One Violent Crime - Bruce Shapiro
Like most Americans, I have never been a victim of a violent crime. To be sure, I've had a car stolen, things stolen out of my car, and a handful of instances of vandalism, but I have never been assaulted or robbed.
One would think, though, looking at the local newscasts especially, that we have all been victims or will be victims of violent crime. We should live in fear of cities, of darkness, of people who are not like ourselves. If you're black and alone, watch out for whites and vice versa. You'll be attacked simply because you're different. There is no such thing as a safe neighborhood in any large city. You better carry a gun, spray, or other self-defense weapon if you want to stay safe.
Politicians tend to focus on punishments. Tough punishments are supposed to logically lead to reduced incidents of crime. Punishments, though, don't really have a deterring effect on those prone to violence, whether mentally ill or criminally inclined.
But I'm not the right person to argue about crime and punishment. Bruce Shapiro, back in 1995, wrote this moving essay about the time he was stabbed, nearly killed, as part of an attack in New Haven, Connecticut. Mr. Shapiro's attack took place during the Clinton administration, right after Newt Gingrich and the Republicans took over Congress with the Contract With America promising, among other things, tough legislation on crime.
Mr. Shapiro makes a strong progressive argument. The only problem I have with his arguments are the assumptions that more funding for things that he believes will help is taken for granted as effective solutions. But that's a problem that most everyone of strong political persuasion suffer from.
Where Mr. Shapiro resonates with me, and where he is obviously most emotional, is when he takes on the question: "Why didn't anyone stop him?" People who ask that question have likely never been in a situation similar to the one he describes. They assume you're either a hero or a coward. Why didn't anyone stop him? It angers me even reading the question.
When the news came out about the passengers and crew of Flight 93, the notion of heroism in the face of crime reached its zenith, thanks to the fact that it was real. We already had countless examples of this stuff in movies, but now, people, in real life, had done it. And then it happened with the shoe bomber and then again this past Christmas on the flight to Detroit. But in the first case, the people had time to think, communicate, and organize resistance. Then in subsequent cases, passengers seem to be ready and waiting, aware, that this sort of thing is possible. I know that when I fly I think about what I would do should someone try something; what would I use for a weapon, where the children are sitting, who looks suspicious, who looks strong, etc.
But we can't live our lives like we're flying. We can't constantly be on edge, ready to strike when someone attacks. We're not a nation of Jason Bournes.
Mr. Shapiro talks about his behavior in the aftermath of the attack. I think about how I felt after my car was stolen, how I woke up during the night to check on it after we got it back. To survive such a physical assault, I'm not sure how I could have continued. He discusses his need for justice, carefully trying to separate it from the notion of revenge. I'm not sure I could do it.
As of his writing of the essay, the assailant was still awaiting trial--over a year later. I don't know how long it ultimately took, but one wonders what would happen if we decriminalized non-violent, victim-less crimes. Maybe there would have been justice for Mr. Shapiro and the other victims far sooner, helping bring them some peace.
Sunday, January 31, 2010
Saturday, January 30, 2010
Whole Hog | Ecotone - Spring 2007
Whole Hog - Tenaya Darlington
Just when I needed an essay to lighten things up (Roots and Death at an Early Age are on my nightstand, where I am midway between both, while The Liar's Club awaits its turn) I stumble on this beauty about the power of the urban barbecue party.
Ms. Darlington lived next door to Kim, the master party host and meat-eater who hosts an annual pig roast in the most politically correct section of Madison, Wisconsin. He is surrounded by masseuses and vegans of all types who are horrified at this celebration of gluttony.
As I read this, the only thing I could think was why hasn't this been optioned into a movie and a subsequent sitcom.
Kim has a typically tiny urban yard in which he has crammed on his patio a hot tub, a tap handle through the wall so that beer flows without the need to enter the house, and a ledge for his large high def television; the better to watch the Packers apparently. While Kim and his buddy Tim are a hoot, they pale in comparison to the self-conscious, self-righteous co-op shopping, high-minded neighbors. I especially loved the late night argument between a motorized wheelchair-bound white senior citizen and a black woman, her neighbor from down the street.
This is comedy gold. And just what I needed.
I need to host a party here in my eclectic neighborhood.
But right now, I want a pulled pork sandwich.
Just when I needed an essay to lighten things up (Roots and Death at an Early Age are on my nightstand, where I am midway between both, while The Liar's Club awaits its turn) I stumble on this beauty about the power of the urban barbecue party.
Ms. Darlington lived next door to Kim, the master party host and meat-eater who hosts an annual pig roast in the most politically correct section of Madison, Wisconsin. He is surrounded by masseuses and vegans of all types who are horrified at this celebration of gluttony.
As I read this, the only thing I could think was why hasn't this been optioned into a movie and a subsequent sitcom.
Kim has a typically tiny urban yard in which he has crammed on his patio a hot tub, a tap handle through the wall so that beer flows without the need to enter the house, and a ledge for his large high def television; the better to watch the Packers apparently. While Kim and his buddy Tim are a hoot, they pale in comparison to the self-conscious, self-righteous co-op shopping, high-minded neighbors. I especially loved the late night argument between a motorized wheelchair-bound white senior citizen and a black woman, her neighbor from down the street.
This is comedy gold. And just what I needed.
I need to host a party here in my eclectic neighborhood.
But right now, I want a pulled pork sandwich.
Friday, January 29, 2010
Smoked Heads | Salmagundi - Fall 2006
Smoked Heads - Christina Thompson
American Variations, indeed. Christina Thompson, an American married to a Maori man, starts the essay by telling us about a photo of one General Robley. Seems like a typical 19th century British soldier, except that in the background, hung on the wall behind him are nearly three dozen Maori heads.
This sets off a description of the heads, the process for making them, and a bit of history. Mrs. Thompson explains what the heads used to mean before Captain Cook navigated his way to New Zealand. She tells an interesting story of the role of the heads as sacred objects that preserved loved ones and enemies alike. Only the horrible discovery of the power of the musket and the warlike Maoris desire to possess such power combined with the British desire for anthropological curios did the heads become something baser and more common.
What really interests the author is the reaction of others to her photograph. Why are some horrified and others, like herself, emotionless? She and her husband find a cooperative curator who shows them the real deal, but neither of them are emotionally affected by seeing these heads. 'They are smalled than I expected," is about the most emotion they can muster.
The essay works as an excellent peek into Maori culture and the "collision" it had with the British explorers and traders. I would love to read more about some serious self-examination by Mrs. Thompson. Why has she grown attached to this photograph? What is her fascination with the heads?
Even without this, the essay is an interesting enjoyable read (I know, it sounds like faint praise, but I mean it) and I recommend it.
American Variations, indeed. Christina Thompson, an American married to a Maori man, starts the essay by telling us about a photo of one General Robley. Seems like a typical 19th century British soldier, except that in the background, hung on the wall behind him are nearly three dozen Maori heads.
This sets off a description of the heads, the process for making them, and a bit of history. Mrs. Thompson explains what the heads used to mean before Captain Cook navigated his way to New Zealand. She tells an interesting story of the role of the heads as sacred objects that preserved loved ones and enemies alike. Only the horrible discovery of the power of the musket and the warlike Maoris desire to possess such power combined with the British desire for anthropological curios did the heads become something baser and more common.
What really interests the author is the reaction of others to her photograph. Why are some horrified and others, like herself, emotionless? She and her husband find a cooperative curator who shows them the real deal, but neither of them are emotionally affected by seeing these heads. 'They are smalled than I expected," is about the most emotion they can muster.
The essay works as an excellent peek into Maori culture and the "collision" it had with the British explorers and traders. I would love to read more about some serious self-examination by Mrs. Thompson. Why has she grown attached to this photograph? What is her fascination with the heads?
Even without this, the essay is an interesting enjoyable read (I know, it sounds like faint praise, but I mean it) and I recommend it.
Thursday, January 28, 2010
The Last Americans | Harper's Magazine - June 2003
The Last Americans - Jared Diamond
It seems like our academic writers having found themselves with a book length thought build a following for said thought by publishing what amounts to a mini-version of their book as an essay in a relatively popular magazine. Not all make it into Harper's or the New Yorker, but it is a common practice.
The problem with this, for me, is that the writing has that academic feel but the author gets to avoid the vexatious interruptions caused by having references. Do the words flow more naturally and smoothly? Sure. But I find myself driven to irritation by the fact that so many facts can go unchallenged without me trying to Google every second or third sentence.
So it is with The Last Americans, where Jared Diamond warns us of the very likely possibility that we are destroying American civilization. See Collapse for the book length treatment on this topic.
I don't even pretend to know anything about any of this. Dr. Diamond has won awards (a Pulitzer and a National Medal of Science), he's graduated from and taught at prestigious schools (though now he is at UCLA...I kid, I kid), so his expertise won't be challenged by me.
Does this mean that I have to agree with everything he says? Well, no. He is driven by his own opinions and leanings on the subject. He spins his words while trying to make his points. And this is what bothers me most here. He lines up the straw men for execution--I assume their straw men because of the lack of references situation. For example, does any serious thinker really accept that human need trumps environmental preservation? Of course this is an overly broad question, which requires some scope reduction to remove the ambiguity. Don't most people think of a healthy environment as a critical human need?
There are the random jabs at then President Bush, which annoy me as much as the random jabs take at President Obama today. It undermines the credibility of the writer, as if it is a ritual that must be performed in order to appease the political group within which one belongs. It doesn't advance any arguments and just calls attention to the political leanings of the author.
Realizing that Dr. Diamond likely develops his arguments far better in a book length format, it is probably unfair of me to hammer away at the weakness in his mental gymnastics. I'm sure any weaknesses were due to space constraints. I hope. I might check Collapse out of the library...a brick and mortar one.
The bottom line is this reads like a lecture. He's at his best discussing the "facts" around the Mayan civilization. For the rest of the lecture he basically says that optimism is for chumps...unless you're Dutch? I'm not sure what his prescription is. Actually, I'm one of the dumb ones who is still unsure of the disease? Is it being human?
I get the feeling that if we manage to fall apart over the next decade or two and Dr. Diamond lives to see it, he will at least have the smug satisfaction of saying he told us so.
It seems like our academic writers having found themselves with a book length thought build a following for said thought by publishing what amounts to a mini-version of their book as an essay in a relatively popular magazine. Not all make it into Harper's or the New Yorker, but it is a common practice.
The problem with this, for me, is that the writing has that academic feel but the author gets to avoid the vexatious interruptions caused by having references. Do the words flow more naturally and smoothly? Sure. But I find myself driven to irritation by the fact that so many facts can go unchallenged without me trying to Google every second or third sentence.
So it is with The Last Americans, where Jared Diamond warns us of the very likely possibility that we are destroying American civilization. See Collapse for the book length treatment on this topic.
I don't even pretend to know anything about any of this. Dr. Diamond has won awards (a Pulitzer and a National Medal of Science), he's graduated from and taught at prestigious schools (though now he is at UCLA...I kid, I kid), so his expertise won't be challenged by me.
Does this mean that I have to agree with everything he says? Well, no. He is driven by his own opinions and leanings on the subject. He spins his words while trying to make his points. And this is what bothers me most here. He lines up the straw men for execution--I assume their straw men because of the lack of references situation. For example, does any serious thinker really accept that human need trumps environmental preservation? Of course this is an overly broad question, which requires some scope reduction to remove the ambiguity. Don't most people think of a healthy environment as a critical human need?
There are the random jabs at then President Bush, which annoy me as much as the random jabs take at President Obama today. It undermines the credibility of the writer, as if it is a ritual that must be performed in order to appease the political group within which one belongs. It doesn't advance any arguments and just calls attention to the political leanings of the author.
Realizing that Dr. Diamond likely develops his arguments far better in a book length format, it is probably unfair of me to hammer away at the weakness in his mental gymnastics. I'm sure any weaknesses were due to space constraints. I hope. I might check Collapse out of the library...a brick and mortar one.
The bottom line is this reads like a lecture. He's at his best discussing the "facts" around the Mayan civilization. For the rest of the lecture he basically says that optimism is for chumps...unless you're Dutch? I'm not sure what his prescription is. Actually, I'm one of the dumb ones who is still unsure of the disease? Is it being human?
I get the feeling that if we manage to fall apart over the next decade or two and Dr. Diamond lives to see it, he will at least have the smug satisfaction of saying he told us so.
Wednesday, January 27, 2010
The Library in the New Age | The New York Review of Books - June 12, 2008
The Library in the New Age - Robert Darnton
Writing a blog with the expectation that it will last forever, or even taking for granted that it will be eternally available, strikes me as illogical. I worry that blogs will someday be lost, their texts disappearing as the plug is pulled on servers and memory, as judgments are passed on what is worth retaining and what will be thrown into the ethereal dustbin, truly as if it never existed.
I believe that blogs-to-books technology will continue to improve and that more and more folks will publish their blogs in a material form, suitable for keeping and selling. Avid readers will want to have volumes of their favorites, maybe a selected "best of" anthology of favorite entries from their favorites blogs. Could they aggregate these, favorite them, or in some other way keep them all in one electronic place? Sure. But that isn't the point. There is some permanent and tangible about a book. The best writing will find its way into that form.
Robert Darnton takes on the idea of Google digitizing the contents of libraries. People who read Dr. Darnton's work, such as his recent The Case for Books, too casually will think that he is against the idea of digitizing. No, he is not. He is against the notion that this is somehow a death knell for brick and mortar libraries.
Dr. Darnton brings some cogent and, I believe, successful arguments to bear on the topic. Google's approach is for the here and now, not for long term storage. There are a great many varieties of a single book or document. Which is best? Who makes the call about which shows up first in a search?
The biggest argument for the continuation of libraries is simply the magnitude of published material. Who digitizes what? Who guarantees the accuracy? Google cannot do this alone. I predict, if we do digitize everything (which is unlikely), then we'll have a variety of libraries; Google being just one of many, like the Library of Congress is one of many, though an enormous one.
I use libraries. I can't imagine trying to read a book on the laptop and I am not going to buy any e-reader that only uses a proprietary format--I'm a reluctant iPod user, too. Yet, I rely on digital versions of every essay I discuss here, including this one. I can't afford every literary magazine and it would suck royally if I couldn't provide a link to the essay so that if anyone ever happens to read this, they can share the experience.
My world needs both avenues to information.
Writing a blog with the expectation that it will last forever, or even taking for granted that it will be eternally available, strikes me as illogical. I worry that blogs will someday be lost, their texts disappearing as the plug is pulled on servers and memory, as judgments are passed on what is worth retaining and what will be thrown into the ethereal dustbin, truly as if it never existed.
I believe that blogs-to-books technology will continue to improve and that more and more folks will publish their blogs in a material form, suitable for keeping and selling. Avid readers will want to have volumes of their favorites, maybe a selected "best of" anthology of favorite entries from their favorites blogs. Could they aggregate these, favorite them, or in some other way keep them all in one electronic place? Sure. But that isn't the point. There is some permanent and tangible about a book. The best writing will find its way into that form.
Robert Darnton takes on the idea of Google digitizing the contents of libraries. People who read Dr. Darnton's work, such as his recent The Case for Books, too casually will think that he is against the idea of digitizing. No, he is not. He is against the notion that this is somehow a death knell for brick and mortar libraries.
Dr. Darnton brings some cogent and, I believe, successful arguments to bear on the topic. Google's approach is for the here and now, not for long term storage. There are a great many varieties of a single book or document. Which is best? Who makes the call about which shows up first in a search?
The biggest argument for the continuation of libraries is simply the magnitude of published material. Who digitizes what? Who guarantees the accuracy? Google cannot do this alone. I predict, if we do digitize everything (which is unlikely), then we'll have a variety of libraries; Google being just one of many, like the Library of Congress is one of many, though an enormous one.
I use libraries. I can't imagine trying to read a book on the laptop and I am not going to buy any e-reader that only uses a proprietary format--I'm a reluctant iPod user, too. Yet, I rely on digital versions of every essay I discuss here, including this one. I can't afford every literary magazine and it would suck royally if I couldn't provide a link to the essay so that if anyone ever happens to read this, they can share the experience.
My world needs both avenues to information.
Tuesday, January 26, 2010
On the Zeedijk | Georgia Review - Spring 1989
On the Zeedijk - Richard Watson
The link takes you to the Prologue to Dr. Watson's book Cogito, Ergo, Sum: The Life of Rene Descartes, which is the essay that was originally published in the Georgia Review.
I do like philosophy, though I am no intellectual. Discussions of first causes, morality, the nature of the cosmos, questions of divinity, they all get the brain going. Many of my favorite non-fiction books are lay works on philosophy. Among the large gaps in my knowledge though, is the actual lives of the philosophers. What was Kant's life like? At least with Rousseau we can read his Confessions
. But who the heck was Hegel and would I buy him a beer?
Well, Dr. Watson, wrote the above biography of Rene Descartes in order to find out what sort of person he was, not to deify him as a master scientist or mathematician. In order to do this effectively (or to have a great vacation with Mrs. Watson) he lived and traveled in Europe wherever Descartes lived and traveled.
The essay covers Dr. Watson's stay in Franeker, in Friesland, in the Netherlands. This place should be underwater, except the zeedijk holds back the sea. Dr. Watson intersperses discussions of why Descartes came to this place and his own interactions with the locals and their food and geography. Claims of wild variations in topography and flavors are met with doubt by the author and the enthusiasm of the initiated by the local population.
Dr. Watson wants to know why Descartes stayed here, having immediately dispensed with why he came there originally; implied threat of death or imprisonment being the primary motivator. Is it food? Does Descartes love cheese? Is it solitude? Did the Dutch have the habit of entering a home, uninvited, or looking in windows then as they do now?
These little tidbits are charmingly told (if you're in the right mood, otherwise Dr. Watson can seem like some sort of jerk) but it is tough to picture Descartes dealing with these same issues. Were there dozens of varieties of licorice and gingerbread in those days or has that evolved over time? Did kids vault between the dikes on twelve foot poles?
The essay closes with Descartes fatal trip to Sweden to visit the court of Queen Christina. Don't make trips to visit young queens in cold places was the best lesson I gleaned from this fiasco.
A very enjoyable read and I might pick up the entire book. Apparently, there are some historical inaccuracies with the names of kings and members of courts and such, but I wasn't intending on committing those to memory any more than I would try to categorize the thousand cheeses of Friesland.
The link takes you to the Prologue to Dr. Watson's book Cogito, Ergo, Sum: The Life of Rene Descartes, which is the essay that was originally published in the Georgia Review.
I do like philosophy, though I am no intellectual. Discussions of first causes, morality, the nature of the cosmos, questions of divinity, they all get the brain going. Many of my favorite non-fiction books are lay works on philosophy. Among the large gaps in my knowledge though, is the actual lives of the philosophers. What was Kant's life like? At least with Rousseau we can read his Confessions
. But who the heck was Hegel and would I buy him a beer?Well, Dr. Watson, wrote the above biography of Rene Descartes in order to find out what sort of person he was, not to deify him as a master scientist or mathematician. In order to do this effectively (or to have a great vacation with Mrs. Watson) he lived and traveled in Europe wherever Descartes lived and traveled.
The essay covers Dr. Watson's stay in Franeker, in Friesland, in the Netherlands. This place should be underwater, except the zeedijk holds back the sea. Dr. Watson intersperses discussions of why Descartes came to this place and his own interactions with the locals and their food and geography. Claims of wild variations in topography and flavors are met with doubt by the author and the enthusiasm of the initiated by the local population.
Dr. Watson wants to know why Descartes stayed here, having immediately dispensed with why he came there originally; implied threat of death or imprisonment being the primary motivator. Is it food? Does Descartes love cheese? Is it solitude? Did the Dutch have the habit of entering a home, uninvited, or looking in windows then as they do now?
These little tidbits are charmingly told (if you're in the right mood, otherwise Dr. Watson can seem like some sort of jerk) but it is tough to picture Descartes dealing with these same issues. Were there dozens of varieties of licorice and gingerbread in those days or has that evolved over time? Did kids vault between the dikes on twelve foot poles?
The essay closes with Descartes fatal trip to Sweden to visit the court of Queen Christina. Don't make trips to visit young queens in cold places was the best lesson I gleaned from this fiasco.
A very enjoyable read and I might pick up the entire book. Apparently, there are some historical inaccuracies with the names of kings and members of courts and such, but I wasn't intending on committing those to memory any more than I would try to categorize the thousand cheeses of Friesland.
Sunday, January 24, 2010
Mulberries | Agni - Spring 2002
Mulberries - Rose Moss
I believe that for many Americans my age there are certain triggers that readily evoke our pasts: the smell of cut grass, a wave rolling on a beach, dropping a fishing line in an isolated stream, seeing a certain breed of dog, the taste of soft-serve ice cream (with sprinkles), the music of your favorite band when you were thirteen.
These evocations of the past are not mere memories; you are actually transported, vividly, into the time, the emotional turmoil, however insignificant now, roars back unbidden. When I smell grass, I think of summers with my grandfather, helping him mow lawns. The heat and humidity, my fear (which I still have) of hitting a rock with the mower and sending it flying to harm someone, my grandfather's patience with me. He treated me with respect, correcting me, but never getting upset directly with me. He knew when I was overworked and would stop for a break. I fretted over grass stains on my Converse and money to buy baseball cards. If my mother wanted a carton of Pepsi, I dreaded the walk home. The six heavy sixteen ounce glass bottles were carried in a cardboard six-pack holder and the handle cut into my fingers forcing me to stop every hundred or so feet. My grandfather drank RC, so that meant that sometimes I had to haul two from the corner grocery. It was my least favorite chore, though I usually got to pick up a couple of ten cent packs of baseball cards to offset the pain. If I pull out my albums of baseball cards today, it triggers even more events from the past.
All of the above came from just thinking about cut grass--there certainly isn't any chance of encountering that smell here for a couple of more months.
When this happens, you are caught in this reverie, this mental replay and you shut down like some science fiction robot doing heavy calculations. My kids inevitably get concerned if they're around when this happens. "You alright, Dad? Whatcha thinking about?" They wonder why I am smiling, or if I am about to cry, or why do I look angry. When I snap out of it, I want to answer with what I was experiencing, but I sense that they really don't want to hear it; my words or their experience are not adequate to create an interesting emotional connection for us.
When we read an essay that manages to do that, as in this one by Rose Moss, we realize that it takes some life experience to truly appreciate how something as simple as picking some mulberries can drive you straight to your past. (For me this would be blackberries.) Ms. Moss, from South Africa, puts her memories into the larger picture of apartheid and how the suppression of dissent marred what is otherwise a beautiful country filled with a diverse mix of perfectly normal people wanting perfectly reasonable rights. (To be sure, Ms. Moss does not use the hackneyed prose of yours truly...you need to read her essay after all.)
This is a short essay that's packed with symbolism and meaning. No wasted words here.
We might not have the profound insights in our memories that Ms. Moss has put forth here, but this is her job as an essayist. Perhaps we just need to stop when we find our own mulberries to pick and immerse ourselves in the memories, see what our minds dredge up for us, let the significance be revealed on its own schedule, but give it time to arrive.
My son and I are going to do some serious house painting today. I'll remember my grandfather and his patience with a young grandson, knowing the boy needed to make his own mistakes and calling for breaks at just the right time.
I believe that for many Americans my age there are certain triggers that readily evoke our pasts: the smell of cut grass, a wave rolling on a beach, dropping a fishing line in an isolated stream, seeing a certain breed of dog, the taste of soft-serve ice cream (with sprinkles), the music of your favorite band when you were thirteen.
These evocations of the past are not mere memories; you are actually transported, vividly, into the time, the emotional turmoil, however insignificant now, roars back unbidden. When I smell grass, I think of summers with my grandfather, helping him mow lawns. The heat and humidity, my fear (which I still have) of hitting a rock with the mower and sending it flying to harm someone, my grandfather's patience with me. He treated me with respect, correcting me, but never getting upset directly with me. He knew when I was overworked and would stop for a break. I fretted over grass stains on my Converse and money to buy baseball cards. If my mother wanted a carton of Pepsi, I dreaded the walk home. The six heavy sixteen ounce glass bottles were carried in a cardboard six-pack holder and the handle cut into my fingers forcing me to stop every hundred or so feet. My grandfather drank RC, so that meant that sometimes I had to haul two from the corner grocery. It was my least favorite chore, though I usually got to pick up a couple of ten cent packs of baseball cards to offset the pain. If I pull out my albums of baseball cards today, it triggers even more events from the past.
All of the above came from just thinking about cut grass--there certainly isn't any chance of encountering that smell here for a couple of more months.
When this happens, you are caught in this reverie, this mental replay and you shut down like some science fiction robot doing heavy calculations. My kids inevitably get concerned if they're around when this happens. "You alright, Dad? Whatcha thinking about?" They wonder why I am smiling, or if I am about to cry, or why do I look angry. When I snap out of it, I want to answer with what I was experiencing, but I sense that they really don't want to hear it; my words or their experience are not adequate to create an interesting emotional connection for us.
When we read an essay that manages to do that, as in this one by Rose Moss, we realize that it takes some life experience to truly appreciate how something as simple as picking some mulberries can drive you straight to your past. (For me this would be blackberries.) Ms. Moss, from South Africa, puts her memories into the larger picture of apartheid and how the suppression of dissent marred what is otherwise a beautiful country filled with a diverse mix of perfectly normal people wanting perfectly reasonable rights. (To be sure, Ms. Moss does not use the hackneyed prose of yours truly...you need to read her essay after all.)
This is a short essay that's packed with symbolism and meaning. No wasted words here.
We might not have the profound insights in our memories that Ms. Moss has put forth here, but this is her job as an essayist. Perhaps we just need to stop when we find our own mulberries to pick and immerse ourselves in the memories, see what our minds dredge up for us, let the significance be revealed on its own schedule, but give it time to arrive.
My son and I are going to do some serious house painting today. I'll remember my grandfather and his patience with a young grandson, knowing the boy needed to make his own mistakes and calling for breaks at just the right time.
Saturday, January 23, 2010
Land of Wizards | Popular Mechanics - July 1986
Popular Mechanics - Tom Wolfe
You know you've done it. You've dealt with something around the house or at work or in the car and you've thought, "Wouldn't it be great if this worked a certain way?" or "I wish there was a thing that helped me do this."
When you are thinking that way, you are thinking like an inventor. Everyone wants a shower that is personalized, delivering the exact water temperature that each showerer prefers. We would all love a car that would drive itself to a specified destination or a traffic system where vehicles could not collide with each other, yet traveled at a maximum speed for those who need to move fast.
What about a table, with the top being an interactive computer screen, that ran a virtual Vegas application? By selection you could play blackjack, roulette, baccarat, craps, and any of those other tables games from Pai Gow to Caribbean Stud. The dealer is virtual. Other players can be real or virtual. No cards, no dice, no chips, all of it taking place on the virtual (that is horizontal) table top. And it's waterproof so you can sit a drink on the rail. You don't have to know the rules cause the dealer and the pit boss (virtual, too) will be there to help you out. What a gas. And when you aren't playing, it serves as a nice piece of furniture. Of course, the table is wireless, too, so that upgrades and new games arrive unnoticed (depending on the settings). The tables also work together over the network so that you "gamble" with your friends. This is not much different from regular PC gaming software with the exception that it is furniture, larger than a normal screen, and horizontal. I would love it, until one of my friends placed a magnet on the screen.
I'm sure you have a few ideas bouncing around in your head. Or maybe you've had them in the past and then magically they appear on the market, as if someone read your mind. I remember when CDs came out, I thought it was only a matter of time before we could store massive amounts of information on ever decreasing memory chips and therefore the ability to keep thousands of hours of music in your pocket. To be sure I didn't expect the devices based on disk drive technology. I'm a solid state guy, not trusting the durability and reliability of stuff that has mechanisms to work properly.
But, if you don't think it through, write it all down as specifically as possible and submit to the patent office, well, no one will believe it was your idea and no one will pay you royalties for your invention.
But, again, even if you did do all of that, there is no guarantee that anyone will pay you a license fee to use and adapt your invention.
Tom Wolfe, using prolific inventor Jerome Lemelson as his subject, wrote this essay to describe the sorry state of affairs that enforcement of patent law has created. America was once a land of wizards, innovative people creating, on their own, the things that make this country tick (or turn, beep, drive, grow, etc.)
This essay is a bit dated (nearly 25 years old) but the story is a good one. Corporate America, always at the forefront of describing how they are the job creating backbone of the US economy, comes across as anathema to innovation and invention. Tom Wolfe does not spend too much time stating the position of the corporations; both he and his audience would have a predilection for supporting the lone wolf inventor.
Still this is a superb bit of history. I would recommend tracking down some other views on the topic, just to keep the appearance of even-handedness. Ideas are difficult things to claim ownership to. One thinks of Newton and Leibniz each inventing the calculus at nearly the same time without having met or known of the other's work, though that obviously is not a modern American patent case.
Despite the lopsidedness of the essay, it isn't difficult to believe that a business concern would weigh the cost of litigation against the cost of royalties and choose the lesser of the two. It's fundamental.
Read this and then go read more about Lemelson. He should be as well known as Edison.
You know you've done it. You've dealt with something around the house or at work or in the car and you've thought, "Wouldn't it be great if this worked a certain way?" or "I wish there was a thing that helped me do this."
When you are thinking that way, you are thinking like an inventor. Everyone wants a shower that is personalized, delivering the exact water temperature that each showerer prefers. We would all love a car that would drive itself to a specified destination or a traffic system where vehicles could not collide with each other, yet traveled at a maximum speed for those who need to move fast.
What about a table, with the top being an interactive computer screen, that ran a virtual Vegas application? By selection you could play blackjack, roulette, baccarat, craps, and any of those other tables games from Pai Gow to Caribbean Stud. The dealer is virtual. Other players can be real or virtual. No cards, no dice, no chips, all of it taking place on the virtual (that is horizontal) table top. And it's waterproof so you can sit a drink on the rail. You don't have to know the rules cause the dealer and the pit boss (virtual, too) will be there to help you out. What a gas. And when you aren't playing, it serves as a nice piece of furniture. Of course, the table is wireless, too, so that upgrades and new games arrive unnoticed (depending on the settings). The tables also work together over the network so that you "gamble" with your friends. This is not much different from regular PC gaming software with the exception that it is furniture, larger than a normal screen, and horizontal. I would love it, until one of my friends placed a magnet on the screen.
I'm sure you have a few ideas bouncing around in your head. Or maybe you've had them in the past and then magically they appear on the market, as if someone read your mind. I remember when CDs came out, I thought it was only a matter of time before we could store massive amounts of information on ever decreasing memory chips and therefore the ability to keep thousands of hours of music in your pocket. To be sure I didn't expect the devices based on disk drive technology. I'm a solid state guy, not trusting the durability and reliability of stuff that has mechanisms to work properly.
But, if you don't think it through, write it all down as specifically as possible and submit to the patent office, well, no one will believe it was your idea and no one will pay you royalties for your invention.
But, again, even if you did do all of that, there is no guarantee that anyone will pay you a license fee to use and adapt your invention.
Tom Wolfe, using prolific inventor Jerome Lemelson as his subject, wrote this essay to describe the sorry state of affairs that enforcement of patent law has created. America was once a land of wizards, innovative people creating, on their own, the things that make this country tick (or turn, beep, drive, grow, etc.)
This essay is a bit dated (nearly 25 years old) but the story is a good one. Corporate America, always at the forefront of describing how they are the job creating backbone of the US economy, comes across as anathema to innovation and invention. Tom Wolfe does not spend too much time stating the position of the corporations; both he and his audience would have a predilection for supporting the lone wolf inventor.
Still this is a superb bit of history. I would recommend tracking down some other views on the topic, just to keep the appearance of even-handedness. Ideas are difficult things to claim ownership to. One thinks of Newton and Leibniz each inventing the calculus at nearly the same time without having met or known of the other's work, though that obviously is not a modern American patent case.
Despite the lopsidedness of the essay, it isn't difficult to believe that a business concern would weigh the cost of litigation against the cost of royalties and choose the lesser of the two. It's fundamental.
Read this and then go read more about Lemelson. He should be as well known as Edison.
Friday, January 22, 2010
BOOK: Paper Lion - George Plimpton (1966)
Paper Lion
- George Plimpton (1966)
Every August for the past few years, HBO has produced a short run weekly documentary on NFL training camp called Hard Knocks. The documentary style series follows a team during their summer camp and preseason football games. It is an entertaining series, though a common criticism is that players and coaches behave differently knowing the cameras are rolling, so it might take away a bit of authenticity.
The show covers all aspects of training camp from arrival to the dreaded cut down days; injuries, contract disputes, fan interactions, rookie hazings, field drills, film review, and more. You see the raw emotion and physicality of men competing for jobs, most of it based on merit, because, let's face reality, it is difficult to cut a guaranteed multi-million dollar player because a college free agent shows flashes of talent.
The show is quite popular with the football faithful and even the casual fan as they get a rare glimpse inside the coaches' offices, the locker rooms, and the front office. During the season, nearly all of the exposure to this is funneled through press conferences where anyone who pays attention could write the question and answers before they're asked and answered.
In the 1960s however, there was no summer HBO documentary for professional football, which is one of the things that makes Paper Lion so special. This is a piece of Americana. We get a decent look, through the eyes of author George Plimpton at the Detroit Lions training camp in 1963. Mr. Plimpton, the founder (and at the time, editor) of the Paris Review, isn't much of a sports figure. Though he did write a series of books where he participated in various sports. Paper Lion was the second; his first was about his attempt to pitch to Major League all-stars.
The Lions, if you follow football, are usually not a very competitive team. But back in the early 60s, the Lions were perennial powerhouses. They went to four NFL Championship games in the 50s, winning three of them. Of course, the Green Bay Packers were the team of the decade in 60s, winning seven championships, including the first two Super Bowls.
So, for Mr. Plimpton to be able to attend training camp, play in a scrimmage, and suit up for a preseason game, was a big deal. He covers the territory just like Hard Knocks does today, though he refrains from letting most of the expletives loose when relaying the banter among the players. At times, it seemed like Mr. Plimpton's memory invoked his own voice. There were some sentences that were structured by a Harvard graduate being passed off as the utterances of some midwestern blue collar baller. It didn't ring authentic in those cases.
The game has changed a bit, especially in the rules regarding safety. Also the leap in medical technology and knowledge, nutrition, and exercise we have made since the 60s leaves you wondering how anyone survived playing in those days.
The profiles of the players are superb. Morrall and Plum, the QBs are a study in contrasts. Night Train Lane is a gifted hoot, a forerunner of Deion Sanders. Gibbons, Bingaman, Cogdill, and LeBeau, and many others are all given space. Even the missing man, Alex Karras, who was serving a one year suspension for gambling is covered in detail. My favorite player is Harley Sewell, the lineman from Texas. He just seems like a great guy. Read it...I'm not telling you why. He's just ferocious, earnest, and nice. Today a vapid analyst would say, "He's a stand-up guy. A real team player. And he has a great motor!"
The epilogue speaks volumes about the impact that the media and communications technology has had on that most special weekend in the NFL offseason: the draft. Twenty rounds. No breaks. That wouldn't make for good television.
Any NFL fan should read this book. You'll be bothered by some of the tame language and some of the less than compelling anecdotes. The book is a bit dated. But, like getting caught up in whichever team is featured on Hard Knocks, you get caught up in the Lions, even at this temporal distance.
- George Plimpton (1966)Every August for the past few years, HBO has produced a short run weekly documentary on NFL training camp called Hard Knocks. The documentary style series follows a team during their summer camp and preseason football games. It is an entertaining series, though a common criticism is that players and coaches behave differently knowing the cameras are rolling, so it might take away a bit of authenticity.
The show covers all aspects of training camp from arrival to the dreaded cut down days; injuries, contract disputes, fan interactions, rookie hazings, field drills, film review, and more. You see the raw emotion and physicality of men competing for jobs, most of it based on merit, because, let's face reality, it is difficult to cut a guaranteed multi-million dollar player because a college free agent shows flashes of talent.
The show is quite popular with the football faithful and even the casual fan as they get a rare glimpse inside the coaches' offices, the locker rooms, and the front office. During the season, nearly all of the exposure to this is funneled through press conferences where anyone who pays attention could write the question and answers before they're asked and answered.
In the 1960s however, there was no summer HBO documentary for professional football, which is one of the things that makes Paper Lion so special. This is a piece of Americana. We get a decent look, through the eyes of author George Plimpton at the Detroit Lions training camp in 1963. Mr. Plimpton, the founder (and at the time, editor) of the Paris Review, isn't much of a sports figure. Though he did write a series of books where he participated in various sports. Paper Lion was the second; his first was about his attempt to pitch to Major League all-stars.
The Lions, if you follow football, are usually not a very competitive team. But back in the early 60s, the Lions were perennial powerhouses. They went to four NFL Championship games in the 50s, winning three of them. Of course, the Green Bay Packers were the team of the decade in 60s, winning seven championships, including the first two Super Bowls.
So, for Mr. Plimpton to be able to attend training camp, play in a scrimmage, and suit up for a preseason game, was a big deal. He covers the territory just like Hard Knocks does today, though he refrains from letting most of the expletives loose when relaying the banter among the players. At times, it seemed like Mr. Plimpton's memory invoked his own voice. There were some sentences that were structured by a Harvard graduate being passed off as the utterances of some midwestern blue collar baller. It didn't ring authentic in those cases.
The game has changed a bit, especially in the rules regarding safety. Also the leap in medical technology and knowledge, nutrition, and exercise we have made since the 60s leaves you wondering how anyone survived playing in those days.
The profiles of the players are superb. Morrall and Plum, the QBs are a study in contrasts. Night Train Lane is a gifted hoot, a forerunner of Deion Sanders. Gibbons, Bingaman, Cogdill, and LeBeau, and many others are all given space. Even the missing man, Alex Karras, who was serving a one year suspension for gambling is covered in detail. My favorite player is Harley Sewell, the lineman from Texas. He just seems like a great guy. Read it...I'm not telling you why. He's just ferocious, earnest, and nice. Today a vapid analyst would say, "He's a stand-up guy. A real team player. And he has a great motor!"
The epilogue speaks volumes about the impact that the media and communications technology has had on that most special weekend in the NFL offseason: the draft. Twenty rounds. No breaks. That wouldn't make for good television.
Any NFL fan should read this book. You'll be bothered by some of the tame language and some of the less than compelling anecdotes. The book is a bit dated. But, like getting caught up in whichever team is featured on Hard Knocks, you get caught up in the Lions, even at this temporal distance.
Wednesday, January 20, 2010
Where the Shah Went Alone | Reason - July 2003
Where the Shah Went Alone - Iraj Isaac Rahmim
There's nothing quite like the ludicrous cartoonish aspects of a despotic tyrant. The Dear Leader images everywhere, the inscriptions found in every book, the fawning journalistic coverage, the religious zeal of the street all make it seem more like a movie to the typical American.
So, who am I to judge the experiences of Mr. Rahmim? He is a Jewish-Iranian, born into a comfortable middle-class, not starving or in need of shelter, yet not fabulously wealthy. This worked out well for him for the most part. They weren't poor enough to be too oppressed and not rich enough to be concerned with the danger of politics.
Many Americans do not know much about Iranian history. We kind of know something about Cyrus the Great or Xerxes, when we remember to connect Persia with modern Iran. Then there is a gap of over 2000 years until we have the embassy in Tehran captured by supporters of the new theocracy. Most Americans, of a certain age, know of the 444 day captivity of American hostages. Iran has been part of the national consciousness ever since.
Mr. Rahmim gives us a quick stroll through the final two Shahi of Iran. He relates stories from his family. While I know that they were in danger, I never get the sense that he ever felt threatened as a child. He was a well-traveled kid, too. This place doesn't seem like North Korea or even the old Soviet Union. Iran feels more like a well-to-do country with a uniformed martinet running the show, only he's ok with rapid capital punishment.
The comparisons of culture with his American girlfriend and her family reveals the impact such tyranny can have on adults, but it doesn't seemed to have overly affected Mr. Rahmim.
The Equality Equation put forth is a hoot and a wonderful depiction of a logical mind dealing with envy and esteem issues.
In the end, Mr. Rahmim provides an informative and entertaining glimpse of living in Iran as a kid. When we mostly know Iran from Ahmadinejad and Persepolis, it's helpful to have another perspective.
There's nothing quite like the ludicrous cartoonish aspects of a despotic tyrant. The Dear Leader images everywhere, the inscriptions found in every book, the fawning journalistic coverage, the religious zeal of the street all make it seem more like a movie to the typical American.
So, who am I to judge the experiences of Mr. Rahmim? He is a Jewish-Iranian, born into a comfortable middle-class, not starving or in need of shelter, yet not fabulously wealthy. This worked out well for him for the most part. They weren't poor enough to be too oppressed and not rich enough to be concerned with the danger of politics.
Many Americans do not know much about Iranian history. We kind of know something about Cyrus the Great or Xerxes, when we remember to connect Persia with modern Iran. Then there is a gap of over 2000 years until we have the embassy in Tehran captured by supporters of the new theocracy. Most Americans, of a certain age, know of the 444 day captivity of American hostages. Iran has been part of the national consciousness ever since.
Mr. Rahmim gives us a quick stroll through the final two Shahi of Iran. He relates stories from his family. While I know that they were in danger, I never get the sense that he ever felt threatened as a child. He was a well-traveled kid, too. This place doesn't seem like North Korea or even the old Soviet Union. Iran feels more like a well-to-do country with a uniformed martinet running the show, only he's ok with rapid capital punishment.
The comparisons of culture with his American girlfriend and her family reveals the impact such tyranny can have on adults, but it doesn't seemed to have overly affected Mr. Rahmim.
The Equality Equation put forth is a hoot and a wonderful depiction of a logical mind dealing with envy and esteem issues.
In the end, Mr. Rahmim provides an informative and entertaining glimpse of living in Iran as a kid. When we mostly know Iran from Ahmadinejad and Persepolis, it's helpful to have another perspective.
Monday, January 18, 2010
A King's Holiday: A Personal Reminiscence of Dr. Martin Luther King | Antioch Review - Fall 2002
A King's Holiday: A Personal Reminiscence of Dr. Martin Luther King - Kenneth A. McClane
Many people in the United States, and the world over, tend to think in saintly terms when discussing Dr. King. A strong minority exists that believe he is a total fraud; someone who cheated on his dissertation, plagiarized the speeches and sermons of others, and couldn't keep his fly zipped.
Kenneth McClane thinks this argument is senseless. Dr. King was a man. Men (and women) are not saints. One has to wonder if saints really exist or could exist in recent times. To be a saint requires a true separation from the working world. Dr. King worked in the world. He spoke nearly non-stop in efforts to raise money for the freedom and equality (in civil rights) for all Americans, and specifically Americans of color. Dr. King made mistakes and committed sins. So, let's stop all of this sainthood talk.
Mr. McClane relates a story that takes place when he was about eight years old. His parents, well-to-do, comfortably middle class, if uncomfortably not white, routinely sheltered exhausted and battered Freedom Riders in their homes. To see these young people, cut and bruised, telling stories of abuse and hatred, when you are only a early primary grade aged child must have been confusing and scary and left an everlasting memory.
The McClanes met Dr. King on a train ride in New England. A friendship developed (not being cynical here, but one would think it was important for Dr. King to network with wealth wherever he could find it) and Dr. King was invited to the McClane's home on Martha's Vineyard. Mr. McClane tells of that visit, an abbreviated one of only 36 hours, to explain why Dr. King was what he was, not saintly, but a good human being.
As Mr. McClane admits, this isn't "earth shattering" but it is real. We too often treat Dr. King as a mythical being, some glowing saint of racial equality who could do no wrong, who never had a misstep, whose feet never trod on the same mundane getting by earth that ours do. And almost as often, we overreact to this near deification of the man by cataloging and magnifying his shortcomings, his flaws, in order to destroy his legacy and diminish the message he brought.
Neither of these positions are correct. Dr. King was out there working to bring in money to help people fight the good fight for such simple things: to be able to sit in the same room with whites while waiting for a train, to drink from a public water fountain, to sit at a lunch counter, to enter a restaurant through the front door, to sit in any open seat on a bus, to buy a house in any neighborhood, to vote, to work, to attend a school of one's choosing, and so many other things that we all take for granted today.
This is what today is all about. Dr. Martin Luther King Day is about not forgetting that we must struggle to be free. Our tendency is to give up our freedom for security or comfort. We have Independence Day in July to remind us that as a country we have fought for freedom. We have this day in January to remind us that freedom is for everyone, not just a select few, and we must continue to be vigilant in keeping that promise as a nation.
You don't have to celebrate the man if you don't want to, but we should be celebrating his work, what he ultimately stood for, and, as Mr. McClane points out, his many simple examples of "human-centered love." We can, indeed, count ourselves lucky if we may find it.
Many people in the United States, and the world over, tend to think in saintly terms when discussing Dr. King. A strong minority exists that believe he is a total fraud; someone who cheated on his dissertation, plagiarized the speeches and sermons of others, and couldn't keep his fly zipped.
Kenneth McClane thinks this argument is senseless. Dr. King was a man. Men (and women) are not saints. One has to wonder if saints really exist or could exist in recent times. To be a saint requires a true separation from the working world. Dr. King worked in the world. He spoke nearly non-stop in efforts to raise money for the freedom and equality (in civil rights) for all Americans, and specifically Americans of color. Dr. King made mistakes and committed sins. So, let's stop all of this sainthood talk.
Mr. McClane relates a story that takes place when he was about eight years old. His parents, well-to-do, comfortably middle class, if uncomfortably not white, routinely sheltered exhausted and battered Freedom Riders in their homes. To see these young people, cut and bruised, telling stories of abuse and hatred, when you are only a early primary grade aged child must have been confusing and scary and left an everlasting memory.
The McClanes met Dr. King on a train ride in New England. A friendship developed (not being cynical here, but one would think it was important for Dr. King to network with wealth wherever he could find it) and Dr. King was invited to the McClane's home on Martha's Vineyard. Mr. McClane tells of that visit, an abbreviated one of only 36 hours, to explain why Dr. King was what he was, not saintly, but a good human being.
As Mr. McClane admits, this isn't "earth shattering" but it is real. We too often treat Dr. King as a mythical being, some glowing saint of racial equality who could do no wrong, who never had a misstep, whose feet never trod on the same mundane getting by earth that ours do. And almost as often, we overreact to this near deification of the man by cataloging and magnifying his shortcomings, his flaws, in order to destroy his legacy and diminish the message he brought.
Neither of these positions are correct. Dr. King was out there working to bring in money to help people fight the good fight for such simple things: to be able to sit in the same room with whites while waiting for a train, to drink from a public water fountain, to sit at a lunch counter, to enter a restaurant through the front door, to sit in any open seat on a bus, to buy a house in any neighborhood, to vote, to work, to attend a school of one's choosing, and so many other things that we all take for granted today.
This is what today is all about. Dr. Martin Luther King Day is about not forgetting that we must struggle to be free. Our tendency is to give up our freedom for security or comfort. We have Independence Day in July to remind us that as a country we have fought for freedom. We have this day in January to remind us that freedom is for everyone, not just a select few, and we must continue to be vigilant in keeping that promise as a nation.
You don't have to celebrate the man if you don't want to, but we should be celebrating his work, what he ultimately stood for, and, as Mr. McClane points out, his many simple examples of "human-centered love." We can, indeed, count ourselves lucky if we may find it.
Sunday, January 17, 2010
No Camping on City Streets | The Sun - November 2006
No Camping on City Streets - Frances Lefkowitz
This links to a .pdf file that requires Acrobat Reader.
Once upon a time, when I was a young man, my first wife and I parted ways. I was on an extended business trip when the divorce was finalized. She placed my belongings in a storage unit, packed up everything else, including our two children and moved thousands of miles away. When I returned, I had a dilemma. I had nowhere to live. It didn't occur to me that she would simply move. We didn't discuss it and, after 20 years, I still hold a grudge. (I have a number of them from that time period. Many involve her, but I've learned to successfully suppress them. Or I maybe I haven't.)
What was I to do? I've never been much of a YMCA guy. Hotels were tourist priced and I felt that I would be burning up what little cash I had. My divorce required about $1600 per month in child support and alimony. I remember thinking that getting rid of her was worth any price. After the fury dies down and the fiscal reality sets in, your tune does change.
So, I did what any newly singly guy in his mid-twenties would do in these circumstances. I imposed on friends. For two months I hopped around from place to place staying a few days at a time. I slept on floors, couches, cots, sofa beds and the occasional futon and spare twin bed. I even spent a couple of nights in my car (a Ford Pinto station wagon!) until I finally found an apartment that I could afford. That apartment will be covered in my memoir, I'm sure. I'll never live in a cinder block three story walk up again, I can say with certainty.
That has been my only brush with anything that resembles homelessness. In this essay, Frances Lefkowitz, whom I am convinced would make a charming Mrs. Hutton, tells the story of her ninth summer, when her family receives an eviction notice and her father takes them from San Francisco to the country in search of "Land".
She is the middle child (as am I), the only girl (I am the only boy). She and her brothers are piled into the homemade wood camper shell covered pickup and off they go on a summer adventure. Ms. Lefkowitz doesn't dwell on many negatives. She and her siblings miss their friends and the ease of play in a dense city neighborhood, but they adapt to their surroundings as only imaginative children can.
They rummage through empty campsites, they dig for clams, fish, play tag with the ocean, and have a grand summer. Ms. Lefkowitz gives us knowing winks about her parents, such as the sometimes broken intercom that links the camper shell with the cab, and the direction from her dad that the kids should go play and not return to the camper until they are called back. Wink wink, nudge nudge, indeed.
We can see some cracks in her parents' relationship, that makes you wonder if her mother continued putting up with it or if she finally dispensed with the often angry interactions with her husband.
The quest for Land collided with the realities of the American countryside--surprisingly similar nationwide--and the family heads back to the city. There they arrive in that in-between time where it is too early and too late to interrupt the lives of others. So they did what I did when this happened to me. They slept in their vehicle. They should have stopped near the city without entering, waiting for morning, perhaps at a wayside or a rest area. Because as the title says, there's no camping on city streets.
This links to a .pdf file that requires Acrobat Reader.
Once upon a time, when I was a young man, my first wife and I parted ways. I was on an extended business trip when the divorce was finalized. She placed my belongings in a storage unit, packed up everything else, including our two children and moved thousands of miles away. When I returned, I had a dilemma. I had nowhere to live. It didn't occur to me that she would simply move. We didn't discuss it and, after 20 years, I still hold a grudge. (I have a number of them from that time period. Many involve her, but I've learned to successfully suppress them. Or I maybe I haven't.)
What was I to do? I've never been much of a YMCA guy. Hotels were tourist priced and I felt that I would be burning up what little cash I had. My divorce required about $1600 per month in child support and alimony. I remember thinking that getting rid of her was worth any price. After the fury dies down and the fiscal reality sets in, your tune does change.
So, I did what any newly singly guy in his mid-twenties would do in these circumstances. I imposed on friends. For two months I hopped around from place to place staying a few days at a time. I slept on floors, couches, cots, sofa beds and the occasional futon and spare twin bed. I even spent a couple of nights in my car (a Ford Pinto station wagon!) until I finally found an apartment that I could afford. That apartment will be covered in my memoir, I'm sure. I'll never live in a cinder block three story walk up again, I can say with certainty.
That has been my only brush with anything that resembles homelessness. In this essay, Frances Lefkowitz, whom I am convinced would make a charming Mrs. Hutton, tells the story of her ninth summer, when her family receives an eviction notice and her father takes them from San Francisco to the country in search of "Land".
She is the middle child (as am I), the only girl (I am the only boy). She and her brothers are piled into the homemade wood camper shell covered pickup and off they go on a summer adventure. Ms. Lefkowitz doesn't dwell on many negatives. She and her siblings miss their friends and the ease of play in a dense city neighborhood, but they adapt to their surroundings as only imaginative children can.
They rummage through empty campsites, they dig for clams, fish, play tag with the ocean, and have a grand summer. Ms. Lefkowitz gives us knowing winks about her parents, such as the sometimes broken intercom that links the camper shell with the cab, and the direction from her dad that the kids should go play and not return to the camper until they are called back. Wink wink, nudge nudge, indeed.
We can see some cracks in her parents' relationship, that makes you wonder if her mother continued putting up with it or if she finally dispensed with the often angry interactions with her husband.
The quest for Land collided with the realities of the American countryside--surprisingly similar nationwide--and the family heads back to the city. There they arrive in that in-between time where it is too early and too late to interrupt the lives of others. So they did what I did when this happened to me. They slept in their vehicle. They should have stopped near the city without entering, waiting for morning, perhaps at a wayside or a rest area. Because as the title says, there's no camping on city streets.
Scheherazade Nights | Washington Post Magazine - July 9, 2006
Scheherazade Nights - Michael Cunningham
Michael Cunningham might be an award-winning novelist, but by god he was a struggling artist, too. He had to bartend to pay the bills to support his writing. He had to work with beautiful buffoons whose simple minds could easily be tolerated because they had large biceps and moved gracefully. Some even showed genuine, if superficial, interest in his work.
Now don't misunderstand, this is a fun essay to read. Mr. Cunningham weaves a simple memoir of his time among the elite in the bartending world. He is funny and self-deprecating and he makes it easy to place yourself right there, at the bar, in this distant time. I can see the skin tight shirts and mustaches on each and every one of them. I can picture the lonely customers, the cruisers, the regulars who'll have no one interrupt their rituals and customs.
My problem with this is Mr. Cunningham's underlying attitude. When he returns he has these thoughts: "But I was finally ready, in my own skin, to see them again, if any of them happened to be there still. I no longer felt like a beggar at the banquet."
It's a strange and normal thought process--I know nothing of psychology, and it shows--that Mr. Cunningham was part of a group that he physically admired. And he was in that group in a milieu where physical admiration and desire were the primary driving forces of relationships. One of these Adonis' shows the slightest interest in the fact that Mr. Cunningham writes. Clearly, it left a deep memory.
After he has met some success, he feels comfortable enough to return, finally secure in his own worth. Yet he assumes that these "simple, hardy young men" wouldn't be impressed with his modest success. (I don't know the timing of these events, but geez, he won the Pulitzer Prize for The Hours
, for god's sake.)
You can read the essay to see what he finds. It allows Mr. Cunningham to wax profound about life's inequities.
I don't care to be mean, but I think he was slightly disappointed that he couldn't rub it in a little with them, or maybe see their approving looks. We all want that when we reconnect with the people in our pasts. Hell, the entire high school reunion industry is based on this.
I wonder though, if Mr. Cunningham was straight, and let's say he was a barback or a cook at a place like Hooter's or its ilk, would an essay like this generate some heavy criticism? Wouldn't it likely be seen as an middle-aged man's thinly-veiled gasconade?
"Oh, how I came so close to giving those big-breasted, long-legged Barbie dolls their comeuppance. Alas, they no longer worked there."
(I must be grumpy...Mr. Cunningham, I don't mean any of this.)
Michael Cunningham might be an award-winning novelist, but by god he was a struggling artist, too. He had to bartend to pay the bills to support his writing. He had to work with beautiful buffoons whose simple minds could easily be tolerated because they had large biceps and moved gracefully. Some even showed genuine, if superficial, interest in his work.
Now don't misunderstand, this is a fun essay to read. Mr. Cunningham weaves a simple memoir of his time among the elite in the bartending world. He is funny and self-deprecating and he makes it easy to place yourself right there, at the bar, in this distant time. I can see the skin tight shirts and mustaches on each and every one of them. I can picture the lonely customers, the cruisers, the regulars who'll have no one interrupt their rituals and customs.
My problem with this is Mr. Cunningham's underlying attitude. When he returns he has these thoughts: "But I was finally ready, in my own skin, to see them again, if any of them happened to be there still. I no longer felt like a beggar at the banquet."
It's a strange and normal thought process--I know nothing of psychology, and it shows--that Mr. Cunningham was part of a group that he physically admired. And he was in that group in a milieu where physical admiration and desire were the primary driving forces of relationships. One of these Adonis' shows the slightest interest in the fact that Mr. Cunningham writes. Clearly, it left a deep memory.
After he has met some success, he feels comfortable enough to return, finally secure in his own worth. Yet he assumes that these "simple, hardy young men" wouldn't be impressed with his modest success. (I don't know the timing of these events, but geez, he won the Pulitzer Prize for The Hours
, for god's sake.)You can read the essay to see what he finds. It allows Mr. Cunningham to wax profound about life's inequities.
I don't care to be mean, but I think he was slightly disappointed that he couldn't rub it in a little with them, or maybe see their approving looks. We all want that when we reconnect with the people in our pasts. Hell, the entire high school reunion industry is based on this.
I wonder though, if Mr. Cunningham was straight, and let's say he was a barback or a cook at a place like Hooter's or its ilk, would an essay like this generate some heavy criticism? Wouldn't it likely be seen as an middle-aged man's thinly-veiled gasconade?
"Oh, how I came so close to giving those big-breasted, long-legged Barbie dolls their comeuppance. Alas, they no longer worked there."
(I must be grumpy...Mr. Cunningham, I don't mean any of this.)
Saturday, January 16, 2010
Mein Harlem | Ep;phany - Spring 2007
Mein Harlem - Anna Steegmann
Anna Steegmann emigrated from Germany in 1980. In this essay she relates her first visit to Harlem to visit a friend from the theater. During her childhood in Germany, Ms. Steegmann was moved by the violent images of the civil rights movement from the American south. She developed an empathy with and a fascination for black American culture. On this first visit, she meets and is "adopted" by her friend's mother, referred to as Miss Jackson.
Miss Jackson seems like a wonderful, sensible woman. Independent of men, though thoroughly heterosexual, she lives in a well-kept, well-secured home near 125th. She has words of wisdom for Ms. Steegmann, and over the years she recalls them as she makes her life's decisions.
My personal favorite is a simple platitude that we all could stand to live by, no matter how egregious or complex our circumstances: Ain't nobody holding you back, but yourself.
This essay looks like it is about Harlem, it's beauty and ugliness, it's art and it's trash. But I believe it is about taking chances, risking ourselves. Harlem represents inspiration and fear. It is possibility and barrier all in one.
Ms. Steegmann had the nerve to succeed. It would have been nice to balance this with a couple of failures, details of her setbacks are rolled right over. Maybe that's a good thing.
I felt myself smile more often than not while reading this. This relentlessly sunny outlook can't help but help. I wonder if I should buy a desk now instead of writing at the dining room table?
Anna Steegmann emigrated from Germany in 1980. In this essay she relates her first visit to Harlem to visit a friend from the theater. During her childhood in Germany, Ms. Steegmann was moved by the violent images of the civil rights movement from the American south. She developed an empathy with and a fascination for black American culture. On this first visit, she meets and is "adopted" by her friend's mother, referred to as Miss Jackson.
Miss Jackson seems like a wonderful, sensible woman. Independent of men, though thoroughly heterosexual, she lives in a well-kept, well-secured home near 125th. She has words of wisdom for Ms. Steegmann, and over the years she recalls them as she makes her life's decisions.
My personal favorite is a simple platitude that we all could stand to live by, no matter how egregious or complex our circumstances: Ain't nobody holding you back, but yourself.
This essay looks like it is about Harlem, it's beauty and ugliness, it's art and it's trash. But I believe it is about taking chances, risking ourselves. Harlem represents inspiration and fear. It is possibility and barrier all in one.
Ms. Steegmann had the nerve to succeed. It would have been nice to balance this with a couple of failures, details of her setbacks are rolled right over. Maybe that's a good thing.
I felt myself smile more often than not while reading this. This relentlessly sunny outlook can't help but help. I wonder if I should buy a desk now instead of writing at the dining room table?
Friday, January 15, 2010
BOOK: On Writing - Stephen King (2000)
On Writing: A Memoir of the Craft - Stephen King
Well, up until Insomnia, I think I read practically everything that Stephen King wrote. It was an easy gift for me. Simply buy the latest hardcover by Mr. King and put a bow on it and I was happy as can be at Christmas and my birthday.
So, I missed On Writing when it came out. I knew it was there. I saw it along with Rose Madder and The Girl Who Loved Tom Gordon and all those other volumes he regularly released. But for whatever reason, I had given up on him. I started feeling cynical about his novels. Maybe it was Gerald's Game. If you've read it, you know what I mean. I think the wheels started coming off for me with Christine, but I kept on for another decade. This meant that when On Writing came out, I ignored it.
I am a stupid stupid man.
Mr. King is at his conversational best. The first half of the book is a memoir, intended to show us some of his experiences that led him to be the writer that he is. After this, he breaks down his take on writing.
If you read nothing else in this book, read the section, about five pages long, called What Writing Is. If you read that and still find that you have to convince yourself to write or that you only want to write for the fame and fortune, then, well, as Mr. King puts it, "...close the book and go do something else."
I can't think of any book more practical for coaching on the topic of writing than this one. The Elements of Style remains the important handbook that everyone should own. Books like Bird by Bird and Writing Down the Bones serve as wonderful inspiration, but Stephen King has given us the ultimate coaching lessons. Read, write, edit, and repeat. Write because you want to and have to, but work at doing it the right way.
This book should be in every writer's library.
EDIT: In December, I read and commented on Stephen King's essay On Impact. This essay is what led me to break down and read On Writing. Most of the essay is included in On Writing, it was, after all, one of the books that Mr. King was writing when he went for his fateful walk.
Well, up until Insomnia, I think I read practically everything that Stephen King wrote. It was an easy gift for me. Simply buy the latest hardcover by Mr. King and put a bow on it and I was happy as can be at Christmas and my birthday.
So, I missed On Writing when it came out. I knew it was there. I saw it along with Rose Madder and The Girl Who Loved Tom Gordon and all those other volumes he regularly released. But for whatever reason, I had given up on him. I started feeling cynical about his novels. Maybe it was Gerald's Game. If you've read it, you know what I mean. I think the wheels started coming off for me with Christine, but I kept on for another decade. This meant that when On Writing came out, I ignored it.
I am a stupid stupid man.
Mr. King is at his conversational best. The first half of the book is a memoir, intended to show us some of his experiences that led him to be the writer that he is. After this, he breaks down his take on writing.
If you read nothing else in this book, read the section, about five pages long, called What Writing Is. If you read that and still find that you have to convince yourself to write or that you only want to write for the fame and fortune, then, well, as Mr. King puts it, "...close the book and go do something else."
I can't think of any book more practical for coaching on the topic of writing than this one. The Elements of Style remains the important handbook that everyone should own. Books like Bird by Bird and Writing Down the Bones serve as wonderful inspiration, but Stephen King has given us the ultimate coaching lessons. Read, write, edit, and repeat. Write because you want to and have to, but work at doing it the right way.
This book should be in every writer's library.
EDIT: In December, I read and commented on Stephen King's essay On Impact. This essay is what led me to break down and read On Writing. Most of the essay is included in On Writing, it was, after all, one of the books that Mr. King was writing when he went for his fateful walk.
What We Have | Prairie Schooner - Fall 2008
What We Have - Gaynell Gavin
I lost all of my grandparents before my 40th birthday, with my maternal grandfather, the one that I was closest to, dying when I was 16 years old. Before he died, I went through a phase where I was terribly interested in genealogy. I expected my grandparents to rattle off full names and birth dates to help me fill in the blanks of my family tree. Now I know just how difficult and demanding that I must have seemed. I can hardly remember the names and birthdays of my immediate family's families, let alone my ancestors.
They must have been proud though, that their grandson showed an interest in knowing his family, his roots. I did all the usual family tree hunting activities, plus I had a cheap tape recorder. Using this I recorded my grandfather singing and playing a banjo. Now, of course, I can't find the tape. I also was given his watch and his lighter after he died.
I could write for hours and hours about my grandparents, but I need to talk about Gaynell Gavin's essay. With her mother's sister Ellie as a focal point, Dr. Gavin has written a lovely elegy on the lives of those she has lost in the past few years. Ellie's stories are the very things we long for once we've lost a senior member of our family. They have a familiarity and a warmth that we take for granted, even tolerate, while living, and mourn and yearn to hear again once they're gone.
Dr. Gavin's essay is almost leisurely in its pacing. That is as it should be. We need to savor what we have.
I wish my children would express an interest in their ancestors, so that I can bore them with stories of their great grandparents. I should probably write about them, for my children and their children, so that when they finally do want to know, they can hear what I have to say, even if I'm not around.
I would love to talk to my grandparents now.
I miss them.
I lost all of my grandparents before my 40th birthday, with my maternal grandfather, the one that I was closest to, dying when I was 16 years old. Before he died, I went through a phase where I was terribly interested in genealogy. I expected my grandparents to rattle off full names and birth dates to help me fill in the blanks of my family tree. Now I know just how difficult and demanding that I must have seemed. I can hardly remember the names and birthdays of my immediate family's families, let alone my ancestors.
They must have been proud though, that their grandson showed an interest in knowing his family, his roots. I did all the usual family tree hunting activities, plus I had a cheap tape recorder. Using this I recorded my grandfather singing and playing a banjo. Now, of course, I can't find the tape. I also was given his watch and his lighter after he died.
I could write for hours and hours about my grandparents, but I need to talk about Gaynell Gavin's essay. With her mother's sister Ellie as a focal point, Dr. Gavin has written a lovely elegy on the lives of those she has lost in the past few years. Ellie's stories are the very things we long for once we've lost a senior member of our family. They have a familiarity and a warmth that we take for granted, even tolerate, while living, and mourn and yearn to hear again once they're gone.
Dr. Gavin's essay is almost leisurely in its pacing. That is as it should be. We need to savor what we have.
I wish my children would express an interest in their ancestors, so that I can bore them with stories of their great grandparents. I should probably write about them, for my children and their children, so that when they finally do want to know, they can hear what I have to say, even if I'm not around.
I would love to talk to my grandparents now.
I miss them.
Wednesday, January 13, 2010
A Night Scavenger | Michigan Quarterly Review - Winter 2008
A Night Scavenger - Herbert Gold
Herbert Gold writes a little memoir on his mid 1970s divorce in San Francisco. It's really about his reaction to it. His grief, anger, frustration, loneliness, and distracted self are the things he shows us.
I have been divorced, a couple of times, but in each of them, I was the one requesting the separation. Here, the former Mrs. Gold decides one day that she is trapped by her daughter and twin sons and she needs to divorce something. Her husband is the easiest one to part with. After all, you can't divorce your children.
Mr. Gold describes a series of vignettes after this, started by his ex-wife seemingly able to seduce him at will, until she brings up her current lover. It's ludicrous and purely 70s. Movies and sitcoms centered on this sort of liberated sexual behavior. Love, American Style, anyone?
He has some funny moments driving, and an amusing interaction with a son.
The essay hits its stride however, when Mr. Gold hits the streets, walking in any of the four cardinal directions.
The attempted mugging and subsequent failure with the police and the visits to cafes that never close, and, especially his run-in with the stetson wearing pimp are perfectly captured. I can relate to his walking around on his own, in parts of the city that he wouldn't normally be in, indeed never at these night hours, and being accosted either for money or sex, watching an America unfold that most of us never see.
It's funny and fascinating. A quick thoroughly enjoyable read. Mr. Gold's depression seen at this great distance in time can be more easily examined dispassionately. It's an entertaining portrait of dealing with divorce.
Herbert Gold writes a little memoir on his mid 1970s divorce in San Francisco. It's really about his reaction to it. His grief, anger, frustration, loneliness, and distracted self are the things he shows us.
I have been divorced, a couple of times, but in each of them, I was the one requesting the separation. Here, the former Mrs. Gold decides one day that she is trapped by her daughter and twin sons and she needs to divorce something. Her husband is the easiest one to part with. After all, you can't divorce your children.
Mr. Gold describes a series of vignettes after this, started by his ex-wife seemingly able to seduce him at will, until she brings up her current lover. It's ludicrous and purely 70s. Movies and sitcoms centered on this sort of liberated sexual behavior. Love, American Style, anyone?
He has some funny moments driving, and an amusing interaction with a son.
The essay hits its stride however, when Mr. Gold hits the streets, walking in any of the four cardinal directions.
The attempted mugging and subsequent failure with the police and the visits to cafes that never close, and, especially his run-in with the stetson wearing pimp are perfectly captured. I can relate to his walking around on his own, in parts of the city that he wouldn't normally be in, indeed never at these night hours, and being accosted either for money or sex, watching an America unfold that most of us never see.
It's funny and fascinating. A quick thoroughly enjoyable read. Mr. Gold's depression seen at this great distance in time can be more easily examined dispassionately. It's an entertaining portrait of dealing with divorce.
Tuesday, January 12, 2010
Getting Religion | New York Times Magazine - September 18, 2005
Getting Religion - Mark Lilla
One of the special things about essays is that occasionally you find one where the author has written about an experience that you've had, too. While the experience wasn't directly shared, there is a commonality, a sense of recognition, in what the author describes. It connects you and makes you feel both validated and real.
Even better, is when the author goes beyond mere description and reveals his or her thinking about those experiences over time. Here is where you likely depart from the author. Whether you agree with this new insight or not, you have been exposed to another way of looking at the experience. You've been given a different perspective on your life.
This is not too common. For example, I've never had cancer. I've never been threatened by a raging wildfire. I'm not independently wealthy, and I've never had a Brazilian wax job. But I have been through a late childhood, early adolescent religious awakening.
I did teach Sunday school to 1st through 3rd grade girls when I was only a 5th and 6th grader myself. I dreamed about standing in the pulpit and preaching. I figured the Moody Bible Institute was my Harvard, my West Point. I won a new Bible for memorizing the books of both the Old and New Testaments. My favorite book of the bible was the letter to the Hebrews. I thought my life was figured out.
Then I fell. And having fallen, I was not forgiven. Everything was sham, a pretension to righteousness.
Then I started thinking. By now I was 16. It would take over a decade before I realized that nothing of what I knew was special or unique. Religion felt like a lazy way to have answers about life's pressing questions. Where religion was specific, it seemed based on superstition or the pragmatism that comes from living in a unscientific and primitive world. I reread the New Testament and thought that maybe, just maybe, Paul was a nutcase. I perused religions the way my mother used to peruse the Presidents Day sales at the mall, trying things on, buying, returning. There was always a flaw, usually in the dogmatic teachings, that turned me away.
Now, I'm comfortable with who I am and what I believe (or don't believe) and then I read this essay and Mark Lilla brings my adolescence roaring back to me. He, too, converted at a very impressionable age. He, too, is not antagonistic toward his former beliefs and its current adherents. Mr. Lilla tells a fine story. He juxtaposes it with a visit to a Billy Graham revival in New York City.
What Mr. Lilla revealed to me, something that I hadn't given much thought, is his line: "Doubt, like faith, has to be learned." I think it takes both to survive and thrive in the world. Unlike the skeptics that Mr Lilla mentions, I think I am past the age of proselytizing for reason. During your life, you'll either acquire it and use it, or you won't. The best I can hope for is to demonstrate a reasonable life and have faith that someone will notice.
One of the special things about essays is that occasionally you find one where the author has written about an experience that you've had, too. While the experience wasn't directly shared, there is a commonality, a sense of recognition, in what the author describes. It connects you and makes you feel both validated and real.
Even better, is when the author goes beyond mere description and reveals his or her thinking about those experiences over time. Here is where you likely depart from the author. Whether you agree with this new insight or not, you have been exposed to another way of looking at the experience. You've been given a different perspective on your life.
This is not too common. For example, I've never had cancer. I've never been threatened by a raging wildfire. I'm not independently wealthy, and I've never had a Brazilian wax job. But I have been through a late childhood, early adolescent religious awakening.
I did teach Sunday school to 1st through 3rd grade girls when I was only a 5th and 6th grader myself. I dreamed about standing in the pulpit and preaching. I figured the Moody Bible Institute was my Harvard, my West Point. I won a new Bible for memorizing the books of both the Old and New Testaments. My favorite book of the bible was the letter to the Hebrews. I thought my life was figured out.
Then I fell. And having fallen, I was not forgiven. Everything was sham, a pretension to righteousness.
Then I started thinking. By now I was 16. It would take over a decade before I realized that nothing of what I knew was special or unique. Religion felt like a lazy way to have answers about life's pressing questions. Where religion was specific, it seemed based on superstition or the pragmatism that comes from living in a unscientific and primitive world. I reread the New Testament and thought that maybe, just maybe, Paul was a nutcase. I perused religions the way my mother used to peruse the Presidents Day sales at the mall, trying things on, buying, returning. There was always a flaw, usually in the dogmatic teachings, that turned me away.
Now, I'm comfortable with who I am and what I believe (or don't believe) and then I read this essay and Mark Lilla brings my adolescence roaring back to me. He, too, converted at a very impressionable age. He, too, is not antagonistic toward his former beliefs and its current adherents. Mr. Lilla tells a fine story. He juxtaposes it with a visit to a Billy Graham revival in New York City.
What Mr. Lilla revealed to me, something that I hadn't given much thought, is his line: "Doubt, like faith, has to be learned." I think it takes both to survive and thrive in the world. Unlike the skeptics that Mr Lilla mentions, I think I am past the age of proselytizing for reason. During your life, you'll either acquire it and use it, or you won't. The best I can hope for is to demonstrate a reasonable life and have faith that someone will notice.
Sunday, January 10, 2010
Jefferson the Skeptic | Hudson Review - Summer 2006
Jefferson the Skeptic - Brooke Allen
This links to a .pdf file that requires Acrobat Reader.
Brooke Allen has built a solid case that the United States' third president was anything but a true believer when it came to Christianity. Using Thomas Jefferson's many writings on the subject, including large swaths of direct quotations in the essay, she simply destroys the notion that he believed the United States should be a Christian nation.
Mr. Jefferson was a pragmatic man who feared that the United States might be taken over by a rabid clergy if it were to politically favor a particular religion.
This is tough reading if you happen to be a believer in the Christian foundations of this country. If you are an atheist, you might find yourself a little disappointed, too. Mr. Jefferson never denies the existence of God. He just doesn't believe in the reality of the God of the Bible. Atheists typically reject divinity in all its forms.
Ms. Allen has included some interesting historical nuggets here, such as the mudslinging that occurred in the 1800 Presidential election. An editorial ran in a Connecticut newspaper that reads like a comment in a political blog of today: "Murder, robbery, rape, adultery, and incest will all be openly taught and practiced" if Jefferson was elected. The more things change, eh?
After Mr. Jefferson retired from politics, he worked on stripping the Gospels of what he felt were the unbelievable parts, the miracles, the virgin birth, the ascension, etc. What he created from this is today popularly known as the Jefferson Bible. The actual title is The Life and Morals of Jesus of Nazareth. The link takes you to the text at the University of Virginia.
If you enjoy this essay, I would recommend more of Brooke Allen's writings (I love her book reviews). Specifically, on this topic, her book, Moral Minority: Our Skeptical Founding Fathers is a good read.
This links to a .pdf file that requires Acrobat Reader.
Brooke Allen has built a solid case that the United States' third president was anything but a true believer when it came to Christianity. Using Thomas Jefferson's many writings on the subject, including large swaths of direct quotations in the essay, she simply destroys the notion that he believed the United States should be a Christian nation.
Mr. Jefferson was a pragmatic man who feared that the United States might be taken over by a rabid clergy if it were to politically favor a particular religion.
This is tough reading if you happen to be a believer in the Christian foundations of this country. If you are an atheist, you might find yourself a little disappointed, too. Mr. Jefferson never denies the existence of God. He just doesn't believe in the reality of the God of the Bible. Atheists typically reject divinity in all its forms.
Ms. Allen has included some interesting historical nuggets here, such as the mudslinging that occurred in the 1800 Presidential election. An editorial ran in a Connecticut newspaper that reads like a comment in a political blog of today: "Murder, robbery, rape, adultery, and incest will all be openly taught and practiced" if Jefferson was elected. The more things change, eh?
After Mr. Jefferson retired from politics, he worked on stripping the Gospels of what he felt were the unbelievable parts, the miracles, the virgin birth, the ascension, etc. What he created from this is today popularly known as the Jefferson Bible. The actual title is The Life and Morals of Jesus of Nazareth. The link takes you to the text at the University of Virginia.
If you enjoy this essay, I would recommend more of Brooke Allen's writings (I love her book reviews). Specifically, on this topic, her book, Moral Minority: Our Skeptical Founding Fathers is a good read.
Saturday, January 9, 2010
In Defense of Anonymity | Virginia Quarterly Review - Winter 1987
In Defense of Anonymity - Anonymous
A blast from the past. I can't believe I found something this old online. Thanks to VQR for making their archives available. At some point, I'm going to be unable to provide links to the essays that I am reading. I appreciate the quarterlies and journals putting their older issues online and letting us visit them for some enlightenment. A good essay isn't diminished by time.
The question here is whether or not we have a good essay.
Part I is the story of the author's escape by ship from France as the Nazis overrun western Europe. The author uses this experience as an example of how we affect each other, by helping or harming, all while never knowing each other's names. This is strong writing and brings home the point of her essay effectively.
Then...there is Part II. Yawn. A laundry list of anonymous literature over the ages and across the globe. Thanks. But I am not sure that other than a lightweight checklist what point the author wanted to make. She talks about the need for recognition and ego-size in today's world. Well, that's the market more than ego. If someone creates, they expect to be paid for the use of that creation. Seems more a financial concern than ego-based.
She does make one funny salient point: if all publications were forced to be anonymous, then the only people who would publish are those that are compelled to write. The age of the ghost written memoir would vanish. Hear hear!
UPDATE (Jan. 11, 2010): I've been thinking about this a bit, because this is the first essay that's over 20 years old here, it's perspective nagged at me. Then, it hit me, as I was perusing some blogs and reading the malicious, ridiculous comments found there. Anonymity isn't such a great respect-inspiring idea when it is available and easy to practice. How many people hide behind their anonymity to lob intellectual (rather anti-intellectual) grenades? Sure, you can speak your mind without restraint when your identity is unobtainable, but should you? Does civility die with anonymity? There will always be jerks, but have they come out of the woodwork in the age of the faceless Internet? Maybe anonymous is confusing anonymity with simple honorable behavior. Maybe the anonymous works of the past are so because there weren't any remunerative ways to transmit stories.
A blast from the past. I can't believe I found something this old online. Thanks to VQR for making their archives available. At some point, I'm going to be unable to provide links to the essays that I am reading. I appreciate the quarterlies and journals putting their older issues online and letting us visit them for some enlightenment. A good essay isn't diminished by time.
The question here is whether or not we have a good essay.
Part I is the story of the author's escape by ship from France as the Nazis overrun western Europe. The author uses this experience as an example of how we affect each other, by helping or harming, all while never knowing each other's names. This is strong writing and brings home the point of her essay effectively.
Then...there is Part II. Yawn. A laundry list of anonymous literature over the ages and across the globe. Thanks. But I am not sure that other than a lightweight checklist what point the author wanted to make. She talks about the need for recognition and ego-size in today's world. Well, that's the market more than ego. If someone creates, they expect to be paid for the use of that creation. Seems more a financial concern than ego-based.
She does make one funny salient point: if all publications were forced to be anonymous, then the only people who would publish are those that are compelled to write. The age of the ghost written memoir would vanish. Hear hear!
UPDATE (Jan. 11, 2010): I've been thinking about this a bit, because this is the first essay that's over 20 years old here, it's perspective nagged at me. Then, it hit me, as I was perusing some blogs and reading the malicious, ridiculous comments found there. Anonymity isn't such a great respect-inspiring idea when it is available and easy to practice. How many people hide behind their anonymity to lob intellectual (rather anti-intellectual) grenades? Sure, you can speak your mind without restraint when your identity is unobtainable, but should you? Does civility die with anonymity? There will always be jerks, but have they come out of the woodwork in the age of the faceless Internet? Maybe anonymous is confusing anonymity with simple honorable behavior. Maybe the anonymous works of the past are so because there weren't any remunerative ways to transmit stories.
The Word Cure: Cancer, Language, Prayer | Image Journal - Issue 41(Winter 03/04)
The Word Cure: Cancer, Language, Prayer - Valerie Sayers
As I continue my journey through essays in magazines and journals, I am starting to see the patterns. (I know, this is old hat to editors and experienced readers and writers, but I am a rookie, so bear with me.) There is a type of essay, I'll call it "cancer narrative" in which the writer receives that life-changing phone call: "We'd like you to come in. We found something." Thus begins the tale of response, emotion, acceptance, attack, doubt, faith, and all the myriad things that come with such a story: family, friends, clinicians, secondhand cancer stories, new ways of seeing the world, etc.
You might think that I am being dismissive. I am not. Cancer narratives are very powerful, very personal. I do not subscribe to some theory that these writers are being narcissistic by telling their affecting stories. Well, I would be dismissive if they were all sentimental and maudlin, if they were paraded out in print simply to strike a nerve and manipulate the emotions.
In the hands of these writers however, these stories, while sharing many key elements (whose cancer narrative could not?) are all very different. They bring their experiences and personalities to the narrative. No two people respond in exactly the same way to bad news. People do not work out their emotional and psychological issues with a shared specific approach. These writers, these cancer victims, share their stories not because they are seeking sympathy, but because they want to tell you what got them through it, even if they'll eventually succumb. They're giving of themselves to us and we'd be wise to listen.
Valerie Sayers was diagnosed with melanoma. She approaches this essay with plenty of humor, though not black, not cynical. She is respectful of her illness if not always of herself. Mrs. Sayers' turns her cancer narrative into a struggle with words and the limitations of them and her own selfness (is that a word? maybe I should say "self-awareness". See? I'm suffering from it, too. Maybe that's why I keep using parentheses.)
Mrs. Sayers makes two statements that resonated with me:
1) Despair was the only unforgivable sin. Which she said twice. But it is despair that leads her out of her wilderness of self-awareness. Allowing her despair to wash over her, without artificial aids to handle it, and without self-destruction led her to what she should call a "religious experience" though she does not use that term. It's a powerful part of the essay.
2) I am on the plane of the universe that houses all the writers carrying so many bucketsful of irony and self-awareness we can hardly move forward. That needs to be reduced and made into a t-shirt slogan. Perhaps, if I am reading her correctly, she is complaining that the only fiction she can write is cancer related. I read this and think, this is what holds back would be writers. They can't drop the irony. They can't lose themselves in their work. They're caught up in appearances, concerned about the revelatory nature of their imaginations.
Mrs. Sayers has shared with us a universal truth. I'll give my uncultured take on it: Cut the self-consciousness crap and start living.
Please note that in a demonstration of irony and self-awareness I said, "I'll give my uncultured take..." and then I feel compelled to write this sentence just in case someone were to read this blog entry and point out this very irony.
I have a ways to go. This is why I am reading and writing.
As I continue my journey through essays in magazines and journals, I am starting to see the patterns. (I know, this is old hat to editors and experienced readers and writers, but I am a rookie, so bear with me.) There is a type of essay, I'll call it "cancer narrative" in which the writer receives that life-changing phone call: "We'd like you to come in. We found something." Thus begins the tale of response, emotion, acceptance, attack, doubt, faith, and all the myriad things that come with such a story: family, friends, clinicians, secondhand cancer stories, new ways of seeing the world, etc.
You might think that I am being dismissive. I am not. Cancer narratives are very powerful, very personal. I do not subscribe to some theory that these writers are being narcissistic by telling their affecting stories. Well, I would be dismissive if they were all sentimental and maudlin, if they were paraded out in print simply to strike a nerve and manipulate the emotions.
In the hands of these writers however, these stories, while sharing many key elements (whose cancer narrative could not?) are all very different. They bring their experiences and personalities to the narrative. No two people respond in exactly the same way to bad news. People do not work out their emotional and psychological issues with a shared specific approach. These writers, these cancer victims, share their stories not because they are seeking sympathy, but because they want to tell you what got them through it, even if they'll eventually succumb. They're giving of themselves to us and we'd be wise to listen.
Valerie Sayers was diagnosed with melanoma. She approaches this essay with plenty of humor, though not black, not cynical. She is respectful of her illness if not always of herself. Mrs. Sayers' turns her cancer narrative into a struggle with words and the limitations of them and her own selfness (is that a word? maybe I should say "self-awareness". See? I'm suffering from it, too. Maybe that's why I keep using parentheses.)
Mrs. Sayers makes two statements that resonated with me:
1) Despair was the only unforgivable sin. Which she said twice. But it is despair that leads her out of her wilderness of self-awareness. Allowing her despair to wash over her, without artificial aids to handle it, and without self-destruction led her to what she should call a "religious experience" though she does not use that term. It's a powerful part of the essay.
2) I am on the plane of the universe that houses all the writers carrying so many bucketsful of irony and self-awareness we can hardly move forward. That needs to be reduced and made into a t-shirt slogan. Perhaps, if I am reading her correctly, she is complaining that the only fiction she can write is cancer related. I read this and think, this is what holds back would be writers. They can't drop the irony. They can't lose themselves in their work. They're caught up in appearances, concerned about the revelatory nature of their imaginations.
Mrs. Sayers has shared with us a universal truth. I'll give my uncultured take on it: Cut the self-consciousness crap and start living.
Please note that in a demonstration of irony and self-awareness I said, "I'll give my uncultured take..." and then I feel compelled to write this sentence just in case someone were to read this blog entry and point out this very irony.
I have a ways to go. This is why I am reading and writing.
Wednesday, January 6, 2010
BOOK: The Kiss - Kathryn Harrison (1997)
The Kiss - Kathryn Harrison
This book packs a wallop precisely because of its subject matter: incest. Yet this isn't some prurient work of taboo erotica. This is indeed a memoir, simultaneously loaded with emotion, but written without emotion. That is worthy of praise. The situations are jarring, but they're delivered in a matter of fact style.
While I didn't feel overtly manipulated, I could tell when my strings were being tugged. Mrs. Harrison is deft at admitting guilt while providing ample evidence that the sexual relationship with her father was inevitable given all of the personalities involved, especially her mother's impact on her emotional development.
I'm not a psychologist. I can't begin to describe what Mrs. Harrison has been through. That is one of the powerful things about the book. She describes by showing and it takes the entire book to grasp, even at the edges, what has happened. This is not a story for a 5,000 word essay.
Reading this story (I almost said, 'watching her life') I feel that I am viewing her through a rainy window, glimpses, some parts in focus, others fuzzy, and some impossible to make out, while other parts are completely out of view.
This is an intelligent woman; high school valedictorian, college student, aspiring writer. She can obviously think for herself. She can build a social network. Yet she succumbs to this overbearing, possessive ass, who happens to be her biological father. He is clearly the villain, with her mother and herself (and other people, including his congregation, current wife, and children) as the victims.
Her narrative lines rarely stretch beyond a page or two. Instead of a clear story, we are observing the individual lines of a sketch. Some lines are thick, some as pale as a light touch of charcoal. She reveals to us what she wants to reveal and with the aperture open only as far as she deems necessary for her to get this particular piece of her sketch into our consciousness.
It is a lovely work. Haunting. Yet I wanted a straightforward account of this ogre's abuse. The people that populate this book, Mrs. Harrison's first family, are narcissistic, egotistic, and uncaring. I was sickened at how she was raised. But she still winds up valedictory, she still heads off to college, she still leads what looks like a normal life. But we can't see it because of the rain drops on the windows. It doesn't move Mrs. Harrison's case forward that these matters were out of her control.
Don't get me wrong, I understand that this could happen. This man, her father, is the worst kind of predator. What he did was unforgivable. But I can't help but feel that I didn't get a complete story in context. There's more on the canvas that I cannot see. Perhaps it is irrelevant, but how would we know?
I didn't read this when it came out over a decade ago. I didn't watch her interviews. I believe it when I read that people judged her by the supposed content of the book, when they probably didn't even read the book. This makes me think of 'The Last Temptation of Christ' by Nikos Kazantzakis, one of my favorite novels, and how people judged it and the subsequent movie without knowing a thing about it. People can be so idiotic.
Please, read the book. It is uncomfortable, but she has written so that it is accessible without being disgusting in its detail. She, conveniently, has put memories of the actual coitus out of her mind, so we're spared that. You'll be moved by her story.
You will likely see aspects of your own personality in at least one, if not more, of the characters. The way they psychically and emotionally prey on each other is fairly common behavior, though, obviously, not always to this extent. If you disagree, vehemently, with that, then you are might want to do some soul searching. I'm not saying we're all as bad as this, but we all have that potential.
And, yes, I saw aspects of myself in that ogre of a father. His possessiveness and neediness are ugly and universal. No father believes that another man (or, god forbid, a boy) is good enough for his daughter. The only thing extraordinary about this awful man is the degree of his possessiveness and neediness. And that he acts on these traits. I am surprised that he has not committed a murder for the same reasons he committed incest.
This book packs a wallop precisely because of its subject matter: incest. Yet this isn't some prurient work of taboo erotica. This is indeed a memoir, simultaneously loaded with emotion, but written without emotion. That is worthy of praise. The situations are jarring, but they're delivered in a matter of fact style.
While I didn't feel overtly manipulated, I could tell when my strings were being tugged. Mrs. Harrison is deft at admitting guilt while providing ample evidence that the sexual relationship with her father was inevitable given all of the personalities involved, especially her mother's impact on her emotional development.
I'm not a psychologist. I can't begin to describe what Mrs. Harrison has been through. That is one of the powerful things about the book. She describes by showing and it takes the entire book to grasp, even at the edges, what has happened. This is not a story for a 5,000 word essay.
Reading this story (I almost said, 'watching her life') I feel that I am viewing her through a rainy window, glimpses, some parts in focus, others fuzzy, and some impossible to make out, while other parts are completely out of view.
This is an intelligent woman; high school valedictorian, college student, aspiring writer. She can obviously think for herself. She can build a social network. Yet she succumbs to this overbearing, possessive ass, who happens to be her biological father. He is clearly the villain, with her mother and herself (and other people, including his congregation, current wife, and children) as the victims.
Her narrative lines rarely stretch beyond a page or two. Instead of a clear story, we are observing the individual lines of a sketch. Some lines are thick, some as pale as a light touch of charcoal. She reveals to us what she wants to reveal and with the aperture open only as far as she deems necessary for her to get this particular piece of her sketch into our consciousness.
It is a lovely work. Haunting. Yet I wanted a straightforward account of this ogre's abuse. The people that populate this book, Mrs. Harrison's first family, are narcissistic, egotistic, and uncaring. I was sickened at how she was raised. But she still winds up valedictory, she still heads off to college, she still leads what looks like a normal life. But we can't see it because of the rain drops on the windows. It doesn't move Mrs. Harrison's case forward that these matters were out of her control.
Don't get me wrong, I understand that this could happen. This man, her father, is the worst kind of predator. What he did was unforgivable. But I can't help but feel that I didn't get a complete story in context. There's more on the canvas that I cannot see. Perhaps it is irrelevant, but how would we know?
I didn't read this when it came out over a decade ago. I didn't watch her interviews. I believe it when I read that people judged her by the supposed content of the book, when they probably didn't even read the book. This makes me think of 'The Last Temptation of Christ' by Nikos Kazantzakis, one of my favorite novels, and how people judged it and the subsequent movie without knowing a thing about it. People can be so idiotic.
Please, read the book. It is uncomfortable, but she has written so that it is accessible without being disgusting in its detail. She, conveniently, has put memories of the actual coitus out of her mind, so we're spared that. You'll be moved by her story.
You will likely see aspects of your own personality in at least one, if not more, of the characters. The way they psychically and emotionally prey on each other is fairly common behavior, though, obviously, not always to this extent. If you disagree, vehemently, with that, then you are might want to do some soul searching. I'm not saying we're all as bad as this, but we all have that potential.
And, yes, I saw aspects of myself in that ogre of a father. His possessiveness and neediness are ugly and universal. No father believes that another man (or, god forbid, a boy) is good enough for his daughter. The only thing extraordinary about this awful man is the degree of his possessiveness and neediness. And that he acts on these traits. I am surprised that he has not committed a murder for the same reasons he committed incest.
The Embarrassment of Riches | The American Scholar - Summer 2006
The Embarrassment of Riches - Pamela Haag
Now this was interesting. Pamela Haag has written an essay about how the wealthy are different from regular folks, the middle class, the poor. It just so happens, she has joined the wealthy class, via her husband's commodity trading work.
After the obligatory explanation of how her wealth is earned, she moves on to discuss her upbringing by Depression-era parents who were frugal yet philanthropic. They didn't trust, didn't like, wealth and, by logical extension, the wealthy were suspect, too. Yet, Mrs. Haag had a materialistic tendency as a child.
Now, with money, she finds herself changed. The wealthy don't worry about material possessions. They concern themselves with leaving a legacy, you know, building a library, adding a hospital wing, things like that.
I know I sound bitter or even hostile, but I'm not. The essay has important things to say about how the wealthy see things. She touches on how she must feign concern over such trifles as tuition or healthcare bills, mortgages and property tax rates. There I go again, feeling on the verge of hostility.
Mrs. Haag does spend a good portion of the essay describing the typical American stupidity when it comes to even the most basic economic principles. We simply don't understand how the economy works (this is why we believe Keynesian nonsense about government spending leading to prosperity, or better yet, we simply don't care as long as there's cash around.)
I spent the better part of this essay wondering how sincere this person was when they say they are trying to act middle class. I don't even know what that means. Does she not want to be in the pond with the other rich folks? Is it so painful to fit in? Really?
Her tone regarding run of the mill restaurants and business news was somewhat insulting. Most middle class Americans don't fret over every movement of the stock market. Sure, we look at it occasionally, but most of us are more concerned over sports scores and the guest lists for Ellen and Oprah. And, for goodness sake, American Idol starts next week!
Pamela Haag has troubles. I wish I could empathize, but I've got to go hit the drive-thru for some fried chicken. I have a coupon.
Now this was interesting. Pamela Haag has written an essay about how the wealthy are different from regular folks, the middle class, the poor. It just so happens, she has joined the wealthy class, via her husband's commodity trading work.
After the obligatory explanation of how her wealth is earned, she moves on to discuss her upbringing by Depression-era parents who were frugal yet philanthropic. They didn't trust, didn't like, wealth and, by logical extension, the wealthy were suspect, too. Yet, Mrs. Haag had a materialistic tendency as a child.
Now, with money, she finds herself changed. The wealthy don't worry about material possessions. They concern themselves with leaving a legacy, you know, building a library, adding a hospital wing, things like that.
I know I sound bitter or even hostile, but I'm not. The essay has important things to say about how the wealthy see things. She touches on how she must feign concern over such trifles as tuition or healthcare bills, mortgages and property tax rates. There I go again, feeling on the verge of hostility.
Mrs. Haag does spend a good portion of the essay describing the typical American stupidity when it comes to even the most basic economic principles. We simply don't understand how the economy works (this is why we believe Keynesian nonsense about government spending leading to prosperity, or better yet, we simply don't care as long as there's cash around.)
I spent the better part of this essay wondering how sincere this person was when they say they are trying to act middle class. I don't even know what that means. Does she not want to be in the pond with the other rich folks? Is it so painful to fit in? Really?
Her tone regarding run of the mill restaurants and business news was somewhat insulting. Most middle class Americans don't fret over every movement of the stock market. Sure, we look at it occasionally, but most of us are more concerned over sports scores and the guest lists for Ellen and Oprah. And, for goodness sake, American Idol starts next week!
Pamela Haag has troubles. I wish I could empathize, but I've got to go hit the drive-thru for some fried chicken. I have a coupon.
Tuesday, January 5, 2010
Mangled Forms | Woodstock Times - February 19, 2008
Mangled Forms - John Thorn
As a youngster, growing up in the Midwest, I played and loved baseball. When I left home, I did what 90% of former baseball players do, I played when I could, but I devotedly followed the game. In baseball, the fans love statistics. Without the Internet, stats simply were not at our fingertips, so we dropped serious money on books. Most fans had one of these three books: 1) The Bill James Historical Baseball Abstract, 2) The Baseball Encyclopedia, and 3) Total Baseball. The latter was edited by John Thorn, the author of this essay.
John Thorn's best book, according to me, was co-written by Pete Palmer, called The Hidden Game of Baseball. This book unveils new statistics and new ways of viewing and measuring how effective players really were and how they compare with modern (at the time of publication) players. All very fascinating and somewhat wonkish, of course, but if you love baseball, you'll know what I mean.
Mr. Thorn has a column in the Woodstock Times called Play's the Thing. He writes about sports and upstate New York. Here he takes a look at Fleischmanns, New York. The town, Griffith's Corners, was renamed for the Fleischmann brothers from Cincinnati, who built a ball field there.
Mr. Thorn reminisces about the town, where he lived as a kid, and looks at its history back at the turn of the 20th century. He speaks of the grand hotels that served as summer getaways for the big city denizens who couldn't enjoy air conditioning (because AC didn't exist.) The Catskills were cool and the air was clear in the heat of July.
The essay isn't overly touching or nostalgic. Mr. Thorn uses a Stephen Hawking opinion on what a black hole does to matter, the mangled forms of the title, as a metaphor for what arson and time have done to Fleischmanns. I understood the connection, though it was a stretch without visual evidence or words to help it resonate a bit more, but if it was meant to lure me to the Catskills, well, I might just go there.
After I swing by Cooperstown.
As a youngster, growing up in the Midwest, I played and loved baseball. When I left home, I did what 90% of former baseball players do, I played when I could, but I devotedly followed the game. In baseball, the fans love statistics. Without the Internet, stats simply were not at our fingertips, so we dropped serious money on books. Most fans had one of these three books: 1) The Bill James Historical Baseball Abstract, 2) The Baseball Encyclopedia, and 3) Total Baseball. The latter was edited by John Thorn, the author of this essay.
John Thorn's best book, according to me, was co-written by Pete Palmer, called The Hidden Game of Baseball. This book unveils new statistics and new ways of viewing and measuring how effective players really were and how they compare with modern (at the time of publication) players. All very fascinating and somewhat wonkish, of course, but if you love baseball, you'll know what I mean.
Mr. Thorn has a column in the Woodstock Times called Play's the Thing. He writes about sports and upstate New York. Here he takes a look at Fleischmanns, New York. The town, Griffith's Corners, was renamed for the Fleischmann brothers from Cincinnati, who built a ball field there.
Mr. Thorn reminisces about the town, where he lived as a kid, and looks at its history back at the turn of the 20th century. He speaks of the grand hotels that served as summer getaways for the big city denizens who couldn't enjoy air conditioning (because AC didn't exist.) The Catskills were cool and the air was clear in the heat of July.
The essay isn't overly touching or nostalgic. Mr. Thorn uses a Stephen Hawking opinion on what a black hole does to matter, the mangled forms of the title, as a metaphor for what arson and time have done to Fleischmanns. I understood the connection, though it was a stretch without visual evidence or words to help it resonate a bit more, but if it was meant to lure me to the Catskills, well, I might just go there.
After I swing by Cooperstown.
Monday, January 4, 2010
Forty-Six Views of My Fuji | Isotope - Fall/Winter 2008
Forty-Six Views of My Fuji - Merridawn Duckler
Before you read this essay, go here and look over the 46 woodblock prints made by Hokusai in the early 19th century. Hopefully, you will click on each image to bring up a larger version where you can see more detail. As you look, contemplate the infinite number of ways the artist could view the mountain.
Merridawn Duckler, using this simple premise, has written an essay that takes a multi-viewed look at her family, with special attention to her younger brother, Geordie. She paints a varied portrait of him over a period of years and personal interests.
Maybe, it isn't a portrait. Maybe we are looking at the literary equivalent of a woodblock print. Parts are in vivid colorful detail, other parts are distant, nearly wordless. The writing has a peculiar rhythm about it, as if Ms. Duckler were publishing some compiled notes, a lifetime of sticky pad memories.
I found myself caught up in who Geordie is ("this is no memorial" after all) and what this family must be like. They sound wonderfully strange; intelligent and odd; happy and independent, yet loving each other. I was disappointed that the essay ended. I wanted the journal through this print gallery to continue.
Accessible and experimental, this is a personal essay that you should read and then try to write for yourself.
Before you read this essay, go here and look over the 46 woodblock prints made by Hokusai in the early 19th century. Hopefully, you will click on each image to bring up a larger version where you can see more detail. As you look, contemplate the infinite number of ways the artist could view the mountain.
Merridawn Duckler, using this simple premise, has written an essay that takes a multi-viewed look at her family, with special attention to her younger brother, Geordie. She paints a varied portrait of him over a period of years and personal interests.
Maybe, it isn't a portrait. Maybe we are looking at the literary equivalent of a woodblock print. Parts are in vivid colorful detail, other parts are distant, nearly wordless. The writing has a peculiar rhythm about it, as if Ms. Duckler were publishing some compiled notes, a lifetime of sticky pad memories.
I found myself caught up in who Geordie is ("this is no memorial" after all) and what this family must be like. They sound wonderfully strange; intelligent and odd; happy and independent, yet loving each other. I was disappointed that the essay ended. I wanted the journal through this print gallery to continue.
Accessible and experimental, this is a personal essay that you should read and then try to write for yourself.
Sunday, January 3, 2010
Back | Gettysburg Review - Autumn 2005
Back - Rebecca McClanahan
The "back" referred to by Rebecca McClanahan is the state of returning from an extended illness and recovery period. She makes a beautiful, yes, her prose is such, that you never come back. You are returned to the world quite changed.
This is a straightforward narrative covering the time of her diagnosis of having a malignant mass in her colon--during a routine procedure--to her recovery. Mrs. McClanahan gives us plenty of corny humor along the way, keeping things light in this area of darkness.
Her sketches of her aging Midwestern mother coming to New York City and her constant partner and husband, Donald are just enough to remind us how important family is in our lives. They are a support structure that we are sometimes forced to use, and Mrs. McClanahan recognizes this and clearly loves them dearly. Her concern over her mother's trip across the street--it's really the avenue--to go to the store touches on how, even when she can hardly move, her love for her mom compels her to do so.
Where this essay really shines and is most effective, is in the interactions with, and the genuine appreciation that Mrs. McClanahan has for, the health care professionals on her case. Whether it is the male model trio of the pain team or the orderly who stops the gurney, on its way to surgery, at a window so Mrs. McClanahan can have a look at the river (for some reason this passage chokes me up every time I read it; there is something poignant and loving in such a simple gesture that makes me love people) or the nurse's aide responsible for her bath, we see how important they all are to our health and well-being.
These people do this every day of their lives. They deal with disease and death, the highs and lows of patients and families every day. We, as patients, can sometimes have little patience for them. How would we hold up in the relentless fight against disease and death? How would we behave in the face of pain and suffering as the core part of our daily work?
I would hope that I could be like the men and women who took care of Mrs. McClanahan. And I would like to think that I could write a love letter of thanks to them as beautiful as this essay.
The "back" referred to by Rebecca McClanahan is the state of returning from an extended illness and recovery period. She makes a beautiful, yes, her prose is such, that you never come back. You are returned to the world quite changed.
This is a straightforward narrative covering the time of her diagnosis of having a malignant mass in her colon--during a routine procedure--to her recovery. Mrs. McClanahan gives us plenty of corny humor along the way, keeping things light in this area of darkness.
Her sketches of her aging Midwestern mother coming to New York City and her constant partner and husband, Donald are just enough to remind us how important family is in our lives. They are a support structure that we are sometimes forced to use, and Mrs. McClanahan recognizes this and clearly loves them dearly. Her concern over her mother's trip across the street--it's really the avenue--to go to the store touches on how, even when she can hardly move, her love for her mom compels her to do so.
Where this essay really shines and is most effective, is in the interactions with, and the genuine appreciation that Mrs. McClanahan has for, the health care professionals on her case. Whether it is the male model trio of the pain team or the orderly who stops the gurney, on its way to surgery, at a window so Mrs. McClanahan can have a look at the river (for some reason this passage chokes me up every time I read it; there is something poignant and loving in such a simple gesture that makes me love people) or the nurse's aide responsible for her bath, we see how important they all are to our health and well-being.
These people do this every day of their lives. They deal with disease and death, the highs and lows of patients and families every day. We, as patients, can sometimes have little patience for them. How would we hold up in the relentless fight against disease and death? How would we behave in the face of pain and suffering as the core part of our daily work?
I would hope that I could be like the men and women who took care of Mrs. McClanahan. And I would like to think that I could write a love letter of thanks to them as beautiful as this essay.
Saturday, January 2, 2010
1964 - The Year The Sixties Began | American Heritage - October, 2006
1964 - The Year The Sixties Began - Joshua Zeitz
Joshua Zeitz confirms in this essay what many of us intuitively understood, but were unable to put our fingers on. The 1960s, that decade of activism and men's long hair and the Vietnam War, really began on January 1, 1964. Dr. Zeitz uses three events, the arrival of the Beatles, the Mississippi Freedom Summer, and the Gulf of Tonkin events that led to the escalation in Vietnam.
How do we intuitively know this? For most of us, it is probably musical. The Beatles didn't top the charts in the United States until 1964. That is a pretty clear demarcation for popular music. As Dr. Zeitz says, the music prior to the arrival of the Beatles was strictly Fifties, crooning innocent music. He recounts their arrival in New York and explains how they were the right band at the right time for a generation looking to break out from the clean cut image of their parents.
Dr. Zeitz continues his description of 1964 by focusing on Andy Goodman and his decision, at the age of 21, to help out the Civil Rights movement in Mississippi. His story is harrowing stuff and is largely forgotten today unless you are interested in the origin of the Civil Rights Act and ending of Jim Crow in the American south. Using Andy's parents in the story brings home the anguish of our personal decisions.
Then there is the incident in the Gulf of Tonkin off the coast of North Vietnam. Controversial and far-reaching in its consequences, the resolution made by Congress that gave the President a free hand in escalating the war is still part of our war culture today. There was a time when Congress had to issue a Declaration of War before the President could legally and purposefully send troops into conflict. Dr. Zeitz also sheds some light on President Johnson's quandary when it came to the rabid anti-communist feeling in the country.
Today is my birthday. I was born in 1964, the year the Sixties began happens to be the year that I began a life of my own. Usually, around a birthday, we think back on that birth year and we wonder what it was like to bring a baby into the world. My parents were oh so young, my mother was still a teenager. I don't know how these events affected them, though I did grow up with a lot of Beatles records around the house.
Joshua Zeitz confirms in this essay what many of us intuitively understood, but were unable to put our fingers on. The 1960s, that decade of activism and men's long hair and the Vietnam War, really began on January 1, 1964. Dr. Zeitz uses three events, the arrival of the Beatles, the Mississippi Freedom Summer, and the Gulf of Tonkin events that led to the escalation in Vietnam.
How do we intuitively know this? For most of us, it is probably musical. The Beatles didn't top the charts in the United States until 1964. That is a pretty clear demarcation for popular music. As Dr. Zeitz says, the music prior to the arrival of the Beatles was strictly Fifties, crooning innocent music. He recounts their arrival in New York and explains how they were the right band at the right time for a generation looking to break out from the clean cut image of their parents.
Dr. Zeitz continues his description of 1964 by focusing on Andy Goodman and his decision, at the age of 21, to help out the Civil Rights movement in Mississippi. His story is harrowing stuff and is largely forgotten today unless you are interested in the origin of the Civil Rights Act and ending of Jim Crow in the American south. Using Andy's parents in the story brings home the anguish of our personal decisions.
Then there is the incident in the Gulf of Tonkin off the coast of North Vietnam. Controversial and far-reaching in its consequences, the resolution made by Congress that gave the President a free hand in escalating the war is still part of our war culture today. There was a time when Congress had to issue a Declaration of War before the President could legally and purposefully send troops into conflict. Dr. Zeitz also sheds some light on President Johnson's quandary when it came to the rabid anti-communist feeling in the country.
Today is my birthday. I was born in 1964, the year the Sixties began happens to be the year that I began a life of my own. Usually, around a birthday, we think back on that birth year and we wonder what it was like to bring a baby into the world. My parents were oh so young, my mother was still a teenager. I don't know how these events affected them, though I did grow up with a lot of Beatles records around the house.
Friday, January 1, 2010
Books Read in 2010
This is a placeholder post where I list the books I have read during 2010 with links to any reviews or comments that I might write. Click the title for a link to Amazon, click the author for my commentary.
The Kiss - Kathryn Harrison (1997)
On Writing
- Stephen King (2000)
Paper Lion - George Plimpton (1966)
A Country Year
- Sue Hubbell (1986)
Death at an Early Age
- Jonathan Kozol (1967)
Roots - Alex Haley (1976)
The Liar's Club - Mary Karr (1995)
Zen & the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance - Robert M. Pirsig (1974)
Hiroshima - John Hersey (1946)
Darkness Visible - William Styron (1990)
All Over But the Shoutin' - Rick Bragg (1997)
In Cold Blood - Truman Capote (1965)
The Year of Magical Thinking - Joan Didion (2005)
The Kiss - Kathryn Harrison (1997)
On Writing
- Stephen King (2000)Paper Lion
- George Plimpton (1966)A Country Year
- Sue Hubbell (1986)Death at an Early Age
- Jonathan Kozol (1967)Roots - Alex Haley (1976)
The Liar's Club - Mary Karr (1995)
Zen & the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance - Robert M. Pirsig (1974)
Hiroshima - John Hersey (1946)
Darkness Visible - William Styron (1990)
All Over But the Shoutin' - Rick Bragg (1997)
In Cold Blood - Truman Capote (1965)
The Year of Magical Thinking - Joan Didion (2005)
On the Limits of Self-Improvement, Parts I, II, & III | Vanity Fair - Oct 07; Dec 07; Sep 08
On the Limits of Self-Improvement - Christopher Hitchens. Links to Part II & III are contained in Part I.
It's resolution time, kids. So here is a three-part essay (though not really lengthy) from Mr. Hitchens, regarding his attempt at a makeover. It is accompanied by some hilarious photographs, so make sure to look over the slide show for each part.
Hitch (can I be that familiar? After the shower photos and the Brazilian wax, yes, I think I've earned it) is, at the time of the first part, a 59 year old British expatriate. Note that I said British. Improving his teeth is a prominent and successful part of his transformation. He is ripe for change.
Aren't we all? Don't resolutions reflect our lack of self-worth? Something about us needs improving, whether within or without. We make resolutions to improve ourselves in the classic categories: physical, mental, emotional, social, spiritual, or financial. If you can think of a category beyond these that your resolution(s) fit into, please let me know.
This isn't a New Year's essay, but it has all the makings of one. Hitch needs to improve his skin, physique, dentition, and, mostly, his anti-life habits. Hitch smokes too much. Hitch imbibes too much. Hitch eats too much. And he and exercise were never formally introduced.
I was expecting, based on the title of the essay, something a bit more thoughtful regarding what we really can and can't change about ourselves. I thought we were going to get some pithy lessons about life.
Instead, we get an enjoyable breezy read filled with humor and self-deprecation about Hitch's experiences in self-improvement. The third part, though, takes a turn. Hitch finally addresses his smoking habit and touches on his emotional state afterwards. It feels far more real and personal, and a bit more universal, at this point.
It was the teeth that made the final difference. Viva la dentistry!
Happy New Year!
It's resolution time, kids. So here is a three-part essay (though not really lengthy) from Mr. Hitchens, regarding his attempt at a makeover. It is accompanied by some hilarious photographs, so make sure to look over the slide show for each part.
Hitch (can I be that familiar? After the shower photos and the Brazilian wax, yes, I think I've earned it) is, at the time of the first part, a 59 year old British expatriate. Note that I said British. Improving his teeth is a prominent and successful part of his transformation. He is ripe for change.
Aren't we all? Don't resolutions reflect our lack of self-worth? Something about us needs improving, whether within or without. We make resolutions to improve ourselves in the classic categories: physical, mental, emotional, social, spiritual, or financial. If you can think of a category beyond these that your resolution(s) fit into, please let me know.
This isn't a New Year's essay, but it has all the makings of one. Hitch needs to improve his skin, physique, dentition, and, mostly, his anti-life habits. Hitch smokes too much. Hitch imbibes too much. Hitch eats too much. And he and exercise were never formally introduced.
I was expecting, based on the title of the essay, something a bit more thoughtful regarding what we really can and can't change about ourselves. I thought we were going to get some pithy lessons about life.
Instead, we get an enjoyable breezy read filled with humor and self-deprecation about Hitch's experiences in self-improvement. The third part, though, takes a turn. Hitch finally addresses his smoking habit and touches on his emotional state afterwards. It feels far more real and personal, and a bit more universal, at this point.
It was the teeth that made the final difference. Viva la dentistry!
Happy New Year!
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