I take John Stewart to bed with me most evenings. I only have bunny ears that catch three channels (and I hear that come February even that won’t work) so I watch TV on my laptop –usually in bed. ( www.hulu.com) I learned the whole watch-TV-online-trick just this year, and in that time I’ve developed a serious crush on John Stewart. Stephen Colbert –though I admire his (ahem) “roast” of George Bush at the press dinner way back when, (http://uk.youtube.com/watch?v=BSE_saVX_2A) just doesn’t do it for me the same way John does. Other comedians might tickle my funny bone from time to time, but my heart belongs to John.
I think its all about his dimples. Are they not adorable? http://www.thedailyshow.com/
I am grateful for his satire: his all-in-good-fun-poke-poke-at-the-powers-that-be –and-the deeply-disturbing. His on-air team is delightful; you can tell he has genuine affection for the peeps that make the funny graphics and watch all that news footage. I enjoy his thoughtful guests, and his well-mannered interviews. He strikes me as a true gentleman, a family man that ought to serve as a role model for men/ celebrities everywhere. (If only.) But most of all, he makes the news bearable.
The truth is, this is where I get the bulk of my news. Shame, shame on me. I skim the headlines, and I try to stay appraised of current topics. I rely on a network of friends to learn what’s up, and NGO’s that spam my inbox to stay informed. I’m not uninvolved, I write my district supervisors, congress people, senators etc. but after a long day of supporting my own NGO, squeezing poems, friends, family, and laundry into the rest of the day, -- all I want to do is look at his cute dimples; know that someone, somewhere is calling bullshit where it ought to be called; AND not taking himself too seriously in the process. Thank you for your levity John Stewart – the world needs it.
I have wondered if perhaps John and I are connected on a metaphysical level. Is there some collective consciousness that he and I both share? For example, on Monday night he opened the show with a short quip about how he hoped we’d contemplated the genocide of millions of Native Americans with our turkey dinners– and it so happens –I actually had.
Last Tuesday, my mother, grandfather, and I took a drive to the Etowah Indian Mounds. http://www.gastateparks.org/info/etowah/. I grew up as a Californian who visited rural Georgia for a week or so every summer to see my grandparents. Granny and Big Jack lived on Lake Blackshear (Formerly the Thronateeska river.) They were near the “watermelon capital of the world” of all places. Needless to say, a trip to Georgia was full of comfort foods: buttermilk biscuits, butterbeans, butter, black-eyed peas, pink-eyed purple hulls, pumpkin pie, pecan pie, and bacon. There were fish fries where Big Jack served bass, catfish and hushpuppies to dozens of friends. I was allowed as much coca-cola as I could drink, caramel cake, and Klondike bars. What would you do for a….? One year my father actually made my younger brother weigh back into California as soon as he came home from the airport. Poor thing.
There were also adventures at the lake: we took the boat to look for alligators lounging on fallen cypress trees deep into the sloughs on the other side of the river. Spanish moss draped the trees like heavy metal haircuts – a few decades later.
We also went hunting for pottery and arrowheads that washed up on the shore of the soon-to-be developed lakeside properties. My mom still has a stone tool most likely used for skinning hides, and I have a collection of flint arrowheads unearthed in a treasure chest, the elders had buried specifically for me to find.
But our days at the lake ended a few years ago, and now my grandfather lives on my uncle’s property about a three hour drive from the lake. They all thought it best as he grew approached his nineties to be closer to family. Visiting the mounds was a pleasant diversion, and reminiscent of all those long walks on the lakeshore. The mounds were behind an interpretive center, where we watched a short film about the indigenous people before exploring the structures. The mounds looked like the beginnings of what could have evolved into something like the Aztec ruins in Central America. They were about five stories high, I’d guess, and not far from the ditches where they must have excavated the dirt to build them. We climbed the stairs to the top of the mound and gazed at the river. We tried to imagine where they would have cultivated the sunflower seeds; where would children have played? Could you smell pumpkin roasting from up here – maybe wild turkey? The trees along the river were alight in Fall foliage. The wind was brisk.
A place this empty of its original inhabitants strikes the imagination, but as the descendents of the ones who brought the disease, and the armies that eventually did millions of them in, I found something antiseptic about our day trip. The glass displays of artifacts –and wall text about “how they lived” in the interpretative center are fascinating historically, but emotionally – there lies something ignorant, deeply cold, and savage. Even to use the word “savage” in this context is loaded. Its only been just recently that I’ve done the generational math to figure out which ancestors were around for the Trail of Tears. I asked my grandfather – did he remember if his grandfather knew any “Indians”? To which he replied “You had relatives in Omaha, Georgia who were slaughtered by Cherokee.” Uh – Okay. And that was all we said.
What does this mean to me, two hundred years later on a Thanksgiving excursion? I think it’s a reality one has to steep in to fully understand the implications on the present, both individually and collectively. And of course, we don’t have to look back 200 years to find other examples of aggressive domination and destruction. Is it OK that John made a joke like that on TV - does it let us off hook? Or is bringing up these issues in our culture, part of accepting our past, and increasing our collective sensitivity so that people are becoming hopefully more and more primed to “Just say No” to the war or the sweat shop pajamas from WalMart.
I was and am still steeping…when on the flight home, I inadvertently picked up The Alchemist, by Paulo Coelho. I was deciding between the Coelho, and Cormac McCarthy –but I felt a little too tender to read about an apocalyptic future. For whatever reason, I had imagined The Alchemist as something fun and colorful ala Gabriel Garcia Marquez, or Jorge Amado. Boy, was I bummed.
For those of you who don’t know: “The Alchemist (Portuguese: O Alquimista) is a bestseller novel that is the most famous work of author Paulo Coelho. It is a symbolic story that urges its readers to follow their dreams. Originally published in Greece in 1988, The Alchemist has been translated into 61 languages, a guinness world record for the book translated in most languages. It has sold more than 65 million copies in more than 150 countries, becoming one of the best-selling books in history.” See http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Alchemist_(novel).
Chief in its principals the book espouses the philosophy that when you take steps towards your personal destiny, the universe does all it can to cooperate. It positively encourages taking leaps of faith, but the dark side of this reads that the only reason you don’t get to your goals, is because you have not committed deeply enough to your “personal legend” or are blocked by fear. I don’t disagree whole heartedly with these assertions, but there is something politically idiotic about the assumptions.
For example, would things have worked out differently for the Etowah had they had a copy of The Alchemist? Or my relatives in Omaha, Georgia? Or perhaps, my grandfather would still be at the lake had he exhibited more dedication to his “personal legend”. Truth be told, books like this (Celestine Prophesy, The Secret, et all.) make me so mad I could spit.
Sharper minds than mine, can no doubt quickly deconstruct what is wrong with such a book from any number of philosophical perspectives. Instead I just get flummoxed trying to explain to loved ones who dutifully swallow these adages and clichés and who consequently beat themselves up trying to replicate the success described there. It makes me want to scream: life is so much more complicated, ambiguous, gorgeous, mysterious, enlivening, tragic, passionate, cruel, and dare I say “sacred?” than this. Yes these ramblings have a tinge of truth to them – but I still smell snake oil! Me? No! I’m not bitter. Cynical? Maybe… Oh – no- it is NOT my ego getting in the way of accepting “the truth.” Oh please do not condescend to me. Yes, let’s drop it. FINE.
Pardon me, I was replaying the tape in my head of an argument with an ex-boyfriend who had swallowed hook, line, and sinker that JZ Knight actually had channeled an entity named Ramtha after wearing tin foil in the shape of a cone on her head. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ramtha#Ramtha
Its in these moments that I ask myself, “What would Margaret Atwood say?” Or Dorothy Parker? Or Mark Twain? Or Noam Chomsky? Or even John Stewart? THOSE DIMPLES.
John Stewart I LOVE you and I LOVE your dimples. Thank you for following your “Personal Legend” and serving us fresh satire 4 nights a week with a big smile, a few “settle downs” (so sexy! sigh) and for asking the right questions with a sense of humility and light-heartedness.
Sunday, December 7, 2008
Tuesday, November 25, 2008
THREE THINGS: The W Hotel –Atlanta, The First Emperor Exhibition at the High Museum, & The Recipe Box
I knew for sure that I had absolutely RUINED my mother’s 60th Birthday. We had just walked into the W Hotel in Atlanta, Georgia. Earlier, I’d flown in from San Francisco and she’d driven down from Adairsville, GA – a small country town where she’d spent the month with my Grandfather and Uncle’s family. My mother was born and raised in the Southeast, and I am a fifth generation Californian. The plan was simple. I’d fly into Atlanta in advance of Thanksgiving and we’d spend the night, then the next day we’d visit the First Emperor’s Exhibition at the High Museum to see the Terra Cotta soldiers. http://www.high.org/main.taf?p=3,2,1,1
I’d selected this particular hotel for no real good reason, other than a) I knew they’d have a gym b) they were close to the museum and c) I’d stayed at the W one night in Seattle, so I knew the chain was customer–service oriented, and I’d found a great rate online.
What I neglected to remember was that the hotel had a brand for being “uber-cool” – and something of a scene if one cares for that sort of thing.
Somehow we’d missed the lobby but a kindly security guard (read – he looked like a CIA agent, wearing a sharp suit and certainly wired to the hotel’s central command) directed us to the front desk. We entered the dimly-lit, highly stylized elevator, where techno was piping in, and eyed each other nervously. I immediately flashed back to the endless battles where Mom insisted I TURN OFF THAT RACKET because it hurt her head, she had a sneaking suspicion the drumbeat had its origins in some voodoo cult, and that listening to it would eventually send me straight to hell.
What had I done? Was choosing this particular hotel some kind of subconscious passive aggressive payback, now that Mom was getting older and I had a slight upper hand in the world? My gut got tight and I could sense my mother shrink into her purple velour pant suit. Her Provencial quilted over night bag that went with her bible cover oddly matched the bold prints on the W’s walls. She was NOT comfortable. And I wasn’t either.
The elevator doors opened and we were confronted with three barely legal boobilicious babes in short skirts and evening gowns. The security guards behind them oddly reminiscent of pimps. Why hadn’t I taken more time to find a cute southern BnB? And I opted not to go to the Four Seasons BECAUSE…!?! Mom smiled meekly and squinted to make her way in the lighted –to-look-like-a-dance-club lobby. I could feel my travel day stress rise.
We received our keys and a very southern hospitable blonde checked us in and persuaded us to try SPICE – the much touted restaurant in the hotel, the quieter region, next to the whisky bar where all the low cut evening gowns were assembled. It was getting late, so we thought we’d give SPICE a shot after dropping off our stuff. I took a deep breath and in we went back to the ELE-DISCO-VATER, took one look at each other, burst into giggles and began cuttin’ the rug. I LIKE BIG BUTTS AND I CANNOT LIE… shaking our money makers and all that jazz.
The room was what one would expect for a bordello. Black granite counters with silver glitter flecks in the bathroom. The black lacquer desk was framed in bright purple and silver lame´ printed wallpaper – but the big fluffy beds with the white leather headboards sported pressed cotton sheets, and lime green fleece throws that promised comfort especially since we’d have to look at them one night only.
Mom busted out camera. “Oh look we can get an intimacy kit for only $10!” She said. “I wonder what’s inside.” Thankfully Mom’s thrift got the better of her curiosity and down to dinner we went. (With the ritual bootie rockin’ moves that were now de rigueur for every elevator ride we took there.)
Spice was full of beautiful staff – and the young and powerful business chic elite. The hostesses wore backless dresses. The waiters wore purple tunics. The ceiling was adorned with sculptures made of hundreds of old bell pulls no doubt salvaged from old churches torn down to make strip-mall-strip clubs. The bell pulls hung together of varying lengths- and evoked the region’s Bible belt heritage. We were led to a corner table, with silken pillows and once seated Mom said to me– “ Its just so not southern. Its something out of Star Wars. I wouldn’t be surprised if Luke Skywalker came in with a wookie.” Interior decorators beware: it is fine line between chic and trendy and the Cantina Scene.
We ordered the most “tender calamari I’ve ever put in my mouth” eggplant tortellini, papaya salad, and whiskey fizz that tasted like Tahiti. Mom sucked it down like it was iced tea, so we got her ‘nother. She was grinning from ear to ear so I knew I most certainly had NOT ruined my mother’s 60th Birthday. “Its one I certainly won’t forget.”
The next day the Terra Cotta warriors were appropriately regal. My Chinese history is sorely lacking, so I was fascinated to learn about Emperor Qin and his rise to power. But of course the discovery of his army buried underground within the last decade is something of particular interest to any self-respecting Smithsonian magazine and archaeology documentary junkies like me and Mom. Lost cultures, the ancient world, ritual art, all good things for hungry brains to chew on. (When there was no tender calamari available.)
His vision was to unite the many cultures for the first time with a single currency, standardized systems of weights and measures, language, shared literacy, ascension based on merit not rank. He created a regime that produced art for the afterlife –and it did - last long, long, long after the lives of anyone that had anything to do with it. There were model bureaucrats, lifelike horses, musicians, and acrobats, all assembled larger than life to entertain the dead emperor. The number of slaves and artists to compile all that treasure is truly astounding.
It makes one think about all the slaves and communities that were in the process of being dominated, sure it must have brought a kind of peace to the regions. But what is the ultimate legacy of these epic endeavors? EG Rome, the De Medicis, the Catholic Church, the US etc. Humans seem to do this often: amalgamate power, lose it, disconnect, reform, re-configure, disintegrate, evolve. And ultimately much of this effort becomes fodder for the morbid curiosity for some quirky academic (eg the Egyptians royalty.) As our natural world bears the weight of our industrial empires, threatening at any moment to pull the rug out from under us, what kind of leadership and what kind of vision will bring us into a civilization with far more to show for it that some trinkets and glittery jewelry, pretty tiles? Or a 1,000 life-sized sculptures… or a chain of uber-cool hotels…?
When we made it back to my Uncles’ house for ribs later, we peeked in the recipe box that had been given to my aunt on her wedding day, by two of my great aunts. It was full of family favorites typed or handwritten by the matriarchs of the family. We passed them around, and I found one in my late grandmothers’ hand – Rosa’s Wild Duck. None of us knew who Rosa was, and I certainly haven’t ever had duck while visiting Georgia. But I got to keep that one, and look forward to trying it out.
In the land of standards –– taking time to try something from another generation – and enjoying the exploration of flavor that comes from a recipe not off a plastic package can be a political act.
OK. I’m trying to write this in a Mexican Restaurant in Adairsville Georgia and a big yellow wigged clown making balloon animals just showed up, and I give up. This week I’m going to have to leave ya’ll with 4 things. And for those who haven’t visited the southeast, don’t for a minute think that Georgia is homogeneous cultural wasteland- it is immensely diverse. (No Wookies though – I don’t think.)
I’d selected this particular hotel for no real good reason, other than a) I knew they’d have a gym b) they were close to the museum and c) I’d stayed at the W one night in Seattle, so I knew the chain was customer–service oriented, and I’d found a great rate online.
What I neglected to remember was that the hotel had a brand for being “uber-cool” – and something of a scene if one cares for that sort of thing.
Somehow we’d missed the lobby but a kindly security guard (read – he looked like a CIA agent, wearing a sharp suit and certainly wired to the hotel’s central command) directed us to the front desk. We entered the dimly-lit, highly stylized elevator, where techno was piping in, and eyed each other nervously. I immediately flashed back to the endless battles where Mom insisted I TURN OFF THAT RACKET because it hurt her head, she had a sneaking suspicion the drumbeat had its origins in some voodoo cult, and that listening to it would eventually send me straight to hell.
What had I done? Was choosing this particular hotel some kind of subconscious passive aggressive payback, now that Mom was getting older and I had a slight upper hand in the world? My gut got tight and I could sense my mother shrink into her purple velour pant suit. Her Provencial quilted over night bag that went with her bible cover oddly matched the bold prints on the W’s walls. She was NOT comfortable. And I wasn’t either.
The elevator doors opened and we were confronted with three barely legal boobilicious babes in short skirts and evening gowns. The security guards behind them oddly reminiscent of pimps. Why hadn’t I taken more time to find a cute southern BnB? And I opted not to go to the Four Seasons BECAUSE…!?! Mom smiled meekly and squinted to make her way in the lighted –to-look-like-a-dance-club lobby. I could feel my travel day stress rise.
We received our keys and a very southern hospitable blonde checked us in and persuaded us to try SPICE – the much touted restaurant in the hotel, the quieter region, next to the whisky bar where all the low cut evening gowns were assembled. It was getting late, so we thought we’d give SPICE a shot after dropping off our stuff. I took a deep breath and in we went back to the ELE-DISCO-VATER, took one look at each other, burst into giggles and began cuttin’ the rug. I LIKE BIG BUTTS AND I CANNOT LIE… shaking our money makers and all that jazz.
The room was what one would expect for a bordello. Black granite counters with silver glitter flecks in the bathroom. The black lacquer desk was framed in bright purple and silver lame´ printed wallpaper – but the big fluffy beds with the white leather headboards sported pressed cotton sheets, and lime green fleece throws that promised comfort especially since we’d have to look at them one night only.
Mom busted out camera. “Oh look we can get an intimacy kit for only $10!” She said. “I wonder what’s inside.” Thankfully Mom’s thrift got the better of her curiosity and down to dinner we went. (With the ritual bootie rockin’ moves that were now de rigueur for every elevator ride we took there.)
Spice was full of beautiful staff – and the young and powerful business chic elite. The hostesses wore backless dresses. The waiters wore purple tunics. The ceiling was adorned with sculptures made of hundreds of old bell pulls no doubt salvaged from old churches torn down to make strip-mall-strip clubs. The bell pulls hung together of varying lengths- and evoked the region’s Bible belt heritage. We were led to a corner table, with silken pillows and once seated Mom said to me– “ Its just so not southern. Its something out of Star Wars. I wouldn’t be surprised if Luke Skywalker came in with a wookie.” Interior decorators beware: it is fine line between chic and trendy and the Cantina Scene.
We ordered the most “tender calamari I’ve ever put in my mouth” eggplant tortellini, papaya salad, and whiskey fizz that tasted like Tahiti. Mom sucked it down like it was iced tea, so we got her ‘nother. She was grinning from ear to ear so I knew I most certainly had NOT ruined my mother’s 60th Birthday. “Its one I certainly won’t forget.”
The next day the Terra Cotta warriors were appropriately regal. My Chinese history is sorely lacking, so I was fascinated to learn about Emperor Qin and his rise to power. But of course the discovery of his army buried underground within the last decade is something of particular interest to any self-respecting Smithsonian magazine and archaeology documentary junkies like me and Mom. Lost cultures, the ancient world, ritual art, all good things for hungry brains to chew on. (When there was no tender calamari available.)
His vision was to unite the many cultures for the first time with a single currency, standardized systems of weights and measures, language, shared literacy, ascension based on merit not rank. He created a regime that produced art for the afterlife –and it did - last long, long, long after the lives of anyone that had anything to do with it. There were model bureaucrats, lifelike horses, musicians, and acrobats, all assembled larger than life to entertain the dead emperor. The number of slaves and artists to compile all that treasure is truly astounding.
It makes one think about all the slaves and communities that were in the process of being dominated, sure it must have brought a kind of peace to the regions. But what is the ultimate legacy of these epic endeavors? EG Rome, the De Medicis, the Catholic Church, the US etc. Humans seem to do this often: amalgamate power, lose it, disconnect, reform, re-configure, disintegrate, evolve. And ultimately much of this effort becomes fodder for the morbid curiosity for some quirky academic (eg the Egyptians royalty.) As our natural world bears the weight of our industrial empires, threatening at any moment to pull the rug out from under us, what kind of leadership and what kind of vision will bring us into a civilization with far more to show for it that some trinkets and glittery jewelry, pretty tiles? Or a 1,000 life-sized sculptures… or a chain of uber-cool hotels…?
When we made it back to my Uncles’ house for ribs later, we peeked in the recipe box that had been given to my aunt on her wedding day, by two of my great aunts. It was full of family favorites typed or handwritten by the matriarchs of the family. We passed them around, and I found one in my late grandmothers’ hand – Rosa’s Wild Duck. None of us knew who Rosa was, and I certainly haven’t ever had duck while visiting Georgia. But I got to keep that one, and look forward to trying it out.
In the land of standards –– taking time to try something from another generation – and enjoying the exploration of flavor that comes from a recipe not off a plastic package can be a political act.
OK. I’m trying to write this in a Mexican Restaurant in Adairsville Georgia and a big yellow wigged clown making balloon animals just showed up, and I give up. This week I’m going to have to leave ya’ll with 4 things. And for those who haven’t visited the southeast, don’t for a minute think that Georgia is homogeneous cultural wasteland- it is immensely diverse. (No Wookies though – I don’t think.)
Monday, November 17, 2008
Three Things: The Pet Cemetery, the Gettysburg Address, and the Couple Reunited
“1971
Here Lies Mr. Bird
Canary
Bilbo Baggins
White Mouse
Loved by the De Young Children.”
Here Lies Mr. Bird
Canary
Bilbo Baggins
White Mouse
Loved by the De Young Children.”
These were the words painted in black letters on a the wooden makeshift marker just inside the gate of the pet cemetery. Situated underneath Doyle drive in the Presidio, this peculiar patch of earth hosts the remains of SF’s dogs, cats and “other.” This was a remarkable find for me. I’d never been to a pet cemetery before. What was this place?
I wandered around, noting the dates and the names, the epitaphs: Killer, all the love of a lifetime, no matter how long, is never enough. I remembered my own beagle, our Dalmatian, the first kitten. How the owl must have scooped her up when we weren’t paying attention. The place evoked Stephen King, any number of bad horror-flicks, even Bunnicula. While enchanting, it was hard not to notice a staleness about the place. These were not just monuments to beloved pets, but a macabre reminder of lost children. Lost in the most mundane of ways, because the children were merely now long-grown. It seemed as if the whole scene was a memento to first grief: tacky as a prom picture, and saccharine sweet as a high school love letter un-tempered by prior heartache.
At this square of earth, tucked away, forgotten, under the overpass, I wondered what had become of the De Young children in the last thirty years. And I marveled how such a big name in San Francisco had the power to immortalize common names for the simplest of creatures. Thirty-plus years is a long time, and then again, not so long at all.
I’ve always found cemeteries to be peaceful, humbling, and a place for contemplation. How short life is! How ultimately anonymous. I kept walking, and made my way to San Francisco’s National cemetery. I was a little unnerved to actually find live marines performing some kind of office in full uniform. The cemetery if full – so I didn’t think I was intruding on a funeral. They took little note of me, but I still felt like an intruder. Liberal! Possible jogger! Jogging is an activity strictly forbidden in national cemeteries, a fact I learned when I stopped at the informational kiosk. I was immediately self-conscious to be wearing running shoes.
On the kiosk, I read about Pauline Cushman – Union Spy- who was buried inside with other notable skeletons. Oh to be a notable woman back to the time on the civil war! Someone had placed a dog tag that read “Licopoli Alessandro E – AB Neg.” This was a brilliant, guerilla act of collage. The addition of something current and potent to the exhibit–like text, made it a real place. There was a story in that simple act, as unique and commonplace as the other stories that were buried here, lined head to toe. The names of their wives engraved on the alabaster backs of their stones. It was hard to tell if they were buried behind them –or just remembered there. Even though I knew it didn’t matter, I didn’t like the idea of their wives being buried somewhere else.
As I walked up the hill, the eucalyptus that surrounds the walled grounds creaked and swayed in the wind. They reminded of doors opening and closing. From the top of the hill I could see Chrissy field and the beach. The park was full of live pets, boisterous children, etc. How fitting that there is a symmetry to this landscape, the living and dead are balanced – the cemetery is the counterweight to a beach full of sandy dogs and squealing children, kite surfers, and sailboats. The trees almost offset the ocean.
On my way back down the hill, I paused to read the inscription on a monument where the marines had stood in line; so officious in their uniforms. The text was from the Gettysburg Address. I never had to memorize the Gettysburg Address – and honestly hadn’t thought much of it. I was always stumped by the fore score and seven. I’m bad enough at math – archaic ways of counting does not encourage further attention. But on Saturday, I took the time to absorb the words of Lincoln’s dedication.
In light of our recent election, the words really struck me. To reflect on the choice of the citizens of the United States to elect Senator Obama, Lincoln’s words—a
premonition of equality, government by the people for the people, and how its up to the living to fight for that – ring very true today. Before November 3rd, I would have been too cynical to take those words to heart.
Later, after digging a little online I came to learn a few things about Lincoln’s speech. For one thing, some say it was not well received. They say Lincoln himself didn’t feel that confident in it. But who can blame an audience so fresh out of a war and probably mourning the loss of many close to them? It seems likely that many viewed the speech as hypocritical – if we were governed by the people and for the people – then the south were also people, and had their own opinions that didn’t include being part of the Union. And this is a valid perspective I think, given that Prop 8 wasn’t defeated this month – well- I don’t want government by the people who would so readily restrict the civil rights of a great many people I care about.
Some scholars say Lincoln was quoting an abolitionist. The evidence seems to suggest this, and I’d be willing to bet that Lincoln truly had vision beyond his time, and that his speech aspired to a world not yet present – a world that not only abolished slavery, but awarded the vote to women, and enjoyed a democracy that was ever-evolving. That his words have been remembered this long, is telling, of the truth of them. Or maybe the truth as it is becoming, and continues to become.
I also learned that there are five separate versions of the text in circulation, that Lincoln kept fussing with his draft after the speech had been given. I take great comfort in this. It speaks to our own tendencies to tweak and hone our poems, homes, lives, our institutions – it is somewhat reflective of this process of evolution. That we can revisit, revise, and from that work, hopefully inch closer to the truth of things.
A piece of writing, re-written, or even re-interpreted can be a lot like something mended. Just like the dog tag on the kiosk could reinvigorate the cemetery with fresh grief and bring healing to the mourner who had place it there; Lincoln’s speech was meant to bring healing and a semblance of meaning to a country that was grieving its dead. And the pet cemetery, while freakish and gaudy is a way for children to acquaint themselves with the nature of our existence –, its their place to get-to-know lost love.
My walk ended at a coffee shop – and there I was given another example of revision, and healing. Buddy is a character in his early sixties who hangs out both at a café on Chestnut and near Chrissy field by the volleyball courts and hot dog stand. He is something of a flirt and I’ve chatted with him on a handful of occasions. He’s recited poetry to me once, to get my attention. He dishes out the kind of compliments that get a little thick, quick. You get the sense that he has a big heart, while being slightly untrustworthy and most likely impossible. Is he a good guy? Is he a con man? I don’t know him well enough.
But last weekend, he sat closely with a woman and when we recognized each other, introduced me to Patricia, his first wife, from over forty years ago. They’d been married for three years, but his alcoholism and some other circumstances, led to divorce. About three months ago, he’d reached out to her – and after forty years – they reconnected. Her husband had passed away the year before, and they arranged to meet, picking up where they left off. “You never forget your first love,” she’d said. “My mother took one look at him, and said ‘You broke my daughter’s heart!’” But things were different now…he’s changed.
Monday, November 10, 2008
Three things: A Marilynne Robinson talk, a t-shirt at the farmers’ market, and election night.
"When she had been married a little while she concluded that love was half a longing of a kind that possession did nothing to mitigate." This is a line from Housekeeping that one of the audience members quoted as her favorite. I remembered having underlined it myself, and it still rang true to me. I believe it speaks to the something’s missing-ness of our day to day experience.
I saw a T-shirt at the farmer’s market with an illustration of a hummingbird. The cartoon bubble above its head read “it will all be different when I learn to breath fire.” I know this is true too. If I could only “breath fire”, or “fill in the blank”, THEN my life would settle into some sweet spot that others must surely enjoy but that I can’t seem to find. I understand in theory, that this is complete crap. I’ve had content moments without breathing fire – but it required a dedicated immersion in what was, and a focused levity that curbed the critical voice.
A dream I once had, illustrates this. I had been flying,(the best thing in a dream!) soaring over the world and re-living some creation myth – father sky/ mother earth and all that. It was an incredible feeling, until I realized I was an “I” who was dreaming. When I realized this in the dream, I fell from the sky into the water and was devoured by crocodiles. Total buzz kill. It will all be different when I learn to breath fire.
Marilynne also spoke of longing as a “frustrated richness of experience” that we are “creatures of greater depth than our senses and experience can satisfy” And I remembered the lecture in college of some philosopher who proved the existence of God by our capacity to imagine something as perfect as God. How could we imagine it, if it wasn’t? Which now seems like flawed logic – but I wondered is this was where she’s going? That the root of the longing is towards God? She quipped that most people believe in God when the moderator asked her what God was. (I gathered he didn’t believe in God.) I don’t want to go into the existence of God on a blog – but against the notion of longing as some kind of movement towards God. I think the truth is much simpler. When we recognize our inherent aloneness, longing arrives. (Way better than crocodiles, in my opinion.)To me, that longing doesn’t need to travel so far as to find an omnipotent being. It must just move toward the people and creatures who surround us – and if possession does nothing to mitigate our longing, then maybe that is just fine, so we continue to reach out and include more people into our lives.
Which takes me to the election, a shift in tone, and the capacity to imagine something better than what is.
I heard others’ worry about the election. While I felt invested, I trusted I was doing all I would and felt resigned to let history carry me one way or the other – knowing full well that we can only throw so much of our weight in one direction or another. And then it got closer. For two days, I felt the visceral tug of anticipation. I can only describe it as what an animal must feel right before an earthquake or a violent storm. I was WIGGY! And everyone I talked to had the same feeling –my Canadian co-workers were going to election parties, people from Toronto were campaigning for Obama. Everyone was jumpy. I was at the polls 5 minutes of 7, where we all chatted expectantly. No one could concentrate at the office. We were still there when they called Pennsylvania, we squealed across the building, and then dispersed to be with our loved ones.
There were many places to be – and despite my insistence that I didn’t want to run around like a chicken with our heads cut off – a good friend and I hit one big party, two restaurants, three bars, high-fived total strangers, and then drove around to various neighborhoods our arms out the windows and sunroof, honking at throngs of people just to hear them say “HOORAY.” And that never got old.
Here was a sweet spot, longing was sated, strangers were friends, we’d imagined something better and it arrived. (And of course, there is still room to imagine something better – repealing Prop 8.) While the next four years most likely won’t be perfect, this historic moment, is an inspiration, and hopefully our capacity to move against the “somethings-missing-ness” will bring more and more acts towards satisfying our longing for an inclusive and giving world.
I saw a T-shirt at the farmer’s market with an illustration of a hummingbird. The cartoon bubble above its head read “it will all be different when I learn to breath fire.” I know this is true too. If I could only “breath fire”, or “fill in the blank”, THEN my life would settle into some sweet spot that others must surely enjoy but that I can’t seem to find. I understand in theory, that this is complete crap. I’ve had content moments without breathing fire – but it required a dedicated immersion in what was, and a focused levity that curbed the critical voice.
A dream I once had, illustrates this. I had been flying,(the best thing in a dream!) soaring over the world and re-living some creation myth – father sky/ mother earth and all that. It was an incredible feeling, until I realized I was an “I” who was dreaming. When I realized this in the dream, I fell from the sky into the water and was devoured by crocodiles. Total buzz kill. It will all be different when I learn to breath fire.
Marilynne also spoke of longing as a “frustrated richness of experience” that we are “creatures of greater depth than our senses and experience can satisfy” And I remembered the lecture in college of some philosopher who proved the existence of God by our capacity to imagine something as perfect as God. How could we imagine it, if it wasn’t? Which now seems like flawed logic – but I wondered is this was where she’s going? That the root of the longing is towards God? She quipped that most people believe in God when the moderator asked her what God was. (I gathered he didn’t believe in God.) I don’t want to go into the existence of God on a blog – but against the notion of longing as some kind of movement towards God. I think the truth is much simpler. When we recognize our inherent aloneness, longing arrives. (Way better than crocodiles, in my opinion.)To me, that longing doesn’t need to travel so far as to find an omnipotent being. It must just move toward the people and creatures who surround us – and if possession does nothing to mitigate our longing, then maybe that is just fine, so we continue to reach out and include more people into our lives.
Which takes me to the election, a shift in tone, and the capacity to imagine something better than what is.
I heard others’ worry about the election. While I felt invested, I trusted I was doing all I would and felt resigned to let history carry me one way or the other – knowing full well that we can only throw so much of our weight in one direction or another. And then it got closer. For two days, I felt the visceral tug of anticipation. I can only describe it as what an animal must feel right before an earthquake or a violent storm. I was WIGGY! And everyone I talked to had the same feeling –my Canadian co-workers were going to election parties, people from Toronto were campaigning for Obama. Everyone was jumpy. I was at the polls 5 minutes of 7, where we all chatted expectantly. No one could concentrate at the office. We were still there when they called Pennsylvania, we squealed across the building, and then dispersed to be with our loved ones.
There were many places to be – and despite my insistence that I didn’t want to run around like a chicken with our heads cut off – a good friend and I hit one big party, two restaurants, three bars, high-fived total strangers, and then drove around to various neighborhoods our arms out the windows and sunroof, honking at throngs of people just to hear them say “HOORAY.” And that never got old.
Here was a sweet spot, longing was sated, strangers were friends, we’d imagined something better and it arrived. (And of course, there is still room to imagine something better – repealing Prop 8.) While the next four years most likely won’t be perfect, this historic moment, is an inspiration, and hopefully our capacity to move against the “somethings-missing-ness” will bring more and more acts towards satisfying our longing for an inclusive and giving world.
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