Archive for the ‘Uncategorized’ category

Why Jeter Wasn’t A Cheater

September 18, 2010
it?

Why Derek Jeter Wasn’t Cheating When He Pretended To Be Hit By a Pitch.

1.  It might have gotten his sleeve.

2.  And did get him on first base.

3.  If it had hit him, it would have really hurt.

4.  They do it in soccer. (And they have a World Cup that really does involve the whole world.)

5.  In fact, feigning/bluffing is a time-honored tactic in any game.  (See e.g. poker.)  (Forget soccer.)

6.  He’s a Yankee and I’m from New York.

7.  He’s Derek Jeter (and I’m from New York.)

On base

(PS – sorry these are a re-posting of last night’s drawings.)

Missing New York Storm Draft Sonnet (From Florida)

September 17, 2010

Windswept, wind-littered

Missing New York Storm (September 16th) Sonnet  (From Florida)

September storm in New York hustles through
in one or two, at most a scant fifteen,
New York minutes, and I, the professed New
Yorker, wasn’t in it; I who would have been
proud to complain of the urban canyon wind,
to bemoan felled branches, the wild thwacking
of the flag outside my building, send
this poem from a far place lacking
in tall, grey, and even, it feels to me, speed,
where everyone seems required to beam
in public, but some with stern primness (no need
to bring up politics)–I miss my home!–
its nitty-gritty, windswept, wind-littered, stone.

(Karin Gustafson – suggestions welcome.)

Draft Poem Process – Blocking Writer’s Block

September 15, 2010

Okay (to the regular readers of this blog), I admit that the draft poem posted at about 1 a.m. this morning is blank verse in the truest (and possibly, worst) sense of the word.  I’d like to dignify it with some epithet like Creelyesque, but I’d hate to do that to the wonderful Robert Creeley.

Instead, I’ll explain away the poem by giving it as an example of an effort to block writer’s block.  If you want to write, you have to write.  It really is as simple as that.   You have to do it without being too precious about every single result.  That’s probably an elemental rule for getting yourself to do anything creative.

Waiting for the right conditions, the right mindset, even a modicum of brain power, may put you in a queue of one forever;  if you wait for inspiration, there you might be–in the abandoned mind bakery–holding a ticket that is never called.  (Even if it is called, all those wonderful half-baked goods may have gone completely stale by the time you actually get to the counter!)

Sure, an inner voice may tell you urgently that you are  a writer, an artist, but it’s unlikely to tell you in the hurly-burly of every single day exactly what to set down.

That’s where doggedness comes in (and not necessarily the doggedness of the wiggly happy dog that greets you at the door every evening.)  It’s more like the dog that is pawing pawing pawing at the zipper of your backpack because it is sure that somewhere inside nestles a treat.   Sometimes that treat is the old remains of a bagel; sometimes it’s chocolate!

Which, I know, yes, is terrible for dogs.  (More for us.)

Inconvenient Body (Draft Sonnet)

September 14, 2010

I think it’s Billy Collins who says something about poetry coming from a place where you start out with nothing to say.  (Something like that.)

I should probably not confess that I really have little that can be said (at least in a public forum) this evening.  So let’s try for a poem, a sonnet.

The Inconvenient Body

The body is not of the modern world.
Babies do not nurse only before nine
or after five. ( I remember how mine twirled
a finger against hair, cheek, breast, in a kind
of slow-mo dance even when demons
screamed to hurry up this time, nod off.)
They don’t grow out of it–older humans
too refuse to fall in space allotted,
to manifest symptoms in an orderly
fashion, to fit recovery into
a three-day weekend, but sordidly
succumb to ills that don’t begin to
improve till mid-week (if then), their tick-tock
measurable enough but off the clock.

(I know the last couplet doesn’t quite work but it’s late and last couplets are always the problem with sonnets.  I welcome suggestions.)

Ocean/Overmedication

September 13, 2010

One good thing about these days in Florida–the ocean.

One bad thing about these days in Florida–overmedication.   (Thankfully, not of me.)

I am recovering my “sea legs.”  I use the term in a completely made-up sense which has nothing to do with walking up and down the deck of a ship.  (The problem with me and ships is not my lack of sea legs, but “sea stomach.” )

I’ve gotten completely furious at doctors here.

My sea legs are legs that are willing to rush into the surf and dive below the next incoming wave.  This can be dangerous–not so much because of the force of the wave–but because, lately, my determination to achieve the sense of freedom the dive imparts has led me to take it at a depth of two feet.

I am more and more convinced that many of them (doctors) substitute treatment for attention.

I’m still not as brave as I once was.  Years of having my mother trail out to the beach after me shouting fearfully “you have children!” have taken their toll.

By that, I mean that they (doctors) often seem not to review cases or listen or attend to patients, but to simply prescribe tests and medication.  Loads of tests, loads of medication, for years.

But my mom stays at home these days, and I swim!  (Not just wade.)   And I’m often the only one–the only sea-borne human on the entire horizon!

One question that arises is whether doctors are more likely to overtreat the heftily insured. .  And what happens to patients who don’t have an advocate?   Someone to say, for example, “gee, if his blood pressure is 65 /42, maybe he shouldn’t be on two separate types of blood pressure lowering medication.”

So strange–the waves are not large this time of year, the jelly fish are not bubbling, the water temperature is pretty perfect (cool on initial entry, then immediately comfortable.)

Can the over treatment actually be intended to protect the doctor?  Document attempts to try everything (whether needed or not)?

Is it the school schedule?  The fact that this is the opposite of Spring Break?

Or, maybe…maybe… it has something to do with the big black fin I saw both this morning and yesterday, that dark rhythmic curve above the waves?

I hesitate to call them sharks.

First Time Away From New York on 9/11 – Missing Bagpipes

September 11, 2010

This is the first 9/11  since the 9/11 that I have not spent in the City.  (I’m guessing I don’t have to tell you which one.)

I don’t particularly like 9/11 in the City.  I live a block or so from Ground Zero.  It is a somber difficult place on the anniversary, full of detours and no-crossing barricades.  The only thing good are the bagpipes.

There is always the question of whether or not to go to the ceremonies.  I usually just listen to the bagpipes–the sound travels–and then don’t go, or if I do, it is by chance, walking past the site to work while some of the names are being read.

This is not because I don’t respect the names or the day.  I simply find them too sad.

I realize this evening that I have never been away before because on every other 9/11 I’ve had a child living in the City, and I’ve felt, silently, that I could not risk being away from a place and time that reverberates with crisis if one of my children is there.

I know that if something (something else) happened, I would not necessarily be able to help my children, no matter how many cars mothers are supposed to be able to lift.   But there it is–something that 9/11 has left with me, not only the sense of past loss, the understanding of potential loss.

Away from the City, there is television coverage.  It too is sad–the footage of the actual day completely intolerable– but also maddening–actual commemoration nearly outweighed by posturing, schmaltz, sensation.   With only the barest wheedle of bagpipes.  Bagpipes are really not the same on tape.

For a poem (a villanelle) about 9/11 and also children, click here.

Religious Outrage – Elephant Dung

September 10, 2010

We live in a country where you can use the Bible as toilet paper.  You can even post a video of this use on youtube.  (I hope not.)

It’s a country where you are allowed to draw horns on the President, a country where you do not generally have to memorize poems for fear that your scribbles will be discovered by the local police.  (The downside of this is that no one is much interested in poetry.)

It’s also a country where silly self-promoters, like Terry Jones and several other copycat “ministers”, have a right to do silly self-promoting symbolic things.

Of course, the rules that allow for Jones are also the rules that allow for artists and writers, museums and collectors, many of whom are also self-promoters, some of whom are also foolish.  (Some not.)

Remember Chris Ofili and the Virgin Mary painted with Elephant Dung, part of the Brooklyn Museum’s 1999 show Sensation, which exhibited works from the collection of Charles Saatchi.  Ofili’s Virigin Mary caused such a….sensation that it inspired then Mayor Giuliani to start a lawsuit to evict the Museum, the Museum to countersue Giuliani, and all kinds of politicians, artists, religious groups and concerned citizens to speak out.  The U.S. House of Representatives (typically!) passed a nonbinding resolution to end federal funding for the Museum, the City of New York actually stopped the Museum’s funding; a federal judge restored it.

I am not sure that people around the world, Muslims particularly, understand this aspect of our culture.

I’m not sure that many of us always understand it.  Especially some of the ones doing silly symbolic things.  (And why do so many have to center on 9/11?  Ground Zero?  Do these people even like New York?)

But what do you do?  We live in a country (thankfully) where people do not have to swallow their poetry, but can post it on the internet.  Even though no one is terribly interested in it.  With or without elephant dung.

More tomorrow.

The Media – Jonesing For Controversy

September 10, 2010

A bunch of thoughts rush through my still very tired head tonight, many of them focusing on the idiocy of Terry Jones and the U.S./global news media.  Then, sneaking in, comes a sense of the real lack of understanding between Islam and the U.S.

The media make me maddest–so busy jonesing for drama and controversy that they bloat the ambitions of an attention-seeking idiot.   No, Terry Jones makes me maddest, for being an attention-seeking idiot.  No, the media for absolutely fanning the flames of the controversy; no Jones himself (idiot) for threatening to light those flames…

And then I think about the part of Islam in this story.  Certainly, Muslims are entitled to be enraged by idiots like Jones, but there is also something extremely unsympathetic in the idea that Islamic outrage at the insignificant, if idiotic, Jones would be so extreme as to genuinely put lives at risk across the world

A lot of anger, a lot of attention-seeking, worrisome.

Finding Good In the Very Alloyed

September 5, 2010

Enjoying What's There

The other day I wrote about not waiting for “unalloyed” enjoyment.    The idea, more or less, was not to be distracted by the proverbial “fly in the ointment” but to try to conjure up your own “fly-free ointment” – something that would allow you to whoosh above all the pettiness that blocks appreciation.

I am frankly not terribly good at this.  My eye (and heart too, I suppose) hook onto almost any deficiency.  Contentment is not just marred by a fly in the ointment, but by the idea of flies, even, perhaps, by the need for ointments.

But right now I’m sitting on a flight to Florida–actually I’m sitting on a plane that is, in turn, sitting on a runway, hopefully, aimed for Florida.  Something that seems like an emergency is going on in my family.  Weakness happens.

It’s an amazingly sunny day outside the lozenge window.  What’s even more amazing is that, in the midst of my worry, I am actually noticing it:   the clouds are elongated for Constable, but might just qualify for Tiepolo;  the blue certainly would.

I was given an aisle seat even though I bought this ticket an extremely short time ago. and lo and behold, the window seat (it’s a two seater) is empty, and now I’ve moved just into the shaft of light there, with plenty of room to sit cross-legged.

I find myself able too to enjoy a certain bizarre satisfaction at the success of ManicD quickness–bag packed, difficult arrangements made, JFK navigated, all with unimagined speed – it turns out that the words “my father’s sick” coupled with boarding pass can get you immediately to the front of the security line.

These are not exactly pleasurable moments; they are, however, the ones that currently encapsulate my experience of time.   And here are these wonders– a plane made, no baby crying, a book in hand, blue sky outside, clouds.

R U Really Talking of Orwell This Labor Day Weekend?

September 5, 2010

Some Animals Are More Equal than Others (And Some Don't Want to Hear About It)

Sarah Palin tweeted, after Obama’s Iraq speech, something to the effect that ‘u should get out ur old Orwell books.’  She was implying, I guess, that Obama was trying to steal Bush’s credit for the invasion of Iraq.

I, for one, am happy to give Bush credit for Iraq.  If Obama was trying to claim credit for anyone else, I think it was mainly U.S. troops and commanders.

But my real interest in Palin’s tweet–aside from the “u’s” and “ur’s” (how can someone make any claim to thoughtfulness with “u’s” and “ur’s”?)–is the mention of Orwell.

On a Labor Day weekend, the Orwellian phrase which most comes to my mind is the modified commandment from the Stalinist-type commune satirized in Animal Farm, “All animals are equal but some animals are more equal than others.”

We live in a society that is increasingly stratified.  While equality is touted, and each human life is (on a speechifying level) deemed equally priceless, the fact is that some people’s lives are valued exponentially much more highly than others.  Some people’s work, for example, is deemed to be worth millions, others less than minimum wage.  These values don’t seem to always correlate to talent, effort, difficulty==sometimes they simply arise from the luck of being in a job that generates cash.

The ability of certain people to make stupefyingly large amounts of money in our culture seems to be viewed by Palin and other Tea Party types as a sign of our freedom.  But it’s unclear to me that the rank and file American, especially those angered by what they view as handouts to the poor and underserving, fully understands the level of wealth of some in this country and the increasing disparity between classes.   It’s also unclear whether the damage such disparity inflicts on both a society and an economy has been much thought through.  (Both Robert Reich and Bob Herbert have interesting articles about this in the last day’s NY Times.)

Another new mantra appears to be “Taxes Bad–Any Business Good”.    People seem to forget that taxes fund street lights, firemen, schools, police, our national defense–all those troops everyone wants to support–parks, clean food, clean water, help for the handicapped, Social security, Medicare;  taxes also give people access to such services.     And, of course, a progressive tax system is one means of redressing some of the issues of wage and access imbalance, i.e.  the differences between the equal and more equal.   But woe (or should I spell it, WO) to any politician who dares mention such an idea – U R risking instant Orwellization.  (Or worse.)