Just Feel Better

Today I had a very bad day. A very "I'm-feeling-pretty-goddamned-unappreciated-Al" kind of day. And I know -- I know -- the dangers of ranting about one's work situation on the internet, so I will forgoe. But. I. Am. So. NOT. Happy.

But.

It's amazing what a hot bath and cool music can do to improve one's mood. This song... God, this song is exactly... *Exactly* ... how I feel today.

Just Feel Better
(featuring Steven Tyler)

She said I feel stranded
And I can't tell anymore
If I'm coming or I'm going
It's not how I planned it
I've got a key to the door
But it just won't open

And I know, I know, I know
Part of me says let it go
That life happens for a reason
I don't, I don't, I don't
Because it never worked before
But this time, this time

I'm gonna try anything to just feel better
Tell me what to do
You know I can't see through the haze around me
And I do anything to just feel better

And I can't find my way
Girl I need a change
And I do anything to just feel better
Any little thing that just feel better

She said I need you to hold me
I'm a little far from the shore
And I'm afraid of sinking
You're the only one who knows me
And who doesn't ignore
That my soul is weeping

I know, I know, I know
Part of me says let it go
Everything must have a season
Round and round it goes
And every day's the one before
But this time, this time

I'm gonna try anything that just feels better
Tell me what to do
You know I can't see through the haze around me
And I do anything to just feel better

I can't find my way
God I need a change
And I'd do anything to just feel better
Any little thing that just feel better

I'm tired of holding on
To all the things I ought to leave behind, yeah
It's really getting old, and
I think I need a little help this time!

Yeah

[Guitar solo]

I'm gonna try anything to just feel better
Tell me what to do
You know I can't see through the haze around me
And I do anything to just feel better

And I can't find my way
God I need a change
And I do anything to just feel better
Any little thing that just feel better

I Wish I Had a River

River
by Joni Mitchell

It's coming on Christmas
They're cutting down trees
They're putting up reindeer
And singing songs of joy and peace
Oh I wish I had a river I could skate away on

But it don't snow here
It stays pretty green
I'm going to make a lot of money
Then I'm going to quit this crazy scene
Oh I wish I had a river I could skate away on

I wish I had a river so long
I would teach my feet to fly
I wish I had a river I could skate away on
I made my baby cry

He tried hard to help me
You know, he put me at ease
And he loved me so naughty
Made me weak in the knees
Oh, I wish I had a river I could skate away on

I'm so hard to handle
I'm selfish and I'm sad
Now I've gone and lost the best baby
That I ever had
I wish I had a river I could skate away on

Oh, I wish I had a river so long
I would teach my feet to fly
I wish I had a river
I could skate away on
I made my baby say goodbye

It's coming on Christmas
They're cutting down trees
They're putting up reindeer
And singing songs of joy and peace
I wish I had a river I could skate away on

Waiting for Waiting For Godot

Waiting For Godot is one of those plays I've always heard about but have never seen performed. I haven't read it either. All I know is that it's about two guys sitting around waiting for this person named "Godot" who never shows up. It's one long conversation about, well, life, the universe, and everything, from what I can gather. And there's this kind of play on the name "Godot" -- God, Godot -- get it? So. Very philosophical, very neat stuff. When it first hit the stage, people loved it. People hated it. People reacted. So when it turned up on my Artsopolis eSavers email, I had to go, didn't I. Plus, I thought it would be fun to take my son. I bought the tickets online, printed out the directions to this place I never heard of, and out into the dark we went.

It was a dark and stormy night. (No, really!) Could that have been the reason for my disorientation? It contributed to it, anyway. That and the flipping lousy directions. I'm telling you, people can't give decent directions, let alone a machine. Mapquest be damned. I don't know who's to blame -- Artsopolis, the Santa Clara Players, or Mapquest -- but I drove around in circles for an hour before I found the place. Sort of found the place. What I found was the Triton Museum of Art. The play was supposedly being held at the grandly titled "Triton Pavilion." My son and I walked around the grounds for 20 minutes before finally giving up and crashing what was an obviously high society party at the museum. Did anyone know where the so-called "Pavilion" was? Staff directed us out back.

There, across the dimly lit grounds, with little more than a hedgerow path to guide us, was the "pavilion" -- a set of squat hexagonal-shaped buildings more akin to an outhouse. And sure enough, posted there next to the door, was a sign the size of a postage stamp declaring the performance of Waiting For Godot. The play was already in progress. We were an hour and a half late.

Then, before I could even say a word, this ancient woman who could have passed for one of The Furies herself descended upon us and said, "You can't go in there! The play is already in progress!"

That, my friends, was the proverbial last straw. I lit into her and told her what I thought of the so-called directions available through their website. I also asked for my money back. She couldn't help me. The ticket guy had already packed up and gone home. So I grumbled, as I exited stage left, that I would be writing a letter of complaint. (Eventually, I will).

We went to a movie instead.

The irony of this whole experience is not lost on me, however; you see, I'm still waiting for Waiting For Godot.

Gypsy Soul

Great, great band. I'm so glad I got the chance to see them perform. (Thanks, Guy!)

Who?
By Cilette Swann and Roman Morykit

Who will speak in my absence?
Who will stand in my place?
Will you rejoice in the life that I've led?
Who will I inspire along the way?

Who will sing at my passing?
Who will dance upon my grave?
For whom will I be a lasting memory?
For whom will I easily fade?

[chorus]
Do I give enough?
Do I love enough?
Do I live enough?
Did I ever give up on
Anyone I shouldn't have?

Do I risk enough?
Do I forgive enough?
Do I trust enough?
Am I good enough?

Who will wake from this slumber?
Who will share in the faith
That we are the sum of the choices we make?
We cannot lay down at the mercy of fate.

Mammorama

Well, after years of avoidance, I finally went through with it. I had a mammogram. You see, my plan was, if I waited long enough, the technology would advance to the point where the experience wouldn't be nearly as uncomfortable as the stories made it out to be. And believe me, there are stories. Women talk.

So, okay, I'm beginning my fourth decade. There's no going back. A woman's gotta do what she's gotta do. I braced myself for the worst.

The nurse led me into a small room with a machine that really did look like something out of a science fiction movie. This thing looked like it could flat iron my hair, transport me to Venus, and tell me the time when I got there. The nurse said to me, "Just pretend you're a model and we're going to take some pictures." The nurse, who was maybe a little over half my height, took another look (up) at me and said, "You really could have been a model." (It was the "could have been" that tweaked me just a bit).

I've noticed something about nurses (in my vast experience of about three or four trips to the hospital in my lifetime), especially the older ones. They develop their own style, their own little catch phrases for putting patients at ease. I'll never forget that one nurse I had when I was in labor with my son. "Just stay loose as a goose, loose as a goose." For an hour she said this. I was ready to knock her "loose as a goose" at that point. Thank God she went off shift. I was in labor for 20 hours and I don't think I could have handled it. Twenty hours of labor is one thing; twenty hours of "loose as a goose" and one might be capable of murder.

So, anyway, this nurse, the one who was giving me my mammogram, says to me that a lot of women are nervous when they come in, so she handles it like a photo shoot to make them relax. And you know, she wasn't far from the truth. Because it was "lay your arm here" and "turn your head this way" and "lean in" and "imagine you're Cleopatra." It did indeed feel just as awkward as a professional photo shoot. (You know the ones where you think "This is either going to look really weird or really spectacular." And then you see the picture later and it either looks really weird or really spectacular.) Perhaps the only difference was when she asked me if she was hurting me. Photographers would never ask that question. Beauty knows no pain.

It wasn't that bad, really. It was a bit of a squeeze and there were moments of discomfort, but it didn't last that long to be truly terrible. I'm not saying I'd rush out to do it again tomorrow, but maybe it won't take me a decade to get there next time around.

All that Glitters is not Golden

There is much that this movie gets right.

First, it is superbly cast: Dakota Blue Richards is an absolutely winning creature and the rest of the supporting cast were perfectly suited for their roles, especially Sam Elliot as the aeronaut Lee Scoresby (Elliot--like Alan Rickman as Snape in Harry Potter--I had pegged for the role as soon as I read the books. I love it when I'm right). Nicole Kidman as Mrs. Coulter is deliciously evil: you will love to hate her. (She hasn't had the opportunity to display such whiplash changes between sweetness and cruelty since To Die For). I am curious and mildly concerned about Daniel Craig as Lord Asriel. The film version is painting his character a little too admirably. In the books, he is just as despicable in his own way as Mrs. Coulter. It will be interesting to see how they handle things in the next film which, if they follow the books, will have to begin with his committing a very shocking murder.

The special effects are brilliant. The technology and gadgets of this alternative world are a delight to behold, and the costumes and decor are a sumptuous feast for the eyes. The fantasy creatures--both the whimsical and enigmatic daemons and the fearsome Ice Bears--are engaging.

The plot follows that of the book with a fair amount of accuracy, cutting a few corners where a film must, but reasonably so.

What disappointed me was the dialogue, so clunky it fell on my ears with a leaden thud. How many times do we have to hear that Lyra is "special", that there are mysterious "prophesies" about her? We can see that she is special easily enough, and as for the prophesies, mention them once and be done. Similarly, the "specialness" of the golden compass was harped on so continually it became tinny and redundant. "This is the golden compass: it tells the truth"; "This is the golden compass: you use it to see things." Enough! We can see what it does plainly enough when she uses it. There were too many trite, banal, and cliche lines to count. This script was desperately in need of a script doctor (or a script nurse at the very least, as Carrie Fisher would say).

I hope that the next two films will be better. Enough critics have commented on the problem that I hope they will take steps to make improvements. I will watch the films nonetheless; there is so much more to look forward to.

p.s. I am also tired of hearing the rabid Christians on the Internet harp on and on about the controversial "killing God" scene (which isn't going to happen until the third movie anyway). Saying Lyra goes a quest to "Kill God" is like saying Dorothy in the Wizard of Oz goes on a quest to kill the Wicked Witch. It's completely circumstantial. The thing that bothers me the most is how they are circulating emails (I just received one today) encouraging people to ban the movie (and the books) and protect their kids from "killing God in their hearts." First off, the movie is just a piece of Hollywood fluff and isn't enough to convince anybody to kill anything. Secondly, kids today either don't care or are intelligent enough to draw their own conclusions. Thirdly... ah, just read the damn books before jumping to inane conclusions and quit yer whinging.

Tori! Tori! Tori!

Tori Amos

Paramount Theatre

Oakland, CA

8 pm

Me and tori, well, we're like *this.* We go way back, She and I.

Even if I only managed to get balcony seats--there's really no bad seat in that house--even so, She still sings "Hey Jupiter" just for me.

Yeah.

Space... The Unattainable Frontier?

First, De Anza College has a New Planetarium! They have some really neat shows scheduled, so check it out.

I took my son and a friend to see a show there, and it really was worth the experience. It has been years since I've sat in a Planetarium and stared up at a starry dome, taking a mindtrip across the universe; I'd forgotten how much fun it is.

However, our host said something that left me feeling kind of disturbed and restless. He said, "This is probably the closest I'll get to experiencing actual space travel." Sadly, I couldn't help but agree with him.

Do you remember how bright and shiny the year 2000 looked from the 70s and 80s? We were going to have flying cars and space stations and trips to the Moon and maybe even a colony on Mars. I thought that even if I wasn't an astronaut I might at least get a trip into space in my lifetime.

What happened to that bright future? Who stole our Science Fiction Age?

I want to go. Oh, I do.

Live from San Francisco

O Joyous Night!

Samba Da and Ozomatli on stage at the Filmore: So Sexy and So Fun! I felt the earth move, baby. They do things with them bongos that I just gotta learn how to do.

This must be a small taste of what Carnival in New Orleans or Rio must be like. If you get the chance to see either of these bands, don't hesitate, just go. You'll have the time of your life. I did.

(Thanks, Isabel! And Thank You, KFOG, for giving her the winning tickets!)

Enchanted

This movie is just too funny. When I saw the first previews, I was skeptical. I thought, "Disney's cashing in on another princess." But no. Okay, maybe that, too. But the thing is, this really is a good movie. It's clever, and it's funny, and dang it if I don't still have the tunes running through my head. Plus I'm a sucker for a good fantasy, and this one delivers. Delightfully. In a frothy, musically, Disney-ish kind of way.

It is not, however, very scary. I am reminded of what a scholar I met in Europe this summer said regarding fairy tales. He said, "Danger without death is not a fairy tale." Think about it: All the really good fairy tales have death. So I am sorry to say--since I love Susan Sarandon in just about everything she's done--as the wicket queen, she never acheives anything above mild menace, even when she turns into a dragon. But perhaps this is just the perspective of a 40-year-old. If I was six I might have a different opinion.

Another thing I found mildly dispossessing was how the movie undercuts its own theme. It presents the idea--very cleverly, I thought--that maybe it might be a good idea if the prince and princess go on a real date before rushing into marraige--"you know, go someplace nice, like dinner, or a museum, or a movie, and talk about your interests, your likes and dislikes." But in the end (and I don't think I'm spoiling anything here because, after all, it is a Disney movie) the princess falls for main man Patrick Dempsey after knowing him only a brief period of time. So its counter-theme is, hard as we try to be reasonable creatures, ultimately we humans are ruled by our hearts.

Antidote for Disappointment

"Try to learn to breathe deeply, really to taste food when you eat, and when you sleep, really to sleep. Try as much as possible to be wholly alive, with all your might, and when you laugh, laugh like hell, and when you get angry, get good and angry. Try to be alive. You will be dead soon enough."


~William Saroyan, "Advice to a Young Writer"

Disappointment

"The question is, does California have anything left to say to America, or to the world, or even to itself, beyond disappointment? [...]

"Americans feel disappointment so keenly because our optimism is so large and is so often insisted upon by historians. And so often justified by history. The stock market measures optimism. If you don't feel optimistic, there must by something wrong with you. There are pills for disappointment. [...]

"What is obsolete now in California is the future. For a century and a half Americans spoke of California as the future when they wanted to escape inevitability. Now the future attaches consequences and promises constriction. Technocrats in Sacramento warn of a future that is overwhelmed by students, pollution, immigrants, cars, fluorocarbons, old people. Or the future is diminished--water quality, soil quality, air quality, education quality, highway quality, life quality. There are not enough doctors for the state's emergency rooms, not enough blue parking spaces outside, not enough oil, not enough natural gas, not enough electricity. More blackouts, more brownouts, too many air conditioners, too few houses, frogs on the verge of extinction, a fugitive middle class. A state without a white center. To the rest of the nation California now represents what the a nation fears to become."

~Richard Rodriguez, "Disappointment" from California

Island of No Return

Umberto Eco's Island of the Day Before has a fascinating premise, but it takes entirely too long to execute it, if it can be said that it comes to any conclusion at all. I was listening to this book on tape, and not even the sonorous tones of Tim Curry could rescue this tome from oblivion.

There are several fascinating elements to this story, not the least of which is the international race to find the "secrets of longitude." The trouble is, I kept waiting for some kind of payoff, some clue regarding the actual historical discovery. But that never happened because the whole of the story is set on a ship forever trapped off the shore of an imaginary island. Most of the plot is presented in flashbacks or through the intervention of an semi-omnipotent narrator, an unnamed scholar who has stumbled upon the protagonist Roberto's papers. Roberto is an unreliable narrator because he is gradually going mad, and is of questionable sanity to begin with. The scholar, although presenting himself as an authority, invites the reader's disbelief in what is sheer speculation on his part. The layers of narration, the impossibility of the island, and the hallucinatory blurring of the line between reality and dream, sanity and madness, leaves the entire novel feeling more like a creative writing exercise than anything else.

However, as a friend of mine is fond of saying, "If you can't understand it and nothing ever happens, it's probably Literature."

So Much Better

Elton dancing to ELO's "Mr. Blue Sky"

"So there you go--turns out I've had the most terrible things happen. And the most brilliant things. Sometimes, well, I can't tell the difference. They're all the same thing--they're just . . . me.

"You know Stephen King said once, he said, 'Salvation and damnation are the same thing,' and I never knew what he meant. But I do now. [...]

"But the thing is [...] what I wanted to say is . . . you know when you're a kid they tell you it's all grow up, get a job, get married, get a house, have a kid, and that's it.

"No . . . But truth is, the world is so much stranger than that. It's so much darker, and so much madder . . .

"And so much better."

~Elton Pope, Doctor Who, Second Season, "Love and Monsters"

Shine

Shine It All Around
~Robert Plant


This is the land where I live
Paint it all over golden
Take a little sunshine spread it all around
This is the love that I give
These are the arms for the holding
Turn on your love light shine it all around

Shine it all around, shine it all around
These are the times of my life
Bright and strong and golden
This is the way that I choose when the deal goes down
This is the world that I love

Painted all over troubled
Take a little sunshine shine it all around
End a little sign now, spread it all around now
Shine it all around now, when the deal goes down now
Shine it all around, Shine it all around

This is the heart of the man
This is the heart of the matter
Break a little bread now spread it all around
Break little bread now, all around
Shine it all around, shine it all around

Now I will believe...

I met a man in San Francisco. He told me a story, and like all the best stories, it is true.

Last Christmas Eve, he went to the Post Office and selected a Dear Santa letter to answer. It was an incredibly sad letter--two kids, single mom, desperately poor, no power, and no hope of celebrating anything.

So he went to the toy store just before closing time and bought every toy he could lay his hands on. Then he mapped out the address and followed it out to a remote location. And at the end of a long dirt road he found a shabby trailer. No power, just as the kids had said. When the mom answered his knock, he said, "Hi, I'm Santa Claus." She burst into tears. He gave the kids the toys, and he gave her everything he had left in his wallet, about $50. He said he wished he could have given her more, but it was all that he had.

Bless you, Francisco, wherever you are.

Take back the world. Give more.

A dream of human decency

from the Afterword

"...and I want you all to remember -- that you must not dream yourselves back to the times before the war, but the dream for you all, young and old, must be to create an ideal of human decency, and not a narrow-minded and prejudiced one. That is the great gift our country hungers for, something every little peasant boy can look forward to, and with pleasure feel he is a part of -- something he can work and fight for."

~Kim Malthe-Bruun, resistance leader, age 21, on the night before his execution, Denmark, c. 1943.

Ashes to Ashes

"And how can man die better

Than facing fearful odds,

For the ashes of his fathers,

And the temples of his gods."

~Doctor Who, Second Season, "The Impossible Planet"

from "Horatius" by Thomas Babbington Macaulay

Kindle Me This

Going Digital

The theory class I'm a GA for had a guest speaker today--a professor who spoke on the topic of "digital theory." Imagine that. Digital theory. She's building a project around how the English language is changing in relation to technology. How we use language and our perception of the "Book" is changing rapidly due to our use of text messages, email, and online media. An interesting point, though, is that even though our perception of these things change, these older forms are still with us. The scroll did not go away with the invention of the codex; the hardbound book did not go away with the invention of the dimestore paperback. And the codex will not go away with the invention of the computer. In a way, we've come full circle: how often do we think of how our ancestors may have read scrolls when we're scrolling down a webpage?

To me, there will always be a tactile pleasure from curling up with a good book that simply could not be replaced by a computer (or even one of those little electronic book readers). But the digital world is here, and there's no going back now.

Baptism by Sand and Fire

It's been about two months since Isabel and I went to Burning Man. Sorry it's taken me so long to post pictures. Just to give you a little taste...

This is what happens outside of a tent during a sandstorm...

This is what the inside of a tent looks like after a sandstorm...

This is what happens outside of a tent after a sandstorm...

This is what happens at night...

More later...

Keep my mind from constant turning...

Darkness, Darkness
~Robert Plant
(songwriter: Jesse Colin Young)

Darkness, Darkness, be my pillow,

Take my head and let me sleep
In the coolness of your shadow,

In the silence of your deep
Darkness, darkness, hide my yearning,

For the things I cannot see
Keep my mind from constant turning,

To the things I cannot be
Darkness, darkness, be my blanket,

cover me with the endless night
Take away the pain of knowing,

fill the emptiness with light
Emptiness with light now

Darkness, darkness, long and lonesome,

Is the day that brings me here
I have felt the edge of sadness,

I have known the depths of fear
Darkness, darkness, be my blanket,

Cover me with the endless night
Take away this pain of knowing,

Fill this emptiness with light now
Emptiness with light now

Darkness, darkness, be my blanket,

cover me with the endless night
Take away this pain of knowing,

fill this emptiness with light now
Oh with light now.
Darkness, Darkness, be my pillow,

Take my head and let me sleep
In the coolness of your shadow,

In the silence of your deep
In the silence of your deep
In the - oh oh yeah
In the summer baby
come on come on come on baby...

I can't take that 9-to-5 life...

The Wanderer

~Donna Summer

Woke up this morning
Dragged myself across the bed
Alice went to wonderland
But I stayed home instead
I started feeling bad
’cause I was left behind
’cause I’m a wanderer
Oh yes, I’m a wanderer

She climbed right through the mirror
Oh that really blew my mind
I think I’ll follow through her rhythm
And her rhyme
I know I’m ready now
It’s just a little time
’cause I’m a wanderer
I’m a wanderer

’cause I’m a wanderer
I travel every place
’cause I’m a wanderer
From here to outer space
’cause I’m a wanderer
Got no time
’cause I’m a wanderer
Just a wanderer

Slipped down the back stair
On my toes
Then out the door
They didn’t hear
Now they won’t
See me anymore
’cause I’m can’t take
That nine-to-five life
It’s a bore
’cause I’m a wanderer
Just a wanderer

And so it’s up and out
And on and off the road
Won’t have no troubles
’cause the whole world
Is my home
No need to worry
’cause I seldom am alone
’cause I’m wanderer
I’m a wanderer

’cause I’m a wanderer
I travel every place
’cause I’m a wanderer
From here to outer space
’cause I’m wanderer
Got no time
Cause I’m a wanderer
Just a wanderer

Now you may see me
Any time and any place
And you may know me
From the same look
On your face
And I don’t know if I could
Change your frame of mind
’cause I’m a wanderer
Just a wanderer

’cause I’m a wanderer
I travel every place
’cause I’m a wanderer
From here to outer space
’cause I’m a wanderer
Got no time
’cause I’m a wanderer
’cause I’m a wanderer
’cause I’m a wanderer
’cause I’m a wanderer...

Art vs. "Product"

Someone said something in class tonight that got me thinking. And the man who said this is mature, a junior high school teacher, and to all appearances reasonably intelligent. So I was mildly surprised and amused by what he said.

What he said was, "Music by Britney Spears really isn't that bad. In fact, it's rather good." For which he got some good-natured ribbing and comments that Britney Spears does not actually "make" her music. To which he replied, "No, she doesn't. What she is is a brand name. She is part of a product, and just like any other product, it can be good or bad. Yes, it's the engineers and technicians and song writers and choreographers and image makers behind her that do all the work, but they slap her name on the end product and that's what sells the records. It's no different than Madonna, or Paris Hilton, or even the Monkees."

Now Madonna I've got a grudging respect for. She wasn't much more than a Britney, perhaps, in the beginning of her career, but I think just by sheer longevity she has gone on to prove that not only can she create, she is also capable of reinventing herself as well as making some pretty canny business decisions. Paris Hilton. Pffh. I don't really know. I haven't bothered to listen. But I have my doubts about someone who gets on a label just because she's rich.

But the Monkees? My adorable Monkees? How dare he make such a comparison? Okay, so they were a "studio" band. So they never actually played their instruments. So they didn't write the songs. So what? They could sing. And they were cute and funny and made me laugh. In a good way. So *not* like Britney Spears.

His comment revealed one of my own prejudices: I have more respect for the Jewels and Sarahs and Toris of the world--musicians who truly create, live and breathe their own music-- than I do for these megastar "faces" on an industry product. Why should the struggling unknown musician, singing and playing in the corner of some cafe somewhere, seem more authentic to me than a Britney Spears? Because I do agree with him on one point. The product itself is an authentic creation through the group effort of creative people. Why do I give them less credit? Why do the works by these other musicians seem more "real"?

I think what it comes down to is what these "brand name" people have to bring to the table. I don't see Britney really working for her product. All she does is show up. If she were contributing something worthwhile-- hours of practice before she appears on national television, for example-- that might be something. If she took voice lessons, or songwriting, and contributed something to the creation of her product other than whining about her tabloid lifestyle, that might be something else entirely.

And then there's the fact that this "product" is so industry driven. They are playing to the Lowest Common Denominator, to the bottom line. They will produce whatever their market research says will make the most sales and rake in the most dough. I don't think that's coming from that "truly creative backwater" that Gibson was talking about.

Anyway, I'm going to go listen to the Monkees and meditate on "Another Pleasant Valley Sunday" and "Daydream Believer."

Holy Cats, Batman! It's Halloween!

Cheers to Julie Newmar (and Catwoman!), my inspiration.

All Things Brave and Beautiful

"I wanted to write a book about people doing brave and beautiful things in an ugly world."

~Markus Zuzak

This book was on my reading list this summer. It's absolutely brilliant. So when I heard that Aussie author Markus Zuzak was appearing at Kepler's in Menlo Park, well, I had to go, didn't I. He told some really wonderful stories (which I hope to post at some point) and right in the middle of it all we had the earthquake. He quit talking and everyone was just sort of sitting there, riding it out. And the quake kept rolling, and someone shouted out, "Welcome to California!" Then everyone laughed. Kudos to him, he remained completely unruffled by the experience, and even made a few jokes about being the closest to the only table in the room.

The Book Thief is truly marvelous, a book that I wish I had written myself.

Hey, Buddy... You got any Sudafed?

I wish I could breathe like a normal person, I really do. My allergies come and go as they please, my sinuses flaring up regardless of the time of year. They were bothering me so much one year that I actually went to the trouble of getting tested to find out what the main culprit is. It was not any kind of flowering plant or animal hair which I had previously suspected; instead I found out that my main allergen is common house dust, specifically the dust mites that inhabit said dust.

Basically, what this means is I'm allergic to just about everything in my house that collects dust. Finally, I have a legitimate excuse to avoid housework, and a reasonable understanding of why I hate it so much: It makes me sick. (Honestly, if I go to the trouble of vacuuming, I breathe like an asthmatic for three days; suffice it to say, I don't get much vacuuming done these days). My only recourse is to wrap everything in plastic, buy phenomenally expensive 300-thread-count woven Egyptian cotton sheets, and pay someone else to clean my house (yeah, like any of *that* is going to happen). My only *other* recourse is to find a drug that works.

Enter Sudafed, with pseudoephedrine. This is the stuff that works. And it's the only stuff that I can't get. You know why? Because pseudoephedrine is also the main ingredient of crystal meth. So to keep evil people from coming in and buying buckets of the stuff, this drug has been officially moved "behind-the-counter." You have to ask for it.

Now, I don't have a problem with this. I understand they need to control access to this drug. What I don't understand is why they limit purchase to two boxes per customer which does *not* equal a month's supply, if you are using it as the manufacturer intended. And do you know how they track this? They run your Driver's License through the computer to ensure you aren't sneaking around to other drug stores buy more. When I murmur my complaints about this, the pharmacist only shrugs and says it isn't his rule and directs me to the alternate. This drug, Sudafed with phenylephrine, is sold without restriction; however, case studies have shown that not only is it ineffective, it is little better than a placebo.

Well, *I* could have told them that! I have popped up to three of those things at a time and *nothing happens*!!!

It just burns me that because criminals are using this drug illegally, I have pay the price. I'm the one restricted from this drug. It's easier to buy this stuff on the street than to get it from your local pharmacy.

For the love of Pete, I am *not* running a meth lab in my home! I just want to breathe like a normal person!!!

She's Vader As a Girl

I don't know which of these two scares me more...

She-Vader Strikes Back!

(Cue Darth Vader theme)
Bom-bom-bom-bump-bombom-bump-bombom...

So there I was at this con (in the dreams of my head upon my bed) and I was dressed up as Darth Vader. But I was, like, Darth Vader with breasts. I was fully clothed, you understand, it was a full-on, authentic costume, but it was all skin-tight and sexy.

And, go figure, everybody wanted to take their picture with me. So there I was, posing, taking picture after picture. And the helmut starts to get a little uncomfortable, so I take it off and put it under a seat somewhere to keep it from being stepped on in the crowd.

Later, I can't find it. I search for it everywhere--it's gone! I've lost my helmut!

What does this mean? Is this some kind of euphemism? Have I lost my con virginity?

I told you my unconscious is weird, didn't I? I warned you.

Isabel says I've stumbled upon my ideal Halloween costume.
;-)

Smells like Manipulation

Someone's finally done it, folks: aroma-emitting sign technology, or "Kaoru Digital Signage" as it is known in Tokyo.

On the one hand, this seems like a pretty cool idea. On the other, I can't imagine how many people will be allergic to these things. We are bombarded by so much sensory media now as it is, and now there's more? Scents are extremely powerful motivators. If you don't think so, click here to read the entire article.

Knowing me, I'll probably be in the 1% of the population allergic to the damn things.

Delusions of Homestead

My friend Isabel has been staying with me temporarily until she gets settled in the area. She started out as my housesitter (well, apartmentsitter/bunnysitter) while I was gone this summer, and when I came back it just became convenient for her to stick around. She got a job at the local bookstore and now she's looking for a place to live.

The thing is, it's been kind of nice having her around. She's good company and one of the easiest people to live with that I've ever known. So we have kind of sort of been toying with the idea of finding a place to live together.

I checked out Craigslist and found that anything with 3 bedrooms and 2 bathrooms is well into the $2000's per month. Reduce it to 3 bd/1 bth and it's marginally less, but still not affordable for our means.

Today, there was this little place that put up a rent sign that was right across the street from her work, so we went to check it out. It was more than amazing, it was uber-cute. It didn't look like much from the front but inside was a little 2-bedroom place with a studio attached out back. We got all giggly and excited thinking this was "our" place.

The bad news: $1400 for the 2-bedroom; $900 for the studio; $3000 if you want to rent the whole place together.

So that was the proverbial that. Isabel observed, "It's kind of like falling in love with a man: We always fall in love with the potential." Ain't it the truth.

We didn't stay down for long. We went to go see our friend Bruce play his guitar with a band in Felton. Had a beer, listened to some good music--funny how troubles slip away.

But what troubles me is that there are actually people out there who can watch $3000 of their money slip out the door every month for a rental.

The Demonization of Science

So I finally got out to see the third Resident Evil movie. And I took the trouble to watch the first two, even though the plot is fairly straightforward, just because I like to get the big picture. Granted, these films are not high Art, but they are viscerally pleasurable: the special effects are exceptional, the plot is passing fair, and the hero, Milla Jovovich, kicks ass. (I've been a fan of hers ever since she released a CD in 1997, but I digress...).

However, this movie (or rather, series of movies) got me thinking. Thinking the kind of thinks only my brain can think. We know, don't we, that every era produces movies, especially science fiction movies, that reflect the fears of our age. For instance, The Day the Earth Stood Still wasn't really about our fears of alien invasion, it was about our fears of the Russians. I've read this somewhere-- don't ask me to quote my sources now. So.... what are the movies of today revealing about our fears now?

Whenever we look at a monster movie, the monster isn't really a monster, is it? The monster is us, it's that through-a-mirror-darkly image that reflects back at us in our darkest hour. The monsters in this movie, the mummies, are denied their humanity by a genetically engineered virus. Within hours of exposure to the virus, people are reduced to mindless, ravenous creatures with only one crude, overwhelming need: the need to feed. The mummies stagger through the streets, still wearing the clothing of their previous lives. I don't believe I am mistaken in suggesting there is some cultural criticism going on here. We have become a nation of mindless consumers. If we're not careful, we could become mummies; perhaps we already have.

That was the more obvious observation (along with the desert setting of the third movie--hmmm. Wonder why they did that?). But more disturbing to me is the underlying theme that science is dangerous and evil. The scientists in these films are amoral--even immoral--whose only concerns are with the success of their project. The corporations that back them are only interested in their bottom line. The computer program in charge of security will do what is most expedient, including killing humans, in order to protect the project. Although one could argue that science produces both the T-virus that creates the mummies and the anti-virus that reverses the process, showing that some good can come from experimentation, we are presented on the whole with an overwhelming number of images and characters representing science as a malevolent entity. This is the Mad Scientist motif at its very worst.

Meanwhile, back in the real world, science is struggling. It is under attack in our schools. People fear what they do not understand, and they do not understand science. So an uneducated populace dismisses it as worthless. Projects that could ultimately benefit humankind go unfunded by a government that is incapable of understanding it (and cherry picks only what it sees as useful to the war machine). Laws are passed limiting funding in research. These things are all connected. We are reaching forward technologically faster than our scientific understanding can keep up. The system seems headed for a breakdown.

That's why I find it disturbing that movies like these reinforce the idea that science is evil. The population at large is already confused, undereducated, and fearful about the subject.

On the other hand, Milla's character Alice is a paradox. She, too, is a product of science. She was infected with the T-virus, but her DNA has assimilated it and she has evolved into some advanced form of human. She is stronger, faster, and possesses psionic powers. There is a telling scene where she regains control of her body by mentally shutting down the satellite that sends orders to the chip in her brain (put there by the "evil" scientists in an effort to control her). A definite victory for the human spirit over technology. And yet that power was given to her by science.

I guess the connection that needs to be made is that science is just another extension of the human spirit. And that is something not to fear, but to celebrate.

Guitarmageddon

Well, I did it. I bought my son his first guitar--an electric guitar to be precise. The music store cut me a pretty good deal, because my son will be taking lessons with one of their teachers there, but it still put a nice dent in my pocket book.

There better be some dag-gum, sure-fire pickin' and strummin' that there guitar, because sure as God made little green apples, I will take it out of his hide if he gets bored and gives this up in six months.

And yes. I know. I'm the coolest mom EVER. And don't you forget it.

Mic or Mike?

I love the English language. It's so delightfully ambiguous.

Question of the day: What is the correct abbreviation of "microphone"?

I have become accustomed to using "mic." I don't know why. I don't know when I picked it up. I imagine it's because of my music background. Apparently, this is the version most used by musicians and technicians in the industry.

But if you look at other words as precedent, why then you have "bicycle" reduced to "bike" and "tricycle" reduced to "trike." So many people use "mike."

More complications result when use of the word changes from noun to verb. When you are setting up a microphone for the drums, for instance, are you "micing the drums" or "miking the drums"?

Personally, I don't mind a little mix and match: mic, miking, miked.

But this was enough to send one linguist into a rant on the subject. He also happens to link to a poetry site where the question was posed to poets at large. Their responses are varied and entertaining.

So which do you use: mic or mike?

The Terror and the Ecstasy

Most people don’t realize how much they’ve been penetrated by technology.
Isn't that an interesting concept? We've been penetrated by technology. Like it's living inside of us. And perhaps it is. Gibson pointed out how many vaccinations we receive in childhood: Many of us living 100 years ago would never have reached our fifth birthday.

The future is no longer knowable: In the 1950s, grown-ups planned the future: one positive—rockets to the moon, the world’s fair; one negative—the atomic wasteland.
It seems to me that on the whole, if people even stop to think about the future, they are mostly apathetic. I don't think anyone truly believes in atomic warfare anymore (except maybe Tom Cruise); I don't think a whole lot of people believe in a Star Trek future either (except maybe the die hard Trekkies). The Environment is the new hot topic: Is the world warming or cooling? Reminds me of that Robert Frost poem: Will we end in fire or ice?

It's difficult today to find a non-mediated human.
Again, I love his choice of words. A non-mediated human. We cannot escape it. Media surrounds us and defines our existence. Even if we live our lives in opposition to it, we are still responding to its presence. Daily we are bombarded by images, words. I am often struck by the fact that I read so fast naturally that I have already read a billboard or advertisement before I can look away. I can't even decide not to read it because by the time I look at it it has already penetrated my mind. It reminds me of those science fiction stories where ads are beamed directly into peoples brains as they are walking down the street. I think that this would drive me crazy, but the truth is, it's already happening.

In the 1920s, recordings of music from the Appalachians—people who never heard a recording, or radio—sound fundamentally different.
This concept fascinated me, especially with its ties to music. Culture is constantly influencing culture, but the rate increases exponentially with the introduction of media. We notice, don't we, how quickly new bands influence one another, how scores of them seem to sound the same. We may never have a culture that can produce a band like the Beatles again. I mentioned this in an earlier post, but Gibson surmised that Nirvana may have come out of the last truly creative period. (He says) We no longer have a backwater culture behind the main culture where a movement can gain momentum and grow. Young bands are catapulted too quickly into the spotlight only to flash and burn out in the glare of the paparazzi. Is he right?

Victrola trauma—a preacher who listened to one of the first recordings thought it the voice of the devil. He was experiencing the cusp of change. We don’t find it strange we can hear the voices of the dead whenever we want to.
Not only do we not find it strange, we can go online and download those voices in mere seconds.

The non-mediated world is a lost world. We cannot get back there. There is a sense of loss, but a sense of what we are gaining: Loss and Christmas morning at the same time.
I like the way he phrased that.

Vertiginous moments: we realize the contemporary, experience terror and ecstasy, then retreat from it because we cannot stay in that state of panic. We're more comfortable with who we were 10 years ago.
I love technology, I really do. When it works, when it's beneficial, it can be truly wonderful. Kind of like that comment Harrison Ford makes in Blade Runner: "If it's a benefit, it's not my problem." But I think I agree with Gibson. Even with the best toys, we still experience a certain level of resistance, of discomfort. Well, anyone over 30, that is. I mean, just looking at music as an example, I am far more comfortable with CDs as a medium. I own an iPod, but I haven't completely made my peace with it. I still haven't completely figured out how it works. It frustrates me, so I retreat from it. But I marvel at it all the same.

SiliCon 2007

This weekend was a success on many different levels. Not only did I get to attend SiliCon nearly every day, but I also managed to slip away and attend my friends Dave & Deborah's annual Harvest Festival on Saturday night *and* managed to grade about 25 papers for one of my GA classes as well. Oh, yeah, and I also had to go into work on Sunday afternoon-- a really lovely community concert was presented featuring two pianos, a flutist, and a soprano. They performed the story of Hans Christian Anderson's The Snow Queen. It was fabulous!

No, I did not get any sleep. Not until about 12am Monday morning. But this weekend was worth it.

Good friends, good food, good fun, serendipity and splendor...

To Tracy Newby: You're my hero. Thanks for watching out for my kid.

To Jenkins: You owe me a fish taco. And maybe a song or two...

Suffer the Little Children

I returned corrected quizzes to the students yesterday. They looked so stricken. I felt sorry for them. I tried to go easy on them, I really did, but their answers were so. so. awful. And these are college students. Juniors and Seniors. And they write like 5th graders. These are our future teachers, ladies and gentlemen.


Be afraid. Be very afraid.

I see trees of green...

Sometimes something happens that restores my faith in humanity.


I was at Jamba Juice today and discovered, after placing my order, that I had left my wallet at home. (This is what I get for going out and *exercising* -- good gawd -- I end up leaving my wallet in my fanny pack).


I'm about to turn away and the girl at the counter says, "Don't worry about it-- It's on the house."


What a wonderful world.

R is for Rant

A curious and rather frustrating thing happened to me on Saturday. I came up against the cinema establishment's finest (insert heavily ironic tone) and came away with a bloody nose. It went something like this:

My son and four of his friends wanted to see the latest Resident Evil flick--cute girl kicks lots of zombie ass in post-apocalyptic Las Vegas--so I am volunteered as driver to above mentioned establishment.

I dropped them off at the door and pulled away, but within moments I get a phone call requesting that I return to "give my permission." Okay.

So I go to the ticket window and say to the ticket person: "They have my permission." Whereupon I am informed that unless I also buy a ticket and see the film, they cannot attend. Okay.

So I say, "Alright, then, I'll buy a ticket." Whereupon I am asked, "Are you the legal guardian of these children?" "Yes, I'm their aunt," I said, lying *convincingly*, I thought. The ticket person repeated, "Are you the legal guardian according to the court of law?"

Here is where I lost my cool. I mean, how can they possibly enforce this? Even legal parents don't go around carrying some kind of "offspring" identification. It's not like they can card for this, you know? My driver's license does not read Hair: Red, Eyes: Blue, Offspring: 1 now does it?

So, according to the cinema establishment's finest, as a film goer, I have to put up with idiots bringing in their screaming babies because they have "legal guardian" status, but I can't bring five basically well-behaved teenagers?

I was spurred by my righteous indignation into a little research. It was my impression, based on the age and prim disapproval of the woman at the ticket window, that this was some attempt at enforcing some kind of moral code. But after reading into it a bit it turns out that most theaters are more concerned with the behaviour of unsupervised teens than anything else. Interestingly, the "rules" are all over the place. Some places require parent permission at the very least. Others require a parent to accompany the child. Still others set a limit at two children per legal adult. Others specify the adult must be 25 years or older. Some places refuse to allow children into adult movies starting after 7pm. Others use price as a factor and hope to discourage people from bringing their kids by charging adult prices only for the evening pictures. Others try to educate the masses, requiring parents and children attend "theater etiquette" classes together before the kids are allowed in on their own. However, most teens have observed that if they go to the big cineplexes, nobody really cares who is buying the ticket.

I think I just need to be a better liar. Nobody's going to believe I've given birth to five teens of the same approximate age, but I could try to swing this scenario: Mo and Curly there, those are my foster kids; and poor little Larry, I adopted him when my sister passed last year (may she rest in peace and pray don't mention another word I'm still grieving); Tom and Jerry here are my biological sons by three different possible fathers; and me? I'm the Whore of Babylon. Now are you going to sell me those tickets? Or am I going to have to break into your house some unspecified night, strap you to your sofa, and force you to watch High School Musical until your eyes bleed?

"One may tolerate a world full of demons for the sake of an angel."

~Madame de Pompadour, The Girl in the Fireplace

Doctor Who, Season Two

How old do you feel on the inside? Is that younger or older than your real age?

Today, I feel 102. But this, too, shall pass.


100 Years
~Five For Fighting

I'm fifteen for a moment
Caught in between ten and twenty
and I'm just dreaming
counting the ways to where you are

I'm twenty-two for a moment
and she feels better than ever
and we're on fire
making our way back from mars

Fifteen, there's still time for you
Time to buy and time to lose
Fifteen
There's never a wish better than this
When you only got a hundred years to live

I'm thirty-three for a moment
I'm still the man
but you see I'm a they
A kid on the way, babe
A family on my mind

I'm fourty-five for a moment
The sea is high
and I'm heading into a crisis
chasing the years of my life

Fifteen, there's still time for you
Time to buy and time to lose yourself within a morning star
Fifteen, I'm alright with you
Fifteen
There's never a wish better than this
When you only got a hundred years to live

How the time goes by
Suddenly, you're wise
Another blink of an eye, sixty-seven is gone
The sun is getting high
We're moving on...

I'm ninety-nine for a moment
Dying for just another moment
and I'm just dreaming
counting the ways to where you are

Fifteen, there's still time for you
Twenty-Two, I feel her, too
Thirty-Three, you're on your way
Every day's a new day...

Fifteen, there's still time for you
Time to buy and time to choose
Hey, fifteen
There's never a wish better than this
when you only got a hundred years to live

Sure Shootin'

About 10 days ago, my friend Connie took me shooting. We went up to a range off Highway 9 outside of Saratoga. She brought along a pair of old rifles--her grandfather's--that had been cleaned and checked and cleared as "safe." These were manual load, one-bullet rifles with iron sights and very little kick-- very quaint next to the military grade, heavy duty automatics in the hands of the men standing next to us. When those things went off, I felt the vibration in my bones and could swear it loosened my dental work. They even set off a car alarm in the parking area behind us--no kidding!

I have to say, I was very impressed with the behavior of our fellow shootists. There was no swaggering or bragging. If anything, the mood was subdued. This is serious business, this shooting stuff. There are Rules. And Everyone Follows the Rules. Otherwise, people could get hurt, or Very. Very. Dead. So at 15 minute intervals, we were asked to unload our weapons, leave them pointed downfield, and stand behind the white line for inspection. After all was clear, we were free to check our targets and see how we did. The thing is, the target is so far away (I have forgotten already how many feet) that one can't really see how one is doing while one is shooting. I just lined up my sights with the little dot at the end of the field and hoped that I was hitting it. As it turned out, I did rather well for my first time out. Connie said so. ;-)

Now before you start running for the hills, I can assure you that I am no danger to either myself or society, or any woodland creatures for that matter. By the time I managed to focus on any furry forest creature, it would have had ample time to scamper away into the underbrush. If I had to rely on this as a means of getting my dinner, I think I would probably starve before I got any good at it.

Besides (I say to myself to assuage any residue feelings of guilt), shooting at targets is very clean, isn't it. No blood, no mess; no harm, no foul. And everyone is Oh So Polite. Almost gentlemanly, if I may use such an old-fashioned term.

Ironically, earlier that same week I had read Joy Williams' "The Killing Game" for my composition class. If you have not yet had the pleasure (a questionable term in part), Williams launches a vitriolic attack against hunting and hunters that leaves you wondering how we could suffer such barbarity in our so-called "civilized" world. That is, if you are an average civilian. If you were a hunter, no doubt you'd want to string Ms. Williams from the nearest tree. But I digress. The point is, well, go read it. Yes, it is unapologetic and harsh and she uses some very confrontational language--it is completely slanted to her point of view, of course, but that's natural, because it is her essay.

What I appreciate about it, though, is that she made me question some of my own belief systems that I had come to accept as true. This idea that we need hunting to keep nature in "balance", for instance. I, like many others I imagine, have always lived under the impression that, Oh, what a shame, the encroachment of man has upset the natural balance of predator and prey, so now, too bad, we have to keep hunting to keep critters like deer and rabbits from overrunning the world. Wrong, says Williams. Hunting is decimating the environment all out of proportion to a natural predator-prey "balance." And they are using their own spin on language and statistics to skew the general population's perception as to what is actually happening. Her report on what is happening to migrating birds is, if her facts are correct, more than a little disheartening; it's devastation on a phenomenal scale.

Once military weaponry gets involved, this issue is no longer about hunting to feed one's family. It's no longer about refining a skill in tracking and hunting that has been passed down from father to son (or parent to child) for generations. It's not even about giving the animal a sporting chance. It's about blowing things up. It's not about survival; it's about destruction. And if a people are destructive and wasteful, how long 'til a society destroys itself?

Connie told me a funny story. She said that one day she was out shooting on a range and all of a sudden, as daring as you please, a huge buck stepped out from the trees and just wandered across the field in front of the targets. As one, everyone stopped shooting immediately and watched it, just watched it progress slowly from one side of the field to the other until it disappeared into the trees on the other side. And then they all started shooting at their targets again. It was a completely surreal experience.

What strange, strange beings we humans are.

All still just the same

I heard Pete Seeger singing this song on the radio this morning. Brought back a memory.

7th grade, I was in guitar class and the final exam... we had to choose a song to play and sing... And I don't know why, but I chose *that* song... I think there was a very limited selection.

Anyway, I sucked. Big time. Couldn't play it. Couldn't sing it. Not to save my life.

I'm not exaggerating. I got a D in guitar.

So I always associate that song with my failure.

I actually like the song. Very hippie protest kind of thing.

Too bad there wasn't a Kate or Tori or Jewel around then. I might have had a chance with one of their songs.

Today, I really listened to the words. I don't know if I totally grasped it back then, but today... it's more meaningful than ever.

Anyway, here it is.


Little Boxes
~Pete Seeger

Little boxes on the hillside
Little boxes made of ticky tacky
Little boxes
Little boxes
Little boxes all the same
There's a green one and a pink one
And a blue one and a yellow one
And they're all made out of ticky tacky
And they all look just the same

And the people in the houses all go to the university
And they all get put in boxes, little boxes all the same
And there's doctors and there's lawyers
And business executives
And they're all made out of ticky tacky and they all look just the same
And they all play on the golf course and drink their martini dry
And they all have pretty children and the children go to school
And the children go to summer camp
And then to the university
And they all get put in boxes, and they all come out the same
And the boys go into business and marry and raise a family
And they all get put in boxes, little boxes all the same

There's a green one, and a pink one
And a blue one and a yellow one
And they're all made out of ticky tacky
And they all look just the same

The going forth is home.

Ars Poetica

Achilles, long after Troy,
ventured forth again,
and in the going out,
returned home to homelessness.

And what could he know but like Odysseus
slap of wave on bow
and the stories they tell
about the dear dance of Thanatos and Eros

and the loves,
triumphs and betrayals of ordinary men . . .

Odysseus, homeless on the wine-dark sea,
with aching heart
dreams of his Penelope
as he sails into infinity.

Heroes are the ones
move forward in the dark,
Seferis said as he groped on,
neither Thetis nor Circe enticing him,

but the slap of wave on shore,
scorching Mediterranean sun
"riveted" to a rose,
and the voices,
always all those many voices in a poet's ear,

begging him to pause
during war
to observe the certain sway
of a tall palm tree,

a sleepy Arab garden in the harsh sunlight

recalling the house that once was ours,
that was, for a moment,
a kind of Paradise.

But dreams can sour. And wars don't simply arise.
Paradis ne pas,
but is within,
waiting to be found
beyond the pain,
the suffering
to which we are not bound,
but to which we so tenaciously cling.

Paradise, Old Tom, the
Oirish revolutionary,
liked to say,
is a sometime thing.

And Elytis, that grand land-bound sailor
of dreams, reminds: Heaven and Hell
are made of the exact same things—
confirming Lao Tzu: Success and failure
each are mother of the other.

Heraclitus: The way up is the way down.

The sea retreats; the sea swells.
We need the story that only
the going-forth can tell. We need the tale
that spins the spell that gives us
eyes to see.

Thus, we grope, talking to ourselves,
unable to find
meaning in a growing darkness
wherein no meaning lies.

The heart sees far beyond the eyes.
This is no country for this old man.
I'll not find Byzantium.

My friend Ransom, no man's
idea of a pacifist, but a medic,
a humanist nonetheless,
gets it exactly right:
Peace is not idle inaction, but
a constantly negotiated
activity—
in the home or between nations.

I negotiate this poem with my Muse.
How could it be otherwise?
Some build prisons, some
write prisons,
and call them sanctuaries.

Between Eros and Thanatos,
a moment of enlightenment,
moment of bliss
amidst the redundant thunder of unholy
Ares.

Thus the oarsmen sing
against the pull of oar in water,
back bent to the rhythm
as sails unfurl the song.

In the poem of our lives,
there are many masters,
many tongues.
The seas are mysterious, deep and wide.

We listen to the rattle of the riggings
sailing on, on,
hungry and homeless,
sailing toward oblivion,

talking to ourselves
as if it mattered,
eyes fixed
on the rising smoke of precisely what
horizon?

Achilles with his bloody hands and aching heel,
Odysseus with his ears on fire,
Dante emerging from the bowels of Hell . . .
eyes peeled

skyward . . .
each with his heroic dream of Justice,
a dream of Paradise . . .

It is the dream itself, the listening,
the going-forth, singing,
that keeps us all alive.

We go down to the sea and set sail
for a world beyond war, knowing
we will never find it. We are not heroes.
We sail the Justice and the Mercy
because these boats need rowing.

And when our boats go down—
as, surely, all boats must drown—
we will not
walk upon the water
into the open arms of the Eternal Mother/Lover,

she whom we idealize in our robes of need
as the mind turns and the heart bleeds. . .

No. Not for us, salvation.
Sustained by a few essential metaphors—
the tale, the telling,
the mind’s music, the heart’s vision . . .

we venture out, each alone, to find
that the going-forth is home.


~Sam Hamill




Sam Hamill is Director of Poets Against War. "Ars Poetica" is from a collection, Measured by Stone, to be published by Curbstone Press. A volume of his literary essays and introductions, Avocations, will be published by Red Hen Press in April.

Squeezing the Watch

"What are you squeezin' that watch for? Squeezin' that watch ain't gonna stop time."

~ 3:10 to Yuma




( I have not seen this movie, but now I'm intrigued...)

I *am* Little Red Riding Hood. Know ye not that?

I taught my first class today. Folktales: with an emphasis on Little Red Riding Hood. Also, a recap of my trip this summer. It went really well. I had lots of enthusiasm (gawd, just open a vein--has this not been in me my entire life?) and the students responded with questions and discussion afterwards.

At the end of class, an undergrad with shining eyes came up and asked me, "How can I get where you are? How do you do what you do?" And I thought, Oh my God.... She's me. I was there, I used to be there, and now I'm here...

I get so caught up looking ahead to where I want to be, I forget to look behind and see how far I've come. The forest is deep and endless and the wolves are not always what they seem...

Illustrations by Gustav Dore

Starlight, Starbright...

You know, every time I read a reviewer's complaint that a movie's plotline is too "convoluted", I begin to wonder if they all have the mental capacity of a teaspoon. Stardust was brilliantly executed, with a very straightforward plot, and, from what I can remember, follows the book closely (with only a few minor variants). Charlie Cox is charming as the young hero, Claire Danes is quite fetching as a blonde and simply can do no wrong in my book, and Michelle Pfeiffer exceeds expectations in a role that was clearly written just for her. This one has a spot reserved on my DVD shelf for sure.

Two thumbs way up!

P.S. Of course, the Number One reason to see this film is Robert De Niro! He is perfectly hilarious!

Madeleine L'Engle (1918-2007)

She once described herself as a French peasant cook who drops a carrot in one pot, a piece of potato in another and an onion and a piece of meat in another.

“At dinnertime, you look and see which pot smells best and pull it forward,” she was quoted as saying in a 2001 book, “Madeleine L’Engle (Herself): Reflections on a Writing Life,” compiled by Carole F. Chase.

“The same is true with writing,” she continued. “There are several pots on my backburners.”

Her deeper thoughts on writing were deliciously mysterious. She believed that experience and knowledge are subservient to the subconscious and perhaps larger, spiritual influences.

“I think that fantasy must possess the author and simply use him,” she said in an interview with Horn Book magazine in 1983. “I know that is true of ‘A Wrinkle in Time.’ I cannot possibly tell you how I came to write it. It was simply a book I had to write. I had no choice.

“It was only after it was written that I realized what some of it meant.”

(To read the rest of the NY Times article, click here.)

He'll never work in this town again!

Figures something like this would happen the year I decide to go to Burning Man.

Where's the tar and feathers? Shall we have a real Burning Man this year? What an ass! He looks so smug in his picture, too.

Two consolations:

One: Burning Man people are artistic and clever and will have a replacement up by the time I get there.

Two: Burning Man people will remember and curse his name. I'm sure he will not only be banned from the Playa for life, but he may never work in this town again.

I hope the curse nips at his heels all the way to that rock he's going to have to live under for the rest of his days.




1 Day til Burning Man