Things currently wondering through (no longer occupying) spaces in my brain...Cornell note-taking, documentaries about America's great stories and people... my responsibilities at work... reading articles about teaching writing, about teaching reading, about the latest iteration of ongoing education reform... the best way to approach my upcoming course ... my off and on spirituality, the ebb and flow of my daily life ... Advent... Little Liam and the current generation of Hannons... wishing I could do something for Audrey.... thankful for my objectively-speaking easy life... what to do about Ja'Nelle.... thinking about my finances as I begin a ten-year countdown to retirement... knowing I need to live in the present, being "present" to others... my right posterior tibial tendon and its rehabilitation... my boot camp book club... fixing the summer reading Infinite Campus fiasco... how I have managed to forget almost everything I ever read or studied.... gleeful guilt that Norma did my laundry and put out my Christmas decorations.... shopping... a sublimely ridiculous Saturday afternoon on blogspot...
I can lose an hour easily on Facebook. Check in on the Profile page, go to Home, post something, check out new posts, pictures, write on someone's wall, you name it. Thank God this site is not accessible from my place of work, otherwise I would have some serious problems with efficiency, not to mention employment. But it feeds my ADD nicely.
In the past few days, I have experienced the phenomenon many have discussed about Facebook: connecting with people from the past. And while I feel no desire to strike up adult friendships with third-grade classmates, I am enjoying memories I have not accessed for decades. There are many facets to this interest, the most obvious one being the social network that facilitates the communication. Another is that I grew up in a city and because of changing demographics (See "white flight") no one from my childhood has lived in the old neighborhood for years. It's not like we go back to the family home for the holidays and drive passed the old school, the park, the candy store, or the town hall ---- an experience oft depicted in stories from America's heartland--- to which I cannot relate. Now, we can return virtually, and the Incarnation Class of 1973 has begun to trickle homeward.
I amazed myself earlier today when I was able to "tag" without hesitation at least 25 out of the 50 kids in my third grade class-- overwhelmingly boys, not girls, but that's for another post. I retrieved from long-term storage first and last names of people I have not seen or thought about in 40 years. Of course, I still cannot remember where I put my glasses 20 minutes ago. Yes, the joys of 50.
Sitting through The Kids Are All Right this evening, I realized that I have indeed become people I knew long ago and at times thought so old and fogey: my parents. They, however, would have walked out of the movie. That did not even occur to me. The story of a lesbian couple whose son and daughter decide to meet their moms' sperm donor, The Kids Are All Right was a mediocre film. There were a couple of good, well-acted scenes and some of the characters were interesting, if not compelling. The premise, definitely interesting; the fling between one of the moms and the donor, also interesting. Choosing nuance over near-porn would have been better.
The "father," played by Mark Rufallo was a quirky, endearing crunchy granola type. Annette Benning and Julianne Moore played fairly one-dimensional characters I found difficult to care too much about. Much of the movie was comprised of gay and straight sex scenes, predictable plot events, and sentimental psychobabble. As my sister-in-law and I discussed it over dinner, we mentioned that it had received fairly positive reviews, so we must be out of the loop. Or, maybe it's just bad form not to like a film with such a hip alternative family, whose members apologize for "not being (their) highest (selves) lately." But, we both agreed that we didn't need to sit through gratuitous sex scenes and bad acting and that not loving the movie didn't make us intolerant. So there.
It took me a few decades, but I finally took a leisurely stroll across the world's most famous suspension bridge. And what a beautiful morning for it. Pictures to come but for now, a little Hart Crane. To Brooklyn Bridge How many dawns, chill from his rippling rest
The seagull's wings shall dip and pivot him,
Shedding white rings of tumult, building high
Over the chained bay waters Liberty--
Then, with inviolate curve, forsake our eyes
As apparitional as sails that cross
Some page of figures to be filed away;
--Till elevators drop us from our day . . .
I think of cinemas, panoramic sleights
With multitudes bent toward some flashing scene
Never disclosed, but hastened to again,
Foretold to other eyes on the same screen;
And Thee, across the harbor, silver-paced
As though the sun took step of thee, yet left
Some motion ever unspent in thy stride,--
Implicitly thy freedom staying thee!
Out of some subway scuttle, cell or loft
A bedlamite speeds to thy parapets,
Tilting there momently, shrill shirt ballooning,
A jest falls from the speechless caravan.
Down Wall, from girder into street noon leaks,
A rip-tooth of the sky's acetylene;
All afternoon the cloud-flown derricks turn . . .
Thy cables breathe the North Atlantic still.
And obscure as that heaven of the Jews,
Thy guerdon . . . Accolade thou dost bestow
Of anonymity time cannot raise:
Vibrant reprieve and pardon thou dost show.
O harp and altar, of the fury fused,
(How could mere toil align thy choiring strings!)
Terrific threshold of the prophet's pledge,
Prayer of pariah, and the lover's cry,--
Again the traffic lights that skim thy swift
Unfractioned idiom, immaculate sigh of stars,
Beading thy path--condense eternity:
And we have seen night lifted in thine arms.
Under thy shadow by the piers I waited;
Only in darkness is thy shadow clear.
The City's fiery parcels all undone,
Already snow submerges an iron year . . .
O Sleepless as the river under thee,
Vaulting the sea, the prairies' dreaming sod,
Unto us lowliest sometime sweep, descend
And of the curveship lend a myth to God.
As a student in elementary and high school during the Vietnam War years, I have no memory of ever learning about the internment of Japanese Americans during World War II. As a matter of fact, not too much mention was made in school about Vietnam either. But, in college and much more so later in life, I filled in the gaps by reading widely and viewing many films, including documentaries. Most recently, I read a wonderfully moving novel set in Seattle's Nihonmachi also referred to as "Japantown" which bordered Seattle's Chinatown and other ethnic and racial enclaves during the war.
Written by Jamie Ford, a third generation Chinese American, Hotel on the Corner of Bitter and Sweet recounts the story of Henry Lee, a Chinese American boy of 12 and his Japanese American best friend Keiko Okabe, who is sent with her family to the Minidoka Relocation Center in Idaho. The action shifts from the present (1986) life of 56 year-old, recently-widowed Henry to the past (1942) as 12 year-old Henry struggles in school with jingoistic bullies and at home with a fiercely traditional Chinese father who hates all things Japanese. After the attack on Pearl Harbor, his father gives Henry a button to wear on his coat which reads, "I am Chinese." For Henry it might as well read "Beat Me Up Daily."
The symbolic setting and title character is the Panama Hotel, the center of Japanese American culture pre WWII, which became a secret storage space for family heirlooms and precious possessions that citizens could not take with them as they boarded trains for the camps. The hotel looms large in the past and the present of this beautifully crafted story as the reader journeys back and forth in time with Henry Lee - a character worth getting to know and a time in our history worth knowing about.
Today, July 31 is the Feast of St. Ignatius of Loyola, founder of the Society of Jesus, also known as the Jesuits. The Jesuits are often associated with excellence in education and with a progressive charism. As a member of one of the few Jesuit parishes around, I have learned a bit about St. Ignatius and gained an appreciation for the order and for their spirituality, based on The Spiritual Exercises of St. Ignatius. We parishioners have been blessed with wonderful priests over the years who have shared their gifts with us and have accompanied us through times of great joy, great sorrow, and the many days in between. The following excerpt by David Fleming, S.J. is a modern paraphrase of The First Principal and Foundation of the Spiritual Exercises, certainly worth reflection.
The Goal of our life is to live with God forever.
God, who loves us, gave us life.
Our own response of love allows God's life
to flow into us without limit.
All the things in this world are gifts from God,
Presented to us so that we can know God more easily
and make a return of love more readily.
As a result, we appreciate and use all these gifts of God
Insofar as they help us to develop as loving persons.
But if any of these gifts become the center of our lives,
They displace God
And so hinder our growth toward our goal.
In everyday life, then, we must hold ourselves in balance
Before all of these created gifts insofar as we have a choice
And are not bound by some obligation.
We should not fix our desires on health or sickness,
Wealth or poverty, success or failure, a long life or a short one.
For everything has the potential of calling forth in us
A deeper response to our life in God.
Our only desire and our one choice should be this:
I want and I choose what better leads
To God's deepening his life in me.
Happy feast day to all members of the Society of Jesus.
I often thought the old "kids needed to pick crops in the summer " line seemed a tad daffy, but was not aware of the various shift in school calendars in the earlier centuries. Interesting, but not particularly earth shattering. I think I'll go out and tend to the crops, now.
I came across a photo essay of Phillipe Petit's many high wire performances published in Time Magazine around the same time as the release of the documentary Man On Wire.
I've read so many outstanding books lately, I need to slow down to savor them. Otherwise they'll simply disappear---like fine meals lingered over among friends - as we share memories, tell stories, laugh, enjoy each other's company. The outline of the premise remains, the memory of a compelling and emotionally powerful experience remains, but the details fade. It's not the 50something forgetfulness alone, rather the increasing desire to take it all in, freeze moments in time, appreciate the now.
I've stopped three quarters through Let the Great World Spin by Colum McAnn to prolong the experience a bit. I'm just not sure how long I can hold out. What a story.
The setting is New York, August 1974. The central event and organizing feature of the novel is the Phillipe Petit's (famous tightrope guy) piece de resistance as he hovers, dips, dances, and walks across a wire suspended between the Twin Towers, not yet completed -- stopping New Yorkers in their tracks. Note the little black blip between the two T's on the cover--- clever typographic symmetry. [For the backstory of the famous high wire hijinks, I recommend Man on Wire.] But back to the book.
Unique, engaging characters I've come to care about appear in each chapter, most telling their stories in first person, all in some way connected to the book's precipitating incident. The authenticity of the different voices floors me. Sometimes I must stop, read, and reread -- as transfixed by McAnn's prose as were those 1974 onlookers by Petit's daring walk.
New York in the seventies was not the New York of today. Rent a few Charles Bronson films if you need visual proof. I consider seedy an apt description; raw, gritty, moribund will do as well. Fortunately, McCann is far better than I at depicting our great city and its denizens in all their squalor and glory.
I remain curious about how and whether all the characters intersect. I wonder what comparisons might be drawn to New Yorkers 27 years later, again stopped on their way to work on a beautiful, clear morning, their eyes, hearts, and minds drawn to the towers as they witnessed the terror and tragedy that has come to be known simply by its date.
The last time I bought a bike, it was about 3AM, and I woke up on my living room couch to a QVC employee hawking a "gearless" or "shift free" bicycle. Probably 10 years ago or so. I watched as attractive middle aged people cycled away, looking fit and lovely in their outfits, helmets, and their shift free bicycles. So, what's a person to do? Buy the bike, of course. I rode it for about six months before it found its way to the land of Mary's misfit exercise paraphernalia.
This time is different. I swear. I conducted research. I took several test drives. I haggled. And I am now the proud owner of a Dahon folding bike: 20" tires, 1 speed, pedal brakes, and one hand brake. Perfect for cruising around, getting some exercise, and folding up and leaving in my car or toting around with me if needed (bus, train plane). The folding bikes do look a little funny, especially if you have never seen one, but they grow on you.
Boot camp continues to go well, but I need to add a little more aerobic, thus the bike. Let the cycling begin.
The unanimous Declarationof the thirteen unitedStates of America
hen in the Course of human events it becomes necessary for one people to dissolve the political bands which have connected them with another and to assume among the powers of the earth, the separate and equal station to which the Laws of Nature and of Nature's God entitle them, a decent respect to the opinions of mankind requires that they should declare the causes which impel them to the separation.
We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness. — That to secure these rights, Governments are instituted among Men, deriving their just powers from the consent of the governed, — That whenever any Form of Government becomes destructive of these ends, it is the Right of the People to alter or to abolish it, and to institute new Government, laying its foundation on such principles and organizing its powers in such form, as to them shall seem most likely to effect their Safety and Happiness. Prudence, indeed, will dictate that Governments long established should not be changed for light and transient causes; and accordingly all experience hath shewn that mankind are more disposed to suffer, while evils are sufferable than to right themselves by abolishing the forms to which they are accustomed. But when a long train of abuses and usurpations, pursuing invariably the same Object evinces a design to reduce them under absolute Despotism, it is their right, it is their duty, to throw off such Government, and to provide new Guards for their future security. — Such has been the patient sufferance of these Colonies; and such is now the necessity which constrains them to alter their former Systems of Government. The history of the present King of Great Britain is a history of repeated injuries and usurpations, all having in direct object the establishment of an absolute Tyranny over these States. To prove this, let Facts be submitted to a candid world.
He has refused his Assent to Laws, the most wholesome and necessary for the public good.
He has forbidden his Governors to pass Laws of immediate and pressing importance, unless suspended in their operation till his Assent should be obtained; and when so suspended, he has utterly neglected to attend to them.
He has refused to pass other Laws for the accommodation of large districts of people, unless those people would relinquish the right of Representation in the Legislature, a right inestimable to them and formidable to tyrants only.
He has called together legislative bodies at places unusual, uncomfortable, and distant from the depository of their Public Records, for the sole purpose of fatiguing them into compliance with his measures.
He has dissolved Representative Houses repeatedly, for opposing with manly firmness his invasions on the rights of the people.
He has refused for a long time, after such dissolutions, to cause others to be elected, whereby the Legislative Powers, incapable of Annihilation, have returned to the People at large for their exercise; the State remaining in the mean time exposed to all the dangers of invasion from without, and convulsions within.
He has endeavoured to prevent the population of these States; for that purpose obstructing the Laws for Naturalization of Foreigners; refusing to pass others to encourage their migrations hither, and raising the conditions of new Appropriations of Lands.
He has obstructed the Administration of Justice by refusing his Assent to Laws for establishing Judiciary Powers.
He has made Judges dependent on his Will alone for the tenure of their offices, and the amount and payment of their salaries.
He has erected a multitude of New Offices, and sent hither swarms of Officers to harass our people and eat out their substance.
He has kept among us, in times of peace, Standing Armies without the Consent of our legislatures.
He has affected to render the Military independent of and superior to the Civil Power.
He has combined with others to subject us to a jurisdiction foreign to our constitution, and unacknowledged by our laws; giving his Assent to their Acts of pretended Legislation:
For quartering large bodies of armed troops among us:
For protecting them, by a mock Trial from punishment for any Murders which they should commit on the Inhabitants of these States:
For cutting off our Trade with all parts of the world:
For imposing Taxes on us without our Consent:
For depriving us in many cases, of the benefit of Trial by Jury:
For transporting us beyond Seas to be tried for pretended offences:
For abolishing the free System of English Laws in a neighbouring Province, establishing therein an Arbitrary government, and enlarging its Boundaries so as to render it at once an example and fit instrument for introducing the same absolute rule into these Colonies
For taking away our Charters, abolishing our most valuable Laws and altering fundamentally the Forms of our Governments:
For suspending our own Legislatures, and declaring themselves invested with power to legislate for us in all cases whatsoever.
He has abdicated Government here, by declaring us out of his Protection and waging War against us.
He has plundered our seas, ravaged our coasts, burnt our towns, and destroyed the lives of our people.
He is at this time transporting large Armies of foreign Mercenaries to compleat the works of death, desolation, and tyranny, already begun with circumstances of Cruelty & Perfidy scarcely paralleled in the most barbarous ages, and totally unworthy the Head of a civilized nation.
He has constrained our fellow Citizens taken Captive on the high Seas to bear Arms against their Country, to become the executioners of their friends and Brethren, or to fall themselves by their Hands.
He has excited domestic insurrections amongst us, and has endeavoured to bring on the inhabitants of our frontiers, the merciless Indian Savages whose known rule of warfare, is an undistinguished destruction of all ages, sexes and conditions.
In every stage of these Oppressions We have Petitioned for Redress in the most humble terms: Our repeated Petitions have been answered only by repeated injury. A Prince, whose character is thus marked by every act which may define a Tyrant, is unfit to be the ruler of a free people.
Nor have We been wanting in attentions to our British brethren. We have warned them from time to time of attempts by their legislature to extend an unwarrantable jurisdiction over us. We have reminded them of the circumstances of our emigration and settlement here. We have appealed to their native justice and magnanimity, and we have conjured them by the ties of our common kindred to disavow these usurpations, which would inevitably interrupt our connections and correspondence. They too have been deaf to the voice of justice and of consanguinity. We must, therefore, acquiesce in the necessity, which denounces our Separation, and hold them, as we hold the rest of mankind, Enemies in War, in Peace Friends.
We, therefore, the Representatives of the united States of America, in General Congress, Assembled, appealing to the Supreme Judge of the world for the rectitude of our intentions, do, in the Name, and by Authority of the good People of these Colonies, solemnly publish and declare, That these united Colonies are, and of Right ought to be Free and Independent States, that they are Absolved from all Allegiance to the British Crown, and that all political connection between them and the State of Great Britain, is and ought to be totally dissolved; and that as Free and Independent States, they have full Power to levy War, conclude Peace, contract Alliances, establish Commerce, and to do all other Acts and Things which Independent States may of right do. — And for the support of this Declaration, with a firm reliance on the protection of Divine Providence, we mutually pledge to each other our Lives, our Fortunes, and our sacred Honor.
And if you got this far, you deserve to watch the following video:
Watching the show Intervention on A&E sometimes leaves me feeling embarrassed as I witness such deeply personal and painful family interactions. I feel like a voyeur. Addiction, in whatever form it takes, time and time again is shown to devastate families, especially the parents and children of the person with the addiction. Yet I am often profoundly moved by their courage and dedication as they face their own failings and fears and willingly participate in the emotionally grueling "surprise" intervention. At the end of each episode, viewers are given an update on the patient who has accepted the help offered and gone to a treatment facility. Invariably there are setbacks and relapses, but often there are successes, too. Nothing is sugarcoated in Intervention. Sometimes parents and spouses go back to enabling addicts, and sometimes addicts get themselves thrown out of rehab. Recently the Library of Congress announced that it would begin to collect and catalogue Twitter messages, i.e. "tweets" as a snapshot of our American culture in this its second decade into the 21st century. Maybe a catalog of best selling nonfiction and fiction and self-proclaimed "reality" TV shows could add some depth to the portrait. Intervention reveals brutal truths in black and white with shades of gray.
Two books I just finished and definitely recommend:
1. Pillars of the Earth... yes, it was written over 20 years ago by Ken Follett, but I'm so glad I got around to it on the Nook. Now I get to watch an 8-part mini series on STARZ, which I don't have and do not plan on subscribing to. I'll figure something out. Oh, yes, the book has a gazillion pages.
2. Tinkers ... well written, interesting first novel about a man experiencing his final days... meticulous detail, stream of consciousness type of narrative, but not quite -- like "The Jilting of Granny Wetherell."
On tap: Reliable Wife (on the Nook) City of Thieves (Nooking it) Namesake (a reread) Life of Pi (another reread) For One More Day (A Mitch Albom book that will take 2 hours, tops) A Thousand Splendid Suns The Things The Carried Ethan Frome (another reread) and some kiddie lit.. Boy in the Striped Pajamas Westing Game Hunger Games
I really should take a crack at completing all the titles on the Bethpage Summer reading list. Check out shelfari.com, a cool place to keep track of, review, and discuss books you're reading now, planning to read, and have already read.
I've never attended a Broadway show by myself, a movie either. I attended Fences solo, a play I have read and taught many times and have never seen performed, live or on film. It was one of the most profound theatrical experiences I have ever had. Yet at times, irritating. Many audience members, I think, were more smitten by Denzel Washington's presence than attuned, at times, to Troy Maxson's powerful, flawed, yet profound character. Or maybe, I was the one out of tune.
In any case, the revival of Wilson's Pulitzer Prize winning classic was discussed far better than I could in this week's America magazine under the title An American Tragedy by Rob Weinert-Kendt.
It seems only fitting, then, that this string of shows is capped by a rip-roaring revival of August Wilson’s 1987 Pulitzer-winner, “Fences,” starring Denzel Washington and Viola Davis as Troy and Rose Maxson, a couple facing challenges from without and within Pittsburgh’s Hill District in the late 1950s. Given that Troy is a retired baseball star from the long-defunct Negro Leagues, the sports metaphor is irresistible: With bases loaded and a couple of outs (the early closing of “Ragtime” and “Finian’s Rainbow”), Wilson’s family drama constitutes a gratifying grand slam.
We should not let the whooping cheers that greet not only the headlining stars but the entire “Fences” team distract us from the play’s tragic weight or from its dire but not entirely despairing diagnosis of the nation’s social ills in microcosm. Like most of the 10 plays Wilson wrote in his cruelly brief life (one play set in each decade of the 20th century), “Fences” portrays a people in transition, pinned between American history and the American promise. Typically, their urgent struggle to claim both their patch of earth and their human dignity only half succeeds. Wilson’s characters do usually manage to locate some sense of their authentic self or “their song,” as the conjurer Bynum memorably put it in Wilson’s masterpiece “Joe Turner’s Come and Gone” (seen on Broadway last season). In the process they often pay with their lives, their peace of mind or, most commonly and wrenchingly, with severe collateral damage to their families and children.
“Fences” could be a case study out of The Moynihan Report, Senator Patrick Moynihan’s analysis of the status of the underclass in this country in the 1960s, specifically African-Americans. By play’s end, Troy can count one child each by three different women. All his progeny are hovering in the sympathetic but sturdy orbit of the only woman he married, long-suffering Rose, herself the child of what might charitably be called an “extended” family. It’s not a new point, but Wilson makes it with force over and over, and nowhere more forcefully than in “Fences”: The women keep the home fires burning while the men are off finding themselves, often in contention with each other. That is a worthy quest, no doubt, but all too often it includes a component of sexual conquest alongside other emblems of validation. Wilson created many exemplars of both the rover and the homebody in his plays, but no couple so iconic as Troy and Rose. None of his loyal women is more tested than Rose, and none of his questing men crash down to earth with a greater thud than Troy.
For while some of Wilson’s heroes are lone wolves or gadabouts whose ties to home or hearth are gossamer-thin, Troy is an innately social creature, as entangled in the relationships that sustain him as he is restless for the next new thing. A garbage collector who works the back end of the truck with his buddy Bono (Stephen Mckinley Henderson, a Wilson expert who makes the role look easy), Troy is pushing management to let him move to the front of the truck, as it were, and become the city’s first black driver. He also has a wandering eye, despite his still-simmering marriage to Rose. And his brusque, even brutal treatment of his cowed teenage son, Cory (Chris Chalk), suggests that Troy stubbornly views family obligations as just that, no more and no less.
With his smiling good looks and hard-to-hide charm, Denzel Washington easily embodies Troy’s feisty good humor, his ribaldry, his comfort at the center of attention, so much that Wilson’s play almost settles into the rhythms of a good-natured sitcom. Washington seems typecast in these moments: He is a star playing a star, albeit a fading one. But it is in the “fading” part that Washington’s performance is ultimately revelatory. There is the searing monologue about a scrap with his own unloved, unlovable father; there are tall tales about wrestling with Death and the Devil, which grow less and less outlandish as the play rolls on.
Above all, there is the second-act tête-à -tête in which Troy quietly delivers to Rose a bombshell that will destroy their marriage and finally seal his isolation. It is a tough, gasp-worthy moment, in which an unsolicited confession from Troy unleashes a furious response from Rose, which Viola Davis turns into a bitterly effective aria. What’s easy to miss about this scene, with its heavy shudder of melodrama, is that Troy’s hand has not been forced; he has no reason to bring such bad news to his wife apart from his own confused sense of integrity. In its own awful way, it is an act of courage—one that, as it happens, utterly ignores his wife’s feelings, as she does not hesitate to point out, but an act of rare fortitude nonetheless.
This is Troy’s tragedy, and August Wilson’s unflinching point: A 53-year-old man might indeed still grapple for a sense of who he is and what he should be, even at the expense of those he loves. This is not only because he is a flawed male of the species, but because he still lives in a nation that does not recognize or validate his larger-than-life manhood. In part, you could say it is a matter of bad timing; Troy, after all, lives on the cusp of America’s huge civil rights breakthroughs. But even those triumphs have been interlaced with tragedy. When in 1968 Memphis garbage workers went on strike under the defiant slogan, “I Am a Man,” the nation’s greatest civil rights leader rushed to march with them. And we all know how Martin Luther King Jr.’s trip to Memphis ended.
The play continues until July 11, but the only tix available are "premiere" (See also "really expensive") or SRO which one can get at 10AM at the box office day of performance only. I might consider the latter option for another chance to see this outstanding play.
Up close the three men were a small anthology of body odors. (The Believers)
It was 1953, the summer they electrocuted the Rosenbergs. (The Bell Jar)
It is a truth universally acknowledged that a young man in a possession of a fortune must be in want of a wife. (Pride and Prejudice)
So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past. (TheGreat Gatsby)
If you really want to hear about it, the first thing you'll probably want to know is where I was born, and what my lousy childhood was like, and how my parents were occupied and all before they had me, and all that David Copperfield kind of crap, but I don't feel like going into it, if you want to know the truth. (Catcher in the Rye)
First, the colors. Then the humans. That's usually how I see things. Or at least I try. (The Book Thief)
All warfare is based on deception. (The Art of War)
It is only with one's heart that one can see clearly. What is essential is invisible to the eye. (The Little Prince)
"A true war story is never moral. It does not instruct, nor encourage virtue, nor suggest models of proper human behavior, nor restrain men from doing the things men have always done. If a story seems moral, do not believe it. If at the end of a war story you feel uplifted, or if you feel that some small bit of rectitude has been salvaged from the larger waste, then you have been made the victim of a very old and terrible lie. There is no rectitude whatsoever. There is no virtue. As a first rule of thumb, therefore, you can tell a true war story by its absolute and uncompromising allegiance to obscenity and evil. "
— Tim O'Brien (The Things They Carried)
Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori (Wilfred Owen 1918)
Goodnight, sweet prince And flights of angels sing thee to thy rest. (Hamlet)
Brendan is somewhere in Afghanistan. His first request for things to be sent: candy for the kids who run up to the soldiers all the time. Okay. Exhale for a bit, then keep praying.
Sean will be 21 Wednesday and is going to Vegas with Chris and Christopher.
Daniel, Jen, James and who knows who else will surprise Liam at his baseball game this afternoon.
The Mets...never mind.
My to do list is so long; what else could I do but ignore it and blog a bit?
So much for getting rid of my self absorption...I just need to turn in this body for a newer model. 68.7 geez, are they serious? That's a ridiculous website anyway and Dr. Oz or Amen or whatever his name is an idiot. So there. This is one post I probably should not publish, like one of those emails you write to get your frustration out then delete. Who knows. Maybe this will seem oh so silly and moot one month from today, when I'm down to, I don't know, say 65.2?
In keeping with my theme of spring renewal, I've changed the blog template. Much easier than dropping 40 pounds, eating right, and living well. The template's a bit more cheery, I think.
Not words I am used to hearing, never mind movements I am used to making. I've never ever been even remotely limber. When I was in kindergarten, I couldn't even sit like an "Indian," like everyone else. If anything, my attempts at these exercises now at the tender age of 51 are probably very funny to watch. Good thing I can't see myself.
Week One of Boot Camp has been quite an experience. I was smarter this time, however, "easing" into it. My arthritic neck notwithstanding, I have survived and actually enjoy getting up and out so early. Plus, getting to bed early has allowed me to miss a few Mets debacles as well. I was on time every day, didn't whine, and did not have a heart attack, thus meeting my lofty goals for week one. Next week, I'll increase the number of reps for each activity, while still not overdoing things, and I'll get an appointment with an orthopedist to check out the neck.
And I'll think of something more compelling for the next post: maybe Liam Hannon as the next Thurmon Munson, or thoughts of Brendan Hannon over in Afghanistan, or what I think of The Book Thief or The Help -- God knows there's plenty of material out there beyond my little morning routine.
Tomorrow morning from 5:30AM- 6:30 AM, in the great Oceanside outdoors, I begin the first day of the first week of exercise camp: Strong Healthy Women Boot Camp. My goal for the first week is simply to get there on time with my stuff and to not have a heart attack. That's right; realistic expectations.
I already warned the instructor Shae (I know her from when I did this 2 years ago) that I need to work up to full participation and that I cannot go all out during Week 1; otherwise, there may not be a Week 2. I asked her to think of this as differentiation of instruction -- I have several years and pounds on the other campers, plus arthritis, but I am excited about doing this again. Once you get the hang of it, it really is a lot of fun.
The weigh in and the baseline measurements take place, I think, Friday. Thirty-four minutes to bedtime. Woo Hoo!!!!!
The HBO film is directed by Barry Levinson and stars Al Pacino, John Goodman, and Susan Sarandon, and Brenda Vaccaro. I pressed play on IO and from the outset, the music and the black, white, and red frames had me. I will return to the blog after I watch it. I hope I am not disappointed. It's such a complex subject, really, so of course, I'm now wondering why there were no shades of gray in the opening frame. Back later.
Well, it's now a few days later. I was a bit let down, but the film is worth watching, especially for its documentation of an important person and time in our recent history. Al Pacino played the very quirky, Jack Kevorkian well, and the plot moved along at a good pace, taking the viewer from the doctor's initial interest in physician-assisted suicide all the way to the trial culminating in his eight-year incarceration. I found some of Kevorkian's arguments compelling as he contrasted his preference for death with dignity to the removal of a patient's feeding tube which he likened to murder.
It is certainly more pleasant, however, to focus on life. To life!
Microfiction Monday is hosted by Susan @ Stony Brook. Each week, participants compose a 140 character limited story in response to a picture. I have so enjoyed my friend Chris's very clever posts, I thought I'd check it out. I am not as gifted, but it's a fun thing to do.
Below is the picture followed by my microfiction:
Interesting that they want us to wear these outfits for the read through.
Yes, but I think you went a little overboard with the leg tattoos.
I am not an expert on May Day at all, but I do know that it is one of the most celebrated days on the calendar, interestingly enough for different reasons. In medieval times the day was celebrated with festivals to fertility, with flowered maypoles, dancing and singing to pagan gods. That evolved into a more secular celebration of spring. Later in 1886, May 1 was designated as "Labour Day," with coordinated strikes and became somewhat of a Communist worker celebration. During the Cold War Era in the 1950's to frame the day in religious terms, the Catholic Church deemed it the feast of St. Joseph the Worker. I do remember celebrating that day in high school because we had Sisters of St. Joseph. I did not know about its origin and remember being surprised that we didn't celebrate it on March 19, identified on most calendars as St. Joseph's Day- the day when bakeries made amazing pastries. Not surprising, this was celebrated more by Italians. (Rome, Catholic Church, etc.) The CSJ schools no longer celebrate May 1, but have returned to the March date.
So, Happy May Day all, and what a beautiful one we are having with temps on the way to the 80's. Maybe, I'll do a little spring cleaning, say prayer or two to St. Joseph, and hit the great outdoors in celebration. Oh, and I officially deem this day (in 2010 at least) Beat the Phillies Again Day.
Here is this week's Microfiction Monday picture and my 'micro' short story. I got this idea from Chris who got it from Susan at Stony Brook who hosts Microfiction Monday and invites others to write a 140 character micro story based on a weekly picture posts. Of course, my first attempt was done today Wednesday, instead of Monday, but it was fun nevertheless.
You sobered up now, right? You think this is very funny. Maybe you should go to the barn and untie your wife. Can you spell divorce, stupid?
For more information on the writing project, check out This I Believe on NPR. Very cool.
I believe in smiling and letting people merge into your lane. When I was a new driver, I was afraid of everything: left turns, having to stop at a red light at the top of a hill, acceleration lanes, driving on parkways. You name it; I feared it. Driving a ‘77 Duster with a standard shift on the column that jammed often didn’t help things, either. Back then, an automatic shift was “extra” and gears and a clutch were considered “standard.” Air conditioning and FM radio: extra. My parents, with 6 children, a mortgage, and civil service paychecks, traveled standard.
We spent a lot of time in the car as a family. Not the Duster, that was a later, second car. As a group, we traveled in a station wagon, most memorably, a light blue, 1964 Chevy Impala. Usually, that meant the eight of us with my father at the wheel, my maternal grandmother, and, sometimes, our dog. For the first leg of most trips Gram was great. But after a while, we became too much to bear. We drove down to Florida twice, to Lake Dunmore in Vermont for at least six summers, and up to Rockland County to visit our first cousins about 10 times a year. We often tried to sneak one of them in the car for the ride home, but our contraband never made it to the George Washington Bridge.
We also took shorter, more routine road trips: to my father’s side of the family, to the precinct to pick up his paycheck, to our family doctor’s office about 30 minutes away, and to various family or friends’ homes for “house parties.”
It was in the car that I often witnessed my father’s way of interacting with the world. I remember being stopped at a red light, and my father telling us, at just the right moment, to blow it out. It always worked. I remember one time when I was fourteen I was so embarrassed because my red headed and red bearded father was bopping and singing Rockin’ Robbin at the toll booth on the Throggs Neck Bridge.
My father drove slowly, almost sauntering down Hillside Avenue, coming home from my Grandma’s house in Richmond Hill. He would sing hymns in Latin, vociferous protests from the peanut gallery notwithstanding. We did not understand the words, but I could probably hum a bar or two these many years later.
And, if there was anyone in our path experiencing car trouble, we were doomed. Dad stopped and helped until the car was back on the road. I remember one rainy night on the way home from somewhere, we saw two nuns waiting at a bus stop. We knew we were in for a detour – it was at least an hour before Dad got them safely to their convent—in the Bronx. If there was an accident, we pulled over. My father was a police officer and as far as he was concerned, he was on duty 24-7. He was also just a regular guy who lived by the Golden Rule. For some reason, it was so evident when we were in the car.
When I witness drivers behaving badly-- cutting each other off, flipping the bird, honking, yelling, or worse, I slow down, smile, and think of my father. Yes, I believe in smiling and letting people merge into your lane. I believe that as we journey through life, we need to let people in and give them a hand, even if it’s sometimes a little out of our way.
What am I doing right now? Not exercising. That's what. Do I resign myself to a life of sloth and extra adipose tissue forever? Can't do that. Instead of blogging this very moment, I could be on the treadmill, the boardwalk, moving the body, right? What occupies my non-working hours? My Mac, House, Criminal Minds, Damages, Season 2 of the Wire, The Mets--- all of which I could conceivably watch, yes, while on the treadmill. I make no promises, but I MUST change course. To be continued.
Enjoyed another GKR evening. A tanned Ron Darling and Gary Cohen were as gracious as ever; Keith, a no show again. Apparently, he skids into the Citi Field parking lot minutes before game time - I can relate to that; so I'll go easy on him. The stadium looked outstanding, adorned with lots of Mets' history, even naming entrances after Casey, Hodges, Seaver, and I'm not sure who else. Obviously, the organization responded to fan feedback. Wish we could say the same for the team they decided to field this year. Anyway, Pelfry pitched well, hit well, and won. But after that -- no joy in Metsville. Finally, they won again when he pitched five days later, helping again with the bat and on the bases. Big Pelf is 2-0 and Mets are 3-7. Ouch. And now, the drumbeat of chatter about Jerry's head on the chopping block reverberates around the league on the blogs, and even on Inside Sports. He needs to stay in his uniform 24-7 since Omar apparently won't fire a guy so attired. I give it another couple of weeks before we start hearing that it's becoming a "distraction, so we had to make a move." Unless, of course, they go on a tear. We shall see. Just another day for us Mets fans. Next game for me at Citi will be May 8th with a college classmate I haven't seen since graduation. Should be fun. Let's Go Mets.
This time tomorrow evening, I'll be with 100 of my closest friends and my friend and blog follower Claudia, attending our second annual first Friday night game with the Gary, Keith, and Ron (GKR) people in the Empire Suites at Citifield. So what if they're playing the Nationals. We get to hobnob with Ron Darling, Kevin Burkart, Gary Cohen, and possibly, Keith Hernandez, although he didn't come into the suites last year. I have my copy of Ronnie's book ready for him to autograph, my camera, my tasteful Mets gear; I'm ready. I may even get my hair done. The big Pelf is pitching -- he always seem to be pitching when I go to Citifield.
Who says life is unpredictable and constantly changing? For six months of the year, for as long as I can remember, I have followed the Mets. On WOR and SNY, 1050 and the FAN, with Kiner, Murphy, and Nelson, and Gary, Keith and Ron, I have Caught the Rising Stars as the Magic Was or Was Not Back. Maybe that's why I have lots of patience, I'm not easily disappointed, and I don't generally believe in comebacks. Let's Go Mets.
The confluence of Holy Week and the ever widening lens aimed squarely at the Pope in a "what did he know and what did he do about it" kind of way is exactly as it should be. It would be easier to enter into the tomb of Holy Week and celebrate Easter without such sordid distractions. But it also would have been easier to "let this cup pass from me," but that's not what happened. So, during this solemn time, this time of penance and spiritual renewal, Pope Benedict needs to come clean and like John XXIII, open up the windows, but in this case, to let the stink out. If indeed then Cardinal Ratzinger ignored the information about pedophile, criminal priests and allowed them to continue, then he needs to take up his cross and admit what he did. And if he did not know, that's a good thing. Let him become a different kind of rottweiler now, railing against abusive priests and an organizational culture that moved them around like chess pieces, oblivious at best, to their victims' pain and suffering. Let him galvanize the faithful by his honesty and openness and willingness to admit faults and make significant change.
Even as I write these words, my interior voice laughs at me, saying, "Yeah, right. That might happen." The red hats are already circling the wagons.
Let's see, maybe he can cancel the inquisition of American nuns and order a "visitation" to study the behavior and the lifestyle of, say, priests around the globe? Maureen Dowd, I think, had the right idea: "Yup, We need a Nope. A nun for pope."
I do not really know why I so often resist going to bed at a reasonable hour. By the time I think about it, it's already too late. The same thing happens with eating lunch. The obvious explanations do not ring true. But since I'm awake, I might as well blog away. I spent the last hour or so reading other blogs. Just click, "next blog," and there you go. It is interesting how blogs with similar content loop together as you click away. I soon found myself on teacher and education blogs.
One was so well written, actually it was most impressive because of the writer's voice. So much so that its complete lack of capital letters somehow did not send me immediately to the "next blog" icon. Surprising. More to come as I was just hit with IOE, immediate onset exhaustion perhaps due to the loud words of PastorMelissaScott.com who I cannot shut up unless I physically turn off the tv because I cannot fnd the remote. She's telling her congregants to pray to Haimon and Mordecai. Over and out.
Rebirth. Regeneration. Sunlight. Easter. How I love this time of year, and how interesting that it arrives just in the nick of time. The vernal equinox resets my internal clock and recalibrates my spiritual compass. Outward signs include spring cleaning, car washing, packing of clothes for the St. Vincent dePaul box, attending the Silhouette Stations of the Cross, and returning regularly to the Long Beach boardwalk. The internal movement is more subtle.
Living the life one is called to as a Catholic Christian requires a counter cultural stance, and a freedom from worldly attachments and distractions. Not for the timid this life, I believe, but worth the effort. A profound articulation of this truly radical way of being is found in the Sermon on the Mount and the subsequent chapters in the Gospel of Matthew. An awesome story of the love and forgiveness available to us when we fail? The Prodigal Son.
(Matthew 5: 1-11) When Jesus saw the crowds, He went up on the mountain; and after He sat down, His disciples came to Him. He opened His mouth and began to teach them, saying, "Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven. "Blessed are those who mourn, for they shall be comforted. "Blessed are the gentle, for they shall inherit the earth. "Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness, for they shall be satisfied. "Blessed are the merciful, for they shall receive mercy. "Blessed are the pure in heart, for they shall see God. "Blessed are the peacemakers, for they shall be called sons of God. "Blessed are those who have been persecuted for the sake of righteousness, fortheirs is the kingdom of heaven. "Blessed are you when people insult you and persecute you, and falsely say all kinds of evil against you because of Me. "Rejoice and be glad, for your reward in heaven is great; for in the same way they persecuted the prophets who were before you.
The only part of the healthy lifestyle I have been 100% compliant with is the elimination of alcohol from my diet. I've been pretty good with healthy eating, not so much with exercising. Moving the clocks ahead and the arrival of spring usually help in this regard. Almost got sucked into who-knew-about-this-hurricane, no-electricity bingeing last night, but resisted. All things considered, a decent start.
Now that I'm back in the world of English, I find myself checking out blogs and online resources about reading and writing. I came across Flash 55, a writing game some bloggers engage in on Fridays. The goal is to write a 55-word story. Not 54, not 56, but exactly 55. Not a bad idea, but definitely not as cool as the six-word story. Supposedly, Hemingway considered this short, short story his best.
For sale: baby shoes, never worn.
So, I am starting my own little game, right this very minute and, I think I'll call it Six on Sunday or maybe Saturday. To participate, simply compose 6 word bios of famous people w/o revealing their identity. Then readers can post guesses. Given the number of readers, this shouldn't be too taxing, but hey, this could catch on.
I'll start today. Okay, new rule. On Wednesday, the bios must be about famous women. Although, my idea of "famous" needs clarifying. I'm not a fan of "cult of celebrity" fame. I prefer famous for actual accomplishments in a given area. Here's an easy one. I'll do better by Sunday.
hen in the Course of human events it becomes necessary for one people to dissolve the political bands which have connected them with another and to assume among the powers of the earth, the separate and equal station to which the Laws of Nature and of Nature's God entitle them, a decent respect to the opinions of mankind requires that they should declare the causes which impel them to the separation.
