Archive for September 2009

Sonnets!

September 18, 2009

Sonnets have fourteen lines.

Count ’em.

Sometimes they are combinations of eight and six; sometimes four and four and four and two; sometimes strange intersections of four and six, eight and two (only adding up to fourteen.)

I have been thinking about them since hearing about Bright Star, the new Jane Campion movie about Keats.  (I haven’t seen the movie yet, so can make no recommendations.)

Keats wrote great sonnets, even developing his own form.

Even so, I tend to stick to Shakespeare’s form.  (Shakespeare, of course, wrote really great sonnets.)  His form is extremely easy to remember, and relatively easy to write, as it uses a broad assortment of rhymes.

If I’m feeling more ambitious, I’ll try Spenser’s format, which is similar to Shakespeare’s, but uses a more limited rhyming pattern.  (I’ll explain each in the next few posts.)  I have never written a sonnet in Keats’ form (though I intend to try.)

Shakespeare’s form is set forth below.  Remember, under conventions of poetic notation, a rhyme ending a specific line is denoted by a capital letter, so that the first set of rhymes is denoted as “A”, the second set of rhymes as B, the third set “C”, etc.

Shakespeare also uses iambic pentameter.  (More on that later.)

A

B

A

B

C

D

C

D

E

F

E

F

G

G

The biggest problem with a sonnet is often the final couplet.  It tends to have a very pat, “summing up” quality, that is hard to escape.

I do not to want my final couplet to sound like the “moral of the story”. Breaking the lines up so that they run over and do not pause at the end of each line can help in this regard.  Humor is also useful.

A subject matter which is not easily summed up, also creates a certain tension that can temper the patness of the final couplet.   Here’s one, for example on a self-administered, informal breast exam.

In the Stairwell

Descending the building’s stairs, she feels her breast,
fumbling beneath her bra to get to skin,
palpating (as they say) but in a mess
of here and there and not all within
the confines of an organized exam.
Silly to do it here, not time or place,
someone else might come, have to move her hand,
and yet fear seems to justify the race,
as if by checking each time it crosses mind,
especially checking fast, she can avoid
ever finding anything of the kind
that should not be found.  And so, devoid
of caution, but full of care nonetheless,
she steps slowly down the stairs, feeling her breast.

(All rights reserved, Karin Gustafson)

Check out 1 Mississippi at link above.

More on Minding

September 17, 2009

At a certain turn in the blogging cycle or maybe it’s the Manic-D cycle, you get to the point where you are willing to be way too honest.  (Perhaps it’s the urge for more views.)  This is not the kind of honesty that writes about obsessions with Robert Pattinson.

It is a particularly dangerous turning point if you have already started telling family and friends your blog address.

This type of brink is a reason why many writers really would rather write fiction and poetry than a daily blog.  Fiction and poetry are both more intimate and more removed;  they are “fiction”, “poetry”;  they are classified as “art” (or at least an attempt at art), rather than “reportage”, something made rather than experienced.

I was brought to this brink by thinking about the New York Times article by Alfie Kohn  (“Mind: When I Love You Means Do What I Say”) discussed in yesterday’s post;  the article talks about the inner compulsiveness that sometimes arises from positive and negative conditioning in children; i.e. blankets of praise and/or punishment.  The neediness seems, according to the studies,  to be particularly strong in the case of so-called positive conditioning, that is, praise (praise applied with an overly thick brush).

Achievers are apparently produced by this praise, but they are compulsive achievers.

Symptoms of this type of internal compulsion seem to me to include the craving many achievers have throughout their lives for continuing pats on the head, even artificial pats.  This craving can in turn lead to a kind of self-deception that feels somehow like success, but is known not to be , or at least probably not to be.  (A good example is the willingness to believe, or to try to believe, in weight loss after an adjustment down of the bathroom scale.)   Ironically, this same willingness to accept what is known to be a dubious milestone is often combined with an absolute skepticism over any genuine achievement, particularly if the acknowledgement of such achievement comes from a loved one.    It’s as if, to the achiever, the opinion of someone loving and beloved has little worth;  only the opinions of one’s enemies, detractors, or ignorers have any validity.

Strange, huh?

Then, in the midst of trying to figure out how to write about this, my mind turned instead to John Keats, about whom there is a new film by Jane Campion.  I decided that as trivial as sonnets may seem in the modern world, I would really rather write about them, and write them, than about neediness.   Although Keats admittedly does seem a bit on the needy side, he was not a blogger.

So, stepping back from any brink, but oddly satisfied to have sketched out a glimpse of it,  I’m starting a new series on the making of a sonnet.   As a separate post.

“Mind” – Parental Love – When “I Love You” Means Doing as Haim Ginott Said

September 16, 2009

The New York Times published an article on September 14 about unconditional love by Alfie Kohn “When a Parent’s ‘I Love You’ Means ‘Do As I Say.’  The article is about the difficulties in sorting through conflicting parenting advice  –  the older advice from Carl Rogers (and also Fred) promoting unconditional love, and the newer advice from people such as talk show host Dr. Phil, and Supernanny, promoting a more manipulative parental approach, one that directly involves the granting of praise and acceptance for good behavior and the withholding of affection for bad.

The article comments on a series of studies done in 2004, and also more recently, by Drs. Avi Assor, Guy Roth, Edward L. Deci, that imply that more manipulative parental love, particularly one that incorporates positive conditioning of praise and approbation, can be effective at promoting academic achievement and achievement of parental goals, but can also carry a price of inner compulsion, lack of long-term satisfaction.  (The conditional love that focused on punishment and withholding of affection seemed mainly to create resentment of parents.)

I have to say that I definitely fall into the unconditional love camp.   (I prefer Mr. Rogers to Dr. Phil.)   First, I can’t really imagine withholding love from my children (even when angry).

However, I also understand that parenting that is overly heavy on the praise can be very burdensome, creating a lifelong need for specific approval and acknowledgement.   In addition to the problems noted by the studies, I believe that this kind of “positive” conditioning (and the resulting need and compulsion) while perhaps helpful in promoting academic performance, can become very problematic outside the academic world where good grades are not awarded for one’s conduct, and where the hurdles for achievement are not clearly delineated.  (In the non-academic world, the hurdles on the road to achievement can often not even be located, much less jumped.)

But if both negative and positive conditioning are problematic, what are parents supposed to do?

As a young child, I used to frequently see Dr. Haim Ginott on the Today Show.  (He was a child psychologist who seemed to be a regular guest.)

Now there was a guy who knew about parenting.  I don’t think he had children of his own, so he may not have had the parents’ perspective down pat, but he definitely understood the child’s perspective.   (He happened to be a very short man, who spoke English as a second language.  Somehow all of this made me feel, back then, that he knew just where we stood.)

He also looked to me like a child’s drawing of a psychiatrist, with glasses set low on a slightly intrusive nose; a small goatee bisecting his chin.   But instead of carting around the pomposity of expertise (or a couch), he sported a palpable sense of humor and compassion and an odd childlike simplicity.

He definitely fit into the unconditional love school.  As part of this, he was very specific about not praising; and not blaming.

It is not correct to say that Ginott let everything slide or that he would not condemn;  he believed parents should be quick to make their feelings about bad behavior known and to let that behavior have consequences,  the natural ones, including, for example,  the parents’ irritation; but he (like Christ) condemned the sin, not the sinner.  The method of expressing disapproval was extremely important; it was to be an expression of facts and feelings.

For example, if a child’s room were a mess, the parent was not supposed to say “you are a pig!”  but something like, “it makes me so upset to see a room like this—I think of all the living creatures it could harbor, germs, mice, even pigs!”   Or “someone with a room like this doesn’t have time to go out and play yet.”  Or simply “rooms like this must be cleaned IMMEDIATELY.”

As a child, I would marvel at his approach.   How could he fool any kid, I’d wonder.  Wouldn’t they know he just thought they were piggy?  Or that his folks were keeping him inside?

But I’d also feel, well, that the dirty room better get cleaned up soon.

His approach to praise seemed very severe to me back then, but as I’ve grown older, I’ve recognized its genius.  Telling a child he’s done a great drawing, a masterpiece, can be absolutely paralyzing, he said.  The danger of a fall from grace (a failure to produce another masterpiece) is so immediate the child may not even feel able to continue.

As a result, instead of praise, Ginott advocated actually looking at the child’s work, commenting on specific details, such as “that color blue makes me think of a summer sky.”  Or “I can see that you spent a lot of time working on that airplane.  Look at all the little rockets.”  Or “when I see a drawing of apples like that, it makes me hungry.”  (I’m sorry if I am misrepresenting Ginott’s theories by the way;  I am relying on childhood memories and also books I read years ago as a young parent – his Between Parent and Child, and the books by Elaine Mazlish and Adelle Farber, two of his followers.)

The same theory applied to honoring good conduct:  “when children sit so quietly, the room feels like a beautiful oasis.”   He would not say, for example, “what a good boy,” “what a nice girl.”  (Again, I am making up these examples!)

While Ginott’s techniques allowed for positive and negative reinforcement of types of behavior, the child him or herself was separate from the behavior, deemed capable of exerting some control over it, allowed and expected to exert some control over the behavior, but not defined by it.  As a result, the child and the love of the parent were not caught in the vagaries of behavior and consequences, but could maintain that constancy and unconditionality which seemingly (or at least according to these studies) helps lead to a lasting sense of self-worth.

Mother’s Tea

September 15, 2009

Distance from the manic environs of New York City leaves me so enervated I’m not sure that I can be “daily” any more.

Still the New Yorker in me persists.  (After all, I only left Saturday morning—the New Yorker in me has got to be stronger than half a week!)

Still, it’s amazing to me how quick routine/structure/discipline gives way.  (Though I’m not sure I can really call blogging a discipline!)

What fades I guess are the constructs you have built up as parts of yourself.  I don’t think it is Florida that rubs them away so much as entry into the parental home.

Your parents genuinely don’t notice these constructs.  (My parents, for example, persist on offering me chicken salad, even though I’ve been vegetarian for thirty-five years.  I mention that to them, they say, yes, but that it’s really low-calorie.)

When I used to come home from college, the first thing I would do would be to go to our kitchen counter, pour out a bowl of cereal and stand there eating it.  It seems to me that it was usually Special K, possibly Grapenuts. (Although we did have cereal at college back then, it was always cornflakes, stale, and served in large glass jars.)

Eating the Special K, or possibly Grapenuts, was a way of transitioning back to childhood.  I’d usually have at least a bowl and a half.

I don’t do that now.  But then, the main cereal my parents have here are laden with fiber and artificial sugar.

Also, when I come to my parents’ house now, it is important that I remain an adult.  There are things to be done, helped with, organized.  (No counter bowls of cereal for you!)

They are certainly still as caring, still as parental.  As I type this blog, my mom ghosts out in nightdress, to ask me whether I wouldn’t like some decaf tea.

I don’t particularly want any decaf tea.  ( I actually kind of dislike decaf tea;  it usually tastes just one remove from dishwater to me.)  So, I say, well, thanks, but you don’t need to bother, but she says she already has the bag—she is of the generation that reuses tea bags.   I say well, fine then.

She gently brings over the cup of tea in a nice cup, nice saucer, holding a small carton of milk from their Meals on Wheels delivery earlier in the day.  She does not use milk, but she remembers that  I usually do.

“Would you like milk?”

“Sure.”

She pours it in.

And then, feeling truly sad that I am leaving, I think, she says I can just put it down on the freshly varnished coffee table next to me.

Whoa, I think to myself, knowing how she feels about freshly varnished tables.  So, despite what she says,  I  look for something I could put the saucer on, something to serve as coaster.  Unfortunately all the books on the coffee table seem to be photo albums.

“Oh here’s something,” she says suddenly, picking up a placemat from another table.  “They did just redo that table,” she goes on, as she puts the placemat down on my coffee table, “so I guess it’s just as well to take care of it.”

She steps gently back to the kitchen where I hear her moving about.  Then, after a moment, there is a sudden beep, which I realize is the microwave announcing the water she has heated for her own cup, the cup she is making after mine, the cup which in fact will be the second use of the tea bag.

I take a quick sip of the tea which for decaf really tastes quite good, the microwaved water almost scaldingly hot.   I do not use a microwave at all, and certainly not for heating water;   still, that hot hot tea tastes really very good just now.

But I remember how, as a child, anything from my mother’s hands tasted good.

Love Poem (Tangentially) Inspired By Federer’s Defeat

September 14, 2009

This is a poem I wrote the last time (or at least ONE time, one of the few other times) that  Federer lost an important match.  In that case, it was to Nadal at one of the French Opens, which because they are played on clay, appear on a bright orange surface, when televised.  (If you have read any of my posts re writing block, you will notice that it also centers on the trials of trying to come up with a writing exercise on one’s own.)

Would-be Poet

I, who must be purposeful at every minute,
even when lying in bed miles away, call to ask you
for a prompt, something to write about, something
outside of myself.
You are watching tennis.  You’ve taken the phone into
the TV room, but, far
from its home cradle, it emits a steady cackle.
Earlier, out of love for me, you left the TV, but this is
the second call of the morning, and Federer, the champion for umpteen
seasons, is being trounced.  In my mind, I see your leg
ticcing with compressed intensity as you sit
on the edge of the bed in that far room, eyes glazed by the brilliant orange
of the beamed clay surface.
But Federer is never his best
on clay!  I want to shout.
Don’t you know that already?  Doesn’t the world?

You speak slowly, squeezing words
out of the small part of you not glued to the screen.
I think of ‘static’ not as in the phone line, or even
our relationship,  but the electrified ash of my own TV growing up,
my brother sitting in the only good
chair, his huge bare foot blocking my view, his
big toe like a weird fleshy centerpiece on a table meant
to be intimate.  Crazy-making.  But in my image,
my brother and I are still, complaints and taunts
temporarily silenced by the buzz of the Emergency Broadcast System,
ninety seconds in which we were both awed
and irritated by something other.
How about ‘Photosynthesis?’
you say.

You are not a poet; you don’t pretend to be a poet; why
do I even ask you, a non-poet, for such help?
I groan.
Wait,
you say. How about ‘ love and photosynthesis?’
I groan again.
‘Asparagus’ then,
you laugh, making some inane
remark about how it’s like your love for me, endlessly growing.

I am so jealous suddenly, of the clay, the ball, the trounced Federer, but most of all, of your ability to just sit there and watch,
guiltlessly, lovingly, full
of bright orange beams.

(All rights reserved, Karin Gustafson)

New “New Moon” Trailer – Not a Frame by Frame Analysis

September 14, 2009

Last night, my husband sweetly calls me to tell me that he heard something about a new New Moon trailer coming out soon.   (Although he is both embarrassed and mystified by my interest in the whole Robert Pattinson Twilight phenomenon, he also understands that my feelings about Robert Pattinson are strictly maternal.  See e.g. prior post as to why I know that my feelings for Robert Pattinson are strictly maternal.)

I thank him but tell him that the trailer was leaked onto the internet before its official release and that I’ve actually already seen it.  (I don’t mention the number of times.)

I also tell him that the trailer was almost immediately broken down by a blogger in a frame by frame analysis, a bit like a new iPhone.  Only in the case of New Moon, the first analysis (a written one) was undertaken on an incredibly superficial (bloggy-type) manner, as in at “l minute 37 seconds Bella jumps into water”,  at “1 minute 38 seconds Bella is pulled from water”.   (It seemed to be the type of analysis whose only real purpose is to be read to the blind.)

Today, however, there is a new “frame by frame” breakdown which breaks the trailer into stills, supposedly all of them.  (Though, from what I can see, there is at least one nice image of Rob that is definitely missing.)

Still, the effort the Robert Pattinson/Twilight blogosphere is making is pretty amazing.  I mean, I’ve never seen a frame by frame breakdown of the trailers for 8 ½ or Citizen Kane or Jules and Jim, or even some blockbuster type movie like Spiderman. (I have to confess I’ve never actually looked for frame by frame breakdowns of these trailers.  Even so, I’m pretty sure that they don’t pop up first search.)

It all goes to show that there are many many people (and probably not just teenage girls) with an awfully lot of time on their hands.

Ahem.

If you want to teach how child how to count the time on his or her hands, check out 1 Mississippi by Karin Gustafson, on Amazon.  Or check link above.

Parents Being Parents

September 13, 2009

A parent is always a parent.

I am visiting mine at the moment.

I tell my Dad late in the afternoon that I’m going for a walk on the beach.  ( It is approximately two blocks away from my parents’ house.)   His eyes widen in alarm.

“I’m just going for a little bit,” I say.

He looks panicked.

“I need some air,” I protest.  “Some exercise.”

“Wouldn’t you rather stay here?” he pleads.

“It’s perfectly light out.  No one’s going to attack me.”

He shudders at the voicing of his fears.

This is a quiet prosperous beach town.  On a barrier island.  There are only two bridges.  A difficult place for violent crime.

“How about if you take Mama with you?”

She’s in her late eighties, and never leaves his side.   He really is not well enough to be left for very long.

“You think she’d be able to protect me?” I ask.

He scowls.  “But at least there’d be two of you.”

“It’s not like she’s going into the ocean,” my mom adds in support of my expedition.

He scowls more.

I don’t say anything further, since I sometimes do (heaven forbid) go in the ocean.   (Though nearsightedness and a kind of fear that has eventually rubbed off on me keeps me from going out far.)

Finally, with the promise that I will walk on the beach but only as far as a nearby restaurant he likes to get a special dish he likes, I go.

I move with some speed.  Still, by the time I get back to their block, I see my mom out on the front lawn looking for me; my father, with his walker, his face pained, in the doorway.

Agh.

“I made it,” I say softly.

More On Incredulity In Florida – Civility, Joe Wilson

September 13, 2009

I just wanted to add a few things to my blog of yesterday, “Incredulous in Florida”.

In my experience, Florida is a very polite place by and large.  (By Florida, I mean the central coast, which is the only part I know.)  (I also don’t mean Florida on the roadside, that is, Floridians when driving.)

My sense, having grown up in Maryland, is that this civility is really a Southern trait, not just Floridian.

The politeness, which seems to be paired with a kind of patience (or at least an absence of the headlong rush typical of New York), is a great boon to the older people who live here.  Clerks in stores, for example, wait without noticeable toe-tapping or audible sighs when older people rifle through purses and wallets at counters to count out exact change.  (I don’t mean disrespect to older people here—I do plenty of rifling through my own purse.  I just know that my parents, for example, one of whom has Parkinson’s disease, are much slower in the purse/wallet area than they used to be.)

Problems with this insistence on rules of politeness can arise.  Taking my parents as the example again, increasing deafness has sometimes led them to fail to hear or understand the cues for their side of the exchange.  This occasional (and always completely inadvertant) lapse has led to real misunderstandings, where because the rules weren’t deemed to be followed on both sides, blow-ups suddenly occurred:  hurricane roofers have walked irrevocably off jobs, (incompetent but available) replacement hurricane  contractors have huffed and puffed and found an excuse for not showing up weeks at a time, and hospital nurses have occasionally required long session sof placating.

Which brings up two things.  First, on the personal side, with respect to my conversation with my car service driver yesterday:  despite mentioning in my post (my) yelling, we both managed to keep things on a friendly (if sometimes incredulous) level.   I was conscious that I did not want to make the reputation of New York in Florida worse, and apologized repeatedly for my aggressive style of argument;  the car service guy graciously laughed and said it was the best ride he’d had in a long while.   (I’m sorry to say that I even wondered whether a heated argument between two strangers in the Northeast would have ended in as friendly and polite a fashion.)

On the political side, this backdrop of Southern civility, makes Joe Wilson’s shout of “you lie!” during Obama’s speech even more outrageous.   The guy simply decided that normal rules of civility, (rules that have probably drummed into him since birth, given that he is from South Carolina),  just didn’t apply in the case of Obama.    Pretty awful.

Incredulous In Florida

September 12, 2009

I am in Florida today which is an amazing change from downtown New York City.  For one thing, the 99% humidity rate is breathed rather than falling all around me.  Windows are shut tight, inside air is refrigerated and people stay in that air, by and large.  (At least, the only other people who stood or sat outside at the airport, where we waited for our car service, were smoking cigarettes.)

And then the guy who picked us up–a very nice, young, friendly, helpful guy, who really did not seem in any way a nut job (at least I didn’t worry that my life was in his hands as he drove us down A1A)–compared Obama’s proposals to those made by Hitler in Nazi Germany.  (Granted this was towards the very end of our ride.)

People in Florida are extremely nice, friendly, helpful.   This guy seemed another one of these nice, friendly, helpful types.

Who turned from the steering wheel to ask me whether I realized how much Obama’s civilian corp was like the S.S.

He was friendly enough to genuinely not mind our heated argument both before and after these comments.  He did not take offense at my use of expletives.

He talked about studying facts.  (I do not believe these included facts about Nazi Germany.)

He, like Joe Wilson, spoke of Obama as a liar.  When I asked him to give me an example of a lie, he couldn’t actually come up with one.  (I should have given him advanced notice he said.)  Finally, he said, well what about statements that the health care proposal would not cause cuts in Medicaid.  I said that Obama did talk about cutting waste in Medicaid.

Then he said, oh yeah, and what about Bill Ayers?

We both complained about the lack of personal responsibility in the culture.  I mentioned that Obama also stressed the importance of personal responsibility.

But he had a hard time hearing that, given Obama’s exchange with the Joe the Plumber.  He was very upset at the way that Joe the Plumber had been treated, by the way, which he seemed to view as treatment meted out by the Obama administration.   I mentioned that Joe the Plumber seemed to have landed a job as a news correspondent.

I do not want to make fun of the guy.  I liked him, even as I yelled at him  (in a motherly way).  And he, in a sheepish way, seemed to like me (though since I was also the paying customer, this is a bit hard to assess.)

But the experience genuinely shook me.   I had not realized how very far from home I’d come.

Last Villanelle for a While Re Aftermath of 9/11

September 11, 2009

Anyone who reads this blog is probably heartily sick of villanelles.  Sorry!  But here’s one more–re the aftermath of 9/11.   (

Sorry, sorry, sorry.

I do write non-villanelles.   And, while this is not the last villanelle I’ll post, I promise that it will be the last for a while.  (Future posts will also be more cheerful!)

Shattering

The shattering of lives should take some time.
It shouldn’t come in flashes, clods of dirt,
no moment for altered course, for change of mind.

The actual choice ahead should be well-signed,
the frailty of good luck, a blood-soaked shirt;
the shattering of lives should take some time.

He knew that road was risky, heard a whine,
but in the end those warnings were too curt,
no moment for altered course, for change of mind.

Hard to foresee your own true body lined
with metal plates and plastic tubes of hurt;
the shattering of lives should take some time.

So many hours after to refine
what happened in that second’s blinding lurch,
no moment for altered course or change of mind.

Or was it fate?  A studied path, not whim?
His heart tried hard to measure out the worth
of shattering lives.  It would take some time,
without moment for altering course or mind.

(All rights reserved.  Karin Gustafson)