. Trying out a cloud/crowd relation. The persons (“you” and “me”) in this version vaguer.
“cake the walk”, version three
forgive my hand
its cold
the stone bench waits for a cloud
and here the cloud straggles
from the splintery bleachers
the backstop’s eave
a game lost yesterday or last season
and goes to dampen the ducks
one is turning the wet pebble green of its head
in a circle and another circle and a whole new circle
the pond’s face sending these turns
off to the cattail reeds
in hedges gusts rat
these leaves leave a lonesome rest
for more company
ching ching ching
all the way up
link to link to link
the backstop ringing from the slap of the hand
you warmed for me
there is no rain falling but what the live oaks
clawed out of a cloud
one drop for you
three for me?
its cold
the stone bench waits for a cloud
and here the cloud straggles
from the splintery bleachers
the backstop’s eave
a game lost yesterday or last season
and goes to dampen the ducks
one is turning the wet pebble green of its head
in a circle and another circle and a whole new circle
the pond’s face sending these turns
off to the cattail reeds
in hedges gusts rat
these leaves leave a lonesome rest
for more company
ching ching ching
all the way up
link to link to link
the backstop ringing from the slap of the hand
you warmed for me
there is no rain falling but what the live oaks
clawed out of a cloud
one drop for you
three for me?
Monday, June 23, 2008
comments on “cake the walk”, version two
This is a rough cut. Nearly every thing seen in version one appears in version two. The inconsistent punctuation is dropped altogether. The poem is now in couplets.
“cake the walk”, version two
bits of leaves cake the walk
in darkening layers
take my trembling hand
forgive its cold
in hedges gusts rat
just before us leaves leave one rest for another
the stone bench waits for a cloud
which straggles down from splintery bleachers
a mallard soundlessly circles the pond
his mate in the reeds, head tucked deep in dun feathers
the gravel gnashes dankly under a shoe
my unheld hand rattles the fencing
it rings its links, faintly distracted
all the way up to the backstop’s eave
a squirrel is gone by the time I look up
apart, arms folded, we read to each other
the names of the team sponsors
some loyalty older and peeling
under the dripping knuckles of live oaks
at the top of the stairs
we embrace
and let each other go
in darkening layers
take my trembling hand
forgive its cold
in hedges gusts rat
just before us leaves leave one rest for another
the stone bench waits for a cloud
which straggles down from splintery bleachers
a mallard soundlessly circles the pond
his mate in the reeds, head tucked deep in dun feathers
the gravel gnashes dankly under a shoe
my unheld hand rattles the fencing
it rings its links, faintly distracted
all the way up to the backstop’s eave
a squirrel is gone by the time I look up
apart, arms folded, we read to each other
the names of the team sponsors
some loyalty older and peeling
under the dripping knuckles of live oaks
at the top of the stairs
we embrace
and let each other go
Sunday, June 22, 2008
comments on “cake the walk” version one
Haven’t versioned a poem on LuvSet in months. Time? “cake the walk” was written in February 1985.
I don’t remember who my companion was. Maybe Becky, a friend who I was sort of dating. Could be the companion was imagined.
I like the poem’s atmosphere, the drawing of the scene. I like the standing apart followed by the embrace.
I don’t remember who my companion was. Maybe Becky, a friend who I was sort of dating. Could be the companion was imagined.
I like the poem’s atmosphere, the drawing of the scene. I like the standing apart followed by the embrace.
“cake the walk,” version one
Little bits of leaves
cake the walk
stroll with me hand-in-hand
my hand trembles
a cold wind
rattles the bones of the trees
gust rats in hedges
dead leaves scurry across our feet
across concrete
sit with me
on a stone bench
a cloud drops earthward
straggles through the park
envelopes the duck pond
one mallard circles soundlessly
in the reeds his mate sleeps
head tucked deep in dull feathers
We stroll across the baseball diamond
you kick a clump of grass
the gravel patches crunch wetly
tepid red
I brush my unheld hand against the fence
the metal rattles
ringing faintly to the tip of the backstop
You point to a squirrel
in the overhanging oak
it’s gone, scampered out of sight
when I look up
I wrap my coat tighter
we stand apart, arms folded
read the little league sponsors’ painted advertisements
to one another
At the top of the concrete stairs
we embrace
cake the walk
stroll with me hand-in-hand
my hand trembles
a cold wind
rattles the bones of the trees
gust rats in hedges
dead leaves scurry across our feet
across concrete
sit with me
on a stone bench
a cloud drops earthward
straggles through the park
envelopes the duck pond
one mallard circles soundlessly
in the reeds his mate sleeps
head tucked deep in dull feathers
We stroll across the baseball diamond
you kick a clump of grass
the gravel patches crunch wetly
tepid red
I brush my unheld hand against the fence
the metal rattles
ringing faintly to the tip of the backstop
You point to a squirrel
in the overhanging oak
it’s gone, scampered out of sight
when I look up
I wrap my coat tighter
we stand apart, arms folded
read the little league sponsors’ painted advertisements
to one another
At the top of the concrete stairs
we embrace
Wednesday, June 18, 2008
Monday, June 16, 2008
Smash the Egg
This is a delightful kinetic sculpture built by Joseph Herscher as "an entry in Cadbury's 'Unleash The Goo' competition, in which entrants must find the most creative way to break a creme egg."
Sunday, June 15, 2008
Land and People and Chez Panisse
People stop by LoveSettlement from all around the world. Of the last hundred visitors (as of writing, 6/8/08) most are, of course, from the lower 48. But there’s a significant cluster in Europe. Britain mostly. One from Germany, one from Italy. Of the rest of the great world: Two Argentinians stopped by. One Malaysian, two Australians, and a New Zealander. It would be nice if they were all faithful LuvSet readers, but even if all they did was swing by and fail to find what brought them here it’s still kinda cool that somebody in Argentina or Malaysia could drive past the LuvSet cornershop for a glance at the lettering on the sign.
I would like to spend more time at blogs based outside the U.S. In my pile of reading I try to make sure I’ve got some literature in translation. But I don’t comfortably read any language other than English so that does limit things somewhat. I do get in my ruts and find myself in the same old places, almost all of them U.S.-based.
I originally came across Rami Zurayk’s Land and People blog because he writes in Beirut, Lebanon, which, as we know, can sometimes be hazardous. (Even more so than Oakland, I suppose.) I think there was some fighting going on at the time I captured the link, and the Zurayk family were sheltering from arms fire. Things seem to have quieted down.
Zurayk mainly writes about food politics. In today’s post he gives a tongue-in-cheek version of the argument that improvements for poor people are to blame for, well, the problems in the world: “Too many hard-working Chinese and Indians … think they should be able to eat pizza, meat and coffee and aspire to a reservation at Chez Panisse. They get blamed for raising global prices so much that poor Africans and Asians can't afford porridge and rice.”
I’ve seen that formula given for why we have global warming, extinctions, environmental degradation of all kinds … It’s the dangerous aspirations of Third World people.
The philosophy of Chez Panisse (hey, Chez Panisse is right around the corner from my house!) might be right up Rami Zurayk’s alley, actually. From the Chez Panisse website: “A good kitchen respects its sources, chooses ingredients that are sound, seasonal, local when possible, and appropriate to the event. … Chez Panisse gathers its material from known and trusted purveyors, known to be committed themselves to sound and sustainable practices … We seek farmers who know their seeds and soil, ranchers who care about the food their livestock eats, winemakers who know what their grapes have known, fish merchants who are concerned about the health of the seas.”
Rami Zurayk characterizes American food giving as, "Let them eat subsidized American corn shipped over in American ships." Sounds like the opposite of the Chez Panisse ideal.
Of course, Chez Panisse is darn expensive. But delicious. And, you know, if you’re going to lay out a wad on dinner at least you won’t be fucking up the planet.
I would like to spend more time at blogs based outside the U.S. In my pile of reading I try to make sure I’ve got some literature in translation. But I don’t comfortably read any language other than English so that does limit things somewhat. I do get in my ruts and find myself in the same old places, almost all of them U.S.-based.
I originally came across Rami Zurayk’s Land and People blog because he writes in Beirut, Lebanon, which, as we know, can sometimes be hazardous. (Even more so than Oakland, I suppose.) I think there was some fighting going on at the time I captured the link, and the Zurayk family were sheltering from arms fire. Things seem to have quieted down.
Zurayk mainly writes about food politics. In today’s post he gives a tongue-in-cheek version of the argument that improvements for poor people are to blame for, well, the problems in the world: “Too many hard-working Chinese and Indians … think they should be able to eat pizza, meat and coffee and aspire to a reservation at Chez Panisse. They get blamed for raising global prices so much that poor Africans and Asians can't afford porridge and rice.”
I’ve seen that formula given for why we have global warming, extinctions, environmental degradation of all kinds … It’s the dangerous aspirations of Third World people.
The philosophy of Chez Panisse (hey, Chez Panisse is right around the corner from my house!) might be right up Rami Zurayk’s alley, actually. From the Chez Panisse website: “A good kitchen respects its sources, chooses ingredients that are sound, seasonal, local when possible, and appropriate to the event. … Chez Panisse gathers its material from known and trusted purveyors, known to be committed themselves to sound and sustainable practices … We seek farmers who know their seeds and soil, ranchers who care about the food their livestock eats, winemakers who know what their grapes have known, fish merchants who are concerned about the health of the seas.”
Rami Zurayk characterizes American food giving as, "Let them eat subsidized American corn shipped over in American ships." Sounds like the opposite of the Chez Panisse ideal.
Of course, Chez Panisse is darn expensive. But delicious. And, you know, if you’re going to lay out a wad on dinner at least you won’t be fucking up the planet.
Thursday, June 05, 2008
a blog about farming in Oakland
I don’t remember how I found my way to Your City Farmer, a blog about farming in Oakland (SFGate.com?). I copied the url to the Word doc where I work on LuvSet posts. That was back in April. Since then the blogger has changed it. Just found that out when I put the old url into the browser and got whipped around to the new one.
Looks like the name has changed to Meaningful Pursuit. Hm. Better title? I don’t know. I think … no. But whatever.
Right now our backyard is at its farmingest, what with cherries ripening and lush tomato plants considering whether to turn their yellow flowers into tight green fruits.
The May 12th post starts out with a picture of weeds. Novella (yes, that’s the blogger’s name) says, “Weeding can be satisfying work. Passers-by say hello, chew the fat, ask me for a quarter. Because remember, I'm not living some rural lifestyle with baby goats and rabbits. I'm living some urban lifestyle with baby goats and rabbits. A reminder of my urban farm: gun fire. Two shots, very close. Somehow muffled. Now, it IS firework season, but I knew those were bullets.”
Police cars appear. She overhears one of the officers say a man was shot in the apartment across the street, not killed though.
She went back to weeding. Now & then a neighbor would stop and ask what happened. “I grew tired of telling the news,” Novella says.
Looks like the name has changed to Meaningful Pursuit. Hm. Better title? I don’t know. I think … no. But whatever.
Right now our backyard is at its farmingest, what with cherries ripening and lush tomato plants considering whether to turn their yellow flowers into tight green fruits.
The May 12th post starts out with a picture of weeds. Novella (yes, that’s the blogger’s name) says, “Weeding can be satisfying work. Passers-by say hello, chew the fat, ask me for a quarter. Because remember, I'm not living some rural lifestyle with baby goats and rabbits. I'm living some urban lifestyle with baby goats and rabbits. A reminder of my urban farm: gun fire. Two shots, very close. Somehow muffled. Now, it IS firework season, but I knew those were bullets.”
Police cars appear. She overhears one of the officers say a man was shot in the apartment across the street, not killed though.
She went back to weeding. Now & then a neighbor would stop and ask what happened. “I grew tired of telling the news,” Novella says.
Sunday, June 01, 2008
maybe I should
Maybe I should write something on my blog. I haven't written anything on my blog in two weeks. My blog must be hungry. Or lonely. Maybe I should do something about the needs of my blog. It needs freshening. Blog posts climb onto it and age and age.
Of the six March posts one should get an update -- the Supreme Court of California has ruled that marriage cannot be denied to same-sex couples without a compelling reason. And they looked around and didn't find one, et voila -- Marry, you gays! I've been thinking about various ways to talk about it, actually. From the fear of a November ballot initiative to reading through the text of the decision to speculating about how this changes society. All of that would require a lot of thought and writing, wouldn't it?
I could review our last two trips -- the one to Orlando & environs, the one to Baja & Copper Canyon. After all, one of the ways I researched those trips was reading the blogs of travellers. So I could offer up what I've learned for the use of others.
I could write about daily things, what's doing at work, the weather, what piles we've dusted and what piles we've sorted.
I have several posts in the works, you know. Links to this or that, videos I found fascinating. Come back and check those out.
Of the six March posts one should get an update -- the Supreme Court of California has ruled that marriage cannot be denied to same-sex couples without a compelling reason. And they looked around and didn't find one, et voila -- Marry, you gays! I've been thinking about various ways to talk about it, actually. From the fear of a November ballot initiative to reading through the text of the decision to speculating about how this changes society. All of that would require a lot of thought and writing, wouldn't it?
I could review our last two trips -- the one to Orlando & environs, the one to Baja & Copper Canyon. After all, one of the ways I researched those trips was reading the blogs of travellers. So I could offer up what I've learned for the use of others.
I could write about daily things, what's doing at work, the weather, what piles we've dusted and what piles we've sorted.
I have several posts in the works, you know. Links to this or that, videos I found fascinating. Come back and check those out.
Friday, May 16, 2008
Info Desk Blogging
Hm. It's some kind of warm today. 85 degrees F.
I walked to work. And that was okay. Rather wish I'd worn shorts but I don't quite feel comfortable wearing shorts to work. Forecast says room temp tomorrow (72 degrees).
It is cooler in the building than outside 'cept outside the air does move a little bit.
Quiet in here. Only two people at the internet stations. I see two people in the magazine lounge. One person just passed talking on his cell phone, but he was on his way out the door. Yeah, I hear ringtones a few times a day, but most people are good about taking their conversations outdoors. I've only had to ask 4 or 5 people to hush or exit. That's over the course of a year or so. You know how people talk LOUD on cell phones.
This Monday I stopped in at North Branch to view the Quilt Show. Some really handsome work. As a tribute one quilter is represented by 10 quilts. Dorothy Vance's quilts are "witty takes on presidents, political activists, doctors and others," says the press release about the show. Here at Claremont I helped Ms Vance find images she could use in her quilt creations, especially a quilt of odd couples -- Harpo & Karl Marx, Bette & Jefferson Davis, etc. Sorry to learn she is no longer with us.
I walked to work. And that was okay. Rather wish I'd worn shorts but I don't quite feel comfortable wearing shorts to work. Forecast says room temp tomorrow (72 degrees).
It is cooler in the building than outside 'cept outside the air does move a little bit.
Quiet in here. Only two people at the internet stations. I see two people in the magazine lounge. One person just passed talking on his cell phone, but he was on his way out the door. Yeah, I hear ringtones a few times a day, but most people are good about taking their conversations outdoors. I've only had to ask 4 or 5 people to hush or exit. That's over the course of a year or so. You know how people talk LOUD on cell phones.
This Monday I stopped in at North Branch to view the Quilt Show. Some really handsome work. As a tribute one quilter is represented by 10 quilts. Dorothy Vance's quilts are "witty takes on presidents, political activists, doctors and others," says the press release about the show. Here at Claremont I helped Ms Vance find images she could use in her quilt creations, especially a quilt of odd couples -- Harpo & Karl Marx, Bette & Jefferson Davis, etc. Sorry to learn she is no longer with us.
Tuesday, May 13, 2008
Info Desk Blogging
I'm in charge of the browsing paperbacks collection here at Claremont. The collection consists mainly of books that come to us as donations. Whenever someone drops off a bag of books I hop over and paw through it. Usually there's a book or two worth adding to my to-be-processed stack in the workroom.
It's simple processing. A barcode and radio frequency ID tag (RFID), a label to indicate genre (nonfic, fic, sf/fantasy, romance, mystery), a little plastic to reinforce the cover. Unlike the majority of the items owned by the library the browsing collection doesn't have to go through our cataloging librarians; you can't look them up in the catalog; what you see is what you get.
General fiction is popular. Nonfiction does fine. Mysteries? Yes, more or less.
But romance and sf/fantasy? Not so much. There are some name romance authors who go out but many paperbacks on the spinny racks go round and round and round, year after year. I've long had fewer sf/fantasy but the rate at which they go out is about the same. The other problem is that people just don't donate romances and sf/fantasy, so it's hard to keep the collection from getting tired. Maybe readers tend to resell the genre stuff at Berkeley's used bookstores. Dunno.
Anyway, I finally got a bagful of goodlooking romances so decided to refresh the collection. I reviewed everything that'd been swinging about the carousel and found many that hadn't been checked out in 2 or 3 years. I threw those away. I've reduced the romance collection by about a third. As I also obtained some more sf I'm going to equalize the romance and sf collections. See if they really do have about the same size audience.
I'll let you know.
It's simple processing. A barcode and radio frequency ID tag (RFID), a label to indicate genre (nonfic, fic, sf/fantasy, romance, mystery), a little plastic to reinforce the cover. Unlike the majority of the items owned by the library the browsing collection doesn't have to go through our cataloging librarians; you can't look them up in the catalog; what you see is what you get.
General fiction is popular. Nonfiction does fine. Mysteries? Yes, more or less.
But romance and sf/fantasy? Not so much. There are some name romance authors who go out but many paperbacks on the spinny racks go round and round and round, year after year. I've long had fewer sf/fantasy but the rate at which they go out is about the same. The other problem is that people just don't donate romances and sf/fantasy, so it's hard to keep the collection from getting tired. Maybe readers tend to resell the genre stuff at Berkeley's used bookstores. Dunno.
Anyway, I finally got a bagful of goodlooking romances so decided to refresh the collection. I reviewed everything that'd been swinging about the carousel and found many that hadn't been checked out in 2 or 3 years. I threw those away. I've reduced the romance collection by about a third. As I also obtained some more sf I'm going to equalize the romance and sf collections. See if they really do have about the same size audience.
I'll let you know.
Wednesday, May 07, 2008
the foot measure
Berkeley's been rather cold lately. I judge temperature by how cold my feet are. They are cold right now. Even though I'm wearing socks with a snowflake pattern on the sole. (I should wear socks with flames?)
But it's not just how cold they are, it's how quickly/easily they can be warmed up. I expect once I get up from the computer and walk around my feet will warm up. It's really cold when I have on thick socks, big shoes and go walking around and my feet refuse to warm up. It's never that bad in Berkeley. We don't have ice or snow.
The big test is at bedtime. Will socks and blankets be enough to warm my feet? In winter the answer is no. Sometimes a foot massage will warm them enough. But when it's really unpleasantly cold I have to soak my feet in hot water, stuff them in warmed socks, then dive into bed before they cool off again. It's been like that once or twice since we got back from Mexico.
And I don't like it.
But it's not just how cold they are, it's how quickly/easily they can be warmed up. I expect once I get up from the computer and walk around my feet will warm up. It's really cold when I have on thick socks, big shoes and go walking around and my feet refuse to warm up. It's never that bad in Berkeley. We don't have ice or snow.
The big test is at bedtime. Will socks and blankets be enough to warm my feet? In winter the answer is no. Sometimes a foot massage will warm them enough. But when it's really unpleasantly cold I have to soak my feet in hot water, stuff them in warmed socks, then dive into bed before they cool off again. It's been like that once or twice since we got back from Mexico.
And I don't like it.
Wednesday, April 16, 2008
Monday, April 14, 2008
Friendly Whales of San Ignacio Lagoon
That's me in the brown hat. Kent was standing behind manning a camera. That's Baby you see mostly, but note when Mama slides in between Baby and boat. She's the one with barnacles.
More videos are now up at youtube/kentmannis.
Sunday, April 13, 2008
I miss that hair
It's a frame from the Touch of a Poet series videotapes. Unfortunately the tapes are not online. Yet? Oddly, there are a lot of typos in the names. That's Amy Kashiwabara (not Kashiwabar) who read with me on June 20, 1997. And my name is missing an L and an N.
Fun to note on the same page one of my coworkers at Claremont also read for the Touch series. Love the sideburns, Tom!
Sunday, April 06, 2008
Tuesday, March 11, 2008
Berkeley Public Library
Yes, I know these people. And the video? ‘Tis rather droll. I might’ve even popped up in the video if I still worked at Central. But Central seems so far away these days.
Friday, March 07, 2008
gay marriage is for the kids
So the California Supreme Court had oral arguments (which, unlike oral sex, involves no bodily contact) in a case that will determine whether gay marrieds get to be "marrieds" under the law. The three hours of backnforth boiled down to, according to the articles I saw, a few whiny bits from the judges like this: "Why now! Why not in ten years! Then my mom'll be dead & my grandkids will be old enough to contribute to my reelection fund!" Don't forget, folks, California Supreme Courtiers have to face the voters! Rose Bird got tossed just for deciding against killing people. Naughty girl.
In his column at SFGate Jon Carroll makes the Duh argument that seems to be missed most the time: "The state can and does compel the people who did the procreating to support the upbringing of the children. Sometimes [the parents] can't or won't, but still, it's a system and a legitimate function of government. The marriage license is a way of saying 'These people are responsible for that kid.' Not perfect, but extremely useful all the same.
"Which means, of course, that formal marriages between gay people are necessary. Not just desirable; necessary. Gay people have kids too, increasingly so, and those kids require equal protection under the law. To create two classes of marriage is to create two classes of children, and that is both morally and legally unacceptable."
Restricting marriage does not protect children, it actively harms them. Little things didn't ask to be born and the state oughtn't go around swatting them according to whether the state likes their parents.
In his column at SFGate Jon Carroll makes the Duh argument that seems to be missed most the time: "The state can and does compel the people who did the procreating to support the upbringing of the children. Sometimes [the parents] can't or won't, but still, it's a system and a legitimate function of government. The marriage license is a way of saying 'These people are responsible for that kid.' Not perfect, but extremely useful all the same.
"Which means, of course, that formal marriages between gay people are necessary. Not just desirable; necessary. Gay people have kids too, increasingly so, and those kids require equal protection under the law. To create two classes of marriage is to create two classes of children, and that is both morally and legally unacceptable."
Restricting marriage does not protect children, it actively harms them. Little things didn't ask to be born and the state oughtn't go around swatting them according to whether the state likes their parents.
Tuesday, March 04, 2008
Monday, March 03, 2008
Sunday, March 02, 2008
Game for a Sunday Morning
Here’s a game. How long a train of celebrity/prominent persons’ names can you make?
The one I came up with this morning lying in bed:
Eddie Albert Gore Vidal Sassoon
That’s from Eddie Albert / Albert Gore / Gore Vidal / Vidal Sassoon
Kent came up with this one:
Olivia Newton-John Dean Martin Landau
That’s from Olivia Newton-John / John Dean / Dean Martin / Martin Landau
OK, I provided Olivia Newton-John. Was Kent going to produce Olivia Newton-John? What’s a celebrity with the last name John? he said.
The one I came up with this morning lying in bed:
Eddie Albert Gore Vidal Sassoon
That’s from Eddie Albert / Albert Gore / Gore Vidal / Vidal Sassoon
Kent came up with this one:
Olivia Newton-John Dean Martin Landau
That’s from Olivia Newton-John / John Dean / Dean Martin / Martin Landau
OK, I provided Olivia Newton-John. Was Kent going to produce Olivia Newton-John? What’s a celebrity with the last name John? he said.
Saturday, March 01, 2008
Friday, February 29, 2008
Sunday, February 24, 2008
tough enough?
From a New York Times article about Barack Obama’s riding high in the race for the Democratic nomination:
He lists the arrows that critics sling his way. He’s too hopeful, too inexperienced, not tough enough. At mention of the last, he bobs his head, steps toward the crowd, leans in and says: “Listen, I’m a black guy named Barack Obama running for president. You want to tell me that I’m not tough enough?”
He smirks. “Shoot.”
He lists the arrows that critics sling his way. He’s too hopeful, too inexperienced, not tough enough. At mention of the last, he bobs his head, steps toward the crowd, leans in and says: “Listen, I’m a black guy named Barack Obama running for president. You want to tell me that I’m not tough enough?”
He smirks. “Shoot.”
Friday, February 22, 2008
Trapped in a world he never made!
I never understood that tagline. It was a tagline for Howard the Duck, a comic book series written by Steve Gerber. I bought a few issues of Howard the Duck; but it was my brother who became a regular reader. When we were buying comics it was rare we’d be able to start with the first issue. You want to start at the beginning, right? So we’d have to buy back issues at the comic store in Santa Rosa (what a relief when we discovered such a thing existed!) Usually back issues were fairly inexpensive – we weren’t investing in the old back issues, like Avengers #1 or Amazing Fantasy #15, because, well, we didn’t have that kind of money. But the first issue of Howard the Duck I bought was a low number. #4? Something like that. “Something Winkie this Way Comes,” was the story. An old Ozzy, I doubted the Winkie in the comic had anything to do with the Winkies of Oz (in the MGM movie they’re the guys who work for the Wicked Witch of the West and chant OH-WEE-OH); I was right. Nothing. When we tried to buy the Howard back issues they weren’t to be had, and when any showed up they were pricey. It seems Marvel had printed only a few, having little suspicion of success; those first issues sold out and no one wanted to part with them (for cheap, anyway). I’ve not read a Howard the Duck in, oh, thirty years? Nice that reprints are available now, though.
I discovered Steve Gerber’s blog a year or two ago. As I recall he was bent out of shape at Jonathan Lethem’s poaching Omega the Unknown, a comic character Gerber had created for a short-lived comic series also published by Marvel. How dare he! Gerber fumed. Omega was very personal. Maybe he had created Omega as a work-for-hire, meaning Marvel owned everything about it and could legally do whatever it wanted with the “property”, but it wasn’t like Gerber had had any choice at the time. That was the way the business worked. Jonathan Lethem can create his own characters; he doesn’t have to steal mine! Gerber said.
I sympathized. Somewhat. But I stopped reading the blog. After reading an obituary at SF Gate I dropped by Steve Gerber’s blog again last week. Mark Evanier has been putting up new posts, encouraging fans to leave appreciations.
I wonder if I have those original Omegas in a box somewhere.
I haven’t read any of Lethem’s version of Omega the Unknown. I feel like I have to be loyal to Gerber and boycott it. On the other hand, I’ve flipped through it at the comic store and it looks interesting.
I discovered Steve Gerber’s blog a year or two ago. As I recall he was bent out of shape at Jonathan Lethem’s poaching Omega the Unknown, a comic character Gerber had created for a short-lived comic series also published by Marvel. How dare he! Gerber fumed. Omega was very personal. Maybe he had created Omega as a work-for-hire, meaning Marvel owned everything about it and could legally do whatever it wanted with the “property”, but it wasn’t like Gerber had had any choice at the time. That was the way the business worked. Jonathan Lethem can create his own characters; he doesn’t have to steal mine! Gerber said.
I sympathized. Somewhat. But I stopped reading the blog. After reading an obituary at SF Gate I dropped by Steve Gerber’s blog again last week. Mark Evanier has been putting up new posts, encouraging fans to leave appreciations.
I wonder if I have those original Omegas in a box somewhere.
I haven’t read any of Lethem’s version of Omega the Unknown. I feel like I have to be loyal to Gerber and boycott it. On the other hand, I’ve flipped through it at the comic store and it looks interesting.
Friday, February 08, 2008
P&P v. P&P
When I go to an event these days I’ll sometimes check afterward to see if anyone has blogged it. Two people blogged the Harold Norse reading at the Beat Museum, for instance.
So has anybody blogged Poetry & Pizza, the reading series in SF I help run? Other than me, it seems, no.
However I did come across a post about New Jersey’s Pizza & Poetry night at Slice of New York Pizza. So, instead of Poetry & Pizza, it’s Pizza & Poetry. Instead of the host restaurant being Escape from New York Pizza, it’s Slice of New York Pizza. It’s a monthly reading. And it sounds like they are reaching capacity, too.
“I fear the Monkey Man's group may outgrow Slice of New York Pizza, because on Tuesday night we filled every seat. It's not a big place, but it's big enough -- we're just getting more and more folks all the time,” says Anne at her blog, Gods Are Bored.
To keep with the symmetry Katharine, Clive, and I will have to change our names to the Monkey Collective or Baboon Troops or, um, Trio Lemur.
For our own P&P I did find a review of sorts at yelp.com. Is this one for the scrapbook? becca h. says , “i love all-you-can-eat pizza and poetry nights... go for the pizza, run from the poetry. pizza's always good, and the slices are just right. mmm, pesto and potato!” That was from 1/4/08. Run from the poetry!
So has anybody blogged Poetry & Pizza, the reading series in SF I help run? Other than me, it seems, no.
However I did come across a post about New Jersey’s Pizza & Poetry night at Slice of New York Pizza. So, instead of Poetry & Pizza, it’s Pizza & Poetry. Instead of the host restaurant being Escape from New York Pizza, it’s Slice of New York Pizza. It’s a monthly reading. And it sounds like they are reaching capacity, too.
“I fear the Monkey Man's group may outgrow Slice of New York Pizza, because on Tuesday night we filled every seat. It's not a big place, but it's big enough -- we're just getting more and more folks all the time,” says Anne at her blog, Gods Are Bored.
To keep with the symmetry Katharine, Clive, and I will have to change our names to the Monkey Collective or Baboon Troops or, um, Trio Lemur.
For our own P&P I did find a review of sorts at yelp.com. Is this one for the scrapbook? becca h. says , “i love all-you-can-eat pizza and poetry nights... go for the pizza, run from the poetry. pizza's always good, and the slices are just right. mmm, pesto and potato!” That was from 1/4/08. Run from the poetry!
Sunday, February 03, 2008
Sunday Night
Congratulations to whoever won the Super Bowl. I’m sure it was a giant accomplishment!
Good luck to you big presidential candidates come Tuesday (and beyond). I’m sure the best president will emerge from all the noise and bother. Like usual.
May all of you with diseases, get well soon. And all of you under the bombs (or stepping on them), be blessed with dud after dud, and flowers in the mud.
Ah readers, I wish you especially, great wealth and happiness. (If you want to pass that along, more power to you.) And more power, too.
Good luck to you big presidential candidates come Tuesday (and beyond). I’m sure the best president will emerge from all the noise and bother. Like usual.
May all of you with diseases, get well soon. And all of you under the bombs (or stepping on them), be blessed with dud after dud, and flowers in the mud.
Ah readers, I wish you especially, great wealth and happiness. (If you want to pass that along, more power to you.) And more power, too.
Monday, January 28, 2008
Thursday, January 24, 2008
not quite what I wrote
in reply to Junker:
An editor bangifies the slopdish wang signature, enabling the rest in the nest of the good panther, named sometimes but often willingly depantsed.
If I were to say a magazine collapsed among the Denver 9, those who publish with a poor sense of twinges, the tiring of never occurred purples, even among the well-lit horses barndoor flapping at a hootenany’s any time buffet then blah would have to reupended among tah, or, conservatively, among shah.
There are, even steven, a fairly budded welch. Editors who tend suchlike whiskeys are fro to the vote, Best! Until everyone can agree, we must anger the ghetto friendlies.
I think a poet is free from the usual conundrum of the avuncular, but that’s only a theft from the visible whig. How could you aver! Stories were left collapsible, oiled.
An editor bangifies the slopdish wang signature, enabling the rest in the nest of the good panther, named sometimes but often willingly depantsed.
If I were to say a magazine collapsed among the Denver 9, those who publish with a poor sense of twinges, the tiring of never occurred purples, even among the well-lit horses barndoor flapping at a hootenany’s any time buffet then blah would have to reupended among tah, or, conservatively, among shah.
There are, even steven, a fairly budded welch. Editors who tend suchlike whiskeys are fro to the vote, Best! Until everyone can agree, we must anger the ghetto friendlies.
I think a poet is free from the usual conundrum of the avuncular, but that’s only a theft from the visible whig. How could you aver! Stories were left collapsible, oiled.
Monday, January 21, 2008
Saturday, January 19, 2008
drawing
I found this sketch in a pile of papers. I figure it’s from 2002 or thereabouts. I think the smudges are cat footprints.
Wednesday, January 16, 2008
Thursday, January 10, 2008
Wednesday, January 09, 2008
reply to Josh
I left the following comment on in response to a posting by Seth Abramson on his blog:
You quote Harold Bloom as insisting that one of the primary ways one must approach a poem is as a judge -- "Is it Good?"
I remember being intimidated by that notion when I was a youngster. How could I judge Great Poetry when I hardly knew what poetry was?
Part of my solution was throwing out the notion that there is such a thing as Great Poetry or a Great Poet. It's just not useful.
The first thing I ask of a poem is: am I enjoying the experience of reading you? I don't just mean am I getting a warm feeling but am I being engaged, pulled in, surprised, all those things one hopes will wash one out of the doldrums.
Different people will enjoy different experiences. Far as books are concerned (let alone movies) I know there are plenty I can't abide (even ones everybody else seems to love!). Why should it be different with poetry? Thus, my main reply to those who make pronouncements about poetry is Poetry Is Not One Thing.
Fiction isn’t just Finnegan’s Wake … or Nancy Drew. Casablanca isn’t the only possible movie, any more than Die Hard 8 or . Poetry can be many things, too.
The only people whose job description includes judging whether a poem is good: editors, poets ... and, I suppose, those who study poems, though I'd suggest it's more important for the student of poetry to be able to see what the poem does than judge whether it's good. Many well-crafted, interesting, even admirable pieces aren't the sort of thing you ever want to read again.
Readers shouldn’t have to judge. Except whether the object before them is worth the time they could be using to vacuum a rug, the mental effort they could be putting toward balancing a checkbook or puzzling over a crossword.
[The comment is not precisely the comment posted at Seth’s blog, but the edits are mostly for clarity.]
You quote Harold Bloom as insisting that one of the primary ways one must approach a poem is as a judge -- "Is it Good?"
I remember being intimidated by that notion when I was a youngster. How could I judge Great Poetry when I hardly knew what poetry was?
Part of my solution was throwing out the notion that there is such a thing as Great Poetry or a Great Poet. It's just not useful.
The first thing I ask of a poem is: am I enjoying the experience of reading you? I don't just mean am I getting a warm feeling but am I being engaged, pulled in, surprised, all those things one hopes will wash one out of the doldrums.
Different people will enjoy different experiences. Far as books are concerned (let alone movies) I know there are plenty I can't abide (even ones everybody else seems to love!). Why should it be different with poetry? Thus, my main reply to those who make pronouncements about poetry is Poetry Is Not One Thing.
Fiction isn’t just Finnegan’s Wake … or Nancy Drew. Casablanca isn’t the only possible movie, any more than Die Hard 8 or . Poetry can be many things, too.
The only people whose job description includes judging whether a poem is good: editors, poets ... and, I suppose, those who study poems, though I'd suggest it's more important for the student of poetry to be able to see what the poem does than judge whether it's good. Many well-crafted, interesting, even admirable pieces aren't the sort of thing you ever want to read again.
Readers shouldn’t have to judge. Except whether the object before them is worth the time they could be using to vacuum a rug, the mental effort they could be putting toward balancing a checkbook or puzzling over a crossword.
[The comment is not precisely the comment posted at Seth’s blog, but the edits are mostly for clarity.]
Saturday, January 05, 2008
Nene
In Feb 1976 I was ten. I was in 6th grade? That would make this the first Hawaii visit. My dad sent my brother & me tickets and we met him and his Alaska family on one of the islands. I remember being ushered to a connecting flight across the breezy muggy tarmac by a flight attendant.
We went again the following year. I’m sure I got sunburned on both trips. I know I got burnt badly on one of them, such that I felt like I was being tortured all night.
Dad had remarried after the marriage between him & my mother broke up. He gained two new sons about the ages of David & me, and, shortly after, a second daughter, who was, I believe, six years old on our first Hawaii trip. I bonded with her by animating her Pooh puppet. Her brothers had little tolerance for their bouncy tag-along kid sister.
Peanuts was the cat we left in California with Mom.
Wednesday, January 02, 2008
I get lonely
I like to imagine I have a big readership. You’re just quiet. It’s not like I say anything controversial – what’s to argue with? And everybody knows how tiresome chirpy DITTO!s get.
Since I added the stats service to the blog I can’t delude myself as much. I see that few people are visiting and most of those who do are popping by to find a picture of Hagrid (it’s just a link!) or cat pee solutions (go here).
I’ve been keeping this blog since December 2002, which means it slipped past the five year mark last month. Currently I get about ten visitors a day. There are maybe 3 people who subscribe to the RSS feed. LuvSet ain’t burnin’ up the web.
I don’t obsess about these numbers. Like the poetry I write the blogging I do is primarily for me, to keep the me of me alive. I’m not, in other words, writing for an audience. So not getting what I’m not working for is no great surprise?
There are things one can do to improve a blog’s visibility, I know. But marketing bores me; it takes an energy I tend to have little of. I would rather put the energy into the writing. What I write I write carefully. I strive to be clear in my prose, to burnish the poems until they reflect light. I don’t bother to say the same thing everybody else has said already, unless it’s got a Glenn Ingersoll variation.
I imagine a larger, talkier audience would raise my enthusiasm. I would feel seen rather than overlooked. I would be able to earn money with blog ads! But perhaps I’m wrong. A thousand and two more of you rummaging through my daily (semi-daily?) thoughts would be NO GOOD? Well, whatever. I imagine myself developing strategies to cope. At worst one could wait out that excess, right? I’m sure you’d be able to swing with it, my core ten, of all the millions those who truly care what Glenn thinks about hahoo.
Since I added the stats service to the blog I can’t delude myself as much. I see that few people are visiting and most of those who do are popping by to find a picture of Hagrid (it’s just a link!) or cat pee solutions (go here).
I’ve been keeping this blog since December 2002, which means it slipped past the five year mark last month. Currently I get about ten visitors a day. There are maybe 3 people who subscribe to the RSS feed. LuvSet ain’t burnin’ up the web.
I don’t obsess about these numbers. Like the poetry I write the blogging I do is primarily for me, to keep the me of me alive. I’m not, in other words, writing for an audience. So not getting what I’m not working for is no great surprise?
There are things one can do to improve a blog’s visibility, I know. But marketing bores me; it takes an energy I tend to have little of. I would rather put the energy into the writing. What I write I write carefully. I strive to be clear in my prose, to burnish the poems until they reflect light. I don’t bother to say the same thing everybody else has said already, unless it’s got a Glenn Ingersoll variation.
I imagine a larger, talkier audience would raise my enthusiasm. I would feel seen rather than overlooked. I would be able to earn money with blog ads! But perhaps I’m wrong. A thousand and two more of you rummaging through my daily (semi-daily?) thoughts would be NO GOOD? Well, whatever. I imagine myself developing strategies to cope. At worst one could wait out that excess, right? I’m sure you’d be able to swing with it, my core ten, of all the millions those who truly care what Glenn thinks about hahoo.
Monday, December 31, 2007
last day of the year
My usual lunch hangouts were closed today so I tried a Thai place I haven’t eaten in in years. That turned out fine. The sun is out but a cold wind gets to blowing. When windy around here our front yard gathers scraps of debris – candy wrappers, tissue from the supermarket deli, plastic bags.
Kent was home when I got back from eating. If I’d known he was going to be off work so early I would have waited lunch till he came home. He zapped a frozen onion soup portion for himself.
I’ve been telling Sundy (the cat) I’m going to make a documentary about him. Just follow him around with a camera. He’s totally telegenic! The project requires a camera, of course.
Happy New Year!
Kent was home when I got back from eating. If I’d known he was going to be off work so early I would have waited lunch till he came home. He zapped a frozen onion soup portion for himself.
I’ve been telling Sundy (the cat) I’m going to make a documentary about him. Just follow him around with a camera. He’s totally telegenic! The project requires a camera, of course.
Happy New Year!
Friday, December 28, 2007
puzzling
Back in October I commented on Ron Silliman’s blog, responding, as one does now & then, both to what Ron had said and to one of the earlier commenters. The result, I find upon rereading (I copied the comments to a Word file), continues to bother me. Ron will grump about how the poetry world’s awards tend to be heaped at the feet of those he considers tiresome reactionaries, at least in style if not in wider world politics.
A commenter took Ron to task, “[Y]our posts on this issue exercise us into sputtering rage. 90% of poetry these days is gossip. I was just at a SoQ reading in Chicago (sponsored by Poetry Magazine and the ALSC.) The post-reading drinking was dominated by discussion about publishers, names -- it might as well have been about music, or archetecture [sic], or Romance novels as about poetry. … At some point you grow up as a poet and as a reader, and you grow to regard this with disgust. You grow to hate talk about the National Book Award, who's getting published by Knopf, and so on. It just seems incredibly remote from what you yourself are doing, and what your friends are doing, and if you have a good bookstore in town, what you think the best writers are doing. … [W]e feel that complete abdication from the gossip world -- which involves thinking of ourselves and our friends as ‘poets’, not ‘poets of a certain type’ -- has been a necessary step. … I don't want a place at the table, and being told to demand one seems a bit bullying.”
SoQ is an acronym of “School of Quietude,” the term Ron Silliman has applied to those I called in my first paragraph “tiresome reactionaries.”
This was what I posted: “All human endeavors include at least a dash of politics (even religion; the Zen master or the Pope got where HE is unsullied by the temporal world?). I'm puzzled that [the commenter above] puts discussion/analysis of it off limits -- because we're poets and politics is irrelevant to poetry? Politics (gossip?) is part of the program. One can certainly ignore something bulky in the room ... Still, that I tire of it and wish it would step outside for a smoke and let me talk about ... what? ... stanza breaks? my next book (first book)? ... doesn't make it leave the party. It's one more thing to talk about. Ron, for one, talks about many other things, too.
“Far's labeling myself is concerned: I write poetry and I define ‘poetry’ loosely, and because I write poetry & rather a lot of it (my pile of notebooks from the last 20 years is about 3 feet high; yes, they got knocked cattywampus & I did pile them on the floor) ... so I call myself a poet. I don't write the same thing over & over. I suppose the preponderance of my influences (& my art) would slouch under Ron's ‘post avant’ banner, though there's SoQish stuff, too. When asked what kind of poet I am I hesitantly offer ‘experimental’ because that's what I do. Experiment a lot. [ellipses in original, indicating pause rather than excision]”
The earlier commenter came back with: “What I said was so unobjectionable and true that it's internet-axiomatic that someone has to come along and disagree.”
He quotes a few sentences from my comment before continuing to protest:
“I never put discussion of it off limits. I never said that ‘politics’ (who gets published, and by whom) doesn't matter. I never said that mention of poetry gossip would make me leave the room. I never said that Ron was bad because this is all he talks about. For my actual beliefs, do read my comment, which expresses them well.”
I was startled by the commenter’s protest. “I never said … I never said … I never said … I never said.” Then he sneers, “For my actual beliefs, do read my comment, which expresses them well.”
Should someone tell me that a topic reduces him to a “sputtering rage” it would seem not only reasonable but essential to read that as a demand the topic be off limits. What, I want to experience his “sputtering rage”?
He says, “90% of poetry these days is gossip. [At a recent reading] the post-reading drinking was dominated by discussion about publishers, names … At some point you grow up as a poet and as a reader, and you grow to regard this with disgust. You grow to hate talk about the National Book Award, who's getting published by Knopf, and so on.” Yet the commenter’s “disgust” should “never” indicate that to talk awards gossip is “bad”? How odd. Disgust – hate – rage – a necessity for complete abdication [sic] from gossip.
It’s hard to believe the commenter expects to be taken seriously saying one thing then, in a wounded howl, renouncing what he’d said as though he had “never said” such a thing.
My own comments I’d thought “so unobjectionable and true that” I was merely making conversation, of a bland, even tired sort. Politics, it’s part of the world of Art (and Poetry), too.
You can read the unedited comments on Ron’s blog here.
A commenter took Ron to task, “[Y]our posts on this issue exercise us into sputtering rage. 90% of poetry these days is gossip. I was just at a SoQ reading in Chicago (sponsored by Poetry Magazine and the ALSC.) The post-reading drinking was dominated by discussion about publishers, names -- it might as well have been about music, or archetecture [sic], or Romance novels as about poetry. … At some point you grow up as a poet and as a reader, and you grow to regard this with disgust. You grow to hate talk about the National Book Award, who's getting published by Knopf, and so on. It just seems incredibly remote from what you yourself are doing, and what your friends are doing, and if you have a good bookstore in town, what you think the best writers are doing. … [W]e feel that complete abdication from the gossip world -- which involves thinking of ourselves and our friends as ‘poets’, not ‘poets of a certain type’ -- has been a necessary step. … I don't want a place at the table, and being told to demand one seems a bit bullying.”
SoQ is an acronym of “School of Quietude,” the term Ron Silliman has applied to those I called in my first paragraph “tiresome reactionaries.”
This was what I posted: “All human endeavors include at least a dash of politics (even religion; the Zen master or the Pope got where HE is unsullied by the temporal world?). I'm puzzled that [the commenter above] puts discussion/analysis of it off limits -- because we're poets and politics is irrelevant to poetry? Politics (gossip?) is part of the program. One can certainly ignore something bulky in the room ... Still, that I tire of it and wish it would step outside for a smoke and let me talk about ... what? ... stanza breaks? my next book (first book)? ... doesn't make it leave the party. It's one more thing to talk about. Ron, for one, talks about many other things, too.
“Far's labeling myself is concerned: I write poetry and I define ‘poetry’ loosely, and because I write poetry & rather a lot of it (my pile of notebooks from the last 20 years is about 3 feet high; yes, they got knocked cattywampus & I did pile them on the floor) ... so I call myself a poet. I don't write the same thing over & over. I suppose the preponderance of my influences (& my art) would slouch under Ron's ‘post avant’ banner, though there's SoQish stuff, too. When asked what kind of poet I am I hesitantly offer ‘experimental’ because that's what I do. Experiment a lot. [ellipses in original, indicating pause rather than excision]”
The earlier commenter came back with: “What I said was so unobjectionable and true that it's internet-axiomatic that someone has to come along and disagree.”
He quotes a few sentences from my comment before continuing to protest:
“I never put discussion of it off limits. I never said that ‘politics’ (who gets published, and by whom) doesn't matter. I never said that mention of poetry gossip would make me leave the room. I never said that Ron was bad because this is all he talks about. For my actual beliefs, do read my comment, which expresses them well.”
I was startled by the commenter’s protest. “I never said … I never said … I never said … I never said.” Then he sneers, “For my actual beliefs, do read my comment, which expresses them well.”
Should someone tell me that a topic reduces him to a “sputtering rage” it would seem not only reasonable but essential to read that as a demand the topic be off limits. What, I want to experience his “sputtering rage”?
He says, “90% of poetry these days is gossip. [At a recent reading] the post-reading drinking was dominated by discussion about publishers, names … At some point you grow up as a poet and as a reader, and you grow to regard this with disgust. You grow to hate talk about the National Book Award, who's getting published by Knopf, and so on.” Yet the commenter’s “disgust” should “never” indicate that to talk awards gossip is “bad”? How odd. Disgust – hate – rage – a necessity for complete abdication [sic] from gossip.
It’s hard to believe the commenter expects to be taken seriously saying one thing then, in a wounded howl, renouncing what he’d said as though he had “never said” such a thing.
My own comments I’d thought “so unobjectionable and true that” I was merely making conversation, of a bland, even tired sort. Politics, it’s part of the world of Art (and Poetry), too.
You can read the unedited comments on Ron’s blog here.
Wednesday, December 26, 2007
Fame killed him
I recently joined Facebook. I’ve had a couple reconnections that have been good. One was with a colleague on the staff of Berkeley Poetry Review. Patricia Johnson went on to Yale Business School, I learned. Of all of us I’d have guessed she’d be best at that. Poets, remember? She’s been working at New American Media the last few years and when I asked she shared links to some of what she’s written.
In one article she remembers Andrew Martinez, the UC Berkeley student who became (reluctantly) famous as “The Naked Guy.” They lived at the same student co-op. She remembers a sweet man, not some defiant radical but almost an innocent; he wanted to live his life peacefully, not stage a confrontation or exemplify a controversy. I could identify with that. Being a gay man I’m familiar with my boring ordinary life being a “controversial subject,” and totally without my permission.
Was I embarrassed by Andrew’s public nudity? Sure, a bit. I wasn’t going to strip in solidarity (some did), but philosophically I sympathized. I had no classes with Andrew, but I saw him around a few times. As Patricia says in her essay, “He wasn't hard to look at. He was a tall, lean man with lovely brown skin.”
What killed him? Patricia fingers fame. “He lost himself in it. By naming him The Naked Guy, we all drove him crazy. I heard he eventually wanted to take it all back. … If Andrew had been ugly, he might be alive today, because fame wouldn't have wanted him so badly -- certainly Playgirl wouldn't have wanted him.
“Being in the headlines is the worst kind of fame, because there's no paycheck, no royalties. They take your picture, interview you, get the ratings and spit you out.”
Patricia’s most vivid memory: Andrew “walking naked into the co-op dining room for breakfast with a plate of toast. He set the plate on the table, and his backpack on the floor. He pulled a small towel out of the backpack and placed it on the chair, with a dignified snap like a four-star restaurant waiter. Then he sat down to read the paper.”
Read the rest here.
May of ’06 I posted a link to an article about the death of Andrew Martinez.
In one article she remembers Andrew Martinez, the UC Berkeley student who became (reluctantly) famous as “The Naked Guy.” They lived at the same student co-op. She remembers a sweet man, not some defiant radical but almost an innocent; he wanted to live his life peacefully, not stage a confrontation or exemplify a controversy. I could identify with that. Being a gay man I’m familiar with my boring ordinary life being a “controversial subject,” and totally without my permission.
Was I embarrassed by Andrew’s public nudity? Sure, a bit. I wasn’t going to strip in solidarity (some did), but philosophically I sympathized. I had no classes with Andrew, but I saw him around a few times. As Patricia says in her essay, “He wasn't hard to look at. He was a tall, lean man with lovely brown skin.”
What killed him? Patricia fingers fame. “He lost himself in it. By naming him The Naked Guy, we all drove him crazy. I heard he eventually wanted to take it all back. … If Andrew had been ugly, he might be alive today, because fame wouldn't have wanted him so badly -- certainly Playgirl wouldn't have wanted him.
“Being in the headlines is the worst kind of fame, because there's no paycheck, no royalties. They take your picture, interview you, get the ratings and spit you out.”
Patricia’s most vivid memory: Andrew “walking naked into the co-op dining room for breakfast with a plate of toast. He set the plate on the table, and his backpack on the floor. He pulled a small towel out of the backpack and placed it on the chair, with a dignified snap like a four-star restaurant waiter. Then he sat down to read the paper.”
Read the rest here.
May of ’06 I posted a link to an article about the death of Andrew Martinez.
Tuesday, December 25, 2007
comments on “Hell it is, Pop” version 4
Christmasy? The versions of this poem were all written before I posted the first one. I haven’t done that before. No one had a chance to comment so there was no taking comments into account. (Little joke there.)
Hope your holidays are going sweetly, peacefully, and warmly.
Hope your holidays are going sweetly, peacefully, and warmly.
“Hell it is, Pop” version 4
Ever more beautiful wounds
the diamond burns.
But the stitchers thread
a cure for this gap.
The river wavers
because the viewer wobbles?
The head’s its own snake.
Let her climb letters, shine down
feathers light-fingered ladies
lift. On older wings men drift
three many thousand falls,
eight ending hundred feints.
Across a range of lines,
the plots families draw,
knots overlap ridges, acres in grudges.
Good road but cracked with green.
Earth girded by goodbyes.
the diamond burns.
But the stitchers thread
a cure for this gap.
The river wavers
because the viewer wobbles?
The head’s its own snake.
Let her climb letters, shine down
feathers light-fingered ladies
lift. On older wings men drift
three many thousand falls,
eight ending hundred feints.
Across a range of lines,
the plots families draw,
knots overlap ridges, acres in grudges.
Good road but cracked with green.
Earth girded by goodbyes.
Sunday, December 16, 2007
Saturday, December 15, 2007
Thursday, November 29, 2007
“Hell it is, Pop” version 3
Ever more beautiful wounds
the diamond burns.
But the stitchers thread
a cure across the gap.
The river wavers?
Because the viewer wobbles,
the head in its own way to see
snakes, to climb letters.
Over light-fingered ladies
shine me. By old wings lifted
these men turn.
How many thousand feints,
hundred dead falls,
range acre lines,
the plots families draw,
knot by knot, overlapping thin grudges.
Good road not yet cracked with green,
earth girded by goodbyes.
the diamond burns.
But the stitchers thread
a cure across the gap.
The river wavers?
Because the viewer wobbles,
the head in its own way to see
snakes, to climb letters.
Over light-fingered ladies
shine me. By old wings lifted
these men turn.
How many thousand feints,
hundred dead falls,
range acre lines,
the plots families draw,
knot by knot, overlapping thin grudges.
Good road not yet cracked with green,
earth girded by goodbyes.
Wednesday, November 28, 2007
another postcard
Beverly Backstrom was another of Mom's old buddies. I like this one because it is just a nicely written dispatch from travel. You don't have to know anything about Beverly or Mom to find it interesting.
Tuesday, November 27, 2007
comments on "Hell it is, Pop!" version 2
Most of the poems I’ve versioned on LuvSet have been old old poems. The first version of this one is quite new. Usually I do a new version just before I post it. Version 2 is not that fresh. In fact, I already have versions 3 & 4.
"Hell it is, Pop!" version 2
From above, the diamond burns
ever more beautiful wounds, the stitcher's thread
a cure for the bright act.
The river wavers because the viewer wobbles,
the head its own way to see
snakes and letters.
Shine me on over light-fingered
ladies, their gentlemen lifted by old wings
a toe’s-breadth above turbid currents
below which blind muck-lurkers
poke feet of claw.
How many thousand feints,
hundred dead falls,
range cheek by elbow, acre lines
overlapping plots families draw,
knot by knot, among their grudges.
Cities bright as sousaphones in winter
greet dawn’s new filament
with an oomph and an oomph and
an oom pah pah. Good time! Good news!
Good road not yet cracked with green,
earth girded by meets,
loosened for goodbye.
ever more beautiful wounds, the stitcher's thread
a cure for the bright act.
The river wavers because the viewer wobbles,
the head its own way to see
snakes and letters.
Shine me on over light-fingered
ladies, their gentlemen lifted by old wings
a toe’s-breadth above turbid currents
below which blind muck-lurkers
poke feet of claw.
How many thousand feints,
hundred dead falls,
range cheek by elbow, acre lines
overlapping plots families draw,
knot by knot, among their grudges.
Cities bright as sousaphones in winter
greet dawn’s new filament
with an oomph and an oomph and
an oom pah pah. Good time! Good news!
Good road not yet cracked with green,
earth girded by meets,
loosened for goodbye.
Monday, November 26, 2007
Sunday, November 25, 2007
comments on “Hell it is, Pop” version 1
“Hell it is, Pop” is a piece written on top of "Elegy, Father's Day"
By Kevin Young, which appeared at Slate.
By Kevin Young, which appeared at Slate.
“Hell it is, Pop” version 1
From above, the diamond burns its look
into ever more beautiful wounds, the stitcher's thread
curing the bright act.
The river wavers because the viewer wobbles,
the head its own way to see
snakes and letters.
Shine me on over light-fingered
ladies, their gentlemen lifted by old wings
just above the turbid currents
below which blind muck-wanderers
poke clawed feet.
How many thousands of feints
and hundreds of falls,
ranged cheek by elbow, line the acres,
overlap like plots families draw,
knot by knot, among their grievances.
Cities bright as sousaphones in winter
greet dawn’s new sight
with an oomph and an oomph and
an oompah pah. Good time!
Good road not yet cracked
with green,
the earth girded by meets,
loosened with goodbyes.
into ever more beautiful wounds, the stitcher's thread
curing the bright act.
The river wavers because the viewer wobbles,
the head its own way to see
snakes and letters.
Shine me on over light-fingered
ladies, their gentlemen lifted by old wings
just above the turbid currents
below which blind muck-wanderers
poke clawed feet.
How many thousands of feints
and hundreds of falls,
ranged cheek by elbow, line the acres,
overlap like plots families draw,
knot by knot, among their grievances.
Cities bright as sousaphones in winter
greet dawn’s new sight
with an oomph and an oomph and
an oompah pah. Good time!
Good road not yet cracked
with green,
the earth girded by meets,
loosened with goodbyes.
Sunday, November 11, 2007
Living in Berkeley
Rained yesterday & through the night.
Kent wanted to see the new Coen Brothers movie, No Country for Old Men, but it’s not playing in Berkeley. What? With all our movie theaters?
For lunch we walked down to Au Coquelet, a café on University Ave. Sun’s shining now.
Kent wanted to see the new Coen Brothers movie, No Country for Old Men, but it’s not playing in Berkeley. What? With all our movie theaters?
For lunch we walked down to Au Coquelet, a café on University Ave. Sun’s shining now.
Monday, October 29, 2007
all the way
All the way and in the way and thus the way evades the way the way a nay will turn away the daily tray of pales applied to knights and fastened with ribbon to kites and tucked under tights and carried aloft in the bottom of a bite. Whose ruse chose this loose shoot’s fruits? You gotta wonder, maundering, while under the sundered venture, a new purple panders to renderers.
Sunday, October 28, 2007
this gust
Suppose a rough gust tucked into his guts and the roomy tomb, vacated by a spoon, cuts a figure of rust. Suppose what?
Sunday, October 14, 2007
Deadly Nightshade
Today at the Spice of Life Festival (they closed down the street two blocks away) Kent & I watched a cooking demonstration. The chef of Bistro Liaison prepared a butternut squash soup. While the chef was doing something that didn’t require commentary the emcee offered up a giveaway – a one-cup coffee maker (Kent leaned into me and said, “We need that.”) – to the first person who could answer the question, “What popular culinary ingredient belongs to the deadly nightshade family?”
My hand went up. “Tomato?”
Kent made coffee with it soon as we got home.
My hand went up. “Tomato?”
Kent made coffee with it soon as we got home.
Monday, October 08, 2007
on ENDA
ENDA is the Employment Non-Discrimination Act that's before Congress. Its purpose is to outlaw employment discrimination on the basis of sexual orientation. ENDA has been introduced and reintroduced over the years and gradually gathered more cosponsors and better chances of passing. Now that Democrats are in charge of Congress (at least theoretically) Speaker Pelosi was going to put ENDA up for a vote, and it looked like there was a good chance of it passing. But Congressmember Barney Frank, our only out gay male Congressmember, was counting the votes and discovered that many were balking at the protections afforded the transgender. Such protections had been added fairly recently as tg activists organized and made themselves known. But when it looked like their needs would scuttle the legislation altogether Frank proposed separating tg protections into another bill entirely (one with little prospect at this point).
Debate has been going on about the advisability of this. I left the following comment at Michelangelo Signorile's blog:
I admire Barney Frank. One thing that strikes me about him, though, is his inability to perceive the symbolic. He is pragmatic to a fault. It only matters if you can get it done, he seems to think. Frank accepted the so-called compromise of Don't-Ask-Don't-Tell, insisting that the version he agreed to included Don't-Pursue. In practice there's been plenty of pursue.
Republicans are happy to indulge in huge splashy symbolism; witness the repeated introduction of the Anti-Marriage Amendments and such fireworks as the Sciavo bill. There are those who say the Republicans are letting down their strongest supporters because they haven't succeeded in outlawing abortion or inserting an anti-marriage amendment into the Constitution. Maybe. But the country is not virulently anti-abortion and it's getting more pro-gay all the time, yet the the Democrat's attempts have been mired in a sort of anti-symbolism, as though the only way they can get anything good done is if it's possible to sneak it by.
Debate has been going on about the advisability of this. I left the following comment at Michelangelo Signorile's blog:
I admire Barney Frank. One thing that strikes me about him, though, is his inability to perceive the symbolic. He is pragmatic to a fault. It only matters if you can get it done, he seems to think. Frank accepted the so-called compromise of Don't-Ask-Don't-Tell, insisting that the version he agreed to included Don't-Pursue. In practice there's been plenty of pursue.
Republicans are happy to indulge in huge splashy symbolism; witness the repeated introduction of the Anti-Marriage Amendments and such fireworks as the Sciavo bill. There are those who say the Republicans are letting down their strongest supporters because they haven't succeeded in outlawing abortion or inserting an anti-marriage amendment into the Constitution. Maybe. But the country is not virulently anti-abortion and it's getting more pro-gay all the time, yet the the Democrat's attempts have been mired in a sort of anti-symbolism, as though the only way they can get anything good done is if it's possible to sneak it by.
Wednesday, October 03, 2007
Wednesday, September 26, 2007
Alex the parrot
I saved this link to an obit for Alex the parrot because I was charmed by earlier stories about him and because research into animal intelligence fascinates me. It’s not the freshest news, but if you’ve never heard of Alex and Irene Pepperberg, here’s an excerpt:
According to Pepperberg who is a faculty member at Brandeis University, Alex was able to identify 50 different objects, seven colors and shapes, and quantities of up to six. Alex also understood the concept of bigger and smaller and same and different. Pepperberg says they were in the midst of learning basic mathematics skills. … After repeating some learning trials dozens of times, Alex would become tired and throw objects off the trays with his beak. When visiting the veterinarian, Alex would go back in his cage and slam the door.
… Alex would say to her every night before going to bed: "You be good. I love you. See you tomorrow."
According to Pepperberg who is a faculty member at Brandeis University, Alex was able to identify 50 different objects, seven colors and shapes, and quantities of up to six. Alex also understood the concept of bigger and smaller and same and different. Pepperberg says they were in the midst of learning basic mathematics skills. … After repeating some learning trials dozens of times, Alex would become tired and throw objects off the trays with his beak. When visiting the veterinarian, Alex would go back in his cage and slam the door.
… Alex would say to her every night before going to bed: "You be good. I love you. See you tomorrow."
Saturday, September 22, 2007
the yoga forest
I used to think of my practice as a journey where time and change were major components. As time progressed, changes would occur. Lately, I have started to think of my practice as a forest that I'm wandering through at night. Every moment of my practice, I'm learning something new about the forest. Whenever a teacher shares a bit of knowledge about his yoga practice with me, it's like a star lights up in the sky. Sometimes the light helps me see the forest better from where I'm standing.
Ann, one of my coworkers at the Claremont Branch library, writes a column for The Yogi Times. The above is a paragraph from one of the columns.
Ann, one of my coworkers at the Claremont Branch library, writes a column for The Yogi Times. The above is a paragraph from one of the columns.
Friday, September 21, 2007
Ingersoll stuff
In the Miles City genealogy forum Mike Raunig said he had some Ingersoll stuff, so I wrote to him asking what that would be.
Raunig wrote back, “I had owned a very neat large wooden foot locker/trunk which had ‘Ingersoll Ranch ~ Miles City Montana’ painted nicely on the outer box. The box was full of cowboy gear, family photos, guns, tools, etc inside dating back to the late 19th and early 20th century.
“The inside lid of the trunk had painted on it: ‘7th Cavalry ~ Post Quarter Master ~ Fort Abraham Lincoln ~ Dakota Territory’.
“I had the trunk for a few years, but sold it a year ago or so. I had contacted some Ingersoll family thru various sources to research the item, as well as see if someone in the family wanted to buy the trunk and its contents. I was able to run down some information on the Ingersoll fellow who came to Miles City with a herd of longhorns from Texas and settled in the Miles City area in the 1880's. Nobody in the family I spoke with was interested in the purchase of the trunk.
“All of the family paper work I had compiled in doing my family research went with the trunk and I do not have it anymore other than what is in my feeble little head. I believe I was able to make contact with an Ingersoll in Alaska, and Ingersoll back east, and made an attempt to contact an Ingersoll in California to no avail. I ended up with several emails, and regular mail correspondence from 2 or 3 family members.”
That trunk sounds like a neat thing to have. But where would I put it?
Raunig wrote back, “I had owned a very neat large wooden foot locker/trunk which had ‘Ingersoll Ranch ~ Miles City Montana’ painted nicely on the outer box. The box was full of cowboy gear, family photos, guns, tools, etc inside dating back to the late 19th and early 20th century.
“The inside lid of the trunk had painted on it: ‘7th Cavalry ~ Post Quarter Master ~ Fort Abraham Lincoln ~ Dakota Territory’.
“I had the trunk for a few years, but sold it a year ago or so. I had contacted some Ingersoll family thru various sources to research the item, as well as see if someone in the family wanted to buy the trunk and its contents. I was able to run down some information on the Ingersoll fellow who came to Miles City with a herd of longhorns from Texas and settled in the Miles City area in the 1880's. Nobody in the family I spoke with was interested in the purchase of the trunk.
“All of the family paper work I had compiled in doing my family research went with the trunk and I do not have it anymore other than what is in my feeble little head. I believe I was able to make contact with an Ingersoll in Alaska, and Ingersoll back east, and made an attempt to contact an Ingersoll in California to no avail. I ended up with several emails, and regular mail correspondence from 2 or 3 family members.”
That trunk sounds like a neat thing to have. But where would I put it?
Wednesday, September 19, 2007
cousin Pamela
Since I’ve had the stats service on LuvSet I see what searches bring visitors and sometimes I follow the search back to see what other sites the search engine turned up.
Somebody interested in an Ingersoll other than me showed up here, so I followed them back to their search, and thus over to a website for Miles City, Montana, where there’s a genealogy forum. My dad was born in Miles City.
A Marvin Miller says (7/14/02), “I went to Custer High (class of 1948),with two Ingersoll brothers, Bruce and Gary. Bruce graduated in 1944? Gary in 1946? I talked to Bruce about five years ago, he lived in Anchorage, Alaska, and was listed in the 'phone book.” Bruce is my father’s name.
Collen Carter writes (4/18/03), “My great-great grandmother, Mary Collins, moved from Minnesota to Terry Montana in 1880 with her 14 year old daughter Rose (b. 1866). Rose took a job as a schoolteacher and eventually married George F. Ingersoll. The 1900 U.S. Census lists Rose and George, a ‘stock raiser,’ and two children, a son Lynn and a daughter Dixie. Rose later became the superintendent of schools for Miles City.” My father’s father’s name was Lynn? Yeah, that's right.
Mike Raunig responds (4/22/03), “George F. Ingersoll (originally from Iowa) … was better known as ‘Dick’. Dick was associated with the Lee-Scott Cattle Company of Ft. Worth Texas. Around 1885, Dick and a partner drove a herd of longhorns from Texas to Montana and settled in the Miles City area and formed The Bow Gun Ranch, and the ‘Bow and Arrow Ranch’.”
Pamela Ingersoll, datelining herself “Sonoma County, California” (which town? I grew up there) fills in details (11/27/04), “I believe the 'Ingersoll Ranch' you're looking for belonged to my great-grand-parents, George F. ‘Dick’ and Rose Collins Ingersoll. They owned the Bow Gun and Swinging H Ranch properties, north of Terry, Montana. George F. ‘Dick’ and Rose Collins Ingersoll had a son Lynn R. Ingersoll, (the 1st), my grand-father, who married Bernice Kempton Ingersoll, my grand-mother. Together they had five (5) sons, Dick, Lynn R. Ingersoll, (the 2nd, my father), Thomas , Bruce and Gerry . All born in Miles City. My father, Lynn R. Ingersoll, II and Bruce K. Ingersoll are now deceased. … Apparently, both my maternal and paternal great-parents and great-great-grand-parents, are well known in eastern Montana history. I am not aware of any Ingersolls from my family, still living in Montana. We are all scattered throughout the U.S.” So Pamela and I share a grandfather.
Colleen Carter closes the discussion with a bio of Great Grandfather Dick by his son (my grandfather?) Lynn, “Originally from Lynn, Mass, and Boone, Iowa, after graduating from Mount Vernon, Iowa college [Dick Ingersoll traveled] all over the Western U.S. He headed for the Black Hills Gold rush 1875, but wound up at Old Tascosa on the North Canadian river, not far North of [today’s] Amarillo, Tex …
1884 spring he got to be trail boss or foreman of two herds of 3000 steers each headed for the big grass country of Eastern Mont., between the Yellowstone and Big Missouri Rivers. These herds of young steers were from the Lee-Scott (L.S.) out fit on the North Canadian River range and were being sent up North to develope [sic] into 5 & 6 yr old steers weighing on an average of 1200 lbs … These two L.S. herds landed on the Big Dry at mouth of what is still called L.S. creek. 20 miles below what is now the town of Jordan in later day Garfield [County, Montana].”
Some of the bio varies from that provided by another source, according to Kenny Vail (6/24/02), who quotes from “the Hoopes’ index book”: "Ingersoll, George F. (Dick) born 12/20/1858, at Lee, Berkshire Co., Mass. '65 with parents to Boone, Iowa; father in cattle business; graduates Cornell College, Mt. Vernon Iowa. '77: gold fever; to the Black Hills with his father, then returns to Iowa. 1878: with father to Fort Worth, Tx., cattle business; ride the range until '85; is appointed foreman, ‘Lee-Scott’ Cattle Company. Trails their cattle overland to southeast M.T.; settles there."
I’m only mildly interested in pursuing the research necessary to draw a family tree. When somebody does it for me … well then … that’ll do.
Somebody interested in an Ingersoll other than me showed up here, so I followed them back to their search, and thus over to a website for Miles City, Montana, where there’s a genealogy forum. My dad was born in Miles City.
A Marvin Miller says (7/14/02), “I went to Custer High (class of 1948),with two Ingersoll brothers, Bruce and Gary. Bruce graduated in 1944? Gary in 1946? I talked to Bruce about five years ago, he lived in Anchorage, Alaska, and was listed in the 'phone book.” Bruce is my father’s name.
Collen Carter writes (4/18/03), “My great-great grandmother, Mary Collins, moved from Minnesota to Terry Montana in 1880 with her 14 year old daughter Rose (b. 1866). Rose took a job as a schoolteacher and eventually married George F. Ingersoll. The 1900 U.S. Census lists Rose and George, a ‘stock raiser,’ and two children, a son Lynn and a daughter Dixie. Rose later became the superintendent of schools for Miles City.” My father’s father’s name was Lynn? Yeah, that's right.
Mike Raunig responds (4/22/03), “George F. Ingersoll (originally from Iowa) … was better known as ‘Dick’. Dick was associated with the Lee-Scott Cattle Company of Ft. Worth Texas. Around 1885, Dick and a partner drove a herd of longhorns from Texas to Montana and settled in the Miles City area and formed The Bow Gun Ranch, and the ‘Bow and Arrow Ranch’.”
Pamela Ingersoll, datelining herself “Sonoma County, California” (which town? I grew up there) fills in details (11/27/04), “I believe the 'Ingersoll Ranch' you're looking for belonged to my great-grand-parents, George F. ‘Dick’ and Rose Collins Ingersoll. They owned the Bow Gun and Swinging H Ranch properties, north of Terry, Montana. George F. ‘Dick’ and Rose Collins Ingersoll had a son Lynn R. Ingersoll, (the 1st), my grand-father, who married Bernice Kempton Ingersoll, my grand-mother. Together they had five (5) sons, Dick, Lynn R. Ingersoll, (the 2nd, my father), Thomas , Bruce and Gerry . All born in Miles City. My father, Lynn R. Ingersoll, II and Bruce K. Ingersoll are now deceased. … Apparently, both my maternal and paternal great-parents and great-great-grand-parents, are well known in eastern Montana history. I am not aware of any Ingersolls from my family, still living in Montana. We are all scattered throughout the U.S.” So Pamela and I share a grandfather.
Colleen Carter closes the discussion with a bio of Great Grandfather Dick by his son (my grandfather?) Lynn, “Originally from Lynn, Mass, and Boone, Iowa, after graduating from Mount Vernon, Iowa college [Dick Ingersoll traveled] all over the Western U.S. He headed for the Black Hills Gold rush 1875, but wound up at Old Tascosa on the North Canadian river, not far North of [today’s] Amarillo, Tex …
1884 spring he got to be trail boss or foreman of two herds of 3000 steers each headed for the big grass country of Eastern Mont., between the Yellowstone and Big Missouri Rivers. These herds of young steers were from the Lee-Scott (L.S.) out fit on the North Canadian River range and were being sent up North to develope [sic] into 5 & 6 yr old steers weighing on an average of 1200 lbs … These two L.S. herds landed on the Big Dry at mouth of what is still called L.S. creek. 20 miles below what is now the town of Jordan in later day Garfield [County, Montana].”
Some of the bio varies from that provided by another source, according to Kenny Vail (6/24/02), who quotes from “the Hoopes’ index book”: "Ingersoll, George F. (Dick) born 12/20/1858, at Lee, Berkshire Co., Mass. '65 with parents to Boone, Iowa; father in cattle business; graduates Cornell College, Mt. Vernon Iowa. '77: gold fever; to the Black Hills with his father, then returns to Iowa. 1878: with father to Fort Worth, Tx., cattle business; ride the range until '85; is appointed foreman, ‘Lee-Scott’ Cattle Company. Trails their cattle overland to southeast M.T.; settles there."
I’m only mildly interested in pursuing the research necessary to draw a family tree. When somebody does it for me … well then … that’ll do.
Tuesday, September 18, 2007
"Are you a boy or a girl?"
"I'm fa'afafine," Tafi said. "That means I have a boy's body, but I was raised in Samoa as a girl."Tafi could have explained that in the islands, nobody ever asked. She could have told the girl that a Samoan mother with a fa'afafine among her children is considered lucky. Fa'afafine help with babies and cooking, they tend the elderly and the sick. They are presumed to have the best traits of both men and women.
… In the islands Tafi was more accepted, but her life was still complicated. Many fa'afafine live as women, the maleness of their bodies ignored by those around them. … Many families, including Tafi's, expect they will remain celibate. In a culture that prizes both its tradition and Christianity, fa'afafine are tolerated, but behavior that hints at homosexuality is not.
Still, many fa'afafine … do have discreet relationships with men.
In her ideal world, Tafi, who was raised as an oldest girl-child named Alicia, wouldn't have to change her body to be accepted … Since she came to Anchorage, Tafi's family, who loves her as she is, has pressured her to dress like a man. They have decided she needs to fit in to avoid ugliness she isn't used to. Now, at 23, she's torn between the expectations of her family who accept her as an asexual helper, and American culture that's less accepting but offers her what she wants most: a chance to become physically female, to find a husband and have a family of her own.
The above is excerpted from an article I discovered last month at the website for The Anchorage Daily News. Alaska has a Samoan community?
Polynesian societies typically had transgender/gay roles, much like many Native American societies. As there are rules for men and women, so there are rules for third gender people. It’s not the individualistic American experience. It’s part of a traditional way of life.
But for her father and her brothers, one thing is very important. Tafi must follow the rules. A fa'afafine brother is one thing, but a gay brother is quite another. … When the subject of a boyfriend came up at the table after church, Tafi's mother and sisters cheered with approval.
Unfortunately, among the evils Europeans brought to the South Pacific was a censorious Christianity that seeks to destroy families in order to save them. Fun!
In her sarong, a flower behind her ear, Tafi carried plates of food to the elders from church, she dished out salad and chow mein, she sliced the elaborate banana cake. A child fell; She picked him up and shushed his tears.
R&B rolled out of a big set of speakers and the rhythm took hold of her sisters. They stopped work to dance, raising their palms to the sky. The mood captured their mother, Ropeta, who bounced her shoulders and swayed. Tafi put down her big spoon and let the song catch her hips in a slow groove. … Ropeta looked at her happy child dancing in the barbecue smoke and felt moved to cheer her on in English: "Go, girl! Go, girl! Go, girl!"
Saturday, September 15, 2007
comments on “Rush Hour” version 4
One of my old poems comes to mind every so often. I grew up in a town called Sebastopol. I wrote a poem called “Sexual Sebastopol” and tried to make a sort of eros of the streets – the physical thing of the town. I ran across the poem in my recent rereading and thought there wasn’t much that worked about it. But the idea informs “Rush Hour”, the sensual hunger of the inanimate, how it wants to feel, how it must feel bound up with things & things. In their grip, acted upon, moved over.
So I revisited the accusatory voice of the first version of “Rush Hour”, the pointing-finger voice seeming to scold the street. In this version I was more interested in the street and its experience than in the commuters in their cars.
So I revisited the accusatory voice of the first version of “Rush Hour”, the pointing-finger voice seeming to scold the street. In this version I was more interested in the street and its experience than in the commuters in their cars.
Rush Hour, version 4
You, street, you like it, the stink
of the machine, hanging hot
over your skin, hot already with sun,
hot already in the black of you, paling,
as the youth fades, the darkening of
burning.
You, street, you need that jerk jerk jerk
slow over the face you turn up to tire,
to rain, to cloud passing over the single
sun, the cold creep of a broken night wheel
among the glass crumbs spattered
on an older skin.
You, street, you breathe it, the exhausted
cough and the muscled grumble, the
wheeze, the growl. You breathe it,
the long body of you expanding, taking it up.
You breathe it out all night, squeezing
the quiet out.
You, street, you take it, going nowhere,
the fastness of your progress out of town,
the only way allowed. You take it loud.
And you take it far, street to street, road
and road and road and track, this path
that trick of trail.
You, street, you carry past capacity,
past velocity, past city, past farm, past
one last turn, the truck’s churning gravel
as its wheels spin and grip and gripe
and the body lurches leaving what
help you gave.
You, street, you don’t want a thing.
of the machine, hanging hot
over your skin, hot already with sun,
hot already in the black of you, paling,
as the youth fades, the darkening of
burning.
You, street, you need that jerk jerk jerk
slow over the face you turn up to tire,
to rain, to cloud passing over the single
sun, the cold creep of a broken night wheel
among the glass crumbs spattered
on an older skin.
You, street, you breathe it, the exhausted
cough and the muscled grumble, the
wheeze, the growl. You breathe it,
the long body of you expanding, taking it up.
You breathe it out all night, squeezing
the quiet out.
You, street, you take it, going nowhere,
the fastness of your progress out of town,
the only way allowed. You take it loud.
And you take it far, street to street, road
and road and road and track, this path
that trick of trail.
You, street, you carry past capacity,
past velocity, past city, past farm, past
one last turn, the truck’s churning gravel
as its wheels spin and grip and gripe
and the body lurches leaving what
help you gave.
You, street, you don’t want a thing.
Sunday, September 09, 2007
comments on “Rush Hour” version 3
I don’t like the phrase “rush hour”. But looking at it I saw the hs push together, the words ready to have done to them what I did to the car names in version 2. Then, naturally, I saw the rs do the same.
I’ve done poems looking somewhat like this before. I would do a few blocks of text and, with each repetition, change some of the words within the block. I called them “animations” as they had some of the characteristics of animation cells.
I’m a bit dubious of the concrete poem that tries to make the words pictograms. The word “faucet” shaped like a faucet with a pendulous “drip” coming from the opening. Doesn’t do anything for me.
I tried to find information about the coinage of the phrase “rush hour”. No luck. Other than: Everybody’s trying to rush the highway at once …
Haven’t decided what I think of this version yet. Does it go the pictogram route, too obvious? Do the mushing together & intermixing of the words up the interest? …
I’ve done poems looking somewhat like this before. I would do a few blocks of text and, with each repetition, change some of the words within the block. I called them “animations” as they had some of the characteristics of animation cells.
I’m a bit dubious of the concrete poem that tries to make the words pictograms. The word “faucet” shaped like a faucet with a pendulous “drip” coming from the opening. Doesn’t do anything for me.
I tried to find information about the coinage of the phrase “rush hour”. No luck. Other than: Everybody’s trying to rush the highway at once …
Haven’t decided what I think of this version yet. Does it go the pictogram route, too obvious? Do the mushing together & intermixing of the words up the interest? …
Rush Hour, version 3
RUSH HOUR RUSH HOUR RUSH HOUR RUSH HOUR
RUSH HOURRUSH HOUR RUSHHOURRUSHHOUR RUSHHOUR
RUSHHOURRUSHHOURRUSHHOURRUSHHOURRUSHHOUR
RUSHOURUSHOURUSHOURUSHOURUSHOURUSHOURUSH
RUSHOUROUSHUROSHORUSHURUOSHUORUUSHOOR
SHOURUSHRRUSSORUSHORUSOORSHORUUSHOURUHH
RUSH HOURRUSH HOUR RUSHHOURRUSHHOUR RUSHHOUR
RUSHHOURRUSHHOURRUSHHOURRUSHHOURRUSHHOUR
RUSHOURUSHOURUSHOURUSHOURUSHOURUSHOURUSH
RUSHOUROUSHUROSHORUSHURUOSHUORUUSHOOR
SHOURUSHRRUSSORUSHORUSOORSHORUUSHOURUHH
Thursday, September 06, 2007
Wednesday, September 05, 2007
comments on “Rush Hour” version 2
Version 2 is a list of the names of automobiles. I got the list from name nerds. The names overlap, thus the first few “accentaloneonavigator” broken apart would be “accent talon neon navigator” … bumper to bumper traffic, you might say.
In my comments about the original “Rush Hour” I said, it “was merely an exercise.” Whether this, too, is merely an exercise, it is rather fun.
In my comments about the original “Rush Hour” I said, it “was merely an exercise.” Whether this, too, is merely an exercise, it is rather fun.
Rush Hour, version 2
accentaloneonavigatoraiderabbitopazephyramarquisunbirdiabloyalesabreeze
scapesteemetrodeomnintrepidevilleganzaltimaurorangerebeluvanquishadow
raithencoreattaurusiennavajoasisafarimpalanosebringolfieromegalantroope
rampageaglegendiplomatadorendezvouscirrocomanchevellebaronova
scapesteemetrodeomnintrepidevilleganzaltimaurorangerebeluvanquishadow
raithencoreattaurusiennavajoasisafarimpalanosebringolfieromegalantroope
rampageaglegendiplomatadorendezvouscirrocomanchevellebaronova
Tuesday, September 04, 2007
comments on “Rush Hour”
After “On the Edge/Four Addresses” I was intrigued to find another poem of second person address, this one to a street. I wrote it the same busy month of February 1985 (but in a new notebook, one titled This is important!). “On the Edge” was addressed to a person. Only in revision, the versioning I did on the blog, did the speaker address nonhuman elements of the scene. Yet here is a poem written shortly after “On the Edge” that speaks directly to an inanimate object, a poem I had not rediscovered before I started the new work on “On the Edge”. It’s a fun coincidence.
“Rush Hour” is not a poem of much interest. There are nice bits: phrases – “jerk jerk jerk ever forward slightly” – and word music – “queasy stomached cars” with its k sounds …
I have no idea what to do to make it a better poem, not because it’s a good poem to start with but because the scene is utterly banal. Rush hour traffic. … uh? … the one element that suggests something to me is the notion that the street itself is responsible – “miscreant street”, “a street that doesn’t breathe” …
This is a different challenge than the one I posed myself with “On the Edge”. I thought “On the Edge”, though ultimately unsatisfying, had a power to it, was a poem. “Rush Hour” has no power, is merely an exercise. I felt responsibility toward the original “On the Edge” not to lose what it started. What does “Rush Hour” have? At best a few phrases to be used in something else?
“Rush Hour” is not a poem of much interest. There are nice bits: phrases – “jerk jerk jerk ever forward slightly” – and word music – “queasy stomached cars” with its k sounds …
I have no idea what to do to make it a better poem, not because it’s a good poem to start with but because the scene is utterly banal. Rush hour traffic. … uh? … the one element that suggests something to me is the notion that the street itself is responsible – “miscreant street”, “a street that doesn’t breathe” …
This is a different challenge than the one I posed myself with “On the Edge”. I thought “On the Edge”, though ultimately unsatisfying, had a power to it, was a poem. “Rush Hour” has no power, is merely an exercise. I felt responsibility toward the original “On the Edge” not to lose what it started. What does “Rush Hour” have? At best a few phrases to be used in something else?
Rush Hour
Miscreant street full of cars
bumper to bumper you push them close
jostle those slinking machines
bumping, rumbling roars of motors
as they jerk jerk jerk ever forward slightly
antsy, nervous, queasy stomached cars
rub grills and exhaust pipes
the men at the wheels
the women at the wheels
inhaling the exhale of their vehicles
some smoke cigarettes
some blare stereos
some drum their annoyance with their knuckles on the dashboard
in a hundred speedometers a tenth mile clicks
stopping, starting
brake and gas conflicting
first gear, second gear, first gear
this is the fault of the naughty street
a street with police car bars
a constricted artery
a street that doesn’t breathe
bumper to bumper you push them close
jostle those slinking machines
bumping, rumbling roars of motors
as they jerk jerk jerk ever forward slightly
antsy, nervous, queasy stomached cars
rub grills and exhaust pipes
the men at the wheels
the women at the wheels
inhaling the exhale of their vehicles
some smoke cigarettes
some blare stereos
some drum their annoyance with their knuckles on the dashboard
in a hundred speedometers a tenth mile clicks
stopping, starting
brake and gas conflicting
first gear, second gear, first gear
this is the fault of the naughty street
a street with police car bars
a constricted artery
a street that doesn’t breathe
Monday, September 03, 2007
John Ashbery
Ron Silliman was posting about John Ashbery last month. I left this comment:
I have a strange association with Ashbery. I was reading Houseboat Days when the cat of my childhood was dying. He would cry & cry and I would stroke him but he could not stay still more than a moment and would wander back & forth and begin again to cry. Because I needed something to distract me and because I discovered I could read Ashbery both with & without attention (it seemed to work equally either way) I read Houseboat Days while we waited for morning and the vet's office to open.
I have a strange association with Ashbery. I was reading Houseboat Days when the cat of my childhood was dying. He would cry & cry and I would stroke him but he could not stay still more than a moment and would wander back & forth and begin again to cry. Because I needed something to distract me and because I discovered I could read Ashbery both with & without attention (it seemed to work equally either way) I read Houseboat Days while we waited for morning and the vet's office to open.
Saturday, September 01, 2007
Friday, August 31, 2007
Kissing in Iowa
Yesterday Judge Robert B. Hanson in Iowa ruled that same sex couples must be allowed to marry. When I saw the news I shrugged. Nobody’s actually going to be allowed to marry, I thought. These judges issue these forceful opinions saying there is no reason that isn’t special pleading that would divorce same sex couples from the rights & protections to which other sex couples are considered entitled, then they stay their decisions so they can have no effect. The couples involved in the lawsuit say what a wonderful decision it is, the appeals reach the highest applicable court, cowardly judges there run shrieking from the mousy terror of gay marriage. That’s what happened in New York. That’s what happened in Washington state.
That’s not quite what happened in Iowa. Judge Hanson forgot to stay his decision. Oops. Now college boys are getting married.
“The Rev. Mark Stringer declared college students Sean Fritz and Tim McQuillan legally wed. … ‘We're both in our undergrad programs and we thought maybe we'd put it off until applying at graduate school, but when this opportunity came up we thought maybe we wouldn't get the opportunity again,’ Fritz said. ‘Maybe the chance won't come again.’
“Friday morning, with the ... marriage license in hand, Stringer married the two men, concluding the ceremony by saying, ‘This is a legal document and you are married.’
“The two students then kissed.” Story here.
Update: Hanson has corrected his oversight.
Wednesday, August 29, 2007
Tuesday, August 28, 2007
Donkey
So my friend Diana in Forestville adopted burros. Or donkeys. Or whatever. She’s sent me pics before but this is the first one that’s showed proportions.
Her husband is 8' 3".
Monday, August 27, 2007
Monday, August 20, 2007
what happened to those high school friends?
Officer Michelle [Lazark, who I took to the Senior Prom,] answers questions at the Sacramento Police Department blog. She reveals, for example, an officer’s first choice of weapon, “We first attempt to use our voices.” (Follow the link and you’ll see her on the right of the frame.)
And Hope Levy, who was always bubbling up in some high school musical, announces with pride that her infant son is on the cover of TIME magazine. With an Einstein moustache.
update: Hope has her own website. You can watch her TV spots.
And Hope Levy, who was always bubbling up in some high school musical, announces with pride that her infant son is on the cover of TIME magazine. With an Einstein moustache.update: Hope has her own website. You can watch her TV spots.
Sunday, August 19, 2007
Robert Ingersoll, 1955-2007
Anchorage resident Robert "Bob" Gerry Ingersoll, 51, died suddenly of natural causes July 16, 2007, in Cooper Landing while on a camping trip.A graveside service was held July 24 at the Pioneer Cemetery in Palmer with the Rev. Jim Strutz of the Anchorage City Church officiating. A celebration of life ceremony will be at Anchorage City Church at a later date.
Robert was born Oct. 24, 1955, in Tonasket, Wash., to Bruce Kempton Ingersoll and Anita Marie Davidson. His family moved to Alaska five years later and settled where the family home still remains on the lower Hillside. When Robert was 14, his father married Janet Smith Batres Ingersoll, the woman Robert considered his mother.
Robert was one of the first to attend the newly built Service High School, his family wrote.
After years of working for others, Robert founded his own carpet cleaning business in 1989, Delux Care Associates. He was a proud member of the Better Business Bureau.
His family wrote: "A born-again Christian, Robert worked daily to incorporate his beliefs into his life and business. Robert exchanged commitment vows with his longtime love, Kim Terhune, in a private ceremony in 2005.
"Robert had several hobbies at which he excelled. In addition to reading, he had a fondness for movies and maintained an impressive collection. He kept freshwater fish, creating many beautiful tanks in his home and happily shared his skills with others. Robert had an especially good eye for beauty in nature. Indoors or out, he was an avid gardener; an industrial parking lot flourished with his self-designed patio and container garden.
"Robert will be greatly missed. He was generous. He was thoughtful and thorough when he set his mind to something. We remember his campy, cheerful humor and loving ways. His good heart will not be forgotten."
Robert is survived by his life mate, Kim Terhune; mother, Janet Ingersoll; sisters, Bernice Ingersoll of Seattle and Sevilla Ingersoll of King Cove; and brothers, Tony Batres and Dion Batres of Anchorage, David Ingersoll of Seattle and Glenn Ingersoll of Berkeley, Calif.
Robert was preceded in death by his brother, Bruce Kempton Ingersoll Jr.; father, Bruce Kempton Ingersoll Sr.; and grandmother, Bernice Kempton Ingersoll.
The above appeared in the Anchorage Daily News.
Monday, August 13, 2007
the gay debate
Last week The Human Rights Campaign (maybe you’ve seen their yellow equal sign sticker?) and the gay cable TV channel Logo put together a program of interviews with the Democratic presidential candidates. I’m contemptuous of the frontrunners’ triangulating around the word “marriage” … we’re all for civil unions!, they crow, though the argument seems to be: All the polls say I can’t be for Marriage and be Elected so, you understand, it’s just not possible!
I did not watch the show. I’ve only followed the coverage on the blogs. The first big news seemed to be New Mexico Governor Bill Richardson’s gaffe. He calls homosexuality a Choice! That’s a no-no, as we know nobody would choose to be a reviled minority. It’s gotta be an inborn trait! Melissa Etheridge (the rock star! Elton John too English?) was on the interview panel and threw what she expected to be a softball, So, Bill, gay – Choice? or Couldn’t-help-it-born-that-way-victim-of-biology-don’t-hold-it-against-me? Chirped Bill, Choice!
Melissa stumbled all over herself trying to clarify for the clueless straight what the right answer was and couldn’t he, you know, redo?
For someone who’s supposedly a great diplomat Richardson didn’t get the bludgeoning hints. As he said in a later “clarification”, “I always love the word choice. I’m for freedom of choice.”
At Atrios’ post on the subject I left the following comment:
Richardson aside, I don't agree that bio is the right answer. As Richardson somewhat stumblingly suggested Choice is a perfectly fine answer. It shouldn't matter!
If I'm born gay and the man who chooses to spend his life with me (or just my bed for a night) doesn't think of himself as gay and only thinks of himself as in love with me (or hot for me) -- who happens to be of the same sex as him -- does that mean he (choice) is not entitled to the same rights as me (bio)? If we were to marry (in Massachusetts, say) and took a blood test and the blood test showed that I was biologically gay and he was choosing me gay would our marriage be annulled?
Isn't religion all about Choice? What right does the government have to annul same-sex marriages performed by some religions?
If you’re curious to follow up on the Logo forum here are some other links:
Americablog liveblogging it.
MyDD thoughts.
And Towleroad’s response. Towleroad has video clips.
I did not watch the show. I’ve only followed the coverage on the blogs. The first big news seemed to be New Mexico Governor Bill Richardson’s gaffe. He calls homosexuality a Choice! That’s a no-no, as we know nobody would choose to be a reviled minority. It’s gotta be an inborn trait! Melissa Etheridge (the rock star! Elton John too English?) was on the interview panel and threw what she expected to be a softball, So, Bill, gay – Choice? or Couldn’t-help-it-born-that-way-victim-of-biology-don’t-hold-it-against-me? Chirped Bill, Choice!
Melissa stumbled all over herself trying to clarify for the clueless straight what the right answer was and couldn’t he, you know, redo?
For someone who’s supposedly a great diplomat Richardson didn’t get the bludgeoning hints. As he said in a later “clarification”, “I always love the word choice. I’m for freedom of choice.”
At Atrios’ post on the subject I left the following comment:
Richardson aside, I don't agree that bio is the right answer. As Richardson somewhat stumblingly suggested Choice is a perfectly fine answer. It shouldn't matter!
If I'm born gay and the man who chooses to spend his life with me (or just my bed for a night) doesn't think of himself as gay and only thinks of himself as in love with me (or hot for me) -- who happens to be of the same sex as him -- does that mean he (choice) is not entitled to the same rights as me (bio)? If we were to marry (in Massachusetts, say) and took a blood test and the blood test showed that I was biologically gay and he was choosing me gay would our marriage be annulled?
Isn't religion all about Choice? What right does the government have to annul same-sex marriages performed by some religions?
If you’re curious to follow up on the Logo forum here are some other links:
Americablog liveblogging it.
MyDD thoughts.
And Towleroad’s response. Towleroad has video clips.
Wednesday, August 08, 2007
comments on “On the Edge” version 7
Final version? Perhaps. The original version contains 264 words, the current version 342. About an 80 word increase.
What are the major differences between them?
The first version addresses only the youth. The current version addresses his seersucker suit, the cliff he’s standing on, the youth, and a nearby seagull in flight.
In the first version the wind lifts the youth, saving him from a suicide? In the current version the suggestion that the youth might leap from the cliff is so subtle one might credibly argue it’s not there. “It’s too late to intervene,” says the speaker of the first version. “Let [your arms] hold you up,” says the speaker of the current version.
In the first version the wind is personified, as are other non-living elements of the scene, the wave “gestures”, the foam’s “kiss”, the wind “licks” and “brushes your hair”. Less of that in the current version, though the “face” of the cliff is interrogated for its inner thoughts – “is that passivity?” or “preoccupation with the self”? (Could this be a comment by analogy on the youth’s face?)
There is eroticism in this personification of the non-living world in the first version. The kiss, the lick. The personification of the non-living in the current version suggests an indifference to the youth’s fate. Even the only other living creature, the gull, gets in a “jeer” from a mouth with a “beauty spot” (the rejection of the feminine?), though that, the speaker insists, isn’t personal.
The first version’s lines often sprawl. It’s a thick block of text. The current version is tidily arranged in separately titled sections, the stanzas within each having an equal quantity of lines (but for the cliff section, which is 4-5-4).
The first version seems full of action, even involved in the action it describes. The current version feels much more removed from the action, the speaker contemplating from a distance, from an ironic remove? The teasing of the first version, “You look so clean-cut … so debonair”, gets a curl to its lip in the current version, “You’re no boy … You’ve dressed yourself … Aren’t you debonair?”
The first version is a unit. The current version is four poems. Would any of the four be able to stand on its own? “To the seersucker” is my favorite read. Its voice is foreign to me; it barely ties in with the following 3 parts. Only its last line, “Coast?” Seersucker is not again mentioned (“handsome kit”?), no “seersucker seagull”. Seersucker is worn in the humid, windless south, probably not the best choice for the breezy cool west coast. No second mention is made of the “brave straw hat”; perhaps the youth left it in the car (the one he parked on the “road” away from which he took the “narrow path”?).
The youth has “cleanly shaved the dark from [his] pink face”; the cliff face is stubbled (though the jumble of geological items that poke from its “softer” skin don’t make for a neat picture);
Not a single question mark in version one. Ten question marks in version seven.
What are the major differences between them?
The first version addresses only the youth. The current version addresses his seersucker suit, the cliff he’s standing on, the youth, and a nearby seagull in flight.
In the first version the wind lifts the youth, saving him from a suicide? In the current version the suggestion that the youth might leap from the cliff is so subtle one might credibly argue it’s not there. “It’s too late to intervene,” says the speaker of the first version. “Let [your arms] hold you up,” says the speaker of the current version.
In the first version the wind is personified, as are other non-living elements of the scene, the wave “gestures”, the foam’s “kiss”, the wind “licks” and “brushes your hair”. Less of that in the current version, though the “face” of the cliff is interrogated for its inner thoughts – “is that passivity?” or “preoccupation with the self”? (Could this be a comment by analogy on the youth’s face?)
There is eroticism in this personification of the non-living world in the first version. The kiss, the lick. The personification of the non-living in the current version suggests an indifference to the youth’s fate. Even the only other living creature, the gull, gets in a “jeer” from a mouth with a “beauty spot” (the rejection of the feminine?), though that, the speaker insists, isn’t personal.
The first version’s lines often sprawl. It’s a thick block of text. The current version is tidily arranged in separately titled sections, the stanzas within each having an equal quantity of lines (but for the cliff section, which is 4-5-4).
The first version seems full of action, even involved in the action it describes. The current version feels much more removed from the action, the speaker contemplating from a distance, from an ironic remove? The teasing of the first version, “You look so clean-cut … so debonair”, gets a curl to its lip in the current version, “You’re no boy … You’ve dressed yourself … Aren’t you debonair?”
The first version is a unit. The current version is four poems. Would any of the four be able to stand on its own? “To the seersucker” is my favorite read. Its voice is foreign to me; it barely ties in with the following 3 parts. Only its last line, “Coast?” Seersucker is not again mentioned (“handsome kit”?), no “seersucker seagull”. Seersucker is worn in the humid, windless south, probably not the best choice for the breezy cool west coast. No second mention is made of the “brave straw hat”; perhaps the youth left it in the car (the one he parked on the “road” away from which he took the “narrow path”?).
The youth has “cleanly shaved the dark from [his] pink face”; the cliff face is stubbled (though the jumble of geological items that poke from its “softer” skin don’t make for a neat picture);
Not a single question mark in version one. Ten question marks in version seven.
“On the edge” version 7
Four Addresses
To the seersucker
Bespoke, custom-cut, hand-stitched,
even so some threads bunch, it’s the weave
gives you that pucker, which feature
lets in what stirs in high heat a summer.
Blue-and-white pinstripe number,
to normal wool cool alternate,
but what to wear with you? It’s a light
buckskin lace-up with sole of red rubber,
paisley blue tie, a pink button-down,
white pocket square and hat of brave straw
that won’t overdo. Though suspenders? A no.
Where to take you today? Coast?
To the cliff
The face you offer, varying grades
of slope, the drop in places just air
all the way to black sand and graywacke,
seething white wave-shatter -
when Pacific gales wash it and the softer
sands and gravels fade to stubble
of orange peridotite and the shale sheared
with serpentine, blueschist with its
amphibole slickenside grooved –
what’s the look of it? steady even then?
before the reaches of ocean, the daily drop of sun into it,
is that passivity? a grand passivity?
preoccupation with the self?
To the boy
You’re no boy. You’ve so cleanly shaved the dark
from your pink face, tamed those curls with a trim.
You’ve dressed yourself, picked from the closet
a handsome kit, fastened to your wrist a slender ticker.
Down from the road, along a narrow path
cutting through a shallow turf, you took your shoe.
Aren’t you debonair, the air rare
at the cliff’s lip, one lone gull taking a share?
Now you’ve looked up, all the sky white
as the seagull’s breast, as the dash the surf makes
against a stonestack poised in surge. Unfold those arms,
sleeves aflutter. Let them hold you up.
To the gull
Out to the black tip of each gray wing,
between your toes the green yellow webbing
folding, spreading, you hold it.
Your position? This must be your advice,
this the way to take to air,
your keep. Your hold.
The yellow bill with the red beauty spot
opens to a sharp tongue and a jeer,
not to make fun, to have it said.
To the seersucker
Bespoke, custom-cut, hand-stitched,
even so some threads bunch, it’s the weave
gives you that pucker, which feature
lets in what stirs in high heat a summer.
Blue-and-white pinstripe number,
to normal wool cool alternate,
but what to wear with you? It’s a light
buckskin lace-up with sole of red rubber,
paisley blue tie, a pink button-down,
white pocket square and hat of brave straw
that won’t overdo. Though suspenders? A no.
Where to take you today? Coast?
To the cliff
The face you offer, varying grades
of slope, the drop in places just air
all the way to black sand and graywacke,
seething white wave-shatter -
when Pacific gales wash it and the softer
sands and gravels fade to stubble
of orange peridotite and the shale sheared
with serpentine, blueschist with its
amphibole slickenside grooved –
what’s the look of it? steady even then?
before the reaches of ocean, the daily drop of sun into it,
is that passivity? a grand passivity?
preoccupation with the self?
To the boy
You’re no boy. You’ve so cleanly shaved the dark
from your pink face, tamed those curls with a trim.
You’ve dressed yourself, picked from the closet
a handsome kit, fastened to your wrist a slender ticker.
Down from the road, along a narrow path
cutting through a shallow turf, you took your shoe.
Aren’t you debonair, the air rare
at the cliff’s lip, one lone gull taking a share?
Now you’ve looked up, all the sky white
as the seagull’s breast, as the dash the surf makes
against a stonestack poised in surge. Unfold those arms,
sleeves aflutter. Let them hold you up.
To the gull
Out to the black tip of each gray wing,
between your toes the green yellow webbing
folding, spreading, you hold it.
Your position? This must be your advice,
this the way to take to air,
your keep. Your hold.
The yellow bill with the red beauty spot
opens to a sharp tongue and a jeer,
not to make fun, to have it said.
Tuesday, August 07, 2007
Monday, August 06, 2007
It’s not like it was the first time
They said it was a storm, thunder, lightning, and led me back to bed but I knew my parents lied to pacify me.
Sunday, August 05, 2007
Saturday, August 04, 2007
That’s where they went 2
his gums hesitate the eyebrows are raised and there are teeth on the ground teeth on the ground
Friday, August 03, 2007
Instead of the bitter bitter pines to which they are consigned
They chose their paths but now regret it, realizing — too late — they could have gone to the seashore or forests of sweet pines.
Thursday, August 02, 2007
You didn’t want to get in the way of Whitman’s eyes
The East River is still guided by the grooves Walt Whitman's eyes wore in it.
Wednesday, August 01, 2007
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