Wednesday, September 24, 2003
Yesterday, I met a Lemur for the first time.Eric, his owner named him Fonzie, because he's so cool. When Eric took his new friend to Petsmart, people kept commenting: "he is so cool!" The pharmacists came out of the veterinary Pharmacy asnd said, "he is so cool!" When people asked his "what's his name he said, "Fonzie." When they asked, " why did you call him that?" Eric told them because he 's so cool. People Eric's age remember Henry Winkler's television character 'Aurthur Fonzarelli" aka 'Fonzie.' Few of them recall that he went to Yale drama school or that he earned a doctorate in Hebrew studies from Emerson University. A freind of mine named Gloria turned me on to the Lemur. She Used to live in Gulfport and goes back ther often to visit the wonderful community that she left. The Gulfport Garage Is a reliable place to have your car fixed. They also have some other set of values, beyond good repairs. And old bible on the counter is always open, usuassy to some pages in Ester, the wall has some art Photographs titled "The Gulfport Garage Project," By Taylor Oliver. And they have a huge improvised cage of PVC and chicken wire for Fonzie. Eric seems to have great liberty to explain and demonstrate his pet, so, I take it that Lemurs are good for Business.
I'll warn you that this is a dead squirrel story: no more than that.
A young woman wrote one in a poetry class that I took in 1999.
By the end of the class she had rewritten this rough work,
Changing the "poor thing, twitching," into "The Stricken"
In the rewrite, the rodenticidal motorist becomes a sort of magician,
transforming the jagged sense of guilt into polished gems.
The real story lies in the transition from the creative memoir
to the magnificent final work. The first poem was grounded in her actual experience, or so it appeared, and the second work, fine in its own right, contained a contempt for the whole process. Divorced from the story, "The Stricken" seemed to reject greif itself.
Now my story is the one that never got told.
the squirrel was quick and I was slow.
I raised his body from the road bed,
and held him 'till his eyes went cold.
A young woman wrote one in a poetry class that I took in 1999.
By the end of the class she had rewritten this rough work,
Changing the "poor thing, twitching," into "The Stricken"
In the rewrite, the rodenticidal motorist becomes a sort of magician,
transforming the jagged sense of guilt into polished gems.
The real story lies in the transition from the creative memoir
to the magnificent final work. The first poem was grounded in her actual experience, or so it appeared, and the second work, fine in its own right, contained a contempt for the whole process. Divorced from the story, "The Stricken" seemed to reject greif itself.
Now my story is the one that never got told.
the squirrel was quick and I was slow.
I raised his body from the road bed,
and held him 'till his eyes went cold.
Tuesday, September 23, 2003
Wired News: Why Did Google Want Blogger?
Wired News: Why Did Google Want Blogger?
"The secret, Cleveland said, is in the scores of links webloggers create every day to content on the Web. "
Where is Raed ?
Where is Raed ?
This is from the Bagdad Blogger. apparently a real person.
http://dearraed.blogspot.com/.
This is from the Bagdad Blogger. apparently a real person.
http://dearraed.blogspot.com/.
An old freind moved to London for some purpose related to his work. He was born Seoul, Korea and grew up here. Like many asian americans he seemed to have some resentment of his parent's asianness along with a kind of superiority about Americans. His grandmother was a wonderful small woman. who had a buddhist shrine in her room at the back of the house. She was so small that she could barely reach the kitchen counter. This was awkward since she did most of the cooking for the family.
He dismissed his life the States in an article that he published on the web, saying "The whole time I wondered, where are the intellectuals in this country? If you don't go to a private or parochial school in most parts of America, you're filling in coloring books."Link
Parochial describes most of the world {(if you think of it in catholic terms.) Iraq used to be Saddam's 'parish.' If you think that way...}
In the nineties, I worked for a local college cafeteria along with a lot of bitter Iraqi ex-pats who were forced to wear the hairnet and gloves despite their engineering degrees. There were also a lot of black men who never left Pinnellas County in their whole lives.
Sounds like a powder keg. now as I speak of it. One man who worked there had a particularly irritating disposition. He seemed to take great pleasure in reprimanding the guys who worked in the dishroom. Mostly he thought that they were under achievers and short-timers although one fellow had worked there over thirty years and was the college's original dishwasher. The irritating Iraqui gentleman was there eleven years at the time and im sure that he made a reasonable salary managing the dining room all those years. He apparently used most of his earnings in his vacation when he travelled back to his homeland. most of the time he seemed eaten up about something and he was too guarded to have a real conversation with. although he seemed desperatly in need of a friend. H rebuked me constantly for working there. but his communication skills were not good. He evidently thought that I was too smart to work there. Of course I did not reveal that I would later attend the same school to pursue my bachelor's degree.
The man who hired me, used to be a gay waiter in Niew Yawk. (now his kids are in college.) He told stories about getting high in a club with some people and how as the evening wore on he realized it was Bill Murray, and the Saturday Night Live crowd. Mar/riott services hired him to wait on (then) vice president Bush senior. I got to serve people like Bill Moyers and , 'Ben and Jerry' the ice cream entrepreneurs. When I worked there I found the American intellectual was quite active. One of the campus electricians also worked as a clown. 'Skip' exudes charisma and humilty as a hurricane brings wind and rain
Another, Professor John Brown, taught night classes for adults who want to finish up their degrees even as his health was eaten away by inches. The man served up the Western tradition like a bartender. ('Another shot of Yeats's for you? Perhaps you'd like to try Seamus Heaney, not so old and grey but a bit more peaty')
Brown's wife was my Senior Thesis advisor. Dr. Susan Brown. she wrote an important paper on the subject of physics as expressed in JJ's "Ulysses."
How unfortunate for all of us that the world missed Joyce's point in this novel and Perhaps that we missed Susan's as well.. few humans grasp Bloomsday, though i'd guess that anyone from another world would hold it holy. What if it was your birth date that every one went traipsing about their own city to recall their habits and their actions? What if you went around the world? Then you'd be Dervala, but that still wouldn't make you an American intellectual, Dervala's as Irish as Joyce.
My point is that American intellectuals often seem to hold lowly positions, offering their wisdom on a first person basis to people who need the advice. They build children's museums or teach night school. My asian freind did not see them because they were his teachers, his servants and his friends.
.
He dismissed his life the States in an article that he published on the web, saying "The whole time I wondered, where are the intellectuals in this country? If you don't go to a private or parochial school in most parts of America, you're filling in coloring books."Link
Parochial describes most of the world {(if you think of it in catholic terms.) Iraq used to be Saddam's 'parish.' If you think that way...}
In the nineties, I worked for a local college cafeteria along with a lot of bitter Iraqi ex-pats who were forced to wear the hairnet and gloves despite their engineering degrees. There were also a lot of black men who never left Pinnellas County in their whole lives.
Sounds like a powder keg. now as I speak of it. One man who worked there had a particularly irritating disposition. He seemed to take great pleasure in reprimanding the guys who worked in the dishroom. Mostly he thought that they were under achievers and short-timers although one fellow had worked there over thirty years and was the college's original dishwasher. The irritating Iraqui gentleman was there eleven years at the time and im sure that he made a reasonable salary managing the dining room all those years. He apparently used most of his earnings in his vacation when he travelled back to his homeland. most of the time he seemed eaten up about something and he was too guarded to have a real conversation with. although he seemed desperatly in need of a friend. H rebuked me constantly for working there. but his communication skills were not good. He evidently thought that I was too smart to work there. Of course I did not reveal that I would later attend the same school to pursue my bachelor's degree.
The man who hired me, used to be a gay waiter in Niew Yawk. (now his kids are in college.) He told stories about getting high in a club with some people and how as the evening wore on he realized it was Bill Murray, and the Saturday Night Live crowd. Mar/riott services hired him to wait on (then) vice president Bush senior. I got to serve people like Bill Moyers and , 'Ben and Jerry' the ice cream entrepreneurs. When I worked there I found the American intellectual was quite active. One of the campus electricians also worked as a clown. 'Skip' exudes charisma and humilty as a hurricane brings wind and rain
Another, Professor John Brown, taught night classes for adults who want to finish up their degrees even as his health was eaten away by inches. The man served up the Western tradition like a bartender. ('Another shot of Yeats's for you? Perhaps you'd like to try Seamus Heaney, not so old and grey but a bit more peaty')
Brown's wife was my Senior Thesis advisor. Dr. Susan Brown. she wrote an important paper on the subject of physics as expressed in JJ's "Ulysses."
How unfortunate for all of us that the world missed Joyce's point in this novel and Perhaps that we missed Susan's as well.. few humans grasp Bloomsday, though i'd guess that anyone from another world would hold it holy. What if it was your birth date that every one went traipsing about their own city to recall their habits and their actions? What if you went around the world? Then you'd be Dervala, but that still wouldn't make you an American intellectual, Dervala's as Irish as Joyce.
My point is that American intellectuals often seem to hold lowly positions, offering their wisdom on a first person basis to people who need the advice. They build children's museums or teach night school. My asian freind did not see them because they were his teachers, his servants and his friends.
.
Monday, September 22, 2003
Thursday, September 18, 2003
Imagine if lightning came down from heaven and struck away all your obstacles!
If you were the favored one, then all your soliloquies mattered.
I know the things I imagine hold me like manacles.
Between the flash and the thunder, your world shatters.
Twin towers fall and the ground becomes level.
Mean streets average the distance between you and others.
Every day fills with breaths you might not have taken.
Can you imagine that, never having died? Or remembered birth?
--?
Both what doom decreed and rebirth redeemed,
Are one thing in creation's perfect scene.
If you were the favored one, then all your soliloquies mattered.
I know the things I imagine hold me like manacles.
Between the flash and the thunder, your world shatters.
Twin towers fall and the ground becomes level.
Mean streets average the distance between you and others.
Every day fills with breaths you might not have taken.
Can you imagine that, never having died? Or remembered birth?
--?
Both what doom decreed and rebirth redeemed,
Are one thing in creation's perfect scene.
"Wayside Sonnet"
I don't really know what's scary any more.
I just try to go on living my life.
Without struggle or the comfort of a wife,
Each day I live seems like a new open door.
When people told me that the day was ripe,
I should pick my apples while I could
I ignored what they said and did as i would,
Meandering freely along the highways of life.
Now I pick up cans and bottles where I may.
Life passed me by and threw empties at my head.
I don't regret the day I chose this way--
Although It's something I paid dearly for.
"More life without boundaries," the poet said,
And she spoke from the heart: not from the head.
I don't really know what's scary any more.
I just try to go on living my life.
Without struggle or the comfort of a wife,
Each day I live seems like a new open door.
When people told me that the day was ripe,
I should pick my apples while I could
I ignored what they said and did as i would,
Meandering freely along the highways of life.
Now I pick up cans and bottles where I may.
Life passed me by and threw empties at my head.
I don't regret the day I chose this way--
Although It's something I paid dearly for.
"More life without boundaries," the poet said,
And she spoke from the heart: not from the head.
Wednesday, September 17, 2003
Saturday, September 13, 2003
another fine night
At The Art Center, This Friday's opening featured four artists. Notably Sean Manning had over a hundred pots vessel's and framed "slab paintings" he also put out a kick wheel with a pile of wet clay. People kept touching, reminding me how important touch is to art. Feel Something. The next room had elaborate figurative driftwood sculpture by Cheryl Bogdonovitch (sp?) and some tree paintings in a bright expressive style. The sculptures were hard to describe. colorful and sad. sort of painful like Daphne , The river gods daughter. One friend pointed out how the cut branches were painted red like wounds, and another person Said it was too organic for her. (perhaps she is a robot.) There was also a third room nearly empty of people. The paintings were Classically rendered oils with a surrealist or "magic realism" style. It was easy to recognize the little boy in the painting as a close relative of the artist himself. Cherokee and I talked about them quite a bit, but just as I was about to introduce him to the artist, a woman called over "Bill, remember me." It was Mary from Great Explorations. She introduced me To her daughter Kelly who was newborn when I was fired from the museum. I realized how bitter I was over the whole thing and how miss my friends. Mary realized also and moved away to get some wine. I left the opening and cried all the way home. I wanted to ask her about Elizabeth Marron, some things are to horrible to think of, people retell stories to create an acceptable version of the truth. Some one beat Liz until she suffered brain damage. One version was "It was a car accident." Another was that she was attacked by an ex-boyfriend. Someone else told me that her father did it. I think that she discovered some serious mishandling of money at the Museum and was beaten to keep her from talking. As far as I know, she still can't speak. I do know there is no medicine for the tears we both cried the last time I saw her, soon after she got out of the hospital. She borrowed a book from me just before the attack "Song of the Forest" by Colin Mackay
Everyone needs a soldier sometimes.
Everyone needs a soldier sometimes.
"The straths of Scotland were made by giants thousands of years ago, before the time of man. They carved them out with ploughs of ice harnessed to the rushing white clouds, then they strode over them, with storm pouches full, scattering grains of snow on the yawning rocks, and the snow sprouted from the rocks as water, down every cliff and rock-face it leapt singing and wherever it touched the gritty soil, seethed into life in a thousand glens.
And when the giants saw that there work was finished, they stood on the land that was theirs, and raising their faces to the sun, with the wind in their green hair, they became the mountains, and the hollows where their feet had trod were called lochs and new forests of birch and pine and elder grew about their massive thighs, and the waters of their creation sang through them and beyond, down to the distant sea"
Mackay, Colin "The Song of the Forest"
Wednesday, September 10, 2003
California recall, Is it Legal 01/12/00
Mike's Message 01/12/00: "I thought in a democracy, the guy with the most votes wins.
True, in a democracy.?But America is not a democracy.?In America, in the year 2000, the guy with the most US Supreme Court votes wins.
Is there any way to stop the Supreme Court from doing this again?
YES.?No federal judge can be confirmed without a vote in the Senate. It takes 60 votes to break a filibuster. If only 41 of the 50 Democratic Senators stand up to Bush and his Supremes and say that they will not approve a single judge appointed by him until a President can be democratically elected in 2004, the judicial reign of terror can end... and one day we can hope to return to the rule of law.
What do I do now?
E-mail this to everyone you know, and write or call your senator, reminding him that Gore beat Bush by several hundred thousand votes (three times Kennedy's margin over Nixon) and that you believe that VOTERS rather than JUDGES should determine who wins an election by counting every vote. And to protect our judiciary from overturning the will of the people, you want them to confirm NO NEW JUDGES until 2004 when a president is finally chosen by most of the American people."01/12/00
True, in a democracy.?But America is not a democracy.?In America, in the year 2000, the guy with the most US Supreme Court votes wins.
Is there any way to stop the Supreme Court from doing this again?
YES.?No federal judge can be confirmed without a vote in the Senate. It takes 60 votes to break a filibuster. If only 41 of the 50 Democratic Senators stand up to Bush and his Supremes and say that they will not approve a single judge appointed by him until a President can be democratically elected in 2004, the judicial reign of terror can end... and one day we can hope to return to the rule of law.
What do I do now?
E-mail this to everyone you know, and write or call your senator, reminding him that Gore beat Bush by several hundred thousand votes (three times Kennedy's margin over Nixon) and that you believe that VOTERS rather than JUDGES should determine who wins an election by counting every vote. And to protect our judiciary from overturning the will of the people, you want them to confirm NO NEW JUDGES until 2004 when a president is finally chosen by most of the American people."01/12/00
Thursday, September 04, 2003
apology
"Apology "
I hate rough things: pavement, smashed out windows,
Metal and torn flesh. Unpainted wood has a taste;
You can almost feel your tongue caught on splinters.
My rough words grate against your sweet smile.
Jagged accusations flow with your love.
A chalky edge to my voice that jumps an octave.
I can't imagine breaking this picture.
The half of your face I can still see smiles at me.
If we discarded this when it happened,
Empty and unremembered, that fight would eat us.
But we kept this silver nitrate token.
Some reason must remain after the argument.
Lest I ever forget that you love me, I write
These words of gentle solicitude and calming.
--- Bill Wheeler
I hate rough things: pavement, smashed out windows,
Metal and torn flesh. Unpainted wood has a taste;
You can almost feel your tongue caught on splinters.
My rough words grate against your sweet smile.
Jagged accusations flow with your love.
A chalky edge to my voice that jumps an octave.
I can't imagine breaking this picture.
The half of your face I can still see smiles at me.
If we discarded this when it happened,
Empty and unremembered, that fight would eat us.
But we kept this silver nitrate token.
Some reason must remain after the argument.
Lest I ever forget that you love me, I write
These words of gentle solicitude and calming.
--- Bill Wheeler
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