Archive for the ‘Uncategorized’ category

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)

Reasons To Live in Downtown Manhattan Post-9/11

September 10, 2009

With 9/11 literally around the corner (I live a couple of blocks from Ground Zero), the perennial question once again arises in my mind.  Why do I live in downtown Manhattan, (very) downtown Manhattan,  post 9/11?  Why would anyone want to live here post 9/11?

Here are some reasons

1.  Fitness.  You get a lot of exercise.  There are a couple of Hudson River parks where, on a nice day, every spare inch is devoted to sport, i.e. soccer, lacrosse, ultimate frisbee, baseball, football, rugby, cricket, and the shielding of one’s self and one’s offspring from stray soccerballs, lacrosse wickets, baseballs, cricketballs, frisbees,  and runners unable to stop their strides.

There’s also the esplanade by the river where you can jog, rollerblade, skateboard, ride your bike, or walk (with a careful eye out for joggers, skateboarders, the wiggly spandex fannies of backwards rollerbladers, and bikers who seem to think the esplanade,  a slightly wider than average New York City sidewalk,  is the perfect place to race).

Besides all that, the nearest subway stops are all several blocks and stairways away.  So you can get considerable exercise just getting to your train.

2.  Safety.  Putting aside terrorism, downtown seems extremely safe.  For one thing, there’s hardly anyone here at night.  (There are no good restaurants.   Another health benefit by the way–home cooking!)

The wind of the ocean also makes it too cold much of the year for muggers to lurk.  (See Reason No. 3 about proximity to nature.)

Nor is there any place for criminals to park their getaway cars.  And forget about running to the subway.

Besides all that, there’s a whole host of pedestrian walkways, meaning that residents of downtown can walk around texting without fear of causing a car crash.  (A great safety feature in modern America.)

3.  Proximity to Nature.  The rivers, the harbor, are right here.  And they are beautiful.   Every season, every hour of the day.

Then there’s that wonderful sea breeze, errr… wind, which in the fall, winter, spring, you can feel from the tips of your toes right into the marrow of your bones.

Every winter, there are a few days of actual ice floes.  (Not only in your toilet.)

Being so close to the river also brings a measure of safety.  I mean, if there were another act of terrorism, which you can’t help thinking about it when you walk past Ground Zero twice a day, you could always dash out to the Hudson, right?  Steal a boat?  Hitch a ride with the Coast Guard as they zoom into the Marina to go to the Starbucks in the Financial Center?

Swim?

Maybe better keep your Starbucks card handy for barter purposes.

4.  Smugness.  Yes, it is incredibly annoying to have to scoot through the crowds at Ground Zero every day.  (I really do prefer to call it the World Trade Center.)   Yes, you do want to shake some of the ones who pose coyly.  Yes, every time you see the hawkers’ pamphlets opened to photographs of the fireball of the second plane hitting the second tower, you really do feel sick.

Still, the whole passageway does give you a daily opportunity to feel a fair amount of unmitigated (except by nausea and rage) smugness.

5.  Pride.  All New Yorkers have the stubborn pride of the survivor.  They had this long before 9/11;  New Yorkers who have moved here since 9/11  probably have it as well.    It has something to do with the general grittiness of New York City  (probably too,  the particular grittiness of the New York subway system.)

I did not live down here on 9/11.   I did live in downtown Manhattan (but about thirty blocks from the World Trade Center rather than a couple.)   And I did run down here on that day to look for a daughter who was in school a couple blocks from the towers.

Even so, I have not earned the full extent of grim pride of the people in my building who lived here then.

I do understand it though.  And we, who did not live quite as close, but close enough, who smelled the smells, and breathed the dust, and watched the smoke, have some small share of it.

I would not call this pride a reason to live down here.   But there is some benefit of being near a place that reminds me, when I am obsessively worrying, whining, frustrated, that there was a day in which I swore, if I found my daughter safe, I’d never complain about anything again, that my lifetime watchword would be gratitude.

6.  Low Rent.  Compared to much of the rest of Manhattan at least.   For some reason.

Inspiring Evening – Obama, Jeter, Jobs

September 9, 2009

9/09/09

Inspiring day/inspiring evening:  Obama delivers great and moving speech about health care.  (I never wanted this blog to be political, but when I hear Obama speak I can’t help but be appreciative.  How did we get so lucky?)

Jeter ties Lou Gehrig’s seventy-year record for hits as a Yankee.   (I don’t know enough about sports to blog about them, but when I see Jeter at bat, I can’t help but be appreciative.  Hurray, New York!)

Even Apple had something to contribute, with Steve Jobs making an appearance at an Apple conference, gaunt after his recent liver transplant, but full of sober gratitude.

I’m not in any way comparing the impact or importance of these events.  But there was something tremendously satisfying, even thrilling, about watching the footage of each of them,  all on the same evening.  Three guys doing their jobs so very well, but also with a workmanlike humility (even Steve Jobs);  three guys waiting through standing ovations, clearly moved at moments, then simply pushing ahead.   (Obama was probably a bit less moved by the ovations than Jobs or Jeter, the standing of congressman a form of literal posturing. )

Jeter’s modesty was especially impressive as he arrived at first base and  immediately bent to take off his shin protector.  Then, he seemed to quietly thank Tampa’s first basemen (who must have congratulated him), and then he simply waited as the crowd roared, twice raising his helmet, gently licking his lips, for the game to go on.

Jobs actually spoke of games in his interview, describing one of the new iPods as a video game device.  (Agh.)

And Obama, thankfully, delivered an opposite message, that the games about health care must stop.  (Though I was happy to hear him say it, I won’t hold my breath.)

9/09/09

Final added note:  I really hope that the substance of Obama’s speech does not get drowned in endless media discussion concerning the rudeness of  Republican Joe Wilson.     Unfortunately, 0ne can already hear it becoming the diversionary topic of the hour (or many many of them).

Sticking To Villanelles (For Today) – How To Write Them

September 8, 2009

A lot of things seem to be a bit stuck right now (at least to me) or moving in molasses motion, i.e. health care reform, opposition to Obama’s verbal waylaying of U.S. school children (ridiculous!), even the ever reliable Derek Jeter.   People running in the Democratic primary in New York are calling me every other minute, and I can’t rouse the energy to even listen to their messages.  (Not even the one from Ed Koch!)

Yesterday, I promised to continue to blog about villanelles, but frankly, this stuckness made the prospect about such an arcane, “out-of-the-loop” subject seem trivial.   Surely, I thought, there had to be something more exciting I could come up with.

Then, I walked home past Ground Zero—I live in downtown Manhattan—through all the barricades that are already set up in preparation for Friday, stepping between the policemen, already manning those barricades, past the cranes and lights and dirt pit, and, suddenly, blogging about something as possibly boring as how to write a villanelle really didn’t seem so terrible to me.

I also believe in keeping promises.

So:

How to Write a Villanelle:

The most important tip I can give to anyone writing any formal verse is to feel free to cheat.  For example, if rhyme is required, don’t worry about not being able to come up with perfect ones.  Use “almost rhymes” or “slant rhymes”  (that is, “not quite rhymes”).  Besides giving you more words to choose from, this will keep the poem from being so sing-songy.

If repeated lines are called for, as in the case of the villanelle, don’t worry if you have to vary them a bit, that is, if your repeating lines don’t in fact exactly repeat.   Remember that meaning always trumps form.

It’s helpful to think of the form as a kind of a map, a means to music.  It’s useful to have all the streets laid out, but occasionally, when you want your poem to actually reach a destination, you have to cut through some back yards.

The only place where I think cheating can truly backfire is with rhythm.  Your lines don’t have to scan exactly, but if they are really off, the poem just won’t sound well.  Respecting rhythm does not mean that you have to be stick to iambic pentameter, but some attention to line length, numbers of feet or syllables, should be paid.

All that said, you can’t cheat till you know the rules.  Here are the basics:

A villanelle is a seven stanza poem, that works with rhyme, meter and repeated lines.  There are two lines that repeat through the poem;  they also rhyme with each other.  For notation purposes, I call the first repeated line “A1” (like the steak sauce) and the second repeated line “A2” (not to be confused with the Pakistani mountain).   (Under rules of poetic notation, these are both referred to as “A” lines because they rhyme with each other, the “A” rhyme.)

Other lines which rhyme with A1 and A2, but which are not the repeated lines, are denoted below as just plain “A”.

The remaining lines of the poem, which do not rhyme with the A lines, but which rhyme with each other, are denoted as “B”.

Here’s the basic form:

A1
B
A2

A
B
A1

A
B
A2

A
B
A1

A
B
A2

A
B
A1
A2

An “easy” way to remember the form is that the all the stanzas. except the last one, have three lines.  The first one begins with your A1 line and ends with your A2 line;  the next four stanzas are in a kind of order with the first ending with A1, the second A2, the next A1, the next A2 again.  (It’s sort of like shampooing your hair—”wash, rinse, repeat.”)  The B lines intersect each stanza (sort of like a basting stitch.)

The last stanza has four lines, ending with a couplet made up of A1 and A2.

It sounds a lot more complicated than it is.  As mentioned in yesterday’s blog re Villanelles and Banana Pudding, the great thing about writing a Villanelle is that you really don’t need to come up with all that many lines.  You do need to think through your repeating lines though—to make sure that they are flexible, and also that they work as a couplet.

Ideally, you also want the meaning of the repeated lines to shift as the poem progresses, and not to simply repeat in a rote manner.  You do not want the repetition to feel formulaic, but somehow illuminating.

Punctuation can help here—it can be useful, for example, for the repeated lines to sometimes feed directly into the following line or stanza and not to always end with the pause of period or comma.

And of course,  cheating can be invaluable.  Shifting the words slightly, for example, so that the lines sound almost the same, but are a teensy bit different, can help your poem actually mean something.

If this is your first villanelle, pick relatively easy rhymes.  I also find it useful to list on a separate page, all the A rhymes and B rhymes that I can think of before I move on too far with poem.  I make the list in a completely dumb way, writing down every single rhyme or near rhyme I can come up with, without regard to the poem’s subject, simply to accumulate choices.  This sounds very “unheartfelt”, but such lists can really open up your thinking, helping you to come up with much more creative and meaningful combinations than you otherwise would.

Which brings up a final point.  Yes, the form is constraining, but the constraints force you out of your typical ruts.  To write a villanelle (or any formal poem), you have to work with something other than your normal brain patterns.   This seems, to me at least (Manic-D-Daily)  invaluable.)

Here’s another one of mine:

Burned Soldier (A Mask For Face)

He tried to smile but found that skin would balk;
a mask for face was not what he had planned.
Right action should give rise to right result,

saving the day as it called on God to halt
all burn and bite of bomb as if by wand;
he tried to smile but found that skin would balk.

When they talked of graft, he always thought of molt,
as if his flesh held feathers that could span
right action, then give rise to right result—

cheeks that were smooth but rough, but loose but taut—
it all had been so easy as a man.
He tried to smile but found that skin would balk.

Hate helped at times; to think it was their fault.
But how could “they” be numbered? Like grains of sand,
like actions that give rise to like result,

like eyes that fit in lids not white as salt.
This lead white face was not what he had planned.
He tried to smile but found that skin would balk;
right action should give rise to right result.

(All rights reserved, Karin Gustafson)

Villanelles – Banana Pudding

September 7, 2009

I love formal poetry, particularly villanelles.  I will write about the exact form (a traditionally French embrace of repeating lines and rhymes) tomorrow.  (I hope.)

Today, I’ll just say that the form itself generally ensures a villanelle a certain amount of built-in music and irony.

The form is a bit complicated, however.   So getting your villanelle to more or less follow the rules, and also to make sense, is often about all you can hope for. Profundity must be left to the sidelines. (Traditionally French, remember?)

My view is, well, who really cares that much about profundity when you’ve got built-in music and irony? (I don’t. But remember that I’m also someone who has spent a not insignificant amount of time blogging about Robert Pattinson.  See e.g. posts re same. )

Another reason I like writing villanelles (besides their music) is that I am fundamentally (or perhaps I should just say, mentally) lazy. This makes a villanelle kind of perfect for me because (a) as mentioned above, profundity is often left at the sidelines, and (b) the whole poem revolves around two repeating lines.  Which means that once you get your repeating lines right, you don’t have to come up with all that much else.

The poem also involves only two different sets of rhymes: the rhyme of your repeating lines and the rhyme for the intersecting lines.   This limited rhyme scheme definitely narrows your options, a great benefit for someone like me:  a narrowed field of choices means fewer places to get lost, side-tracked.

As I was thinking about all this on the subway this morning (hungry),  I realized that the seeming complexity (but actual simplicity) of the villanelle is very much like Magnolia Bakery’s Banana Pudding.

Although the dessert, a layered concoction of creamy custard, banana slices, vanilla wafers, and whipped cream, seems very elaborate, it is in fact made with a relatively small number of ingredients, several of which are prepackaged (as in the vanilla wafers and the bananas).  What the recipe does require, however, is planning;  i.e. your pudding needs time to set, your bananas must be more or less uniformly sliced (and not too soon before assembly); your cream whipped, your wafers unboxed.  Without that planning, the whole concoction is flat, runny.

Which is amazingly like writing a villanelle.  Because you really do need to spend a bit of time getting your repeating lines right, and choosing flexible rhymes. Otherwise it will just collapse.

But once you have your base ingredients ready, the assembly is really quite fun.

Unfortunately, villanelles, like many poetic forms, seem to have fallen from fashion in modern poetry. (I’m guessing it’s the whole profundity thing.) Some critics might even say that villanelles, like Banana Pudding, are essentially a Trifle. (As in an English confection of sherry-soaked cake, fruit, custard, cream.)

All I can say is that Trifle, like Banana Pudding, is pretty terrific stuff.

*                   *                   *

Despite the similarities to Banana Pudding, most of my villanelles are not particularly light and fluffy. As a result, I am re-posting one that I posted several weeks ago simply because it is one of my more cheerful, and suits the end of summer. I’ll put some different ones up later in the week.

The two repeating lines are “our palms grew pale as paws in northern climes” and “in summers past, how brightly water shines.”  Rhymes are based on climes/shines and skin.


Swimming in Summer


Our palms grew pale as paws in northern climes
as water soaked right through our outer skin.
In summers past, how brightly water shines,

its surface sparked by countless solar mimes,
an aurora only fragmented by limb.
Our palms grew pale as paws in northern climes

as we played hide and seek with sunken dimes,
diving beneath the waves of echoed din;
in summers past, how brightly water shines.

My mother sat at poolside with the Times’
Sunday magazine; I swam by her shin,
my palms as pale as paws in northern climes,

sculpting her ivory leg, the only signs
of life the hair strands barely there, so prim
in summers past. How brightly water shines

in that lost pool; and all that filled our minds
frozen now, the glimmer petrified within
palms grown pale as paws in northern climes.
In summers past, how brightly water shines.

Copyright 2008, Karin Gustafson, All rights reserved.

If you like elephants swimming, please check out 1 Mississippi at the link above or on Amazon.

For more on Villanelles and how to write them, click here.

For Labor Day Weekend – Busy

September 4, 2009

Years ago, I was lucky enough to do field work in India studying Indian trade unions.   (More about that some other time.)   This is a poem about a wonderful trade union leader, who very kindly took me under his wing, allowing me to travel with him to various union headquarters around the state of Gujerat.

Have I learned anything?

Ah this is better.
This is sitting down.
This is getting some tea.
This is biting into an orange peel, just slightly, before peeling.
This is biting into the orange.
I think about the labor leader I knew in Ahmadabad.
How they would bring him his coffee
in the morning, me my tea.
He had given up tea, he said,
when Gandhi said to, and ever since,
taking a hot slurp,
he had never drunk it.
Because of the British.

In the same way, in the car,
he took out all his toiletries, one by one, handing
them to me for examination:
a small soap still wrapped in its green labeled paper,
collected from an Indian hotel,
his razor, his comb—he combed
his close cropped hair before handing it to me as if
to show its use—a small towel–
he really didn’t have very much–a small
scissors.  His feet were up
on the seat.  Now
he brought one to his knee, shifting
his white cloth dhoti, and
clipped the toe nails quickly, first
one foot then the other.
He collected as he clipped
the small white crusts of nail, then
opened the window a bit wider
to toss them out.

“You see how I am always busy,” he said.  “Never
a moment idle, wasted.  I am busy all the time,
you see how I am doing it.”
He took the toiletries back from me.

I finish my breakfast slowly,
just sitting.

(For a different side of Labor Day weekend, i.e. the very sad end of vacation side, check out the Last Voyage of the Summer, below.   And, as always, check out 1 Mississippi (Karin Gustafson) at link above.)

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Have I learned anything?

Ah this is better.

This is sitting down.

This is getting some tea.

This is biting into an orange peel, just slightly, before peeling.

This is biting into the orange.

I think about the labor leader I knew in Ahmadabad.

How they would bring him his coffee

in the morning, me my tea.

He had given up tea, he said,

when Gandhi said to, and ever since,

taking a hot slurp,

he had never drunk it.

Because of the British.

In the same way, in the car,

he took out all his toiletries, one by one, handing

them to me for examination:

a small soap still wrapped in its green labeled paper,

collected from an Indian hotel,

his razor, his comb—he combed

his close cropped hair before handing it to me as if

to show its use—a small towel–

he really didn’t have very much–a small

scissors. His feet were up

on the seat. Now

he brought one to his knee, shifting

his white cloth dhoti, and

clipped the toe nails quickly, first

one foot then the other.

He collected as he clipped

the small white crusts of nail, then

opened the window a bit wider

to toss them out.

“You see how I am always busy,” he said. “Never

a moment idle, wasted. I am busy all the time,

you see

how I am doing it.”

He took the toiletries back from me.

I finish my breakfast slowly,

just sitting.

Faulkner Letter

September 1, 2009

I had the rare privilege yesterday of holding very very gently in my own hands an original letter from William Faulkner.

Email is a wonderful tool.  It does not require you to remember to buy stamps, or, once you’ve finally bought the stamps, to remember where you stashed them, or once you’ve actually stamped the envelope, to make sure it’s slid into a mailbox before the end of the next calendar year.

But it can’t be touched.  You can’t press the paper to your lips or heart or nose or wave it by your ear.

Even if you do print it out, the paper is fresh, unruffled.  (Unless you’re one of those people, like me, who forgets to buy computer paper as well as stamps, and ends up printing on old slightly rumpled sheets salvaged from the bottom of a bookshelf.)

There is a magic, a wonder, that embues an original letter (even if sent from a less stellar correspondent than Faulkner).  This magic derives not only from the fact that you, the recipient, can touch it, but (perhaps more importantly) that the sender has touched it.  That the sender has actually handled it quite a bit, typed, perused, folded, enveloped it; that this same letter then traveled miles and miles jostling about with thousands of other completely separate but similarly handled missives.  (A wondrous magic, that is, unless the sender happens to be the IRS.  I got one of those yesterday too, and the magic was noticeably less palpable.)

I think suddenly about a recent highly publicized study, by Yuegang Zuo of the University of Massachusetts Dartmouth, that found that approximately 95% of U.S. currency bears traces of cocaine.  Apparently, the contamination is so widespread because the fine powder is easily dispersed by sorting machines.   Most bills—the ones that collected the drug through sorting—have very low levels of contamination, but some show a high concentration;  Zuo posits that these are bills that were actually handled with the drug in some way;  currency to which the drug stuck even after many sortings.

Then I think of the letter again, the fact that it had once been held in Faulkner’s hands, the same hands that typed out The Sound and the Fury, and Light in August, and Absolom Absolom!.…  I’m suddenly certain that there must be Bill’s DNA all over the page (William Faulkner’s DNA!), and frankly, I’m glad I didn’t think of this at the time, or I might have leaned down and licked it.

Ah.

Ted Kennedy and My Grandmother Pearl

August 31, 2009

Thinking about Ted Kennedy again this morning after watching Obama’s eulogy.  Sorry, if this seems belated.  I don’t watch t.v., so missed what I’m guessing was wall-to-wall coverage.  (I wasn’t even online much this weekend, due to a stay in a house without internet access.)

But I’ve felt bad that my earlier post re Kennedy focused so much on my childhood feelings about his brothers’ deaths, and so little on Teddy himself.  (There was something awfully narcissistic about that—sorry!)   Seeing/ hearing Obama’s eulogy made me want to write more.

First, about Obama himself.  He really is such a graceful wonderful speaker.  I’m sure he has assistance writing speeches; yet, one also feels that most of the words are his own.  I, at least, am continually amazed by the breadth and maturity of his vision, by the genuine quality of his compassion, by the subtlety of his understanding, all of which he can actually express.  I don’t quite understand how we got lucky enough to have someone like him as President.  I pray everyday that he’ll be kept safe.

As for Teddy:  I was a child, at least on my mother’s side, of New Deal democrats.  FDR was spoken of in hushed tones.  Even the murmur of his initials seemed to express the phrase: “and there was a man.”

When JFK was inaugurated, my maternal grandmother, Pearl, (who, as a mother during the Depression, was probably the main FDR worshipper) was visiting us in Washington, D.C.  Although in her 70s, she got up very very early to shovel snow, determined that we’d get to the inauguration.  Later that morning, my metal chair at the Mall was frozen solid.  That’s all I really remember of the ceremony in fact; the icy silvery chair that my thick tights half-stuck to as I tried to scoot to some warmth.

Given all of that, I could not help but like Teddy’s politics.  (I really really loved my grandmother, see e.g. post re elegy.)  (This is, weirdly enough, partly why I named my dog after her, see e.g. post re Robert Pattinson and my dog, Pearl.)

But I also admired Teddy’s resilience, his plodding, legislative, energy.  As a parent, especially a more or less single parent, you really do learn that the devil is in the details.  There is much in the parenting life that is grand and exciting, public and acclaimed (let’s say, your child graduating from college), but very very much that is not grand, far less public, and not much acclaimed (let’s say, making the dentist appointments in the face of resistant schedules, re-reading the problematic English paper, sending the right shoe that got left at home, making sure that the health insurance coverage forms are properly filed. ) (As kids reach college age, this usually means filing all forms at least twice.)  You can’t help but feel that Teddy, as a dogged senator, did a lot of the day-to day shoe-sending, and virtually all of the filing of the health insurance forms.  (Okay, he had a great staff.  Still, he hired them.  And his was the voice on the phone.)

Of course, one admires his strength through all the tragedies life forced on him.  But you also have to admire his strength in the face of those he sort of courted.  Yes, again he had the help of his staff, and wealth, and alcohol, and finally, a really terrific wife.  But still, he kept on, genuinely trying to help people, to push policies that he thought would help.

My grandmother would have approved.

Subway Blog – Autopilot

August 27, 2009

Late late late.  In this case for someone who has come to a meeting at my office forty minutes early and called me at home wondering where I am.  Not entirely my fault.  Still bad feelings coat stomach.  Pace platform.

Where I find that the expensive purse which I bought in a trance last night in a shop in Grand Central really is too big, too heavy, to be truly comfortable.    Yes, the price was slashed by 70%.  (The store has been closing for weeks, and was down to the wire.)  Even reduced, it is the most expensive purse I’ve ever bought, and I’m not even someone who cares about nice leather.  I’m vegetarian for God’s sake!

When finally on train, I sit across from a pale, but slightly red-faced, man who wears round tortoise shell glasses, a pin-stripe shirt, a careful, if curly comb-over, and thick suede hiking boots.  He  seems to be talking occasionally, gesticulating, not wildly, but in the mild considered way of someone wearing a headset, only we are on a moving train and his ears are clear.

I can’t stop myself from meeting his eyes repeatedly, though they have a slightly fishy blankness (mixed with intensity) which tells me I shouldn’t.

Late late late.  Why did I wash hair that was washed last night?   And then I had to rinse it repeatedly because I was hurrying so much I first started drying strands still sticky with shampoo.

Ate swiss muesli too (something which should never be eaten fast) with guzzling speed.

I regret that speedy muesli now as the train chugs along and I catch the eye again of the round-glassed, slightly muttering man who suddenly looks genuinely sad.  His expression makes me feel somehow sick again, beyond the lateness sickness and the muesli sickness;  I wonder what has happened to him.

Or maybe, I think suddenly, in my wishful vegetarian blogger way, he’s just reciting poetry to himself.  What with the round tortoise shell glasses.  He has an umbrella too, on his lap, one with a wooden handle which means it was probably not bought on the street in a storm.  It could be the umbrella of someone who recites poetry to themselves.

But his mutters do not have the consistency of line for poems.  And, in addition, to the flickers of sadness, there is a strong cast of resentment around his mouth.  The only poet I can think of at that moment who is resentful is Bob Dylan, and the guy across from me is definitely not singing.    Though he does flick his fingers repeatedly.  Still, no.

Oh-oh.  I think he just said “swine”.  Twice.

I try to look away.

But the autopilot mania of my lateness, my prospective workday, my morning fatigue, and the rushed muesli, makes it really hard.

I force my eyes to the hand resting on the round purple tummy of the girl right next to me, pregnant, ruffly-bloused, whose long-lashed eyes are closed.  I strive for a bit of her calm.

But striving and calm don’t mix all that well, and the guy across from me says something a bit louder now, over the sound of the train tracks.  I look up;  this time he stares right at me.

Oh the New York City subway system.

Now we stop.  Train traffic ahead.

Right next to my guy sits a blonde woman writing hurriedly on a pad with lots of pastel pages.  She seems happy, animated;  her ears do wear earphones, she sometimes twitches with rhythm, energy.  I wonder immediately if she’s writing a blog and imagine it to be a funny one. .

Then my guy, the one I’m trying not to look at it, suddenly punches the air, each elbow at a sharp right angle, as he hits the space before him.

No one else seems to notice.  And I force myself to look away.  Punching’s a bit much.  Stare instead at the black-bordered screen of the guy beside me.  He watches it intently, his thumbs on dials.  It looks like there is a animated woman in a noose on the screen.

When I get off, I walk fast.

(The above post is part of a continuing series about stress.  See e.g. “From Rat Race to Rat Rut” and any post mentioning Robert Pattinson.)

If you want something unstressful to read to kids on subway, check out 1 Mississippi, (Karin Gustafson) at link above, or on Amazon.

Sorry- re Kennedy post – fixed now

August 26, 2009

To any of you who checked out my post re Ted Kennedy and JFK and Bobby earlier this evening–sorry!  I’m not that great at understanding the intricacies of wordpress editing and sometimes the wrong draft gets uploaded.  It has to do with issues related to saving and publishing drafts, especially in the evening, a busy computer time.   It also probably has something to do with my overactive trigger finger.  (I don’t call myself  Manic-D-Daily for nothing.)

At any rate, I’ve corrected weird inserts in sentences now.   They’re weren’t actually so many, but maybe enough to confuse.  Please check out below.

Agh.