I have been sloppy

I have been sloppy about maintaining this site, and my two other blog sites have not been updated in so long that I'm considering deleting them altogether.

I have lots of excuses ... but none of them hold any weight.

But I have been writing. I have continued to post in Salon's TableTalk, of which I have been a member for many years, I have abandoned a nearly complete novel, and a partially complete book of history in favor of a new novel, which seems, at least to me, to hold great promise ... and I continue to write scurrilous poetic pastiches and limericks. 

But there is something in me that seems to avoid putting my work out for all to see.

Yes, I know that sounds odd considering my posting on a message board, but there seems to be a difference between posting a response or reaction, sort of a bastard child created in online conversation, and tossing something absolutely new into the world to be fodder for the virtual masses.

The unfortunate thing is that whatever is festering inside me is affecting not only my creativity but my life in general. I have distanced myself from friends and family. I avoid making important decisions. I am too easily dissuaded from action. It's as if there is a black hole inside me and everything tumbles in to be consumed and to disappear.

Maybe it's a lack of self-confidence ... 

In any case, the essays below were written last summer. This explanation is being written to avoid re-immersing myself in the world that I am creating in my new attempt at fiction.

It's amazing, isn't it, the lengths to which one will go to avoid the pleasures of creation?

More on blueberries

More from last summer ...

This morning I harvested blueberries. For lunch I had a tomato sandwich.

The tomato sandwich was made of two thick slices of tomato from a neighbor's garden (ours aren't ripe and she offered some of her surplus), two slices of whole grain bread and a bit of salt on the tomato.

It occurred to me that one of the deprivations in UniStatian society is the lack of true sensuality. I'll tell you what I mean.

A blueberry, to many people, seems to be a small blue nugget of flavored sugar. That is how it presents itself in pies, muffins and other manufactured products. There is a certain tickle of delight at the tinge of flavored fructose on the tongue if it can be sensed beneath the flood of glucose that surrounds it.

To me a blueberry is something quite different. It is a flutter of wings among the green leaves, the droop of the branches, their tips dragged down by the ripe globes. It is the feel of the fruit, warmed by the sunshine, the squelch between the fingers of a berry that's overripe or left unfinished by the birds.

It is the perfect combination of resistance and release provided by a ripe berry that lets you gently tug at a mixed cluster and open your hand to find only ripe ones.

It is the faintest tinge of bitterness on the dusty skin, the sun-warm feel of the berry in the mouth, the resistance of the skin as you gently bite down and the sweet explosion of taste as the skin ruptures and the center of your nervous system becomes your tongue.

To many people a tomato is a slightly fruity component of a salad, or a container for some other food.

But there is a special smell to the leaves of a tomato plant. It is a pungent, pleasant smell that dissipates quickly. It is part of the taste of a tomato fresh from the garden that is missing from those that are shipped from distant farms. The flavor is too evanaescent to survive and no amount of seasoning can replace it.

So many people these days have as their only experience of tomatoes, the trip to the chill supermarket and the stacks of red balls falsely dewed by a fog system to appeal to our instincts and make us believe, against all evidence to the contrary, that these foods are fresh.

They have missed the game of hide and seek among the leaves, the atavistic fear of a sudden hornworm, the waiting for ripening, the smell of the earth.

What is the sensual life today ... deodorized, chemically ripened vegetables displayed in a cold warehouse overwhelmed with the odor of rotting things and the tang of metal and chlorine.

Blueberries

From last summer ...

A series of curious thoughts ripened today along with the blueberries.

Actually the blueberries have been ripe for a while but the espresso drought has retarded the development of  my thoughts.

In a daze this morning, I loaded my macchinetta with espresso powder and water and set it to work. At last I heard it spew the neuronic stimulant from the depths like lava from a long dormant Vesuvius.

I poured the black drug into a mug and walked out onto the back porch to drink it in the early morning sun. As I stepped out. several birds rose from a nearby bush and flitted off. Damn! Birds in the blueberries.

"What the hell's the matter with you?" I asked the dog. "You bark at the mailman, the oil truck, the garbage truck ... but a group of marauding blueberri thieves get a free pass." She looked up at me complacently.

I shooed the birds away took a couple of sips of coffee and got a container. As I harvested the large dusty-blue orbs, I muttered a few expletives at the feathered thieves. Suddenly, the word thief linked to the old communist/socialist statement that "all property is theft," and I started to wonder what gave me the pre-eminent right to these berries.

Now bear in mind that the logic embedded in my mind has caused me to forswear 'isms', 'acies', and 'archies'. I am suspicious of all politicians, political thought and political commentators (the last two, of course, being mutually exclusive). But plucking blueberries requires little thought, my brain was bored and decided to take the problem and play with it.

So ... why do I get to shoo the birds away and take the blueberries for myself?

Although I did not plant the bush, I do, from time to time, nurture it and feed it. Is that enough to make the proceeds of the bush mine, and mine alone?

Does the bush belong to me because I care for it?

I 'own' the dirt in which the bush is rooted. I 'own' it because I paid someone else some money for the exclusive right to use it.

Does the bush belong to me because I own the land?

I am bigger (and scarier) than most of the animals that would feed on the berries.

Does the bush belong to me because I am stronger?

My wife makes excellent use of the berries in various ways to keep us nourished in body and spirit. She has many recipes in which blueberries are a component.

Does the bush belong to me because I can make the best use of its bounty?

I took the bucket of blueberries that I had gathered and went over to the porch for another sip of coffee. As I watched, the birds came flitting back over, bouncing on the branches and twittering to each other as they stuffed themselves.

I could shoo them away, and gather all the rest for myself. Then I would have more than enough for us ... but why do I need MORE than enough. I had enough.

The feathered indigents had no way of understanding any of the questions I had posed, nor did they care. I had enough, they had enough, there would be blueberry pancakes for dinner and birdsong outside the window.

The only thing missing was more caffeine.

I took the bucket and my cup and went into the house, the dog laughing quietly at me as she followed.

Mea culpa

I have not updated in far too long. A destructive conjunction of problems has kept me from being able to concentrate on communication. ... but I'm feeling much better now! To hold my place for a bit, please enjoy this photo of me with my granddaughter Amelia.

Self-examination

I am a self-contradiction, an optimistic curmudgeon. Try as I will to nurture the bitter herb of misanthropy, I always manage to find some dandelions of goodwill infesting the fields of my thought. As I say to the coffee jerks at the local palais de caffeine, as they make my signature drug (four shots of espresso over ice), I like my coffee to match my soul ... cold, black and bitter. But those dandelions. (Roasted dandelion root used to be used as a coffee substitute. See, my metaphors aren't drifting as far as you thought are they?!) I must lack the true bitterness that would let me despise globally and unstintingly. Instead, I have an eye for the ridiculous, a sense of the commonality and humor of man. What a state to be in ... whoever heard of a laughing curmudgeon? a cheerful misanthrope, a giggling grump. Ah well, I disdain categories anyway, so I guess I'll revel in my own uniquity.

Seder, you with the stars in your eyes

I mention in my bio that my wife is an artist. Some of her design work is available from a company called Droll Designs. Her latest effort is in their current catalog which has only been out a few days, but her work is proving to be the highlight. She designed a nice Seder plate with individual dishes to hold the symbolic foods. I'm so proud of her. As the old saying goes, "they tried to kill us, we survived, let's eat!"

To Paul S1mone

Some of us are addicted to conversation. It just occurred to me that: Phosphoresence my old friend I've come to talk to you again. While JPGs are slowly loading The urge to chat is just exploding And the bitmap, implanted in my brain Just can't explain Conversing in the sounds of silence. One restless night I typed alone. I didn't use the telephone. The angle brackets would make sure that, What I wrote retained its format. When my ego's pierced by someone else's mordant wit, I felt like shit, Tapping keys in the sounds of silence. And in the flat screen's light I saw Ten million people, maybe more People talking without speaking People hearing without listening People writing songs that voices never shared And no one cared To break the sound of silence. "Fools" I thought, "You do not know The Web just like a cancer grows. Read my email that I might teach you, VOIP that I might reach you." But my words like spam was filtered out, IN CAPS I SHOUT A discard in the null of silence. And on Table Talk we try To believe that time won't fly. What does an hour really matter Compared to witty useless chatter And to writers whose desire to satirize Still clouds their eyes. Leaving novels on the shelves of silence.

More Amelia

There's no such thing as too much Amelia.

Awe

Awe, according to the great rabbi Abraham Joshua Heschel, is a sense of the ineffable, a feeling that what one is feeling can not be adequately encompassed by words. Like him, some people associate the word with God, although I suspect that they use the word without understanding its depths and heights as he does. For some, awe is a catch-all for things they don't want to bother describing. Some people associate awe with the stunning effects of height, depth, massiveness or vastness. For me, awe is the sensation of seeing a dandelion in full bloom in the middle of an asphalt parking lot.

The chaos of order

I have been reading one of my favorite authors, Henry Petroski, and one of his essays in 'The Evolution of Useful Things' seems to speak to my vision of modern life. Petroski talks about tableware and specifically about forks. He refers to the fact that in 1898 one company produced a single silverware pattern that consisted of 131 discrete specialized pieces for serving or eating. There were separate forks for oysters, berries, terrapin, lettuce, salad, lobster, mango, pastry, fish, pie, and that didn't even include the dinner fork. Additionally some of the utensils were developed specifically for right handed use only. With so much attention needed to match the silverware to the appropriate use, who would have time to enjoy the meal. We've reduced this complexity over time but it persists in places. For me, when I reach in to the silverware drawer to pull out a fork, it doesn't matter to me if it is a salad fork or a dinner fork. The complexity has moved from the dinner table to the kitchen. At one point I remember having found more than 20 different devices for peeling, crushing, and mincing garlic. In the time it takes someone to find their garlic preparer in the doohickey drawer, I will have done the entire operation with the same Chinese cleaver that I use for the meat the vegetables and the herbs. It's tempting to ask why we are so in love with complexity and simultaneously so fearful of it that we build walls and borders to protect ourselves from it. But that's misinterpreting the situation. The complexity that so many love is the complexity of order. It is the farmer brain rampant; memorizing uses and abuses, developing specialized tools for specialized jobs, creating categories and rules. We hunters squat by the woods on the outskirts of town and gaze in wonder at all the bright shiny things. We squat there and trim branches for arrows with our knives, we cut feathers for fletching with our knives, we cut our food with our knives, we stick it in our mouths with our knives. Then we go out into the chaos that is forest and watch for interesting disturbances. As a hunter I worry that the complete imposition of order, no matter how complex, will eventually destroy us. Our objective should not be the subjugation of chaos or the destruction of order it should be to achieve 'life in balance'. To have hunters and farmers not just co-existing but valuing and understanding others' capabilities and needs to the point of mutual respect.

Amelia

In a previous post I talked of Amelia Earhart. For those who are interested ... and even those who aren't, here is her namesake, my granddaughter

Salt in the wound

I'm thinking of writing an epic trilogy to be set in the period of the Old Testament. It's the story of an ordinary woman trying to make the best of life in extraordinary times. Vol. 1 (Her youthful adventures and joys before marriage) 'Not A Lot!' Vol. 2 (Her challenging married years. Her life torn between her husband's virtue and her friends' decadent lifestyle.) 'Don't Look Back' Vol. 3 (Her stoic, silent acceptance of her irresolution, verging on catatonia, frozen in the wasteland between family and friends) 'Salt Of The Earth'

Rational violence

Two of my heroes were sharp observers and commentators on the human condition/comedy, Robert Burton who wrote the Anatomy of Melancholy, and G.K. Chesterton. Some quotes from GKC should explain my infatuation:

'The free man owns himself. He can damage himself with either eating or drinking; he can ruin himself with gambling. If he does he is certainly a damn fool, and he might possibly be a damned soul; but if he may not, he is not a free man any more than a dog.' 'Moderate strength is shown in violence, supreme strength is shown in levity.' 'Bigotry is an incapacity to conceive seriously the alternative to a proposition.' 'Reason is always a kind of brute force; those who appeal to the head rather than the heart, however pallid and polite, are necessarily men of violence. We speak of 'touching' a man's heart, but we can do nothing to his head but hit it.'

What Chesterton is talking about in this last quote is that true violence occurs in the fanatic adherence to rationalizing everything, that reason itself is a blunt instrument, that the force of imposing ideas is more violent than mere physical subjugation. In the full quote, which follows, he explains that the more significant violence of the Puritanical movement in England was not physical.

... it is seldom remembered that the Puritans were in their day emphatically intellectual bullies, that they relied swaggeringly on the logical necessity of Calvinism, that they bound omnipotence itself in the chains of syllogism. The Puritans fell, through the damning fact that they had a complete theory of life, through the eternal paradox that a satisfactory explanation can never satisfy. Like Brutus and the logical Romans, like the logical French Jacobins, like the logical English utilitarians, they taught the lesson that men's wants have always been right and their arguments always wrong. Reason is always a kind of brute force; those who appeal to the head rather than the heart, however pallid and polite, are necessarily men of violence. We speak of 'touching' a man's heart, but we can do nothing to his head but hit it. The tyranny of the Puritans over the bodies of men was comparatively a trifle; pikes, bullets, and conflagrations are comparatively a trifle. Their real tyranny was the tyranny of aggressive reason over the cowed and demoralised human spirit. Their brooding and raving can be forgiven, can in truth be loved and reverenced, for it is humanity on fire; hatred can be genial, madness can be homely. The Puritans fell, not because they were fanatics, but because they were rationalists.

I read that paragraph and I think about the articles of faith that we have today. Standardized testing, types of learning, categorization, naming every quirk so that it can be diminished or eradicated. Rationalism today is the most insidious and vile form of tyranny. How easy it is to medicate people into a bland porridge of humanity. We have pills to lift us up if we're low, pills to bring us down when we're high, pills to make us act just like everyone else. It reminds me of one of the most horrifying visions in the text of Handel's Messiah. It was drawn from Isaiah 40:4

Every valley shall be exalted, and every mountain and hill shall be made low. The uneven shall be made level, and the rough places a plain.

Imagine a world that really looked like that. Flat, level, featureless, a world that only a corporate farmer could love. Yet that's what I see as the goal of those people who aggressively medicate or discipline or shame our kids out of developing their uniqueness. ... and that is what Chesterton is describing. It is a tyranny of mind that is epidemic. We can see it in the fires of Islamic and in the fury of Christian fundamentalism. We see it in politicians and governments. Worst of all we see it in our schools. "It is not rational that what is a challenge for the rest of the kids is easy for this one," they say, followed by:

• "He's not bored, he's innattentive."
• "I can't understand what he's doing so it is wrong."
• "It is not rational to enjoy being ADD, take this Ritalin."
• "Don't be different."

Where, dear God, did this passion for homogenization come from? Who or what decided that it was wrong to be an individual, to be irrational. The Puritans, like the Taliban, like the Christian right, (yes dammit I know I'm generalizing) wanted a predictable logical society based on their own logic. Any idea counter to that world-view had to be suppressed. Think of it as a Whack-a-Mole game where ideas are pounded down to keep the board smooth. I need some coffee.

A song about cell phones

Okay, before I start I need to make a disclaimer. I have nothing against Samsung as opposed to other wireless phone manufacturers. It's just that their name fits so neatly. Samsung phone Everybody needs one Samsung phone Marketing's the seed son Me and you are subject to the advertisers' push So when you take your money out to buy You make yourself a tush Don't beat around the bush. Samsung phone Got it in your pocket For that phone If you had a soul you'd hock it. Funny thing, but every ring tone costs you lotsa bucks Your bank account is empty, mortgage overdue And your credit sucks Samsung phone Everybody needs one Samsung phone Now we know that greed's won

Envy

My neighbor's backyard is hidden from others by a tall weathered palisade fence. The slats are tight together. They let no hint of what is behind them escape. But, from my window I can see over the fence. Just above the top I can see a mound against the opposite fence, a mound of incandescent orange poppies. From here they are a mass of outrageous color, an insane brilliant boundary splashed between and against the grey weathered fence and the green turf. My poppies have not bloomed yet. When they do they will explode in luscious pinks and purples and deep rich reds. The petals unfolding to reveal the fat black stamen waving their pistil legs at the sky like overturned spiders. But for now, I must be content to peek over the fence At the glorious color in my neighbor's yard.

Discussion

This morning I sat on the back porch with a cup of coffee and a dog. I listened to a religious discussion between two mockingbirds. "Chikchikwarblewarblechirppwarble," said the one on top of the pine. "Chikwarblechikwarbledhirpchirpchirp," said the other from deep in the spruce. They repeated their arguments often, to uderscore the importance and veracity of their positions. "Oooo," said a mourning dove. "You tell 'em," said a flicker. But it was unclear which side they supported, A flash of red cut across the grass and dandelions, to land on the fence. "You're both full of ... " And with a flick of his tail the cardinal was gone. From a nearby rooftop, a small mob of crows laughed derisively, and went back to aerobatics practice. "How very dogmatic," I muttered, then apologized to my companion for any perceived slur. She looked at me with pity and acceptance of my failures. In the distance the hum of cars and trains urged me to hurry, "It's time to move, time to merge, time to ... quick, quick." I ignored it preferring the buddhist "ommmmm" of the bumblebees. My coffee gone, I rose from my seat. The dog rose beside me. I got more coffee, she got more water. "The bird in the pine," I said to her, "Was aggressive and too vehement. Which tends to make me doubt his position." She gave a short yip of affirmation, predictably preferring agreement to discussion. The cat, curled under the lilacs, abstained.

Amelia Earhart's Last Flight

By Dave McEnery A ship out on the ocean, just a speck against the sky, Amelia Earhart flying that sad day; With her partner, Captain Noonan, on the second of July Her plane fell in the ocean, far away. Chorus: There's a beautiful, beautiful field Far away in a land that is fair. Happy landings to you, Amelia Earhart Farewell, first lady of the air. She radioed position and she said that all was well, Although the fuel within the tanks was low. But they'd land on Howland Island to refuel her monoplane, Then on their trip around the world they'd go. Well, a half an hour later an SOS was heard, The signal weak, but still her voice was brave. Oh, in shark-infested waters her plane went down that night In the blue Pacific to a watery grave. Well, now you have heard my story of that awful tragedy, We pray that she might fly home safe again. Oh, in years to come though others blaze a trail across the sea, We'll ne'er forget Amelia and her plane. Chorus: There's a beautiful, beautiful field Far away in a land that is fair. Happy landings to you, Amelia Earhart Farewell, first lady of the air.

Two Amelias

Today is Amelia Earhart Day. A brave and adventurous woman, she said: "Better do a good deed near at home than go far away to burn incense." "The most difficult thing is the decision to act, the rest is merely tenacity. The fears are paper tigers. You can do anything you decide to do. You can act to change and control your life; and the procedure, the process is its own reward." “Anticipation, I suppose, sometimes exceeds realization.” "Courage is the price that Life exacts for granting peace, The soul that knows it not, knows no release from little things." "The more one does and sees and feels, the more one is able to do, and the more genuine may be one's appreciation of fundamental things like home, and love, and understanding companionship." “The soul’s dominion? Each time we make a choice, we pay with courage to behold restless day and count it fair.” "Never interrupt someone doing something you said couldn't be done." "No kind action ever stops with itself. One kind action leads to another. Good example is followed. A single act of kindness throws out roots in all directions, and the roots spring up and make new trees. The greatest work that kindness does to others is that it makes them kind themselves." "Adventure is worthwhile in itself." "Never do things others can do and will do, if there are things others cannot do or will not do." "The most effective way to do it, is to do it." All of which are words that I hope my new grand-daughter Amelia will grow to understand and live by.

Junk poem

There's a certain ethereal quality to the subject lines of spam. Sometimes I just browse the Thunderbird Junk folder to enjoy the random juxtapositions of words. Perhaps there is a secret hidden there, a kabbalistic meaning that exists on a deeper level. Be that as it may, here is the latest crop in chronological order. Is it just me or does it seem as if the universe is quivering at the door whimpering to be let in? you should read this josh sniff That reply in hautbois Contact the Agent Urgently!!! You have won Or talk so groat Important Account Notice! Be cancel he sly To sign no refer wan My make as dawdle robin

Sky

The sky is the color of a page of an unpublished novel, typed on corrasable bond, that slipped out of the stack and lay on the ground in the rain all night, until it is discovered, smudged and illegible, frozen in the mud.