Once a Catholic Schoolboy

Poland trip, Part 2

2009-08-23T18:42:00.014-04:00

Tuesday, July 28

We traveled to Cracow by train from Warsaw, a new experience for me. I enjoyed the travel, seeing the countryside and the smooth motion of the train on the tracks. In our compartment sat Gab, myself, her parents, and her sister, Ewa, as well as a Polish girl in her early 20s. The girl worked on a laptop - the compartment had electric outlets and I think it had wifi. But I am not sure. I had imagined before coming to Poland that it might be 40 years behind the states, or it might be roughly the equal of the states. What I had not expected was the true state of Polish living: it is both 40 years behind and roughly the equal of the states. It was entirely contextual, and I could never seem to anticipate which services would seem totally normal and which would be unusual. For instance, on the train, the toilet was free. This was remarked on more than once. This is because many restrooms in Poland require payment of 1-2 zlotys (~$.50 USD) to an attendant. How this pays for anything beyond the salary of the attendant is unclear to me.

Our train stopped approximately 10 minutes outside of Cracow. It became very warm and people exited the train cars to stand beside the tracks. Many people smoked and Gab said she wanted a cigarette. "You don't smoke," I said. "So what?" was her reply. When someone used the free restroom inside the car, they flushed and human waste poured onto the railroad ties beneath the train. We returned to our car.

After roughly half and hour a small train car arrived to push us the rest of the way to our destination. Gab's parents transferred trains and continued on to Zakopane, her hometown. Ewa, Gabriela, and I headed for the square of St. Mary's Cathedral. It is probably the single most beautiful man-made place I have ever been. Still, beauty isn't everything. Food is everything. And we were starving. We argued a bit looking for food and then argued a little more while digesting it. Maybe we felt inferior to the place. Maybe we were just tired travelers who needed pizza like spiders need a fly.

Wednesday, July 29

Ewa departed for a friend's place the previous evening and rejoined us in time for a bus out of the city, heading for Auschwitz. The name of the Nazi death camp comes from the Polish town of Oswiecim, which was torn apart brick by brick by the Nazis in order to build the camp in its place. Of the three camps, Auschwitz I, originally a POW camp, has been converted to a museum presenting pictures, documents, and other horrors. Auschwitz II (Birkenau), designed as a high-efficiency death-factory, is maintained as near as possible to its condition when the Nazis abandoned it in flight from the Russian army in 1945. Auschwtiz III (Monowitz) was a work camp where prisoners were fed better rations in order to maintain productivity at a factory built there to exploit slave labor. It is not available for tours and is privately owned.

Auschwitz was a place I had imagined many times. It held an almost mythical position in my mind, the world's locus of evil and suffering. I've read regularly about the Holocaust since I was 12 or 13, but there is something that cannot be captured in words, film, documents, talks, in anything other than the experience of the place. For one thing, to know you are seeing the hallways, buildings, and guard posts many walked past on their way to death is chilling. Then there are the displays: thousands of pounds of human hair heaped and matted, collected by the Nazis for use in industrial fabrics, coat liners, etc.; eyeglasses crumpled for scrap metal, shoes for leather, suitcases marked with the date and place of origin for those who were told they were being resettled. When everyone lies a little, is the net sum a lie of epic proportions? Is this impossible without one great Liar, one like Hitler and the upper echelon who knew the full scope of their evil? To what extent did the Allies participate in the untruth by refusing to believe the years of reporting from those who voluntarily entered the camp in hopes of revealing the monstrosity of it all?

These were my questions, and a nice thing about the museum and our tour guide was that the place invites these personalized questions. The tour and the museum are quite balanced on the numerous contentious issues among Holocaust scholars. It was a very reflective experience, but I will note a few items in brief that may be appreciable out of context.

The camp commondant kept a pretty home just outside the barbed wire. His wife and two small children lived there... within 50 yards of the crematorium for Auschwitz I, where the smell of burned flesh must have been unbearable. And yet somehow, as it turns out, bearable.

The hallway in one building of the museum is lined with inmate's faces, Polish faces. (2.5 million non-Jewish Polish citizens died during World War II) Their names and hometowns are listed beneath. This was originally the method of recording the camp population. When the S.S. realized that a few months of starvation rations utterly transfigured the appearance of a face, they adapted their methods and began tatooing numbers on forearms. This adaptivity was evident in many aspects of the camps. It wasn't just that the Nazis were murderers; they were extraordinarily efficient murderers.

Auschwitz II is enormous. It is 300 square acres surrounded by double barbed-wire fencing. The idea of escape under heavily armed guard, in starvation conditions, becomes ludicrous when faced with the physical space. Incredible that anyone tried, let alone suceeded.

Thursday, July 30

This was as uplifting a day as the previous day had been painful. For our major activity, Gab and I toured Wawel Castle in Cracow, one of the country's leading tourist destinations. The place was stupendously impressive architecturally. Inside we took tours of Royal Private Chambers, the Royal Treasury & Armory, and The "Lost" Wawel. There is nothing in the United States remotely approaching the grandiosity and historical significance of the collections at Wawel. We saw original swords, muskets, cannons, pikes, halberdiers, foils, maces, suits of armor, chain mail, and banners with centuries-old coats of arms. We saw the sword of Sigismund the Old (King of Poland, Grand Duke of Lithuania 1506-1548). It had many nicks in the blade. We saw the sword used for the coronation of Polish kings. We saw innumerable goblets, clocks, models, and statues made from gold, porcelain, and precious jewels. It was astonishing. The ceilings, when they weren't panels of gold or marbel, featured gorgeous paintings. The walls featured 500 year-old tapestries. The beauty of the thing.

An interesting cultural difference: Poles don't detest waiting in line with the same passion as Americans. To enter Wawel required tickets sold by one cashier. The line was about an hour's wait all day every day. And when that one cashier took a 40 minute lunch break, no one can buy a ticket. That would never fly in the states.

Friday, July 31

Another long ride, this one much smoother as the bus didn't break down as our train had earlier. The weather was gorgeous and just starting to surpass 30 Celsius (upper 80's, F). It was sunny each day of my trip. We entered the hills and later saw the peaks of distant mountains growing closer. We brought food and water on the bus. Poles normally carry liter bottles of water with them everywhere. I was glad I had adopted this habit. At the side of the road children held up jars of preserves or berries for sale. In the fields were haystacks, sheep, and laborers with scythes and other tools. Polish roads are not well maintained for the most part and there are not really exit ramps the way we think of them on major routes. So you might have to come to a dead stop in the left lane because someone is turning left off the highway. However, roads are less crucial when there are good train lines to get most places. We stopped once to allow a herd of cattle to clear the road.

We arrived in Zakopane, the idyllic mountain town where my sweetheart grew up. It is the "winter capital" of Poland, known for excellent skiing and picturesque views for hikers. A nearby peak, Giewont, is widely known for its resemblance of a knight sleeping on his back. Visible are his brow, nose, mouth. and his hands on the hilt of a sword laying atop his chest. We hiked upon our arrival for around two hours and I was as happy as I had been at any point in the trip. We ate a large meal at a Highlander restaurant where they played raucous fiddle (in the "gypsy" style popularized by the band Gogol Bordello) in a group of about 12 family members and friends. I looked out the bedroom window from which, as a child, Gabriela looked out into the world. The view is of a grazing field traversed by sheep, a narrow rocky footpath, and towering over it all, the Tatra Mountains and mist-enshrouded Giewont.

Poland trip, Part 1

2009-08-22T12:33:00.009-04:00

Ok, I was in Poland from July 25 to August 4 and I am only now getting around to writing about it. Sorry. But here's the thing: this trip was so phenomenal and had such an impact on me that I needed some time to make sense of it. I'm going to write about it in three parts to make things easier on us both.

Saturday, July 25

My brother was cool and took me to the airport at nine in the morning on a weekend. Steve must really love me, because he was even showered when I showed up at his place. My flight from Columbus to Newark, NJ was quick, on-time, and pain-free. I had a connection there, as well as one in Frankfurt. Frankfurt was the one that worried me. It is one of the world's busiest airports and I had only 45 minutes to catch my flight out of there to Warsaw. I would need to change terminals, pass through customs, endure the security screening, collect my boarding pass, find my departure gate and get on that plane. And that's if my arrival was on time.

I had my boarding pass for Newark already, but the Continental ticket counter in the US could not print a boarding pass for Lot Polish in Frankfurt, so they advised I speak with the Lot Polish counter. The Lot Polish counter was closed, and due to open at 3:30. I grabbed a sub and a Coke and made a phone call and played Sudoku. At 3:30 I tried again and no one was at the Lot Polish counter. I was really starting to hate New Jersey. I'd found a relaxing place to sit (a cold air vent by a window) and do more Sudoku when the loudest, bitchiest teenage girl I have ever encountered took up residence alongside me. She shouted about her problems to her friends (or maybe they were convicts forced to listen to her to atone for their crimes?) for the next hour. Finally staff showed up at Lot Polish. They kindly told me to collect my boarding pass in Germany.

The transatlantic flight was quite pleasant. I had a lot of legroom and a very cheerful English-speaking German student named Anna as a seatmate. She had been taking English lessons in the Bahamas and the only part of the US she had seen was the Newark airport. At first this seemed a travesty of America. As I thought about it though, it was perhaps in many ways representative. She was of the opinion that while there might be a few enlightened Americans, most of us were cowboy-hat wearing, semi-literate, gluttonous slobs with no idea what was happening in our own country or anyone else's. Familiar with that American stereotype, I didn't tell her what the stereotype of Germans (beer, S&M, Hasselhoff, electronica, Nazis?) was in the states. I wish I had. It would have made for a good moment of reflection.

Sunday, July 26

I slept a short time on the flight and arrived in Frankfurt around 10 AM local time. All the women were tall and blond there and spoke perfect English. It is the most beautiful airport I have ever been in. The airtrain passes from terminal to terminal every two minutes. The terminals were clean and I caught a momentary whiff of organza blooms as I speed-walked towards my terminal. For the tremendous number of people there, it was never crowded. My engineer father would love it there. Maybe it is where he'll retire.

I made my flight, a small jet, boarding without the boarding pass that had been my singular obsession for the previous twelve hours or so. Frankfurt is a good sized city and yet forests grow right to its outer rim and there is heavy tree cover within the city as well. Anna had told me Germans must plant two trees for every tree that is cut down. From Frankfurt to Warsaw I sat in the aisle seat next to the prototype for the Russian mafia. My new friend wore black shades a la Risky Business with a black suit, starched white shirt, and red tie. He had a crewcut that was downright Putinesque. I whispered "Gangsta..." to myself in the manner of McLovin, only to discover that my neighbor, a plausible thumb-breaker, spoke good English. He hadn't seen Superbad.

In Warsaw I arrived tired but in high spirits. Gabriela was waiting there for me with a red rose. I hadn't seen her in three weeks and I ran to her joyously. Her family was with her and I hugged them all as well. We stayed at her aunt and uncle's home in a nice neighborhood in the city. Her dad's parents live only a few blocks away and they came over for dinner as did some other friends and relatives. We ate a delicious six-course meal and drank beer and wine. Tyskie is my favorite Polish beer. It can be found in the states, and it's a crisp light beer.

Monday, July 27

I was so sick the next morning that the sound of people's voices made me want to throw up. Jet-lagged, I went to bed all morning while Gab and her sister Eva went for a walk in the city.

That afternoon I went into the historic district with the girls and toured the Royal Castle. There we saw enough gold to make one wonder if it is indeed rare. There was a magnificent throne flanked by some twenty Polish eagles, all done in gold and precious gems. I am working on making my cubicle at the credit union look like this.

I should also point out that as much as I like the bald eagle on the back of the quarter, the Polish eagle is an absolute badass. Whereas the American eagle might cause one to think of the wonder and majesty of a great land, the Polish eagle causes one to wonder how much cash one is carrying and where is the nearest police station/emergency room. His taloned claws are extended and his wings are raised in a manner that suggests he might punch you. I have never been punched by a bird, but if any question remains as to his prowess and authority, this eagle has a crown perched on his head. Don't make eye contact.

We didn't see a lot of the same architecture that I would marvel at in Cracow. When the Nazis invaded in 1939 they leveled 80% of the buildings in Warsaw, the capital, to prove a point. Thus, much of the architecture today is Soviet, built by and in the style of those who chased the Nazis out. It is not to my taste, and even the Poles have debated tearing much of it down. Outside the palace in an adjoining galery we saw a collection of Persian rugs that were hundreds of years old and took us tens of minutes to find. We saw teenage dudes with rocker hair skateboarding and heard children playing with noisemakers and were contentedly whisked along amid the throng of tourists and people who make their living off tourists. We had missed each other's company for three weeks. We were together in the grand old city.

The Lifeguard

2005-10-12T18:43:00.000-05:00

I made mention of my family to a new friend the other day. I quipped, "It's not always easy to tell in my family who is drowning and who is swimming to the rescue."

This seemed immediately foolish and self-pitying. Later it seemed wise. Now I think it was just a very true moment, whatever judgment passed upon it. Thank you Ralph Waldo Emerson...

"To be a sympathetic person is like being a swimmer amongst drowning men."

Blessings of Omission

2005-10-11T16:41:00.000-05:00

My best friend, Debbie and I both lived in Bloomington, Indiana the past few years while attending IU. She moved to Philadelphia. I moved to Columbus. It has been an interesting time in our friendship, as we negotiate the distance and our entrance into the professional world.

Debbie ended a relationship when she left town, and it was a sad time. (This is not gossip, I swear. It's old news, people!) Not just because the relationship was left behind in Indiana. Debbie's wonderful dog-pet, Petey, was left behind as well, in the temporary care of her ex. Or so I thought.

Weeks passed. Debbie grew adjusted to Philly and her life and responsibilities there. She met friends and got involved in good, meaningful pursuits. Every time I would ask about Petey, she would groan and yell at me. She "missed him so much!" All the same, weekends came and went, and soon a month had passed and the dog was still in his daddy's care.

I realized that I wasn't being sensitive by asking anymore. I realized it just hurt her to think of her canine companion she'd left behind with the rest of it. I grew to understand that the dog was never coming to Philadelphia, and would live out his days in Bloomington, perhaps never to see his dear mother again. And so I stopped mentioning him in our conversations.

While Debbie was settling in to her Philadelphia home, I was taking stock of my situation in Columbus. I found work, spent time with old friends and family, enjoyed myself. But I wanted something more emotionally fulfilling. This was meant to be new to me, but everything I was invested in was old as my childhood. I kept telling Debbie that I was thinking about volunteering as a Big Brother with Big Brothers/Big Sisters. She was the one who inspired me to do it in college, by her great experiences with it. So naturally, she asked about it routinely.

One thing I forgot to mention: I told her I had already signed up. A lie, I know. Why did I lie? There I have only guesses and excuses, cheap talk and throat-wind. She would ask about it regularly, and I guess she eventually surmised, from my lack of specifics, that it was bogus. She stopped asking. She recognized a weakness in me and forgave me so gracefully as to never need a word. Another blessing of omission.

Of course, I am finally signed up for BB/BS now. I'm excited to be involved in a boy's life and feel like less of a leech on society. I know I will get a lot out of it and hopefully put a lot in. And Petey? Debbie is picking up her dog-pet this Saturday. Maybe it's no "Gift of the Magi," but these blessings of omission are blessings all the same.

Almanac: Thursday, September 29, 2005

2005-09-29T17:56:00.000-05:00

Today met us with fair conditions. We have spent the entire month without rain. The wind-speed varied between 0 and 2 knots in a predominantly southerly heading. The high today was 75 degrees at 11:37 AM when my coworker Nancy turned up the thermostat, as she claimed it was getting chilly. A low of 71 degrees was reached this afternoon at 3:52 following a similar thermostatic adjustment per Nancy's sense that it was getting stuffy. The humidity is very low, as usual. Fear abounds among the crew regarding papercuts. There was no sun.

There was a brief period around 5:00 PM in which the lobby smelled strongly of ladies perfume. Reports from Nancy confirm suspicion that this odor migrated to her office around 5:10 and remained until she briefly opened a window around 6:00. I don't think I like ladies perfume especially. This scent smelled something like sugar-water, rose-water, olive oil, and scratch-n-sniffs.

A long weekend awaits, and with it, planning for next week's weather. Today's button-up shirt and twill cotton pants certainly sufficed, but the week ahead could bring on the monsoon season. And the days are only getting shorter this time of year. I intend to conduct a short study of my sweaters before nightfall.

The Catcher

2005-09-27T11:23:00.000-05:00

At a concert this weekend I realized Holden Caulfield was born at the wrong time. System of a Down was playing; it was a totally kick-ass show, very loud, very liberal and rough. The smells of beer, pot, B.O., and disenchantment commingled over the floor of moshing youth. There were crowd-surfers. There were articles of clothing flung at the band.

Watching the action on the floor, I found myself amused by the concert security who lined the front of the stage and rushed to receive anyone at the end of their crowd-surfing run. Sometimes two or even three people would crest the wave at the barricade 10 feet from the stage, snagged and set gently down by these lumbering security guys. And then it occured to me: each of these men is the catcher in the rye. When the playing children run off the edge of that vast field of swaying rye, these men are there to catch them and set them on their way.

Holden, if only you had been born a few decades later. Maybe I would have seen you there. Maybe you would have saved a spot for me.

Supplemental Information

2005-09-22T18:09:00.000-05:00

You remember those sci-fi black and white films, or Tomorrowland, all that? One of their dire predictions about the 21st century was that we wouldn't eat food, but just take little pills. Well, I say bring 'em on.

Food is cool, if you're into all that. I like the nutrients and sometimes the taste is all right. But really, I'm just in it for the fuel. Just gas me up and send me on my way, that's what I'm about. I like restaurants, so long as the atmosphere is stimulating. But they could serve me a big protein shake there for all I care. Just so long as they don't bring me peas. Peas are sick. There is no need in the world for peas.

I work in a place that's on pretty friendly terms with New Age Nutrition. I'd like to think that I'm not too mystical or anything, but I have taken protein shakes and seen benefits both in my fitness and health (didn't get sick once while taking them). I think maybe that's the way to go. Supplements. We need some "real" food for roughage and fiber and to scrape all the crap out of our colons. Literally. But do we really need food and food preparation 3 times a day? Not in tomorrowland, baby.

Two Moments from the Iron Age

2005-09-19T17:11:00.000-05:00

Some readers might know that I have been working out for the last six months or so, and took a break when I moved. But Friday was my first day back on the plan, and this morning was a leg/ab day. Boring, I know. But it gets better. The facility at my new apartment has an incline sit-up bench, something I was eager to work in to the routine. As it turns out, it appears that I have never worked my lower abs before in my lifetime. I got through the sit-ups all right, but by the last set, my belly seemed full of pickle brine. Afterwards, I was sure I had been poisoned. Even breakfast could not cure the vitriolic misery that was my entire midsection this morning. Time's healing power cured me by noon. But what a start. On the bright side, if it sucks that bad, it has to help, right? Right? IN OTHER NEWS, THE IRON AGE SPANNED AN ENTIRE DECADE AS A YOUNG MAN ESTABLISHED HIS INDEPENDENCE AND MASCULINE IDENTITY. DETAILS AT ELEVEN.

The other moment of Iron: the workout was suggested by a great friend and it was definitely a good thing to do. We began together in his home gym and both acheived success and great satisfaction doing so. I try not to be too superficial, so I view the benefits as additional energy, added strength, instillment of order in my life, and so on. But there was one moment of blissful superficial delight this summer. I went ballroom dancing with a lady friend, a really beautiful smart young woman. I had a thing for her once, and she put a stop to that. But we went dancing as friends, and my moment was this: when she was first told to put her left hand between my right bicep and shoulder, she placed her hand there lightly, hesitated, made eye contact, and then her hand relaxed. That moment of surprise to feel my muscle (not that it's anything incredible) was a truly great one. Certainly worth a morning of pickle brine.

Life Inside the Parentheses

2005-09-06T16:04:00.000-05:00

You know when a character is surprised by something that's been said in the funny pages, there appears a bubble over their head containing the surprise? For instance, Jimbo says "Martin was selected over numerous qualified candidates for the opening in monkey refuse collection." Then, in the next panel, Ralphie might have a bubble over his head containing the phrase: Numerous candidates? This is not spoken life. This is not quotable life. It's life inside parentheses.

As children grow up, they learn to communicate their needs and ideas. Then, discretion kicks in and they learn not to. But before all of that, and long after, we all live secret lives. Lives in parentheses. Think of it as a stand-up act with yourself as the audience. Or as the director's cut of your own daily experience. But think is the operative word.

A friend said this weekend that he wishes he could think less, since thoughts can be so self-destructive. He imagines life without thought as carefree and easy. And life on the outside is like that ... sometimes. But when it's not, cling to the world of your own making! Cling to imagination! Life the life inside parentheses! (Life?)

A Plague on Both Your Houses

2005-08-31T12:31:00.000-05:00

I've always remembered playing scenes from Shakespeare in the sixth grade. It was highly excerpted stuff, sort of a "Shakey's Greatest Hits" kind of endeavor. "To be or not to be," "Something stinks in the state of Denmark," and so forth. We did scenes from Romeo and Juliet, though there was no one cast as Juliet. Of the whole play, our excerpts were almost exclusively battle scenes. I played Romeo, a role I have enjoyed recounting ever since. My main man Mercutio and dastardly Tybalt used to practice with the wooden swords on my driveway since I lived close to school. Mom made us take breaks for brownies. Tybalt was played by N_____ Patel, who was also in my boy scout troop. Typecasting? I don't know. But I do remember very clearly the shriek of mortal terror that left Mercutio's lips when he was slain - an anguished, shrill wail that sounded more as though someone suffering from terrible constipation had been punched in the gut. An awful, bizarre scream. Very fake and weirdly unsettling.

I've enjoyed the story so much since I share some traits in common with R-Diddy, as he's known in certain circles. Like Romeo, I'm driven more by emotion than the intellect. I'm not only a passionate lover, but a lover of love, of getting swept up in feelings of affinity. (Remember, the play ain't called Romeo and Rosaline, even though that's whom we find him doting over at curtain up.) I've also made one or two really bad calls in the heat of the moment.

There's one catch. I was telling this story to my family the other day and they pointed out a discrepancy: I didn't play Romeo. I must have liked the story better that way and remembered it [the story] better than the event itself. So mine was not the woe over Mercutio and the triumph over Tybalt. But if not Romeo, then who was I? Not Tybalt, who was played by N_____ as I said. I was Mercutio, who dies offstage. Mine was the terrible scream.

So believe the story you prefer. Because I will forget all this and probably go on remembering myself as the world's greatest romantic, and not as an odd sixth-grader in tights.

All Happy Families are Alike

2005-08-21T20:15:00.000-05:00

I have finally settled in to my new apartment in Columbus, Ohio and I am ready to resume my favorite activities. Of course, loyal reader, you need no reminders, but for the uninitiated, those activities are: complaining, pretending to be clever, and occasionally reaching for an epiphany or two. In a word, writing. My apologies for the lapse in the entries recently. "Dear gentles, we shall make amends..."

My job search has turned up promising leads and interviews, though I wish it were already over and done with. It's been like a romance with no hope of a goodnight kiss. Forget dinner, where me and my date would both sit and try to be interested; instead it's been the interview, where my interviewer tries to be interested and I try to be interesting. Bleh. If this is the infatuation period, I don't know if I can handle the later years of employment.

I finished Anna Karenina a couple of weeks ago, after a long and (to my thinking) valiant effort. Absolutely worth it, although Tolstoy is definitely writing his most insightful and character-driven drama around the middle 200 pages, and not the end. It's said that he feel in love with his heroine while writing the work. Some might poo-poo such affection, or think that it's a very round-about means of self-love. I tend to find it sweet, and evidence that a good writer can depart from his/her own sensibilities while inventing the lives of his/her characters. Here's to you, Leo.

That's all for today, though there's much to be written, given my vacation. With that in mind, as my friend Paul Bennett used to say, "Write on."

News from the Pool: Tommy's Surprise

2005-06-29T15:09:00.000-05:00

"Tommm-meeee, I have a surprise for yooooou," she called from the shallow end of the pool. The little girl beckoned to the boy who clung to his floatation noodle near the perimeter. It was a slow day and the only poolsitters were me, the two young children, and Tommy's mommy.

I was reading Anna Karenina and thinking (once more) that I'd been born to the wrong era & social class, and simultaneously eavesdropping on the conversation of the children. She was what I assumed to be first generation Chinese-American, and he was first generation Russian-American. They were discussing Chinese dragons and whether or not they were scary. But it's this image that stays with me: the querrulous little boy, frustrated that his friend is the better swimmer, his mother listening but holding back, and the little girl, who holds a ball underwater, is calling to him. By sheer kind inventiveness she offers him delights.

Another memory: swimming lessons, pre-1990. Amber Wanner is a popular tomboy in my grade and the only kid I know at the Worthington pool. I am sent to join the advanced class and the instructor has me swim further out to him in deep water than I ever have before. I'm fine on the way out, but it looks too far on my return and I panic and flounder. Amber, hanging on to the pool's edge, reaches for my hand and pulls me in. I have been saved.

These are my feminine ideals. These are the images that sustain me in rough water. Maybe they are real, or maybe of my own making, but these bring me peace where otherwise I might not find it.

Theory: How Ryan Adams Saved "Wonderwall"

2005-06-15T23:06:00.000-05:00

This morning's workout had a much mellower feel, ladies and gentlemen of the jury. It occurred to me what had happened shortly after my partner lost interest in curls and just sat down on the bench staring off into space. It was the Ryan Adams cd he was playing. A great cd, don't get me wrong, and of superior taste to our usual "ESPN Sports Jams" or "OU812". Still, it was lacking in the single-minded fury (drums?) that make for a solid workout cd.

But it brings me to a theory I started dwelling on last summer. The Ryan Adams cover of the iconic Oasis song "Wonderwall" is full of haunting power, but even more so following the original. In this case, had Oasis never performed the song with their distinctive brand of nasal, heavily-accented lyrics, then Adams' performance would hardly stand out in its ponderous weightlessness. It is precisely because everyone with a radio had heard that song played to death (a short lifespan, that one) that the cover sends shivers down your spine.

The original features noisy, overlarge instrumentation and lyrics pronounced like the triflings of a power ballad. In a way, this worked to put Oasis on the map. But to return to that song, to render the simplicity of its lyrics in haunting quietness, suggests all the emptiness between the desperate words which previously had spilled out over top of one another like monkeys from the barrel. Likewise, all of the closing held notes from the refrain, pitched up in the original, are muted and pitched down in the cover. Again, the effect is to shift the tone from brazen to doubtful and introspective. If you haven't heard this one, check it out. Just not during your Tae Bo with Billy Banks.

News from the Pool: What is Wet May Not Always Be So

2005-06-13T16:44:00.000-05:00

Life at poolside continues on its merry way following an intermission of 18 hours of rain yesterday. The rain has chilled the pool water to a more reasonable temperature, and the storm clouds have broken up most of the excess humidity. It was to the point where my hair had such volume that I was taller. It was so humid my head gained a pound in water. It was so bad that an old lady almost drowned walking by my apartment and had to be resuscitated once carried into air conditioning.

Today I wrote a letter, a good one borrowing some of the drama-queen stylings of Tennessee Williams, from my pool chair. I tucked it away and dove in the deep end, and by the time I was up for air, a gust of wind picked my letter up and dropped it daintily in the water alongside the "5 ft" marker. I laughed, enjoying the silliness of the problems I face, and rushed to retrieve it. Within a few minutes, it was dry, unblurred, and showing only a little crispness for all it had been through. Should we all be so lucky.

I've been rereading Tony Earley's collection of short stories, Here We Are in Paradise. His two greatest, to hear me tell it, are the lyrical powerhouses "Charlotte" and "The Prophet from Jupiter." I know I'm not alone here, but let me just give a shout-out to fictional expressionism: Woo-woo!

Water is my fascination, my spiritual locus. It is my home, a home that runs downhill, that evaporates when the heat turns up. In water, my Tetras circle their little world and think about fish flakes. Or maybe they are attracted to the air and long for wings. Watching the ripples and the sunlight refracting through the depths of blue today, I thought the movement of light on water looks just like the movement of light in fire. Lit from below, the pool burns like a beacon until 10 every night. Is it me that it calls, or is this a call to you?

News from the Pool: A Touch of Brazil

2005-06-08T19:41:00.000-05:00

The summer progresses as readily as I digress, and despite some romantic theatrics this weekend (quite the debacle I can assure you), the pool is still where the heart is. So imagine my delight Sunday when the numerous Brazilians who live at my apartment complex, as well as their friends, settled in for a long afternoon at the pool with guitar, maracas, and another small percussive instrument I didn't recognize. Even better, the handsome one with the dimunitive frame (picture a Brazilian Jack Kerouac) had a fantastic voice. The icing on the cake - I don't understand a word of Portugeuese, and could enjoy the music without the clickity-clacking of that overdeveloped part of my brain that fusses over words.

A peculiar time for me. While this weekend marked the culmination of my anxieties over an attraction of the unrequited variety, it was also distinguished by a great time dancing with a friend. One couple were transformed beyond sexy on the dance floor, venturing into the realm of the gods to a samba beat. We did our best and had a lot of fun, because of and in spite of the constant attention of our instructor.

This is a rare entry for me, more about myself than usual. A peculiar time indeed...

Synchronicities with Tennessee

2005-06-04T15:22:00.000-05:00

Perhaps it is a sign of irresponsibility to search for answers in signs, but that’s increasingly all I have to work with. I’m now reading the letters of Tennessee Williams to long-time intimate Maria St. Just, and the signs (compiled from both this and the Leverich biography) just keep piling up. Here are some initial parallels between us.

1. Williams’ much bemoaned permanent umbilicus mirrors (to a greater extent?) my own attachment to my mother. Mine, however, is not given to pretending to faint to get attention.
2. Williams’ consequent admiration of strong, independent women who speak their mind regardless of the outcome represents his unfulfilled desire to be more like them, as it does mine.
3. Williams and I both prefer the company of one or two others and rarely large social events; both he and I feel compelled to play an exuberant role at such affairs and they are quite tiring as a result.
4. Williams and I both frequently bond with married couples or life partners, again living vicariously through others’ experience of arrangements we fear to undertake. (At midlife, Tennessee did find this home life – there may be hope for me yet.)
5. Tenn and I both struggle with ambivalent feelings regarding sexual urges (gratification vs. purity), though our tastes differ somewhat.
6. Williams and I both have a penchant for nicknaming. His include: The Little Horse, Five o’ Clock Angel, Miss Priss, The Texas Tornado, Choppers, and Le Chevalier Sans Peur. Some of my favorite inventions are: Little Bear, Sparky, Bean-pet, Pretty Boy, Face, Wildes Thing and The Kid.
7. Speaking of naming, both Tennessee and I have both invented nicknames for ourselves – his stuck.
8. Speaking of self-naming, Tennessee frequently employed the signature “10” as an abbreviated version of his moniker. As a fifth-grader, I played on my advantageous surname by scrawling at the top of each wide ruled page
“Chris x 106”. Spooky.
9. We’re both writers with little sense for managing money, though not indulgent.
10. We both live (or did live) a bit too much in our imaginations, without wholly sensible perceptions of reality and a poor judgment of character. But if you could only visit the place, maybe you’d understand…

Theory: One Day Late is Great

2005-06-03T21:26:00.000-05:00

It's important to know how businesses make their money. Especially when deciding how late to return things lent to you by one such money-making venture. The power company makes its money by filling the air with smoke, so if you don't feel like mailing your check for $112.59 tomorrow, it's cool, bud. Just send it a week from now and make it out for $114. Likewise, public libraries make their money by taking note of the decline of both western literature and the reading public. Therefore, why not keep your battered VHS copy of Chinatown a few extra days. No one will miss it... so long as you cough up two bits. On the other hand, screwing around with your landlord, the IRS, or my cousing Guido is not such a good idea. Too much pain involved.

The whole point of billing by mail is to allow the customer the pleasure of paying the bill at his/her leisure. This is why I take such decisions so carefully. Due the fourth, you say? I think not! I will govern the dispensal of my own funds, thank you very much. And this automatic withdrawal for monthly bills, granting them electronic access to my every last cent? Don't count on it, corporate dudes. So, in short, it's a fine day when you can send your little check in the mail a day after it was due, just to let the bigwigs know where you stand.

*The best I could manage for today - my thoughts are scattered on account of an important discussion in the near future...

The Bottom of the Drawer

2005-05-31T18:00:00.000-05:00

Bureau drawers are the most sentimental home furnishings. Each is a portal to the past, memories smelling of detergent folded neatly and tucked in their little beds. The experience is every bit as magical as that offered by Lewis’s Wardrobe. But magic is amoral, and what it offers we may embrace or struggle to even look upon the past, that thing which “grows and grows at the expense of the future” (Tennessee Williams).

My t-shirts stretch back nearly to childhood. Many I wore in high school. One bears the insignia “Surf Ohio Championship 1993”; it was my father’s before it stopped fitting him or he it. Wearing the father’s shirt is comforting, if darkly so. The same gesture connotes doom in Sam Shepard’s play “The Curse of the Starving Class.” But the most significant face of the past in this drawer lies not in one shirt or another, but in a pattern between them.

My father, being a practical man, ordinarily buys gifts at electronics shops. These well-researched items are sure to please and also within his shopping comfort zone. However, this led to a serious discrepancy between the size clothes I wore and those he bought. Dad was buying me size adult large t-shirts as early as middle school, when I weighed in at a dainty 91 pounds. I was familiar with the term 98-pound weakling, but it puzzled me, as it described a guy I wouldn’t mess with. Dad’s shirt size misestimate proceeded with such regularity that I wearily accepted my fate, wearing the shirts, which were often styles I very much liked… just at least a size too big.

I swam in those shirts. They looked somewhat like a monk’s cassock as the sleeves swooped around my pointy elbows and my shorts disappeared beneath the billowing cotton. To discover the true shape of my torso one had to wait for a strong gust of wind. When I ran, the shirt flapped behind me like a cape or an impractical parachute. The only thing that can make a diminutive person look smaller is excessively large clothing. The only guy I knew at that time who was unquestionably skinnier was Jay Rammahan, a good and more appropriately dressed friend. I couldn’t even pass these shirts off as hand-me-downs; I was the oldest.

I no longer wear them, even the “US Soccer” shirt with its imagistic unfurling red streak-effect stripes that I had once treasured. It is a sad thing to wear clothes that don’t fit you. What I see now was an innocent mistake seemed portentous at the time. I was in conflict with outward appearances. I was small but needed to become somehow big. My insecurities couldn’t have been better exposed had I been naked.

Performance

2005-05-29T15:31:00.000-05:00

It is said that Edgar Degas was only truly happy in attendance of performance. Painting, sketching, etching, these were all pasttimes that grew out of his fondness for the creative and created world. His long hours at the Paris Opera observing the bunheads rushing to classes and rehearsals must have been a close second. His art is self-consciously observational, acutely aware of itself as an act of witness ... or voyeurism.

I have known this great pleasure also, and there is nothing finer in the world I know. Perhaps I have lost myself in some similar bliss at times on the dance floor, and maybe once on stage. But these are very different, since the pleasure of playing a part in performance hinges directly on its quality, as with the dancing, though to a much lesser degree. All of these are engagements with the aesthetic world, a world that beckons with its expression of the range of human emotion, with its layered meanings and intellectual delights, and with its casting off of all that is trite and mundane.

Still, what becomes of the dreamers when the dream is ended? Where do we go, we who've tasted the sweetness of the life of the mind, only to find that a world of pea soup and cold macaroni lurks forever among the footlights? And can this escape be a healthy way of dealing (or not dealing) with the real world? When my mind is troubled, this is one of its familiar haunts.

News from the Pool: Marred Bliss

2005-05-25T16:08:00.000-05:00

Today I neared glory at poolside, striding through Tom: The Unknown Tennessee Williams while sunning. I also caught up on the local gossip concerning people I have never seen. The best is transcribed below. This post's subtitle is borrowed affectionately from playwright Mark O'Donnell's one-act containing Jane's memorable line: "Oh honey, just stink. In less than forty eight horrors we will be moan and woof! Isn't it amassing?"

(Scene: two young women sunning, one of whom has just entered.)
Susie: You'll never guess what Gossard did last night.
Kate: Tell me. Was it at the bar?
Susie: Yeah, we were all drinking, and he'd been really sweet with Beth, and they both got just totally trashed.
Kate: Okay...?
Susie: And then we were all sitting there and we heard Gossard on the PA, proposing.
Kate: No way.
Susie: And then he did it again at the table, collapsing to one knee.
Kate: Whoa. They're not getting married. Kate was just talking the other day about how he would be leaving town and she might follow him later, when the time was right.
Susie: Well, but she was drunk.
Kate: She said yes?
(Susie nods)
Kate: Holy shit, I can picture it now, how Gossard would propose, "Yo, everybody, this is Gossard and I got a announcement and all. Beth, I want you to marry me. Okay, thanks everybody. Go IU!"
Susie: So then apparently Mark comes up to Gossard today and was like, "Hey, congratulations man." And Gossard just looked at him a minute and said, "Why?"
Kate: No way.
Susie: Yeah, and when Mark reminded him of what he'd done last night, he said, "Oh yeah, uhh, thanks I guess."
Kate: Hasn't Gossard been engaged before?
Susie: Yup.
Kate: Beautiful.

Jane: And now we're encaged! I can hardly wait till we're marred!

Theory: The World's Sexiest Stutter

2005-05-23T14:25:00.000-05:00

[Randy Bachman]

The birth of rock n' roll was instrumental before it was vocal. But as anyone with a soft spot for karaoke can tell you, there's a diffference between singing correctly and singing with style. Initially white rockers tried to sound like Chuck Berry and R&B vocalists, but given a little time, various distinctive vocal stylings emerged to define rock. 70s metal wails led to punk's aggressive un-prettiness which led to the raging screams of rap-metal fusion, the least interesting of the bunch, in my opinion. In some ways, much of rock's vocal stylings sought to undermine the prettiness of the crooner tradition and the show tunes popular in the previous generation (the first to hear those tunes broadcast free on radio airwaves).

Easily the coolest such innovation in rock vocal stylings was the adoption of the stutter. Who would have guessed that the trait that could easily mark a child for endless playground humiliations would sound so cool and confident on stage? Consider The Who: "Talkin' 'bout my g-g-g-g-generation. It's my generation, baby!" It's the deliberation of it, the sweet anticipation and syncopation that makes you grin or want to scream. Or their softer-rock offspring, Huey Lewis and the News: "Th-th-th-th-they say the heart of rock n' roll is still beatin'." Maybe it's the stutter's appropriateness to highlight a significant moment in the song. Maybe it's the breakdown of language into mere sound. Or the way the audience is thus taken inside the singer's mind. The bold among us might dare to say it's a moment when the performer's smooth persona (Everything he says is rehearsed after all) drops, if only momentarily, if only seemingly.

But the most powerful application of this souped up speech impediment came from Bachman Turner Overdrive in their 1974 hit "You Ain't Seen Nothin' Yet." "B-b-b-baby, you just ain't seen n-n-n-nothin' yet." Theirs is the very sexiest use, connecting the withheld syllables with the promise of the loving to come. I wish I could tell you they knew what they were doing. In fact, singer Randy Bachman was goofing on his brother, their manager, who did have a stutter. It was the record company that insisted this version was superior.

B-b-b-badass, regardless.

Your Centurion or Mine?

2005-05-18T14:20:00.000-05:00

I recently had the bewildering experience of teaching poetry at both ends of the human lifespan within the course of a few days. I helped out in my mom's fourth grade classroom for a morning, and the following Monday taught for an hour at Meadowood Retirement Community. The following are observations and comparisons.

Both the fourth graders and the retirees had good senses of humor, by which I mean potty humor. That put me at ease ... at first. Both groups were also pretty comfortable sharing ideas in a group setting, in which they differed from college students, who ordinarily take a couple of class periods to open up. Both also engaged in repeating each other's ideas extensively, as though they could share the approval that the original idea had garnered. Did they think I had forgotten that Tommy just said, "My little brother pees the bed and one time he got the dog," only moments ago?

The greatest lines of each exercise? From Meadowood (concerning mothers): Some blissfully hum / Others merely grunt like a ferocious goose / Twisting its wings as it sails. From 4th grade (concerning toenails): They were not made to eat.

The fourth graders moved constantly, and I was exhausted from always checking to make sure I wasn't about to step on one. The old folks didn't move their wheelchairs at all, and I was exhausted by my own efforts to speak loudly and clearly and be engaging and respectful all at once. At Meadowood, I was surprised to learn from an aide that one nice lady was a centurion. "Her chariot is smaller than I would have imagined," I remarked. "Centenarian," corrected the supervisor. She was born in 1902 - she'd seen everything worth seeing in the 20th century, and had gone right ahead living. There's a vote of confidence if I ever saw one.

Easily the most remarkable part of my visit was the commentary of Dr. Dean*. Regardless of the situation, when called upon to speak, Dr. Dean would announce, "Mothers should raise their children with practices of healthful living." I would nod and he would repeat the proclamation, each time with further conviction and irritation at my dunderheadedness. In trying to elaborate, he later announced, "Mothers should raise their children with practices of healthful living from infancy!" The next time: "Mothers and fathers should raise their children with practices of healthful living." He seemed genuinely pissed off, as though I had disagreed, leaving future generations to the dogs. After the session, I was informed that Dr. Dean had been a part of the team that instituted the practice of adding flouride to drinking water. More recently I was told that this practice is currently in question by the scientific community.

Great fun, all in all. From Meadowood I received a copy of our poem and a nice thank you card. From the 4th graders I received a detailed pencil sketch of a Harley-Davidson motorcycle with the inscription: "To my friend Chris, from John."

*Pseudonym

Performers & Cheaters

2005-05-17T16:40:00.000-05:00

[Jean-Paul Sartre looking cheeky]

I've been reading Lorrie Moore's short stories on a blanket in the sun, which is a surefire recipe for ambivalence. One moment you're laughing bitterly at life's unthinking cruelties; the next the warmth has flooded your body as fully as reality programming's saturated television, leaving you with that slow-brain phenomenon ordinarily reserved for the end of a good party. But the two best stories in Self-Help, "How to be an Other Woman" and "What is Seized" got me thinking about performers, today's subject.

Both stories involve relationships between women and cold men, men who withhold love as though it were a savings bond to be offered some day in the future, with interest. And both, since Moore is a true tour de force of witticisms, are comical performers. It made me think, as a good book can, about character. It made me think, as is my sole capacity, about myself. Often talented performers are people who desire the approval of strangers. They are driven by some feeling of inadequacy or withheld affection, and seek to pave over this lack with generous applause. It is as though in those moments on stage, you are not yourself. You are who you always wanted to be.

The former story revolves around the protagonist's affair with a married man. I imagine too that cheating on someone is related to seeking the approval of strangers. In the rush of passion, or heady infatuation, your newfound partner may see you as this other person, the one you had wanted to be. Of course it cannot last, that was the reason you cheated in the first place, because your girlfriend/wife/soul mate discovered you were someone else. Sartre wrote about this at length, being in-itself vs. of-itself. The man who desires to be who he is on stage misses the point of his own humanity. But even Sartre was not above pettiness, as he refused the Nobel Prize claiming this reason, when the real reason was that they'd already given one to Camus.

The worst part of the cheater's dilemma is that in seeking to be someone he is not, he engages in that same withholding that may have driven him there in the first place. Withholding love from his mistress, withholding honesty from his mate, withholding acceptance from himself. Being mistaken momentarily for that impossible man he'd like to be is the very worst kind of tease, a drug that never quite satiates the appetite, well all the while growing that appetite into something monstrous. I'm at a point where I recognize the mistakes of my youth well enough to prevent myself from cheating, but it is another task to eliminate that performer's hunger and stop wishing I was the other self.

Theory: The Lawrence Welk Show Warped an Entire Generation

2005-05-12T18:59:00.000-05:00

Because I live in a small city and because of my apartment's location, I have terrible television reception. For those of you raised on cable, "reception" refers to the TV's ability to pick up radio waves projected through the air for free by the major networks and small local broadcasters. I used to pick up two channels: PBS and a station about Jesus. The latter featured so much talk about opening your heart that I thought at first it must be Discovery Channel. Unfortunately, the Jesus station has either run dry of funds or saw fit to beam their message elsewhere, and now I live by PBS alone.

Which isn't really a problem ... except for Saturdays. I'm not a total recluse, but there's the occasional Saturday when I don't do much but sit around the apartment or clean the fish tanks. It wasn't much better when I had a girlfriend - we spent most Saturdays arguing. Just kidding. No I'm not. Yeah, I really am. But Saturday night on the thinly funded local PBS affiliate features a show my grandmother remembers fondly, a show full of bouffants and a watered-down big band sound, a show of nasal singing and seemingly endless rows of grinning blondes, a show hosted by Lawrence Welk.

It is extremely painful to sit through an hour of the Lawrence Welk Show. No one is allowed to stop smiling at any point in the proceedings, which produces a tiring effect upon the viewer's jaw. Or maybe that was just my teeth grinding. The Show was aired before the legalization of irony, which leaves you really wondering about some of the skits. In one, a buxom young woman in a billowy taffeta dress sits on a park bench with her considerably older beau. Her song is about how she likes him because he buys her all the "frankfurter sandwiches" she can eat, and following the final note, she chomps an enormous mouthful of the hotdog in hand. I mean, come on. Did nobody get it?

So today's theory: The Lawrence Welk Show was both a product of and a participant in an emotionally stifled generation that led to the miseries of suburbia captured especially well in Tim Burton films. Those rows of pastel cookie-cutter homes in their bright green lawns from Edward Scissorhands? The creepy pleasantries and country charm of the residents of Spectre in Big Fish? All of this (and I mean America too) makes so much more sense after seeing a single episode of The Lawrence Welk Show.

Just promise me you will not open your heart to it.

Student Hijinks & Highlights

2005-04-29T17:34:00.000-05:00

Since today was the last class of the semester and the last class I'll be teaching in the foreseeable future, I thought I'd share a couple of highlights, some a little ridiculous, some sentimental (I can fight the tendency, but I can't destroy it). The following are from 6 semesters of teaching. Should I make it back into the Endangered Intellectual Preserve, I'm sure my stories will rapidly accumulate.

*Fridays are an opportunity for announcements, usually along the lines of: "There's a poetry reading at such location and time," or "Come check out my band." One Friday ran another course. A guy announced cheerfully, "Now not to sound like a pimp, but my girlfriend is studying to be a physical therapist and she gives great backrubs, so if anyone was interested, her rates are reasonable and she's taking new clients." Mental note: try to begin more sentences with "Not to sound like a pimp."

*One student raised eyebrows week after week as he read poems in a fanciful British accent, something in between Winston Churchill and Eric Idle. He ordinarily spoke in a flat Midwestern accent. I tried to broach the subject diplomatically: "I've noticed you read rather dramatically."
He misunderstood: "Why, thank you. I've been in drama for three years now." I tried again: "I guess I'm curious about the English accent. Did you spend time abroad growing up?" The truth came out: "No, no, but I did spend a lot of time watching Monty Python and other British comedy. I just love that stuff." Seeing as this was a guy who took pleasure in pronouncing the word "po-hem", I let it drop.

*One student chatted with me at class's end several times, nothing too unusual. Until one day she walked with me all the way to another building, where she suggested we see a movie people in class had recommended. "Oh, I'd enjoy that," I said, "so long as it was a class kind of thing, you know, not too small a group." She said, "Well I thought maybe it could just be you and me."
Bold. I said, "That would be fun, but let's keep things on a professional level, since I'm your teacher and all..." "Don't worry," she said, "It's not like anybody would tell." At which point I break into nervous laughter. I haven't stopped yet.

Tigers & the World's Finest Citrus

2005-04-20T22:36:00.000-05:00

Roger Wimpleflat* is a variation on the earlier theory, concerning houspets, since Roger's fetish creature is the Bengal Tiger. Roger, a sweet, mild mannered young man has plastered his walls with posters of tigers, some being white, but mostly of the pumpkin coloration. Roger looks a lot like a blond Tom Cruise, but he ruins it by wearing shirts with a single wolf howling at the enormous full moon, or a humpback whale cresting, all depicted in that soft-lens look that suggests internally gooeyness. Roger is also essentially asexual.

Except in his private conception of himself: the lone tiger. Stalking the forest floor, I slink where few others dare to tread. Critters scamper wildly at my approach, because I am absolutely lethal, baby. And for all my muscle and razor-sharp claws & teeth, I've still got class. I'm sleek. I'm no lunky lion, no siree. I can frickin climb trees. So watch out.

In Thailand, a Buddhist monastery has been rescuing Bengal Tigers who've been kept inhumanely as pets. A similar refuge exists just outside of Bloomington. An important difference: at the Thai monastery, everyone believes in reincarnation, whereas here, the only believers stand out from the crowd like Dikembe Mutombo at a Klan rally. Here belief in reincarnation promotes a wind-tossed unkempt hair look and flimsy dresses that look as though they are equally well-suited to use as a dorm wall decoration.

But in Thailand, the Buddhists wear orange, likely the most brilliant color scheme of any religion. And no hair. This aesthetic is based on the world's finest citrus, the orange. But while the reporters interviewed the head monk, he explained that caring for thie tigers is no different than caring for people, since their souls and ours may take any shape and form before reaching that rock band from Seattle. The truly marvelous moment came as they discussed his relationship with the tigers, some of whom were identified as divas, loners, bullies, and so forth.

Reporter: And can you read their body language to understand how they feel?
Head Monk: Yes, and I also read their thoughts.
Reporter: You know what they are thinking in their minds?
Head Monk: Yes, and they read my thoughts also.

Which leaves me to wonder, what if he's right? What if the tigers have been reaching out to us for all this time and we've turned a deaf ear? Or worse yet, what if their only contact in America is Roger Wimpleflat*? What has he been telling the tigers about me? I can only hope they've learned not to put too much faith in the thoughts of somebody who wears shirts featuring wolves and whales.

*name changed to protect the innocent

My Janitorial Dreams

2005-04-19T16:10:00.000-05:00

It occured to me today that people can be herded as easily as goats, if not easier, since goats do not follow written instruction. Case in point: when I forgot to grab pickle wedges at the grocery store the other day, I had to turn around and fight against shopping cart traffic like a salmon swimming upstream because the store is arranged to maintain a steady flow through as many aisles as possible. Angered, I lashed out at the giant corporate grocery by abandoning my cart blocking the path in front of the lobster tank then taped a sign that read "SALE!" to the side of my cart, filled with just about everything but pickles. A mob formed quickly, further blocking traffic to the hotdogs and dairy section and resulting in such abysmal sales of lobsters that the fishing off the coast of Maine has temporarily come to a halt. Or so I'm told.

Which is why, if I am ever promoted from grad student to janitor, I will employ similar tactics to perform my duties with efficiency and ease. For example, I fully intend to clean no more than two toilets a day, no matter if there are three or four per bathroom. Each morning I will simply close and lock the doors of all but one of the stalls, and voila - problem solved. Anyone who has to go badly enough to check the doors will find to his embarassment that each is occupied. Maybe since women lack the convenience of urinals, I will allow them two stalls on Fridays.

This may result in performance issues for the commodes in question, so I should remember to rotate weekly the unlocked stall in an attempt to balance wear and tear. I should take this opportunity to remind readers not to try this outside the professional environment - Mother nearly had my hide when I told her to either just be patient or to bathe in the kitchen sink. But we must face these trials by fire, we janitors. And to think, only eight years ago I was mop-boy at the bottom of the tube slide at McDonald's. A story for another day.

Literary Threats of Death and Seduction

2005-04-08T16:31:00.000-05:00

I am only aware of a single threat made in earnest against my life. It was penned in my junior year of college, a year I will forever remember as my clumsy entrance to adulthood. I had just figured out what I wanted to do with my life, and believing I had the means for such a life at my disposal, I became a fairly outspoken and arrogant advocate of my own lifestyle.

"Became" may not be quite the right word, since I had been considered (by certain judgmental friends) arrogant for many years prior to this transformation. Let's say that my arrogance was heightened, and perhaps it was heightened to potentially self-endangering levels. But please bear in mind that to pursue the writer's life is to embrace arrogance. The two are inseparable as honey and bee-stings.

Oblivious to such artistic necessities, one of my peers in a fiction writing class - let's call her Margot - suppressed her growing feelings of rage for the majority of the semester. Her rage was manifold, including distaste for our hep-cat instructor, the many ineptly conveyed and cliche-driven stories, and the pseudo-intellectualizing of workshop. (The following is representative: "I really admire the use of music for mood in Bill's story because Eliott Smith is the man. I mean, he is the man.") Margot pinned these and other countless exasperations hoping, I assume, that under intense pressure her rancor would eventually yield a perfect diamond of artistic dimensions.

This was only evident following her submission to the workshop of a story whose plot was straightforward enough: a frustrated student kills each and every one of her creative writing classmates. Sadly, many were slaughtered in summary; I was one of the fortunate whose name would at least live on in literature. On the other hand, while the other named victims at least met their ends swiftly, the character named "Topher Michaels", whom I read as my doppelganger, suffers much longer. The narrator of the story, a highly unattractive person in every regard, first tempts poor Topher into visiting her dorm room. His libidinally-driven vulnerability leads to his demise; she carves him up with an axe, as I recall. Not even Professor Ratman is spared. By the plot's end, only Margot herself is in attendance. The story ends with a lyric passage on the beauty of silence.

Theory: One "Meow" Does Not a Menace Make?

2005-04-07T10:44:00.000-05:00

This is the first installation in what will be a continuing series on my many theories. To make order from the chaos which surrounds us, Men of Reason and Valor must assemble raw data into manageable tools for living in the world. The following is a tool of essential importance.

It was first observed in Disney's One Hundred and One Dalmatians (1961) that often pets resemble their owners in appearance. Explanations for this phenomenon vary: people may choose a pet that resembles them, owners may gradually acquire characteristics of their pet, or perhaps phenotypical incompatibility (lack of resemblance) results in death of either the pet or owner.

I contend that in addition to physical resemblance, pet owners bear a psychological resemblance to their pets as well. Consider the case of the boyfriend of one of my ex-girlfriends, who keeps two turtles in an aquarium. Let's call him Chet. Physically we may describe the turtle as short, built for power and not speed, and able to travel at a moderate pace on land or water. We may say the same of its owner, Chet. However, the turtle's primary psychological characteristic is its tendency to retreat inward, to seal itself safely out of the reach of predators behind its steely shell. Hence it should come as no surprise that Chet employs a similar tactic. He isn't one to lash out with claws. Instead, Chet is in the habit of withdrawing completely, poking his head out only once he is fairly sure potential threats have gone off along their way.

We need not look far for our second case: housecats. Housecats are everywhere, thanks to their apartment-appropriate size and breeding capabilities. Felines, to whom all decent men and women are allergic, have but one endearing quality: they induce kinesthetic sympathy by their stretching and arching behaviors. This is replicated in some so-called "cuddly" cat owners, though not universally. (The aberrations may relate to their cats as complementary partners and not as embodiments of the self. Theory forthcoming.) More importantly, cats are widely acknowledged to be impetuous, moody, selfish, hateful, self-destructive, narcissistic, given to sexual deviance, atheistic, controlling, promoting runny noses and itchy eyes, territorial, overly dependent, cruel towards infants, overly independent, smelly, murderous, and morally decadent. As for their owners, I need offer no further explanation.

We may think of this psychological resemblance as part of a tradition of humanity's identification with animals. Witches had their familiars. The Egyptians, for all their supposed sophistication, saw cats as emblematic of their nobility. And American Indians honored personal characteristics through the totem. It may be that each of us has a totem animal, whether or not we have one in our care. The jittery opera singer across the hall may want to consider taking in a Macaw. The beefy unkempt man at the bar may provide apt companionship for a wolverine. And the pony-tailed blonde playing frisbee at the park has golden retriever written all over her.

Only one question remains: what can be made of the author's ownership and care for tropical fish? Only time will tell.

Holding Sylvia

2005-04-06T18:24:00.000-05:00

About a week ago I had the rare privilege of holding and looking over some of Sylvia Plath's papers at the Lilly Library. I was there with a class, and we had read and discussed Ariel in its original and restored editions. We'd talked about the artist and the artist's life, how the two commingle profitably or miserably. And we'd talked about reading into and beyond the myth of Plath - I for one had so many hang-ups about Plath's notoriety that it was hard to read her. But ultimately, I find her work exemplary, expecially in terms of transforming the merely confessional, through drafts, to the archetypal.

But the most memorable moment came for me looking over one of her scrapbooks. She had written excessively dramatic captions for her photos: "Sue paying homage to Apollo upon a sun-dappled cairn in Devon", "My dearest Jill, striking an Aphrodite pose at the piano", etc. The archivist remarked that this degree of performativity seemed vain. "It's as though she was writing for people who would consider this worth reading once she was famous," she said.

I couldn't help but recognize myself in Plath's self-aggrandizement. Blurring the distinctions of real life and performance, I seek to enlarge my life. Maybe it's not so much that the dramatics are meant to titillate future readers as they are meant to titillate myself. And I defend the choice thus: seeking to invest my life with artifice, I personalize it according to my own aesthetic. And I may find elements of beauty where a plainer view would find none.

Forgiven: a lecturette

2005-04-05T14:58:00.000-05:00

Pope John Paul II's death this weekend has led to some reflection on my part. While raised and educated Catholic, I differ on some theological points. Perhaps they are significant, perhaps a situation where one should just suck up and deal with it. Regardless, I have decided that one of my most important priorities must be forgiveness.

In Catholicism, forgiveness is ritualized, administered by a priest who embodies God's forgiveness of our sins. But even in the absence of ritual, forgiveness is a liberating practice. A Terre Haute Holocaust survivor, Eva Kor, has raised eyebrows with her declaration of forgiveness for the Nazis, particularly Dr. Joseph Mengele, who experimented cruelly upon her and countless others. Kor runs a Holocaust museum called CANDLES. http://te.verweg.com/pipermail/msn-list/2005-March/000865.html

I am reminded of the Doonesbury cartoon I read as a boy, featuring Ronnie Reagan speaking in one panel to American Jews: "Never Forget." and in the next to Germans: "Forgive and Forget." But all jokes aside, can we reconcile the notion of forgiveness with one of remembering the cruelties of the past? For Eva Kor, this act of forgiveness was necessary for her life to move forward, to put an end to past torments.

Similarly, the idea of African-Americans forgiving the whites who enforced Jim Crow, a lynching society, and centuries of oppression is tough to swallow. But swallow it we must, who will liberate our spirits and reach our fullest potential. I don't doubt that anger can be directed usefully. The man with fire in his belly can really burn his enemies, but at what cost to himself? The fire in his belly must feed on his insides.

Just to be clear, I am in favor of affirmative action, equitable public schooling, and other steps our nation must take to redress historical and contemporary oppression against minorities. However, we may view this as an issue of accountability and not one of revenge. Revenge comes out of a rancorous heart, and cannot free the heart of rancor as can forgiveness.

But forgiveness is not easy ... until it becomes a practice. So I will try to work on that today in the hopes that it is freeing. (This isn't easy for me, for all my high talk.) Hmm. I think I can now forgive the senior in my freshman science class who made fun of my too-short pants. That felt all right. Maybe this is something to build on.

National Panic Awareness Day

2005-03-31T11:25:00.000-05:00

Not much time to write today. As indicated by the low wail of sirens outside my office window, today is National Panic Awareness Day. Hooray! Tomorrow I will hand over my thesis, for which revision is going well, but I wish it were just *better* than it is. Maybe this is part of why writers usually keep writing all their live-long days. Plus, it's been a busy week what with a ballet review (Cinderella re-choreographed by Jacques Cesbron), preparation for classes, and my very least favorite activity ... grading. It's enough to make a person move to California, where instead of a grade, instructors draw a shape at the top of assignments.

Jimmy: "What do you say, Mom? Can we go get ice-cream?"
Mom: "I'm afraid not, dear. You brought home straight triangles this week."

Still the weather is warm, the living is easy, what's not to enjoy? Oops, now it's time for a Level Orange lunch break. Don't worry, more to come - this stream will pour from my mouth until I no longer have one.

French it up, baby

2005-03-30T14:47:00.000-05:00

I have had the pleasure of knowing a Frenchman in Indiana. My Frenchman was a marvelous guy, but I don't know if he was quite representative, since he was a student in American Studies back home, Maxime Herbaut. His eyes were a bit small and his glasses a bit large, lending him a look of reserved wisdom, like a diplomat. His goatee and constant punning were more reminiscent of a Beat Poet. I told Maxime his name translated into English was "Maximum Hairball." He said my name translated to "Slippery Toilet Seat" in French.

He was generally a star in whatever social circle I encountered him. He was a master of witty rejoinders and amusing anecdotes. He also differed from most Americans in that his charm involved subtle self-effacement. One of my favorite of his stories was about the French news parody program in which figures in the news are portrayed by hand puppets. America's symbolic puppet took the appearance of Sylvester Stallone, who communicated in a series of grunts. The Bush puppet would either be bullied into action by Sly Stallone or by Pope John Paul II. The latter is a real study in perspective, given that we invest the Pope with symbolism of Catholicism, an example (for Methodists) of backwards conservatism or of the path to the devil's doorstep (for Baptists). I can only imagine that to the secular French, George W.'s born-again non-denominational Christianity is compatible with the will of the supreme pontiff.

Which brings me to my digression: Frenchification. What is it that French-Cut Green Beans, French Fries, French-Cut Panties, the French-Tickler, French Doors, French Toast, and French Kissing have in common? Shared American connotations of sophistication and sex. Well, maybe all except for French Fries.

Note that when Americans talk about sex, they usually do so in either elevated or profane language. Consider "make love" and "knock boots." To say "sexual intercourse" out loud sounds ridiculous or overly scientific to most American ears. So here's my current theory: When we want to elevate it, we usually rely on the French; when we take pleasure in the profane, it is usually borrowed from Black English. It begs the question: why can't most white Americans talk about sex in our own ordinary words?

I should note that Maxime once showed me a play he'd been working on: a satirical farce about Hell's waiting room. Written in American English, it was anything but elevated; it featured numerous scatalogical jokes. One may only hope that farts in Hell are not French... or worse, American.

Stir-Crazy

2005-03-29T18:51:00.000-05:00

Have you ever felt as though you were living trapped indoors while outside the world was beautiful, sunny, and warm? Was it because you were trapped indoors while outside the world was beautiful, sunny, and warm? This is where I begin my blog. Typing in the lab at my office (beneath my office, to be precise) on the first 70-degree day of the year. I would say this place should be condemned, but it has been. The university, in their wisdom, just hasn't leveled it yet. After all, they don't have another place to put us.

This is a noteworthy week for other reasons. This is the week I scheduled to turn in my MFA poetry thesis to my advisor. It feels like my last chance to have "accomplished something" here in the Creative Writing Program. Looking over it, I am content with some work, and I can see how the work has changed while I've been here. As usual, the old anxiety arises: "What next?" Anyway, the only way to know what next is to stop asking and get to the next.

I took my friend to the doctor's office today to put her broken hand in a cast. I feel some of the discomfort most people associate with the doc's, but I express it by being really corny, unlike my friend, who expresses it through active hostility towards everyone there. The doc tried one style of cast and it wasn't adequate, so he had to cut it off and start over. She was grousing once he had left. When I suggested wearing the old cast on the left and the new on the right, and made a Power Rangers-esque gesture, she said, "Whose side are you on, anyway?"

I have been wanting for a long time to wear a white suit and a dapper hat and just sit on a porch on a warm summer's day. It may be a long time before this desire is fulfilled.