Mary Oliver. Journey

The Journey

One day you finally knew
what you had to do, and began,
though the voices around you
kept shouting
their bad advice--
though the whole house
began to tremble
and you felt the old tug
at your ankles.
"Mend my life!"
each voice cried.
But you didn't stop.
You knew what you had to do,
though the wind pried
with its stiff fingers
at the very foundations,
though their melancholy
was terrible.
It was already late
enough, and a wild night,
and the road full of fallen
branches and stones.
But little by little,
as you left their voices behind,
the stars began to burn
through the sheets of clouds,
and there was a new voice
which you slowly
recognized as your own,
that kept you company
as you strode deeper and deeper
into the world,
determined to do
the only thing you could do--
determined to save
the only life you could save.

Mary Oliver

It truly is time to Move On, isn't it.

I suggest you read poetry by Mary Oliver.

Have You Ever Tried to Enter the Long Black Branches

Have you ever tried to enter the long black branches
of other lives -
tried to imagine what the crisp fringes, full of honey,
hanging
from the branches of the young locust trees, in early morning,
feel like?

Do you think this world was only an entertainment for you?

Never to enter the sea and notice how the water divides
with perfect courtesy, to let you in!
Never to lie down on the grass, as though you were the grass!
Never to leap to the air as you open your wings over
the dark acorn of your heart!

No wonder we hear, in your mournful voice, the complaint
that something is missing from your life!


Who can open the door who does not reach for the latch?
Who can travel the miles who does not put one foot
in front of the other, all attentive to what presents itself
continually?
Who will behold the inner chamber who has not observed
with admiration, even with rapture, the outer stone?


Well, there is time left -
fields everywhere invite you into them.

And who will care, who will chide you if you wander away
from wherever you are, to look for your soul?

Quickly, then, get up, put on your coat, leave your desk!


To put one's foot into the door of the grass, which is
the mystery, which is death as well as life, and
not be afraid!

To set one's foot in the door of death, and be overcome
with amazement!

To sit down in front of the weeds, and imagine
god the ten-fingered, sailing out of his house of straw,
nodding this way and that way, to the flowers of the
present hour,
to the song falling out of the mockingbird's pink mouth,
to the tippets of the honeysuckle, that have opened

in the night

To sit down, like a weed among weeds, and rustle in the wind!



Listen, are you breathing just a little, and calling it a life?

While the soul, after all, is only a window,

and the opening of the window no more difficult
than the wakening from a little sleep.



Only last week I went out among the thorns and said
to the wild roses:
deny me not,
but suffer my devotion.
Then, all afternoon, I sat among them. Maybe

I even heard a curl or tow of music, damp and rouge red,
hurrying from their stubby buds, from their delicate watery bodies.

For how long will you continue to listen to those dark shouters,
caution and prudence?
Fall in! Fall in!



A woman standing in the weeds.
A small boat flounders in the deep waves, and what's coming next
is coming with its own heave and grace.



Meanwhile, once in a while, I have chanced, among the quick things,
upon the immutable.
What more could one ask?

And I would touch the faces of the daises,
and I would bow down
to think about it.

That was then, which hasn't ended yet.

Now the sun begins to swing down. Under the peach-light,
I cross the fields and the dunes, I follow the ocean's edge.

I climb, I backtrack.
I float.
I ramble my way home.

Mary Oliver

Next Mother's Day

This article published on Monday, May 12, 2008 by CommonDreams.org

Next Mothers Day Let’s Invite the Whole Family
by Medea Benjamin

Next Mothers Day, I don’t want to be organizing yet another rally of Mothers Against War in Washington DC and lamenting the state of our dysfunctional human family. I want to be celebrating the successes of the first 100 days of a new administration. I want to see us healing the collective traumas of the past eight years and becoming a nation that reflects the values of compassion and kindness that most mothers hold dear.

Next Mothers Day, I want us to be welcoming our soldiers home from Iraq and taking care of them when they get here. I don’t want to hear any more bickering in Congress about whether we should provide decent educational benefits to our vets — especially from those who supported the war! I don’t want to read more horror stories about dilapidated VA hospitals and bureaucratic sinkholes that keep veterans from getting the care they need. I want us to come together — whether we were for or against this war — to nurture our wounded sons and daughters.

Next Mothers Day, I want us to have come to grips with the disaster we have wreaked upon the Iraqi people. I want us to mourn their losses, express contrition and help rebuild the nation we destroyed. I want us to ensure a viable homeland for our Palestinian sisters and brothers. I want us to rebuild a relationship of trust and respect with our Arab neighbors so that we can mutually address the threat of terrorism.

Next Mothers Day, I want us to repair old family feuds. I want us to restore relations with the Cuban cousins we banished some 50 years ago, starting with lifting the embargo. I want us to sing and dance and drink mojitos with our Caribbean kin, relishing in our common zest for life.

We shouldn’t stop with Cuba. I want us to reach out with a mother’s open arms toward other nations we are today bullying, from Venezuela to Iran. I want us to bring out the carrots and put away the sticks, as we have recently done in the case of North Korea. I want us to abandon the “do as I say, not as I do” approach to nuclear deterrence and support global disarmament.

Next Mothers Day, I want us to be immersed in a crash course on overcoming our oil addiction and cleaning up the mess we have made of our Mother Earth. I want us to stop pillaging the family jewels and instead embrace conservation, restoration and a fairer distribution of our planet’s wealth.

Next Mothers Day, I want us to practice unconditional love. I want us to heed the words of Julia Ward Howe’s original Mothers Day proclamation when she said that “We, the women of one country, will be too tender to those of another country to allow our sons to injure theirs.” I want us to form kinship circles that stretch across the globe, to teach our children to feel empathy towards other children, to truly embrace the concept of universal oneness.

Next Mothers Day, when we sit down to a bountiful brunch, I want the other members of our global household to be seated at the table. That will truly be a fitting tribute to the women who brought us into this world.

Medea Benjamin (medea@globalexchange.org) is cofounder of CODEPINK and Global Exchange. If you would like to help the Iraqi refugees, see www.codepinkalert.org.

Patrick Phillips is a fabulous poet.

Matinee
By Patrick Phillips

After the biopsy,
after the bone scan,
after the consult and the crying,

for a few hours no one could find them,
not even my sister,
because it turns out

they’d gone to the movies.
Something tragic was playing,
something epic,

and so they went to the comedy
with their popcorn
and their cokes,

the old wife whispering everything twice,
the old husband
cupping a palm to his ear,

as the late sun lit up an orchard
behind the strip mall,
and they sat in the dark holding hands.

Happy Mother's Day

When I had my first child I became mortal. It actually began somewhere around my sixth or seventh month of pregnancy when I got too big to move fast enough to outrun a would-be predator. Once the kids were born I was keenly aware of my need to stay alive so they wouldn't lose their mother. I'm thankful that I didn't become someone's mother in my twenties or early thirties. How could I have gone rapelling or done any number of other things that might have seemed overtly or even nominally liable to put my life at risk?

We all have our mother stories -- good, bad, funny, poignant, mundane. There's no way around it. Yesterday in Salon was an article, "Little girl lost, little girl found", an excerpt from "Comfort: A Journey Through Grief" by Ann Hood about the death of her daughter and subsequent adoption of a baby from China. "I never thought I'd be able to enjoy Mother's Day again. Then, life brought me Annabelle."

"They mark them, you know," someone told us before we left for China. "The mothers brand the babies they abandon. It's a sign of love."

We had heard stories about babies being found with a yam, a sign of how valuable the baby was. We had heard of a note left that simply said: This is my baby. Take care of her. We had heard of one baby found with a bracelet around her wrist, and another with a river rock to indicate she was from a town near water. But this branding was something new.

The group of ten families with which we traveled to China, all got our babies at the same time, in a nondescript city building in Changsha. Changsha is the capital of Hunan Province, and it is four hours from Loudi and the orphanage. Soon, people were lifting pant legs or the cuffs of sleeves to show the small scars on their babies. "They mark them," one mother said, spreading her new daughter's fingers to reveal a scar in between the index and pointer.

On Annabelle's neck I found a thick rope of scar tissue, round and small. The pediatrician examined it and frowned. "Don't get upset," he said, "but this almost looks like a burn that has healed."

We are all branded, I thought. Some of us more than others. Some of us with unconditional love and security. Others with pain, abandonment, bruality. Some of us overtly. Others covertly. But we're branded just the same.

As Seen on Changing Aging

And while we're on the subject of stuff Chris told me about, here is a video she saw on Changing Aging. This is an amazing group of humans treating humans humanely.

Animated Cartoons a la New Yorker. Who knew?

Got too much time on your hands? No dirty dishes to wash; cats to feed; kids to drive; dog to walk; bills to pay; work to do; papers to write; books to read; laundry to wash? (I was going to say laundry to fold but realized folded laundry is a low priority, luxury. I'd be happy with washed and dried.) Great. You're in for a treat, a time-consuming treat -- The New Yorker on-line. As if I don't already have unread New Yorkers piling up in print form, Chris has directed me to the on-line version. You know how when the magazine arrives the first thing you do is read the cartoons? (Even smart people read the cartoons first, I've been told. Do you suppose that includes the likes of Madeleine Albright?) Well, now you can go to the New Yorker and watch animated cartoons (I suggest you start with "Surprise Party") first before finding far too many interesting, well-written, informative articles to read -- add them to your favorites file; copy and paste them into the Save for Later Reading folder. Best of luck. I never made it past the cartoons.

Sisterly Love or I support self-medication.

Jeri Ann wrote: I have eaten so much chicken today feathers have sprouted between my arthritic little fingers.

Judith Shapiro wrote: gotta go get chocolate. you?

Jeri Ann wrote: I'm on my way - the best selection is down the street at Cost Plus World Market - Swiss, Belgian, oh just a fine display. More later. Love you.

Judith Shapiro wrote: world market, eh? i'm on it.

Jeri Ann wrote: I think the best ones are the ones in the tube - Drosdt? not sure of the name, but there are disks half milk and half dark which are so very fine. Lindt truffle balls are very acceptable too. Avoid the caramels!

May 10, 2008 is Pangea Day

You can go to the Pangea Day site to get info. Here is some of what you'll read there:

Overview
The Pangea Day Mission & Purpose
Pangea Day is a global event bringing the world together through film.

Why? In a world where people are often divided by borders, difference, and conflict, it's easy to lose sight of what we all have in common. Pangea Day seeks to overcome that – to help people see themselves in others – through the power of film.

The Pangea Day Event
Starting at 18:00 GMT on May 10, 2008, locations in Cairo, Kigali, London, Los Angeles, Mumbai, and Rio de Janeiro will be linked for a live program of powerful films, live music, and visionary speakers. The entire program will be broadcast – in seven languages – to millions of people worldwide through the internet, television, and mobile phones.

The 24 short films to be featured have been selected from an international competition that generated more than 2,500 submissions from over one hundred countries. The films were chosen based on their ability to inspire, transform, and allow us see the world through another person's eyes.

The program will also include a number of exceptional speakers and musical performers. Queen Noor of Jordan, CNN's Christiane Amanpour, musician/activist Bob Geldof, and Iranian rock phenom Hypernova are among those taking part.

What Will Happen After Pangea Day
People inspired by Pangea Day will have the opportunity to participate in community-building activities around the world. Through the live program, the Pangea Day web site, and self-organized local events, everyday people will be connected with extraordinary activists and organizations.

Many of the films and performances seen on Pangea Day will be made available on the Web and via mobile phone, alongside open forums for discussion and ideas for how to take social action.

A Pangea Day documentary will be created to catalyze future activities, and dozens of talented filmmakers will make strides in their careers.

History
In 2006, filmmaker Jehane Noujaim won the TED Prize, an annual award granted at the TED Conference. She was granted $100,000, and more important, a wish to change the world. Her wish was to create a day in which the world came together through film. Pangea Day grew out of that wish.

It's amazing what goes on in the world while I'm walking across the street to check the mail and get a cup of coffee and taking photographs of stray gloves and cigarettes. Amazing.

Yes, Stacey. Don't forget to take your camera.

In a comment to my post, What I learned on yesterday's walk, May 7, Stacey said: "i really need to start carrying my camera around." I say, yes Stacey you do cuz then you can take photos of cool gloves like this one











And this one.

Hymn to the Comb-Over

HYMN TO THE COMB-OVER
Wesley McNair

How the thickest of them erupt just
above the ear, cresting in waves so stiff
no wind can move them. Let us praise them
in all of their varieties, some skinny
as the bands of headphones, some rising
from a part that extends halfway around
the head, others four or five strings
stretched so taut the scalp resembles
a musical instrument. Let us praise the sprays
that hold them, and the combs that coax
such abundance to the front of the head
in the mirror, the combers entirely forget
the back. And let us celebrate the combers,
who address the old sorrow of time's passing
day after day, bringing out of the barrenness
of mid-life this ridiculous and wonderful
harvest, no wishful flag of hope, but, thick,
or thin, the flag itself, unfurled for us all
in subways, offices, and malls across America.

Sugar. Sugar substitutes. Calorie counts. Whatever happened to food?

I've been thinking about the The Washington Post article, "All Substitutes Are Not Equal" by Sally Squires, Tuesday, May 6, 2008; Page HE01. The HE in HE01 stands for Health. I'm confused. Promoting the continued and increasing consumption of artificial sweeteners is a healthy thing?

Despite the obesity epidemic, a new report in the Journal of the American Dietetic Association notes that Americans still eat more foods with added sugar and fat than they should and often fall short on the healthful fare. No surprise there.

But thanks to a growing number of sugar substitutes and other sweeteners, it's now possible for everyone -- even the estimated 71 million Americans dieting -- to soothe a sweet tooth without exceeding daily calorie goals. That's good, because the average adult has only about 200 "discretionary calories" per day for food and beverages with added sugar, added fat and alcohol.

How exactly is it that an average adult has 200 discretionary calories? Whose discretion? Ms. Squires continues.

In 1970, the Food and Drug Administration banned a widely used sugar substitute, clyclamate, because of cancer concerns. In 1977, a Canadian study found that in large doses saccharin -- the sweetener in Sweet'N Low -- caused bladder cancer in rats. The FDA considered banning saccharin, but Congress stepped in to give the sweetener a reprieve and has extended a moratorium on its ban several times since then.

In 2004, the American Dietetic Association reviewed the use of sweeteners and concluded that "consumers can safely enjoy a range of nutritive and non-nutritive sweeteners when consumed in a diet that is guided by current federal nutrition recommendations."

Since then, some concerns have arisen about two other substitutes, aspartame and acesulfame K.

Aspartame is marketed as NutraSweet and Equal, and found in a wide range of products from diet drinks to sugar-free ice cream. Aspartame contains amino acids -- the building blocks of protein -- and methanol, an alcohol. It isn't heat-stable, so it doesn't do well in baking. An Italian research team found lymphoma and leukemia among female rats in a long-term study of aspartame.

Acesulfame K, sold as Sunett, is not metabolized by the body and so contains zero calories. It's found in baked goods, diet soft drinks, sugar-free gum, Domino Pure D'Lite and Sweet One, a sugar substitute for baking. Some flawed studies in the 1970s linked this sugar substitute to cancer. In 1996 the Center for Science in the Public Interest urged the FDA to require better testing before permitting acesulfame K in soft drinks. Large doses of breakdown products from acesulfame K have been shown to affect the thyroid in rats, rabbits and dogs, the CSPI notes.

Manufacturers, the FDA and the Calorie Control Council say that these products are safe. But in the May issue of its Nutrition Action newsletter, the CSPI called these products and saccharin either unsafe or poorly tested. The only artificial sweetener to get a "safe" grade from the consumer advocacy group is sucralose, a.k.a. Splenda.

Yes, Sally, there is an obesity epidemic. And there is a food industry that feeds and fuels it with grocery stores jam packed with all matter of "food" --converted corn products; sugar, salt, artificial flavor and color added to almost everything; processed beyond recognition food products; snack foods with an added twist emerging on the market every day; fast food emporiums that add sugar not just to the sweets but the savory items. Savory. That was meant to be funny. The rest of this is not funny at all.

Come back Antioch. Come back.

Antioch College will be closed next semester, and perhaps for every semester after that. Bad news. Really bad news. Antioch College was the coolest college around when I was in school.

So here's my idea -- The alumni that planned to give $1 million each go ahead and pony up. The administration can stay or go as they wish. The school remains open, business as usual, excellence in alternative education as usual with one added bonus - elders are encouraged to attend along with young people. The specifics can be worked out as we go.

What I learned on Yesterday's Walk.

Wondering what to do with those offensive leaves that fall out of trees, littering your otherwise pristine yard? Bag them up in plastic, leave them on the side of the road for the garbage truck to take them to landfill.

Jeff Scher gives us reasons to be glad.

It's just a slice of bread.

I'd never heard of Jeff Scher until today. For some reason I looked at videos on the NY Times this morning. When I first encountered the video section of the Times I was enraged, no, too strong a word, uh, put off. How could a newspaper, all about black and white and read all over, stoop to video. Are they pandering to an audience that doesn't want to read the written word? I don't care anymore because that's where I get to see all matter of fun; interesting; painful; entertaining; horrific things and where today I found Jeff Scher, experimental artist and filmaker - Animated Life: "All the Wrong Reasons"

The Times is vindicated. A great article about the elderly. Phew.

Every once in a while I wonder if I'm being punked. Years ago it would have been, am I on Candid Camera? Such was the case when I read the article in Fashion about dresses. Jeri Ann told me she thought maybe it was an SNL skit. Here comes another NY Times article sent to me by Julia, this one, a good one. "For the Elderly, Being Heard About Life’s End" by Jane Gross, May 5, 2008. Here's the blurb: “Slow medicine,” which encourages less aggressive care at the end of life, is increasingly available in nursing homes."
And a quote:

The term slow medicine was coined by Dr. Dennis McCullough, a Dartmouth geriatrician, Kendal’s founding medical director and author of “My Mother, Your Mother: Embracing Slow Medicine, the Compassionate Approach to Caring for Your Aging Loved One.”

Among the hard truths, he said, is that 9 of 10 people who live into their 80s will wind up unable to take care of themselves, either because of frailty or dementia. “Everyone thinks they’ll be the lucky one, but we can’t go along with that myth,” Dr. McCullough said.

I heard Dr. McCullough talk about his book a couple of weeks ago so, as is my custom, I bought it. It sits in the bookcase. Don't gonna do me much use there.

If you or anyone you know plans to live into old age, I suggest you read this article. Julia called my attention to the left hand edge where you can link to audio of Carol Armstrong reading two of her poems about aging. Definitely worth a listen. Definitely.

Remember black and white television.

Sid Caesar and Nanette Fabray brought to my attention by The Very Short List

I'm sorry. What year did you say it is? Sexism reigns.

Julia just sent me a link to an article in the NY Times Fashion Diary, April 24, 2008, "Long Live the Dress (for Now)" by Guy Trebay. Here's the message she texted to my cellphone about it: "OMG I just read a Times fashion article that made me so mad. I'm going to email it to you." I thought, huh? What could be so anger producing? Uh, this article can, that's what.

It begins with three photos of beautiful, slim women in dresses, with the following caption underneath: "The summer dress, in all shapes and styles, is preferred by many women, and by men who like watching them."

I thought, aha, it's the caption that bothers Julia. Yes, it is a bit sexist. But, alas, I read on. In discussing the fashion industry prediction that the dress is dead, Mr. Trebay expresses his own dismay and then suggests that

"It may also come as unwelcome news to the female members of the Fundamentalist Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, whose wildly anachronistic Laura Ingalls Wilder frocks, Skechers and wave-pool hairdos have become as much an obsession in certain Manhattan circles as their polygamist habits and 416 children."

Hmmmm. Was Julia taken aback by his racist remarks about the Mormons? I just don't know. I thought I'd better read on.

It is also, for what it’s worth, unwelcome news to me.

That is because, unlike Ms. Slowey, I am not eager for women to become “a little more hard-core, a little more androgynous, a little more butch.” Yes, gender play is fun, and trousers are a useful wardrobe default for the woman in business. But unless you are Thomas McGuane and find nothing sexier than a woman with crow’s feet, tight Wranglers and suede chaps, you will have to concede that, for flattering a woman’s body, nothing is quite like a dress.

Trebay writes about Irwin Shaw.

Irwin Shaw covered all this is in his classic story “The Girls in Their Summer Dresses,” the tale that secured him a permanent place in anthologies if not exactly a perch on literary Olympus. And for all the creakiness of this warhorse about the fragile dynamics of love and desire, there remains in Shaw’s descriptions of the women on the streets of Manhattan, in their ripe young multitudes, something unexpectedly fresh and also recognizable.

Shaw wrote the story decades ago, in the era that directly preceded the feminist one that first killed off the dress, a time when women wore them all the time and not with irony. When, as Shaw wrote, “the warm weather comes” and the streets of the city were filled with women in shifts and shirtwaists and tunics and baby-dolls and sheaths, arms and legs bared, the effect they had on the urban landscape was a glorious thing.

Here are a couple of other snippets to whet your appetite.

"It’s my anti-mommy-blob outfit,” said Lesley Hartnett, who was out shopping one warm noontime last week and looking lean and sleek in a Diane Von Furstenberg wrap dress. “I feel glamorous in a dress, and it’s easy.” This view was shared, it would seem, by a lot of women stopped that day by a reporter on the street.

“I’m a girlie girl,” said Jacqueline Kelly, whose flowered dress was bought for her, she said, by her mother, a tiny blond bombshell. “I find that dresses are slimming, and they cover all the problem areas and highlight all the curves.”

The dress, Jennifer Emory, another midday shopper, said: “is very easy and very flattering — a no-brainer, really. It’s comfortable, and you can easily go from day to night. And guys like it because it’s so feminine.”

Do check out the article for yourself. It's a short read and it's not rocket science. No, it's not even close.

If the show is half as good as the review . . .

I like radio. More specifically, I like NPR. TV, as Borat might say, not so much. One show that I always loved, although I've only heard it if I happened to be in the car at the right time, is "This American Life". I knew it became a television show, but not being much of a TV hog, I've yet to see it. Whoa. After reading the May 04 review of the second season by Heather Havrilesky in Salon, I'll be recording it now from now on. Here's a snippet.

Some days you merely survive. You brush your unwashed hair and pack something crappy for lunch. You trudge from the car to your office. You sit and check your e-mail, the highlight of your day. And now the real work begins. You pick up the phone and close your eyes. Your co-workers say "Hi!" and you struggle to muster an appropriately chirpy yet professional response.

And just when you think the day is all about getting by, a glimpse of sunshine out the window or a melancholy song playing in your headphones sends you out of survival mode into some dreamy, nostalgic state that makes the pragmatic world of work feel horribly mundane. Your quest to simply get through the day is replaced by a painful longing for more. The world is full of hope and heartbreak and lukewarm coffee and glasses that don't fit quite right, and you have to do something about it. You want to walk outside and spend the day wandering around in the springtime sunshine. You want to pick your kid up from day care and take her to the park. You want to bail on that lunchtime meeting and go see a movie down the block. You want to get a pedicure, and then have a sandwich and a big glass of iced tea. You want to stare at the wall and let your eyes go unfocused.

And then, when you go to lunch alone and you sip iced tea and stare at the wall with glassy, unfocused eyes, you recognize Glenn Miller on the stereo, and that gets you thinking about how romantic and unmatched the big-band sound was, how maybe it was the war raging overseas or the styles at the time. Thinking about it makes you want to go back and live in some smoky, noir, black-and-white version of the early '40s. You'd wear cinched dresses and uncomfortable pumps with neatly pinned hair and red lipstick. Even though you know your vision is formed from some sentimental, blurry mix of old movies, newsreels about Rosie the Riveter and your dad's Time-Life books about the Third Reich, you still think it would be nice to live back then, writing letters to the troops with an ink pen, and baking cookies in your bad shoes. You'd probably be married to someone rigid and unyielding, and you'd be forced to look good, forced to smile politely when people made ignorant, inane remarks, like the poor, pent-up, chain-smoking heroine of "Franny and Zooey." Modern times are too permissive, after all, and someone like you, with your unwashed hair and your dog-hair-covered sweater, would clean up nice and thrive, really, under oppressive societal conditions. --snip--

Lots of wonderful descriptions of the show follow, including a segment on Haider Hamza and his "Ask an Iraqi" booth. You gotta read about him and his conversations with "Americans". Havrilesky continues --

There's a feeling of magic in "This American Life," the kind of feeling you get when you read a great novel or listen to truly inspired music. After watching this show, you start to experience the little things around you through a different filter: the dogs sleeping on the bed, the clothes turning and turning in the washing machine, the sound of kids playing next door. Instead of intrusions, each of these mundane details feels like a gift.

Can you ask for anything more from a TV show? Of course you can, but you also want to wear tight dresses and bake cookies in your bad shoes, so we can't exactly trust you on this one.

If you've got TV, with a review like this, how can you resist the show. In the meantime, I'm gonna look for more stuff written by Heather Havrilesky. If it's half as good as this review . . .

From the Urban Dictionary, The word for May 03 is Shituation

n.: a bad situation, 2.: a dramatic, usually negative happening resulting in utter shit in one's life.

Having GW in office sure is a shituation for da nation.

And from my own personal Dictionarian, Matt, Internets, it seems, is the new word for Internet, as coined by our illustrious leader and wordsmith W. I guess that's 'cuz it's a bunch of interlocking nets?

The Lost Generation

This is quite some documentary. Brought to my attention by The Women's Media Center, it is about Iraq's refugee children.

Award-winning journalist Sharmeen Obaid-Chinoy is touring the United States with her latest film, “The Lost Generation," a documentary on Iraq’s refugee children produced for Great Britain’s prestigious TV station Channel 4. So far, Obaid-Chinoy has been unable to find a U.S. station to televise the documentary. “A few of them have expressed reservations about showing this,” she says.

Focusing on children who have taken refuge in Jordan and Syria, the film addresses their future prospects back home, a country that has undergone constant turmoil since 2003. In the past five years, more than four million people, 20 percent of the entire Iraqi population, have been driven from their homes as a result of the war and sectarian bloodshed. Two million have become exiles, living lives across the border in Syria and Jordan.

Let's hope you can find it on the big screen. For now, here it is on the little one.



God damn George W. Bush and his cronies. Just god damn them all.

Iraq body count.

Thanks to Sharry at Embodied Aging I've just been introduced to the Iraq Body County Exhibit. The photos are powerful. Each red flag stands for 5 American deaths, each white flag for at least 5 Iraqi civilian deaths since 2003. I'm hoping to see lots more of this one as it travels. God damn George W. Bush and his cronies. Just god damn them all.

Not the Beach Haven Times, 1968, but it could have been.

Powell River News
Aug. 5, 1965

We stare out from the yellowed clipping
with its scholarship announcements, our faces serious,
hair carefully arranged. College-bound,
the article brags, though a few of the girls
decided to marry instead, and some of the boys
went straight to work at the paper mill.

The local real estate ads
are on the other side:
fixer-uppers and cottages by the sea,
spare bedrooms and mother-in-law units,
new roofs, deep wells,
must be seen to be believed,
so affordable I am more amazed
at what I might own,
—if I could slip back in time—
than what I might say to the girl in the picture,
the one who was me.

I know she had no use
for houses. She was going to travel the world,
be the next Emily Dickinson,
go looking for Heathcliff.

The stiff faces of my graduating class
are keeping their secrets,
and those houses
where we might have awakened
to the sound of a fresh westerly wind
banging the screen door,
are long since sold,
and maybe sold again.

But holding this bit of paper in my hands
I wonder if the tide is lapping
at the steps of those cottages now,
or if the Canada geese passing over each fall
still leave a hole in the air
that fills up with our longing

Barbara Bloom, The Hummingbird Press, 2007
Poetry of Barbara Bloom

What's wrong with this picture?

Everything.

Better than School. Film School.

My children were homeschooled, a misnomer, at best. I prefer to say I never sent my children to school. Sure, they did school stuff - bunches of classes here and there over the years - college classes for Julia at 15, cooking classes and adult baking for Jerzy as a 12-year-old, that sort of thing. Julia took herself off to boarding school for a year in 11th grade, returning to college classes for her senior year at home, before going away to "real" college on the other side of the country. But the actual schoolwork was secondary. I'll try to be brief, resisting my urge to talk about our walks together; the books we read and assignments we worked on; friends that came and stayed and played; travels; plans made and problems solved; applications, jobs, successes and failures; crazy pick-up softball in the rain; soccer; crossword puzzles; Family Guy and South Park and Singing in the Rain and White Christmas; the entire weekend of foreign films, Babette's Feast, with me reading the subtitles aloud; talking; sharing; caring. Suffice it to say, we know one another well. We love one another even more.

Along comes David Gilmour with his memoir, The Film Club, about his two years watching movies with his son in lieu of school. Here's a video. I can't wait to get the book.

Autism, The Musical at the Y

In New York? Go to the 92 Street Y on May 5. Here's why:

So I was looking at Big Think. There was an entry of the day about Educating the Masses,
Making American Students Competitive in a Global Economy by John McCain. Here's how it reads:

In addition to fixing up the No Child Left Behind Act, Senator John McCain has some other ideas for helping American students get ahead:

"I think also we have to think about incentivizing (my bold) math, science and engineering students, because that's the need for the future economy of this country and we have a real shortage of 'em. I'd like to make education affordable and available to every single American. I'm not saying that they'd have to receive that education; but at least it would be available and affordable, and we're a ways from that. But it would start with telling math, science and engineering students that we're gonna do everything we can to make sure they receive an education in those specialties, and then broaden it out into every other."

Incentivise? Huh? Is that really a word? I guess it's as good as 'em for them and gonna for going to and starting a sentence with But. (Remember when that wasn't allowed?) But incentivise. I just had to look that one up and found the following on iFractal:

Unfortunate coinages are turning up like bad pennies. And we seem to be making up words at an alarming rate.

“In the same way that people in social groups tend to wear similar clothes, people create slang and new words to show that they’re all part of the same group, ” says Grammar Girl. It’s about group identity.

Can You Incentivize Someone?
My introduction to business slang was in MBA school. My classmates started saying “incentivize” to mean “motivate.” They thought it sounded cool. I had a real aversion to the made-up word. Much to my dismay, incentivize seems to have made it into popular use. I find motivate to be infinitely cleaner. In fact, I’m committed to never using incentivize in any written piece again.

Is It Wrong to Verbify?
Is it wrong to create a verb from a noun, adjective, or other word? Is it wrong to verbify? Grammar Girl says she doesn’t object to verbifications (more slang) when they’re smoother to write and they allow for cleaner sentences. In fact, I just penciled in my edits.

Is Verbification an Internet Phenomenon?
I’m not exactly blaming the Internet for another social ill. I’m just noting that there’s a rapid explosion of business slang that is related to Internet products. You know you hit it big when the name of your product becomes the generic verb for doing something. Right Google? Googling, twittering, digging – I’m even used to slashdotting. They all sound fine to me. I’m not so wild about facebooking – maybe verbification is something to think about when naming your next start-up.

I looked up Judification on Grammar Girl - Your search for judification produced 0 results.

Ah, give it time. Urban Dictionary, here I come.

I'm tired of bottled water. I'm tired of plastic.

Our Bodies, Our Blog has a great post about plastic, er, I don't mean it says anything great about plastic. It's informative, as their posts typically are. It turns out that some of the chemicals used in plastics seem to cause endocrine problems, cancer, etc. and that other countries and now California ban them. Duh. I'm shocked. You? Here's a snippet:

Last week, the National Toxicology Program released a draft report on bisphenol A, or BPA, a chemical used in hard, clear plastic, such as Nalgene and baby bottles, as well as in the lining of baby formula containers and canned foods.

Studies in animals have linked it to hormonal changes, and the report acknowledged "some concern" that BPA may affect neural and behavioral development "in fetuses, infants, and children at current human exposures."

The report "signaled a turning point in the government's position on bisphenol A, or BPA, a chemical so ubiquitous in the United States that it has been detected in the urine of 93 percent of the population over 6 years of age," Lyndsey Layton wrote in the Washington Post, though it only called for more research into the health effects. --- snip ---

For more in-depth reading on the health concerns and scientific debate around BPA, check out "The Plastics Revolution," published in the Washington Post earlier this week.

The author, Ranit Mishori, a family physician and faculty member at the Georgetown University School of Medicine, also looks at the debate over phthalates -- chemical compounds that improve the longevity, durability and flexibility of plastic. In animal studies, these compounds have been linked to cancers and genital abnormalities, especially in males.

Again, the Unites States lags behind other countries, as phthalates are already banned in the manufacture of toys in most European countries. California took action on its own, implementing a ban that goes into effect in 2009 on some phthalates found in toys and teethers. A dozen other states are considering similar bans.

But it's not as easy as banning items that children like to put in their mouths. Phthlates are also found in commonly used personal care products, including shampoos and deodorants and perfumes -- for more info., see (their) previous post on cosmetics and phthalates.

The previous post has an interesting link to an article in the Telegraph.UK by Paul Stokes, Body absorbs 5lb of make-up chemicals a year, which speaks directly to women's make-up. Ugh.

And about that bottled water. I know it's old news too. I mean the article in the NY Times, Must Be Something in The Water, by Julia Moskin was written well over a year ago. Her article is quite informative, although, you don't have to read it to know that millions of plastic bottles are piling up everywhere and that the water industry is huge and getter bigger all the time. Had I read it before, however, I would have known that Dasani water, sold by Coca-Cola and "available", ie, the only choice in numerous markets, is simply purified municipal water with magnesium sulfate, potassium chloride and sodium chloride added. Just what I want in my water. Salt.

Grrrr. It must be something in the water, indeed. And btw, if you wanna see somebody who's really tired of plastic, visit Beth Terry at Fake Plastic Fish. You'll be glad you did.

Apology.

Apology to the Wasps

Terrorized by your stings,
I took out biochemical weapons
And blasted your nest
Like it was a third world country.

I was the United States Air Force.
It felt good to be so powerful
Until I saw your family
Trailing shredded wings,
Staggering on disintegrating legs,
Trying desperately to save the eggs
You had stung to protect.

The poem is over. I am sorry to follow it up immediately with my words, so busy and newsy and non-poetic but I wanted to include a bio of Sara Littlecrow-Russell, from University of Arizona Press about The Secret Powers of Naming, (University of Arizona Press 2006), the book in which this poem was published.

This is a stunning collection of poems written by Anishanaabe (Ojibway)-Naxi Metis lawyer, mediator and political activist. Rather than actively repressing painful information, Ms. Littlecrow-Russell models the creative energy that flows from acknowledging exploitation. Her strong voice is truth-telling prophetic as she writes about poverty, death, racism, patriarchy, legal travesties, nationalist sentiments, and other issues as related to Native American life. Ms. Littlecrow-Russell is a single mother, playwright and anti-racism organizer who fills her poems with quips, sarcasm and humor. In Ojibway, the word zhaabwii is loosely translated as the act of passing through intact. She witnesses, holding out hope for the survival of the spirit and restoration of her community.

Every day I am humbled by the genius, integrity and committment of others.

I'm Tired

I'm Tired

I want you to grow old with me

i.e. to catch up to me
as I am becoming increasingly weary
of writing poems to you

the poems have
discolored my life

I'm tired of the mysterious truth
after I touch you
I'm tired of not knowing what you think about
I'm tired of women who have the same name as you
they don't know that I'm tired of them too

I'm tired of the telephone
of its beige lips
telling me they love me
and that you don't
that you're a figment
in my ear

I don't want my poems to wear out anyone else again
I don't want to die and have this machine at
my bedside holding my hand
draping me with its affectionate black ribbon
wondering who will turn it on when I'm gone
wondering if my soul will become a kiss again.

from Frank Lima's Inventory

Amy Tan on Creativity and All Matter of Things

Amy Tan on TED. This is an amazing talk. It's not short like YouTube. It lasts all of about 20 minutes or so. Remember when sitting and watching one amazing lecture for 20 minutes wouldn't have seemed like a long time? When my kids were little I read an article about Sesame Street, the wonder show that was supposed to teach kids letters and numbers and all matter of interesting concepts. The article I read was on the printed page. The letters didn't transmogrify, an A becoming an apple, an aardvark, an airplane, all in dazzling colors. They just sat there and formed words. I thought, hmmmm, time to turn off the television. So for eight years it was off. Here it is, lots of years later and, at least around my house, we've all got our heads stuck in our computers and I think we're becoming YouTubed: Definition - unable to watch anything for more than three minutes.

Amy Tan is brilliant and funny. It's worth every minute if you can find the time to listen. If you find a transcript let me know. I'd like to read it.

I can't say it any better than Martha Rosenberg does.

This is all new to me. I'd never heard of Sportsman Against Hunger before. I have heard of Dan Quayle. He's still a great source for the occasional joke. And I do know of Dick Cheny's prowess with guns. I encountered this article by Martha Rosenberg on AlterNet and Under the Holly Tree. Same article at both places. Now it's here.

Martha Rosenberg: Hunter Humanitarian Program Backfires as Venison is Found Unfit

When your organization promotes canned shooting of lions, elephants, zebras, and leopards in Africa, it needs a lot of PR.

That's why Safari Club International (SCI), the trophy-hunting organization supported by former President George H.W. Bush, former Vice President Dan Quayle, and retired Gen. H. Norman Schwarzkopf, created Sportsmen Against Hunger.

Dumping carcasses makes hunters look like they just like to kill.
But find someone who will actually eat the game -- staff at canned hunting clubs for example or the poor -- and you are suddenly a humanitarian.

Vice President Dick Cheney's hunting parties are known for donating the pen-raised pheasants they shoot during an afternoon to hunting club workers who presumably don't mind the cleaning and pellet removal.

And few think George H.W. Bush, Quayle and Schwarzkopf ate the lions they allegedly killed in a canned hunt in Botswana in 1999 themselves. Especially when donating the meat would increase their Great White Hunter status. (see: We're Helping Local Economies and Preserving Big Game By Killing It.)

In fact, Sportsmen against Hunger worked so well as a concept -- "hunters are doing something they love and helping others at the same time," said spokesmen -- SCI spun off a second do-good group called Sportsmen Against Cancer stumped by Stormin' Norman himself.

"I'm a health nut," Schwarzkopf, a cancer survivor, told the Fort Myers News-Press in 2006. "However, some people can't afford organic foods, and Sportsmen Against Cancer provides meat at no cost."

Hormones are not good for cancer patients, added Angie Hall of the Naples/Fort Myers Safari Club that was coordinating the program and it's "not very likely that wild animals were injected with hormones."

Until, that is, chronic wasting disease (CWD), a terminal neurological illness similar to mad cow, surfaced in U.S. deer and elk five years ago. Suddenly no one wanted to eat the meat they harvested or even clean it. Or let it in the house.

"If the hunter cuts up his/her own deer, he or she should wear surgical gloves and not have any open cuts or sores on their hands," Jon C. McCabe of Watertown, WI warned hunters in the Capital Times.

But that still didn't mean he was out of the woods. "If the hunter has the deer processed, does that processor sterilize its equipment after each deer is cut up so cross contamination does not occur?" asked McCabe.

Colorado hunter Al Samuelson wasn't afraid of contamination from the other guy's deer; he worried about contamination from his own buck when it tested CWD positive -- and the risks from blood on his steering wheel and hunting clothes that his wife washed.

Mounds of headless deer piled up in places such as Wisconsin awaiting elaborate lab tests on their brains and horrifying the public. And suddenly the tons of limp and headless game hunters tried to donate looked less like generosity than, well, dumping.

Less like helping the poor than dosing it. (see: blankets; smallpox)

Some food pantries refused the "donations" outright; others gave recipients an informed consent flier that told them the meat was probably fine but there was a slight chance it was not fine and actually lethal. Bon Appetit.

Nor did anyone want the meat in a landfill "where other animals can eat it and the blood can be filtered through the soil and enter the ground water," as McCabe wrote.

Now comes news there's a second problem with Sportsmen Against Hunger's heartfelt donations: lead poisoning.

Last week, health officials in North Dakota told food pantries to throw out donated meat after 53 out of 95 packages of ground venison revealed lead fragments from bullets when X-rayed.

Health officials in Minnesota and Iowa promptly followed suit. This leaves Sportsmen Against Hunger with 1.2 million perfectly good meals no one wants on their plate. 317,000 pounds of meat "harvested" for no reason. And looking less like humanitarians than criminals trying to find someone to dispose of the evidence.

"This is disheartening, and we certainly don't think this program should come to an end on the unscientific assessment that has occurred here," lamented SCI lawyer Doug Burdin upon hearing the states' decrees.

"Deer venison provided through the generosity of our hunters, is a highly valuable food source for some of Iowa's less fortunate citizens," echoed Ross Harrison, coordinator of Iowa's Help Us Stop Hunger (HUSH) program. "We certainly have an obligation to ensure its safety, but we also don't want to be wasteful of this valuable resource if we don't need to."

Maybe Safari Club International needs to do more PR.

The meat may contain CWD and lead fragments but it still has no injected hormones, after all. And it didn't end up in the school lunch program.

Martha Rosenberg is a Staff Cartoonist for the Evanston Roundtable.

Hysterical. Not.

Hysterically funny? I don't think so. I must have fallen out of the loop, lost touch with the fabulous things Gucci comes up with. What better use for $3990? A new purse! Maybe if I get that $5,000 tax break for health insurance from McCain . . . More on the bag at Luxist. There's a link to Saks in case you're itching to "add to bag" as they say. Beware. No more than three of these every thirty days:

Gucci
Hysteria Python Bag/Medium
Medium top handle bag in black python with double handles, detachable shoulder strap, magnet snap closure. Metal Gucci crest detail. Inside zip, cell phone and PDA pockets. 17"W X 14"H X 3"D. Made in Italy.
DUE TO POPULAR DEMAND, A CUSTOMER MAY ORDER NO MORE THAN THREE UNITS OF THIS ITEM EVERY THIRTY DAYS.

Catherine Price has her hysterical take on it in Salon today: . . .

but I find the Hysteria collection, well, hysterical. Mostly, it's for an etymological reason -- the word "hysterical" comes from the Greek "hysterikos," which means "womb." Or, more specifically, "disorder of the womb," a definition that dates back to the ancient Greek belief that the uterus was a free-floating organ that wandered through the body as it saw fit, bumping into other sensitive body parts (lungs, heart) and causing problems wherever it strayed. ("The Rogue Uterus" -- coming soon to a theater near you!) Physicians thought hysteria had something to do with sexual deprivation (though pretty much any female behavior could be considered "hysteria," especially if male physicians didn't understand it), and in the Victorian era, its treatment involved "pelvic massage" with what we'd now call vibrators -- which makes me wonder if some of those distressed ladies weren't a tad bit more clever than their doctors realized.

I wonder what could I get in trade for my Hysterical bag on Swaptree? (Check out the description on the Very Short List.) Dang, I forgot. They only handle books, CDs, DVDs and Video Games.

I feel a new businees coming on. Swaptree, Gucci style. Who's in?

Contents of My Inbox

Many years ago I wrote a poem about the contents of my Blue Dresser Drawer. It included things like three straight pins; ticket stubs from various concerts, movies, plays, etc (described in detail, including relationship to companion at the event); seven buttons (three white from button down shirt, one faux tortoiseshell, 1 large black, 1 red, 1 small blue); matches (including description, of course); 1 black shoelace; etc. You get the picture.

Slow forward to today and I'm struck by the contents of my e-mail Inbox.


RE: [heathenhomeschoolers] Flying Spaghetti Monster in the Sky‏

Amazon.com Save 22% at Amazon.com on "The Joy of Retirement: Finding Happiness, Freedom, and the Life You've Always Wanted" by David C. Borchard‏

Raw Story Update - April 22‏ 4:17 PM 17 KB

Are you ready to join a Major League political operation that will change America?‏

Very Short List VSL // STOP! Don't chuck that awful DVD you bought‏

NPR Shop NPR Green Gifts for Earth Day‏

rentalcars.com Rental Cars from $69/week + Special Offer from Alamo‏

SmartBargains.com Mother's Day is coming! Save on great gifts, ship for free‏

Victoria's Secret Make a Splash with the 2008 Swim Collection‏

Progressive Democrats of America [PDA] Reminder:TONIGHT, TUES 4/22 HEALTH CARE FOR ALL/SIINGLE PAYER ISSUE ORGANIZING TEAM CALL‏

[Fwd: FW: Advocacy Alert: Tell Your Representatives to Vote for H.R. 5613

PFAW Activist Network Tell Senate: Correct the Court, Support Fair Pay‏

Friendly Reminder: RSVP for Networking Dinner--Friday April 25

AlterNet Headlines Evangelical Pop Culture | 8 Reasons Environmentalism Is Unavoidable | Is Privacy Obsolete?‏

Doctor Dictionary lionize: Dictionary.com Word of the Day‏

WhiteBison.org Daily Meditation Elder's Meditation of the day April 22

Barnes & Noble 25% Off Coupon Inside‏

The Writer's Almanac The Writer's Almanac for April 22

Salon Newsletter Today in Salon: The epic battle for Pennsylvania‏

Media Matters for America Media Matters Daily Summary‏

Common Dreams News & Views | 04.21.08‏ Yesterday

Kathleen Vermazen/Women's Media Center Women Don't Ask? No, Employers Don't Pay by Ellen Bravo‏ Yesterday

And that ain't the half of it. Yours?

Killing a dog in the name of art is not an urban legend.

A friend sent me an e-mail with a link to sign a petition. Included in the message were several photos of a dog tied to a short rope, getting progressively thinner as he was being starved to death. Wimp that I am, I actually didn't look at all the photos to see him withering away but I got the idea. And it is a bad idea. A really bad one. I decided it must be an urban legend, one of those crazy posts that gets sent around the Internet gathering a big head of steam only to be outed as a hoax. It just couldn't be true. A dog starving in an art gallery as an exhibit? It's too obscene.

A couple of days went by and the story and outrageous images started showing up in more places. I googled the artist, Guillermo Habacuc Vargas, followed a link and much to my amazement and dismay, this is looking more real by the minute. The site has several versions of the artist's statement explaining the exhibit:

We see how he is changing his statement, depending on how the public reactions are - first statement was "the dog would have died anyway" - second statement was "I cannot say if the dog died or not" - third statement was "I wanted to do it to remember Mr.Natividad Canda" [the burglar killed by guard dogs] - fourth statement was "I did the exhibition to show the terrible situation of street dogs".... etc...

How can any art gallery have shown this abuse? I can't imagine who could have gone to the exhibit and walked away silently, allowing the dog to suffer. I'm certain there are many who would like Guillermo to spend a little time himself living the life of the "starving artist".

I am just the messenger. An outraged messenger. And a saddened one.

Very Short List, Beckett and YouTube Collide to bring you Charlie Rose

My Mommy's Boobs are Bigger than Your Mommy's

Have you read about the new children's book, My Beautiful Mommy? It's designed for little ones, the 4 to 7 year-old set, whose Mom's are having plastic surgery - tummy tucks (euphemism for having chunks of fat and skin cut out of the abdomen); nose jobs; breast implants; you know, typical Mommy things to do. The idea is that Mommy will have surgery, which could otherwise be scary, but this particular kind of surgery isn't because she's sick, it's because she's going to end up prettier, so everything will be okay.

Lots of people are writing about it. Jezebel's post is titled Our Boob Jobs, Ourselves. The Feminist Peace Network's post is titled Mommy Gets A Tummy Tuck - Sure To Be A Children's Classic. In Alex Leo's review on 23/6, she includes her own creative spin offs - My Strict Mommy, My Thirsty Mommy and My Popular Mommy, complete with pictures of Mommy with a belt for roughing up black-eyed baby; martini-glass-holding Mommy; and near-nude Mommy. She says she expecting a call from the publisher, Big Tent Books soon.

The interesting thing about Big Tent Books is that it is a vanity press. According to Making Light, the "award-winning" books that Big Tent Books publishes get their awards from their other company, Dragonpencil. But for a three-page review in Newsweek, My Beautiful Mommy would have gone unnoticed, like it's counterparts at Big Tent typically do. As it is, chances are good it's not going to end up in the classics section anytime soon, but somebody got lucky getting a review in Newsweek just before Mother's day. And it sure isn't Newsweek.

If you happen to click on the link to see what Big Tent Books has to offer, you might notice the shopping cart on the right with the words "Your cart is empty". I recommend that you leave it that way.

At Long Last from The Museum of Bad Art

I bet I'm one of the few people in your crowd to receive the Museum of Bad Art (MOBA, motto - Art too bad to be ignored) newsletter. And I bet you're glad I do cuz it means you now get to read the following excerpt from it:

Permanent Acting Interim Executive Director Louise Reilly Sacco and Curator-in-Chief Michael Frank are proud to announce the release of "Museum of Bad Art: Masterworks", a handsome catalog featuring over 70 pieces from our collection.

This dignified hardcover book belongs in every library and on every coffee table in the English-speaking world. The small size (8.5”x6.25”) is convenient to carry on your person at all times, and the unbelievable low price makes it a beautiful and educational gift for virtually any occasion.

Though the official publication date is May 1, the book is now available through the MOBA gift shop. To thank you for your continued support, we have a special pre-publication offer during the month of April.

Not only will you be the first in your crowd to have this book, but your copy can be autographed by the authors at no extra cost!

And, to make it even better, you'll be charged only $3 for shipping, no matter how many copies you order. Think about that; order 30 copies and you've paid 10¢ each for shipping! Order 300 and it's 1¢ each!

I've yet to receive my copy so I can't say for sure, but my guess is this book is gonna be wonderful. As an artist I've made some pretty bad art over the years, nothing good enough for jurying into the museum. Most of my bad art is worth ignoring, or in my case, breaking up with a sledge hammer, which I gotta say, can be quite a lot of fun. I wonder if MOBA would be interested in some really bad jewelry. Last night Matt and I entertained ourselves by pawing through a drawer full of some of our creations that didn't quite make it. We also made the beginnings of glass dog bones and Froot (sic) Loops - glass that'll be too good to eat.

Now that he's gone, who will know?

"Who Will Know?"

He wanted to stay.
He didn't ask for much.

He wanted to know what was "going on,"
He read the paper every day.

The world is like a sponge.
It absorbs us.

Mother was grieved with the nursing home.
He said, "Kiddo, it's all right."

The world goes on its way.
Now that he's gone, who will know?

by Joyce Kennedy, from Ghost Lamp © Laurel Poetry Collective, 2006

The Day the Internet Stood Still, South Park Style

Jerzy showed me this. Magic.

Gloves, Cans and Farts

Avery and I walked to work yesterday, her work that is. It's only a few miles but along the way we always see lots of gloves on the ground so I generally bring my camera with me to take their pictures. I'd forgotten my camera so no new glove photos although I've got some great pictures of them in my mind's eye. That's the thing about photographs. If I take the picture I can usually put the image aside, secure in the knowledge that it's locked away in the camera. If I fail to take a picture of interest it hovers about in my brain. I see a red work glove, and a black biking glove and a green gardening glove and . . . So no gloves, but I was fortunate to find two lovely cans to add to my collection. I've been known to frame rusty cans. I promised to give Avery the shiny one for Christmas.

Avery has a cough, a bad cough that's lingered for a while and apparently when walking, the act of coughing causes her to spontaneously fart. There. I said it. Fart. Farting is not something I was raised to talk about. It just wasn't done. I suspect Avery would be happier if I outed her as a lesbian than a farter. My friends and I never intentionally farted in front of one another when I was a kid, and although the boys were rumored to have tried to set their farts on fire with matches, we were not quite sure if there was any truth to it.

If anyone ever farted when all five of us kids were packed in the station wagon with my parents my mother would say, Josh!, as if he was the only one of us who could have done something so offensive. We all caught on to the trick after a while. Fart. Josh!

My boyfriend when I was 19 told me he didn't fart. You never fart? Nope. I believed him. I made sure I never farted around him either. Is it any wonder the relationship was doomed? I mean, we weren’t the most committed couple you’ll ever meet - our relatively crummy relationship probably lasted less than a year. I don’t know for sure. What I do know for certain is, we never, not once, farted in front of one another, at least not perceptively. Not living together near Washington Square Park. Not living on 89th Street between West End and Riverside. Not traveling across the country in our old van with Indian-print curtains and retreads that were always itching to explode, and an engine that could only be started by opening the big metal cover and connecting some wire to the solenoid by hand.

You might wonder (I certainly do) why I'd write about such a sophomoric, adolescent subject as gas, against the better judgement of even my otherwise often known-for-bad-judgement kids. I blame it on The New Yorker, David Sedaris and Steven Levitt, co-author of the widely popular Freakonomics.

The New Yorker showed up in the mail a few months ago (December 17, 2007, Reflections, Journey Into Night, to be exact) and, as usual, I read the comics and looked to see if David Sedaris had written anything. Aha. He had and, as would be expected, his article was laugh-out-loud hysterical. David Sedaris often writes about his family life as a kid. In this particular article there's the dinner table scene. It may not pack the wallop that it does in context but, here's an excerpt:

I don’t know why it was, exactly, but nothing irritated my father quite like the sound of his children’s happiness. Group crying he could stand, but group laughter was asking for it, especially at the dinner table.

The problem was that there was so much to laugh at, particularly during the years that our Greek grandmother lived with us. Had we been older, it might have been different. “The poor thing has gas,” we might have said. For children, though, nothing beats a flatulent old lady. What made it all the crazier was that she wasn’t embarrassed by it—no more than our collie, Dutchess, was. Here it sounded like she was testing out a chainsaw, yet her face remained inexpressive and unchanging.
“Something funny?” our father would ask us, as if he hadn’t heard, as if his chair, too, had not vibrated in the aftershock. “You think something’s funny, do you?”
If keeping a straight face was difficult, saying “No” was so exacting that it caused pain.
“So you were laughing at nothing?”
“Yes,” we would say. “At nothing.”
Then would come another mighty rip, and what was once difficult would now be impossible. My father kept a heavy serving spoon next to his plate, and I can’t remember how many times he brought it down on my head.
“You still think there’s something to laugh about?”
Strange that being walloped with a heavy spoon made everything seem funnier, but there you have it. My sisters and I would be helpless, doubled over, milk spraying out of our mouths and noses, the force all the stronger for having been bottled up. There were nights when the spoon got blood on it—nights when hairs would stick to the blood—but still our grandmother farted, and still we laughed until the walls shook."

And then there's Freakonomics, that fabulous book that dazzled me with seemingly unrelated facts and amazing and improbable notions, most of them so heady that I forgot them by the next day. But for the study of gas, Freakonomics might never have been written. You see, the father of Steven Levitt is one Dr. Levitt, national expert on flatulence. Dr. Levitt contends that it is gas that is partly responsible for putting his three children through study at some very expensive universities.

Steven Levitt, in the NY Times, January 02, 2008, quotes his father, "I know a lot about gas" and links to the December 28, 2007 article in The Canadian Press "Flatulence expert defines 'normal' output rate."

Levitt is a veritable gas guru, a leading expert on the under appreciated field of flatus -- intestinal gas that escapes via the southern route. He admits his unusual expertise has put his three kids (one of whom is economist and "Freakonomics" co-author Steven Levitt) through expensive universities.

Levitt has gone to extraordinary lengths to plumb the mysteries of flatulence. He's captured farts in specially made Mylar pantaloons, measured the cocktail of gases they contain, even conducted a study devised to get to the bottom of what may be the most contentious question in the field: Which gender emits the smelliest farts?

So what have he and others learned about the fine art of flatulating?

It's a pretty common occurrence. Studies in which volunteers tracked their gas passage suggest people fart 10 to 20 times a day, with some hitting the 30, 40, even 50 mark, says Levitt, who is with the VA Medical Center in Minneapolis, Minn.

Kids today fart like crazy. With abandon. They laugh and fart and laugh and fart again. When Julia was a theater student she told me that the fart is the universal chuckle-getter. It transcends language and culture, she said, and is always good for a laugh.

Kristara throws herself across my bed and farts on purpose. I laugh and she reminds me how humorless I was when she first moved in with us and she'd fart, with attitude, in front of me. I do have some memory of that old me but I’m liberated now. I not only can fart and laugh out loud (At my age what choice do I have?), I can write about farting for anyone to read. But the truth is, with every click of the keys, when I type the "f-word", I cringe just a little bit. I’m not gonna lie.

I got a new book.

I like this book. Here's what Haley Edwards of the Seattle Times says about it.

"If "The Vagina Monologues" could be translated into photography, that's what this book would be.

Rosanne Olson's collection of photographs and short essays, "This Is Who I Am: Our Beauty in All Shapes and Sizes," is an exploration of how real women relate to their real bodies — in all their freckled, scarred, pudgy and wrinkled glory. It's sometimes funny, sometimes sensual and always heartbreakingly sincere."

See why I like this book?

Pangea Day

Okay, we can start with the anthem we know well. It's a lovely video, actually, what with the French accents and accompanying scenes. Pangea Day. A big idea.

Game Girl

Several years ago my daughters got a Gameboy. (How come girls didn't get Gamegirls? I suspect they would have been pink and glittery and played non-violent games. Remember the dish scrubbing gadget, Chore Girl? Oh yes.) Anyhow, the girls played a bunch of games on their Gameboys that were beyond me and then they showed me Tetris. I was hooked. I mean hooked. I played in the wee hours of the night to make sure I retained the number one spot on the high scores. I dreamed Tetris. One night Julia and I talked all night, literally all night while I played Tetris. The sun came up and we just kept on talking and I kept on playing. Fortunately, my addiction was shortlived. But when Jerzy showed me this video I was anything but an impassive observer. I watched intently, happily, occasionally uttering a derisive yelp, Quick, flip it! Oh no! Whew. Game Over.

Yusef Komunyakaa, Poetry from another war.

Prisoners

Usually at the helipad
I see them stumble-dance
across the hot asphalt
with crokersacks over their heads,
moving toward the interrogation huts,
thin-framed as box kites
of sticks & black silk
anticipating a hard wind
that'll tug & snatch them
out into space. I think
some must be laughing
under their dust-colored hoods,
knowing rockets are aimed
at Chu Lai—that the water's
evaporating & soon the nail
will make contact with metal.
How can anyone anywhere love
these half-broken figures
bent under the sky's brightness?
The weight they carry
is the soil we tread night & day.
Who can cry for them?
I've heard the old ones
are the hardest to break.
An arm twist, a combat boot
against the skull, a .45
jabbed into the mouth, nothing
works. When they start talking
with ancestors faint as camphor
smoke in pagodas, you know
you'll have to kill them
to get an answer.
Sunlight throws
scythes against the afternoon.
Everything's a heat mirage; a river
tugs at their slow feet.
I stand alone & amazed,
with a pill-happy door gunner
signaling for me to board the Cobra.
I remember how one day
I almost bowed to such figures
walking toward me, under
a corporal's ironclad stare.
I can't say why.
From a half-mile away
trees huddle together,
& the prisoners look like
marionettes hooked to strings of light.

Yusef Komunyakaa, Vietnam veteran. Poet.

Poems from Guantánamo

Death Poem by Jumah al Dossari

Take my blood.
Take my death shroud and
The remnants of my body.
Take photographs of my corpse at the grave, lonely.

Send them to the world,
To the judges and
To the people of conscience,
Send them to the principled men and the fair-minded.

And let them bear the guilty burden before the world,
Of this innocent soul.
Let them bear the burden before their children and before history,
Of this wasted, sinless soul,
Of this soul which has suffered at the hands of the “protectors of peace.”

Jumah al Dossari is a thirty-three-year-old Bahraini who has been held at Guantánamo Bay for more than five years. He has been in solitary confinement since the end of 2003 and, according to the U.S. military, has tried to kill himself twelve times while in custody.

From the University of Iowa Press, Poems from Guantánamo, The Detainees Speak:

“Poems from Guantánamo brings to light figures of concrete, individual humanity, against the fabric of cruelty woven by the ‘war on terror.’ The poems and poets’ biographies reveal one dimension of this officially obscured narrative, from the perspective of the sufferers; the legal and literary essays provide the context which has produced—under atrocious circumstances—a poetics of human dignity.”—Adrienne Rich

Since 2002, at least 775 men have been held in the U.S. detention center at Guantánamo Bay, Cuba. According to Department of Defense data, fewer than half of them are accused of committing any hostile act against the United States or its allies. In hundreds of cases, even the circumstances of their initial detainment are questionable.

This collection gives voice to the men held at Guantánamo. Available only because of the tireless efforts of pro bono attorneys who submitted each line to Pentagon scrutiny, Poems from Guantánamo brings together twenty-two poems by seventeen detainees, most still at Guantánamo, in legal limbo.

What a way to celebrate National Poetry Month.

"____" will "____" you

Johnny Lee has a lot of really big ideas. I saw him on TED and I can understand a little bit of what he does. But don't click away yet. Johnny Lee also has a Little Great Idea willyou that I can understand. At least I think I can. Check it out.

Happy Birthday Julia Katherine

Today is my mother's birthday. I hadn't been gearing up to notice her birthday as it approached. It's just that I kept encountering the date today and each time I'd think, Huh, it's Mom's birthday, until I finally had to admit that I felt it. It's been a long time since she died. I know that because Duck was just a puppy when Mom was dying and now she's not. I didn't actually know she was dying but I knew she was failing and needy and clingy and unapproachable at the same time, and I felt a need for something needy that would respond with unconditional love so I got a puppy.

I miss her sometimes, Mom that is, not Duck who snores on the floor next to my bed at night and eats my animal crackers during the day, but my mother - tiny, mean, arrogant, judgemental, lonely thing that she was.

I know she wanted to be loved and touched and held as much as the rest of us. She just didn't know how to go about it. On the last night of her life I lay next to her in her bed while the music of Fleetwood Mac blared in the hospice room next door. She gripped my hand soundly and sweetly and I thought, See, it's not so bad to be held. Really, it's not so bad.

Somebody ate my animal crackers.

She's so smart.

They were "animal" crackers, after all.

Finally

Finally

Finally will it not be enough,
after much living, after
much love, after much dying
of those you have loved,
to sit on the porch near sundown
with your eyes simply open,
watching the wind shape the clouds
into the shape of clouds?

Even then you will remember
the history of love, shaped
in the shape of flesh, everchanging
as the clouds that pass, the blessed
yearning of body for body,
unending light.
You will remember, watching
the clouds, the future of love.

- Wendell Berry

Finally, it will be enough for me when I know our elders are not locked inside the halls of nursing homes, never to sit outside on a porch at sundown to look and remember again. Finally, it will be enough for me when I know that each one of us will be where we want to be at sundown.

Smart Starbucks Cups

This is not an endorsement nor encouragement to frequent Starbucks. The milk, if you use it, is not from grass-fed cows nor organic. I doubt the coffee is fair-traded. That said, if you did happen into Starbucks as I'm known to do in spite myself, you might have noticed the quotes on the cups, the paper cups, that is. Jerzy brought them to my attention a couple of weeks ago. Here are two:

The Way I See It #287
"There is a special place in hell for women who don't help other women." This from, of all people, my hero - Madeleine K. Albright, Former Secretary of State and Ambassador to the U.N.

The Way I See It #282
"Childhood is a strange country. It's a place you come from or go to - at least in your mind. For me it has an endless, spellbound something in it that feels remote. It's like a little sealed-vault country of cake breath and grass stains where what you do instead of work is spin until you're dizzy." Lyall Bush, Executive director of Richard Hugo House, a center for writers and readers.

In the fine print on the bottom of the cups was a disclaimer and web address to read more - www.starbucks.com/wayiseeit. So I guess you didn't have to buy a cup of coffee or fish cups out of the trash to read all matter of quotes. Now Starbucks has changed cup designs. The way I see it, they should put some energy into organic, local supplies and fair-trade coffee.