Optimism from the Hills

And they kept on dancing...

2007-10-28T08:17:00.000-04:00

That's kind of how I feel about our wedding party and the get-togethers we've been having. Every few weeks we've been able to come together for a great weekend of some sort just to prolong the energy of this circle of friends that has been created around us. First it was the bridal shower / bachelorette party; then two weeks later we had the Lew Beach weekend. Two weeks after that us boys had our paint ball / AC weekend. Two weeks after that, the wedding weekend itself. Just this weekend I finally sent out all the pictures from the wedding weekend (in lieu of an actual get-together).

Next stop: Thanksgiving and New Year's Eve Parties!

The Saturday after Thanksgiving we're hosting the first holiday as a married couple in Brooklyn! It won't be another turkey dinner, we can promise you that, and this party is invite only.

As for New Year's, we're going along with our past policy of second-degree friends.

We're hoping for as many of the bridal party peops as possible for both parties, but that can't happen. If you're reading this, you are almost certainly invited to both, so start imagining really cool side dishes for thanksgiving, and new year's party themes.

Dream-Maker Succeeding!...(for now)

2007-09-24T10:40:00.001-04:00

It looks like the One Laptop Per Child initiative led by Nicholas Negroponte, which I first wrote about back in January '07, is underway.

If I had a job, who knows? Maybe I'd buy one of those cute, little green-and-white machines and hand-crank my laptop to a start in Prospect Park. I wouldn't have to worry about the glare because of the sunlight readable display. For that matter, I could throw the damn thing in the lake because of its water-proof chassis.

And somewhere in the world, in some participating, UN-registered Least-Developed (LD) nation, a child would receive a little green-and-white machine, or more likely, a school or town would receive it for the use of many children.

Is access to a laptop the most important factor in a child's education-- more than his/her teacher, school-infrastructure, curriculum? No. Is it going to thrust LD Nations into globally-competitive, high-tech economies? Highly friggin unlikely. But will it bring a smile of joy to a child's face who does not have a computer to sit in front of all day the way we do? Mioght the child be fascinated and curious about how the machine works and what its capabilities are? Methinks so.

For that, I still assert Nicholas Negroponte as an inspirational example of turning a dream, a dream that many said was impossible, into reality.

Far too long!

2007-09-18T06:52:00.000-04:00

Hello all, and sorry for the super-long hiatus that Optimism has taken over the summer. So much work and all...

Props to all you for a most magnificent weekend up in the Catskills. Caitie and I were talking about making it a yearly gathering; that is, if the Stovers would be willing. Wasn't having Renee around the whole weekend awesome?

The brainstorming session around tent city gave has got me thinking about Renee's idea for a large central tent in the back. What do you guys think? Something large enough to fit 30 or 40 people under comfortably, a place to go in case it rains, with tables for eating and playing games...

Ideas, ideas!!

This size tent will cost about $450 - transportation and set up included...

Meme

2007-05-31T12:12:00.000-04:00

Meme--according to 1oth Ed. Merriam-Webster's Collegiate Dictionary-- n. an idea, behavior, style, or usage that spreads from person to person within a culture

Tag n. 1 : a game in which the player who is it chases others and tries to touch one of them who then becomes it

In no particular order...

6. It's a tough call to say which is worse, my short- or long-term memory. I leak data like a sieve. I was electrocuted once: 110 volts to the top of head, bolt of steel from the sky to earth threaded through my bones and boots, black out, wordlessness, wake up, whoa. Any relation to my poor memory? Can't remember if my memory was any better previous to this incident. See what I mean?!

2. I get really tense chanting Om on the yoga mat in a yoga class. Why??? Maybe it's because I've always been told I'm a horrible singer and am loathe to loft my voice in front of such placid strangers. In sixth grade, I was asked by the director to lyp-sycnh during a full-ensemble chorus number because I was standing relatively near the front of the stage. To boot: he [the director] was good friends with my mom and probably was gentler with me than he would've been otherwise. Ow!

3. I often forget to brush my teeth at night. Which means, many days I only get one brush in. I don't floss. Last time I was at a dentist: approximately 2002. Dr. Carnevale told me to come back in six months and that I would probably need a couple of cavities filled: my first. When I eat something dry and crunchy (pretzels, crackers, cookies, etc.), my molars fill up with crumbs like a squirrel's cheeks with nuts. I use my tongue to scrape the teeth-caves clean. It's a serious pain-in-the-ass. And entirely my fault.

7. I'm an unrepentant people-watcher. On the train, on the street, in a restaurant...I pretend to read a book, to be listening to the person I'm talking to, to be staring just to the left of you...but really, I'm looking striaght AT you, studying you, imagining you, scanning your face for a window to your thoughts. Mom and I used to sit on a bench in the middle of Paramus Park Mall, quietly munching on funnel cake, and never saying a word, just staring into the human throng. (BTW-when reading number 7, kindly pronounce it Paramus Park Mawl to feel the full-flavor of this memory, all confectionary sugar and deep-fry, in your mouth...)

1. I almost never use sun-block.

5. I am in the bad habit of eating latelatelate at night to ward off sleep. Long after Carson Daly is in bed and the infomerical reigns supreme. Sometimes, I fall asleep before finishing what I'm eating. One time, I fell asleep in bed with a bowl of rammen and woke up on a soupy pillow. I am, on occassion, completely ferral, undomesticated, and disgusting.

8. I once wrote a poem-series that started off with the lines: Heineken deuce-deuce and five-dollar sashimi at the laundromat / I am so ghetto. It was around the time that 8-Mile came out and I was disproportionately passionate about the working-class experience. I made friends with the local ilegales while washing our clothes and we would buy lots of cheap beer at the deli next door, get drunk, arm wrestle, and attempt to explain the world in slurry spanglish hybridizations of truths. Armando, if you are out there reading this somewhere, I'm sorry. I was telling you the truth when I said the only reason you couldn't move in with me and work-for-rent was because my mom never would've allowed it. Had I been living on my own, I would've gladly given you a bedroll in the basement. But mom didn't like 8-Mile road an no matter how many bills I paid or mortgage payments I made, it was still her casa. Lo siento, pobrecito amigo mio.

4. I have hairy feet and toes. They are my pride and joy. And Jesse can tell you what punishment awaits if you attempt to pluck, pull, shave or otherwise shear the source of Samson's strength.

Okay, so I am tagging Fred and Jackie, as they are the only other bloggers that I know. Hear that kiddos? As if we didn't know enough stupid facts about each other, now I want 8 more. 8...as in 8 Mile road, 8 O'Clock coffee,8 maids a-milking, 8-ball corner pocket and 8 players on a baseball team if you don't count the catcher cuz' what does he do besides sit there?

Rules:
1. Each player starts with 8 random facts about themselves.
2. People who are tagged write a blog post about their 8 random things and post the rules.
3. At the end of your post you need to tag 8 people and post their names.
4. Don’t forget to leave them a comment and tell them they’re tagged, and to read your blog.

You Are Tagged!!!

2007-05-28T22:29:00.001-04:00

Jesse and John, you are each tagged! Check out Soggy Peanut Shells to see what I mean - and then check out Faithy's blog post entitled "They Like Me, They Really Like Me!" because she's got a better handle on it than I do! Maybe you'll know more peops to send it along to . . . .

Mexican Mother's Day

2007-05-14T23:57:00.000-04:00

As everyone knows, Mother's Day is the most popular day to dine out in America. At least, according to the National Restaurant Association (according to Wikipedia.) This being the case, I wasn't able to spend Sunday with the Momster as I deemed it more important to make lots of money by getting other people's mothers drunk. (One mom looked like she was going to pass out on the bench outside after she left! An ex- bartender herself, she tipped rather generously, so naturally, I poured the same.)

However, good fortune always being around the corner wearing a sombrero, Friday was the officially recognized Mother's Day of Mexico. So, I took Friday night off from work to take my mother out with my sister and brother-n-law (the renowned jimmymaker.) We went to Banana's Comedy Club on Rt. 17 in Hasbrouck Heights, NJ. Situated in a lovely Holiday Inn, fumigated by the lovely Turnpike corridor breeze, Banana's is a fantastic place to spend Mexican Mother's Day, or any other day really, with the ones you love. Ticket prices are $12 for the show alone, and $31.50 for the show plus three-course (one-star) meal at the restaurant beforehand. Dirt cheap! And the talent is good. In the past, before they were quite so well-known, Banana's has hosted the likes of Seinfeld, Chris Rock and many others.

The club is located off the main lobby, next to the hotel restaurant, in an unadorned banquet hall with a futon-sized stage where the comedians perform, literally, with their backs against the wall. Patrons are sat communally at long, narrow tables-- if you are unlucky enough to be seated facing away from center, you have to crane your neck awkwardly to see the action. Neck-aches withstanding, we had a wonderful evening full of belly-deep laughter, mediocre food and so-so drinks (coffee for the madre.)

The headliner, Greg Vacarolle, had great observational humor but really shined in his ability to work the crowd. A tall man, the very first line of his set as he walked to the front of the tiny stage and looked down at a heavy-set woman in full Jersey regalia (hairspray, makeup, diamonds), was: Wow, you're at ball-level... that's kind of awkward. He picked on her for being ball-level periodically throughout the night, at one point referring to her as 'ball-lady'-- right before introducing himself to her son beside her! He made fun of another table as being slow by explaining his jokes to them after the punch-lines. He referred all of his Italian jokes to Steve, a Sopranos-looking fellow seated at the table next to us, and whenever he needed a friend during an awkward silence, again Steve was his go-to.

The opening comedian's name was Chips Something-or-Other. (Not really Something-or-Other, I just can't remember. Is this a dense crowd or what, Steve?) Wearing a black cape and top-hat, he began his act with a mock magician's routine. To the tune of cheesy elevator music, never speaking a single abra or cadabra, he took a series of objects out of a trunk and created amazing illusions with them. For instance, two plastic cups inserted one inside the other go under his handkerchief. He waves his hand over the hanky, wisps away the hanky revealing the two-cups-in-one, and then, for all to see, magically removes one cup from the other, making two! Que increible! He also made a cow-bell disappear from underneath his hanky by slapping it with his other hand, sending it crashing and clanking to the back of the stage. Voila! After the mock magic and idiotic illusions, Chips did a quick set of observations mostly centered on the aging body and its infirmities.

I definitely recommend the Banana's Comedy Club. All of us had our share of disappointment at UCB, but in my two visits to BCC there's been nothing but knee-slapping and tears shooting from eyeballs. Also, I tip my sombrero to Mothers everywhere. Keep on doing that strange drive-me-crazy/love-me-like-a-rock thing that noone can accomplish quite like yous.

Mom, Heather and I (goofy, but not drunk.)

Overheard in Brooklyn

2007-05-11T15:54:00.000-04:00

A couple is on the train, filling out some kind of application.

Dude: Okay, what's it say here? Race? Why the fuck I gotta put down that I have a race? I'm not black.

Chick: That's just stupid. Why would they want you to put that?

Dude: Yeah! This is some stupid shit. They want me to put down that I'm black, and I'm not. What the fuck?

Chick: You know what? Leave it blank. And if they ask you, tell them that you don't have any race in you. They can't ask about that kind of shit anyway.

from unfurnished brooklyn

Estudiando Espanol

2007-05-08T00:32:00.000-04:00

I rode the B train to 104th St this evening to attend my first-of-eight Spanish classes at the Taller Latino Americano, a non-profit arts and education organization that offers conversationally-modelled Spanish classes, hosts live music and dance performances and readings, and boasts a gallery space displaying arts of all cultures and varieties. The train ride was pleasant, except for a brief eruption of ignorance from a raving, despicable anti-semite who thanked George W Bush aloud for promising to veto the expansion of existing hate-crime law to include sexual orientations, which he mistook as a threat against his being hideously cursed with diarrhea-stained teeth. After his exit, I scanned through a Spanish dictionary with nervous, sweaty hands (a la Caitie) and felt the flicking of butterfly wings in my stomach. Realize, it's been 3-plus years since I sat in a classroom where omnipotent teachers riddled me with quixotic questions while my Darwinian peers drooled at any sign of weakness...

Okay, I'll admit, I was a little unduly anxious about a Beginner-II Spanish class at a hip non-profit with a bunch of other hacks who turned out, of course, to be as friendly and fumbling-over-their-phrasing as I. I began to relax and smile immediately upon entering the narrow stairwell to the third-floor school; the risers were painted bright pinks, yellows, greens and blues, and every square inch of bright-blue walls was covered in lush assemblage art, multi-colored, figural swirlings...the stuff on the cover of Santana's Abraxas or from imagined Ahayuasca fevered visions, only softer, friendlier. A big metal door opened into a large, well-lit gallery with white walls covered in the artwork of Otto Franz Krone and a small office with a window and three visible classrooms (one with an older gentleman inside softly strumming a guitar, all plush with artwork) plus some hidden rooms down hallways blocked off from the gallery with draping fabrics.

The teachers were riddlers of a sort, but only in the sense of being playful with words, which is their stated teaching method. The three-hour class was divided into two halves, with a break in the middle, each half taught by a different teacher. The first half was taught by Bernado, a pony-tailed Argentinian with a wooden-bead bracelet, a shirt unbuttoned half-way to his navel, and an awesome sense of humor. ("I don't get your English language," he said. "You guys say I am sitting, never I am seated. As if to sit in a chair was active. In English, I am always laying, laying laying...but I never get laid!") He waxed poetic about the differences between Spanish and English, told us to learn with our ears and our tongues first, simply repeating everything like children, and to worry about our brains later. The second half was taught by a Dominican woman who introduced herself as Yolanda Loca. She directed a lively conversation, wrote feverishly on the dry-erase board, danced and mimed out the scenes we were attempting to describe in Spanish. At the end of class, she brought in a 12 or 13 year-old who taught us to sing (with an amazing operatic voice!) a silly child's song called El Cuerpo that melodically, more than methodically, traversed the parts of the body (En la cabeza tengo la boca / Tengo los ojos y la nariz , etc.)

My fellow classmates were a goofy, lovable bunch. There was a comfortable nervousness and a genuine kindness about everyone. (Maybe because we all had sweaty hands on the train beforehand. ..or because we had all witnessed something hateful on the way...or maybe the hypnotic artwork of the Taller was casting a spell over us, who knows?) There was a psychiatrist from New City, orginally Montreal, who was there because he was traveling soon to Argentina to study tango. There was a young Jamaican-Chinese woman in real-estate. A social worker, a costume designer, and a young IBM manager deaf in one ear. A young assistant teacher, originally from the Catskills, wearing a dress straight out of Little House on the Prarie. There was Shakira, Crystal, Gladys, Paul, Sam, Elizabeth, Meaghan y yo: eight in total. Not to toot my own horn, but of all the students, I was the most Spanglish-ally versed and may, we'll see after a class or two, say adios to these cool characters and move into the Intermediate I session.

Which brings us to the theory of relativity. Ego is lighter than matter; ergo sum total, when I came home I sounded good in front of Jackie and Jesse, but Caitie stumped me on some first-grader vocabulary, and Sigi on the stoop stupefied me with heir rapid-fire tongue which, I later learned, semper fi, is not faster than the speed of light because Sigi, who yesterday chatted it up on my behalf at a Mexican birthday party, is too slow for her Castillian roomate whose sophisticated grammar and lispy lips elude even her, so...Einstein fled Germany and helped us complete the Manhattan Project, the end.

You know what I really, really loved about the Taller, besides the killer artwork and wide wooden floors and high ceilings and shiny, happy people all around? The playful attitude towards language-learning. Bernado told us that we were to let down our guards and become as children...that with ten to fifteen verbs, all connected to the body (start with the body, he said), we could dance with anybody, for he described conversation as a dance, throwing the same words back and forth at each other like a rhythm, parroting-- he said our previous classrooms had been classical music, his classroom was going to be a jam session, and that you could not make mistakes with sounds, the only mistake was silence.

Que padre!

I can't wait for Wednesday's class. Hopefully, the Nets won't end up having any playoff games on a school-night. Unlike college, secondary, primary, kindergarten, and even pre-school which, if you don't believe me ask my mother, I dropped out of--I won't be skipping a jam session with Bernado y Yolanda y estes companeros chistosos. I can't wait to return to El Taller!

(This photo must be dated because those walls were peppered with much more art!)

The Lonely Pole

2007-05-05T09:31:00.000-04:00

Conversation that happens only in my head:

"Wow, man, those are some nasty blisters on your hands."

"Yeah . . you know, the pole dancing."

Yes! I attended my first pole dancing lesson this past friday - courtesy of the first of my two (almost free) passes to the 4th Ave Crunch Fitness in Manhattan. Jess and I had been joking about an episode of King of Queens where Doug encourages his wife Carrie to take pole dancing lessons and is appalled when she turns out to be - though enthusiastic - really, really bad. So I sauntered into that class, ready to flex my carefully cultivated dancer moves on a - surely - entirely surmountable pole.

My first clue should have been when I walked into the class wearing a baggy baseball T and an old pair of Jesse's gym shorts - everyone else (guys and girls included) were sporting tight tank tops and cute teeny weeny shorts.

So . . . I was bad.

Really, really bad.

Be it nerves, the hand lotion I'd applied earlier that day, whatever - the instant my hands touched the pole, they'd sweat, slipping right off. I was one of three beginners placed at the back left pole, and while the other two could at the very least pull themselves up and cling to the pole for long enough to distinguish between their mount and dismount, I was flopping, flailing, jumping with humiliatingly earnest little hops and lunges, attempting to restrain my extremely unsexy grunts as each go around sweatied up the pole even more.

Really, really, really bad.

And there were some pros in that class! We're talkin, girls AND guys twirling, whirling, climbing ten feet above the hard wood floor to flip themselves upside down and descend, backward, head-first, with only the strength of their clenched thighs slowing their foxy fall. Many were sassy, tattooed mamas who looked like pole dancing might be only one of a long list of sassy weeknight activities, but one or two totally looked like only moments before entering class they'd carefully tucked away their horned rimmed marian librarian glasses and let down their hair from their sensible tightly-pinned 'do's. It was these couple of gals who really rocked the 'tude, bringing much more to the table than merely the fancy tricks. I was inspired, truly.

The class was fun enough in itself that frustration was kept at bay, and actually, by the end, I had made progress. I got to the point where I could actually hold myself up off the ground, no slippage, long enough to do the required leg spread, leg cross, sexy slide down to the floor, and sinuous reverse backbend to stand up. The first time I did it I actually jumped up and down, trying to get the instructor's attention by waving both hands. I even managed to brave one of the backwards spins around the pole! True, my spine lacked the sultry arch, and it probably looked more like I had leaned and jumped backwards in an imitation of a slow, painful death swoon, but I did it!

So, practice will be required; upper arm strength will need to be cultivated; proper pole dancing attire is an obvious must.

Clear plastic platform shoes anyone?

Bringing Sexy Back

2007-05-04T02:52:00.000-04:00

Got to give it up to the groundfloor at 12 Parkside Court!

In these days of unkempt hairdos and vintage fashion, we are a well-kempt vintage.

C'mon now, we clean on schedule and run a flatbush garden of flowers, bamboo, herbs, vines, vegetables.

Are we not the coolest kids gentrifying Brooklyn without pants that look like they were painted onto an eating disorder? (As to the latter, there have been many an instantly emptied Haggan-Daez to prove my point.)

It reminds me of other places I have lived.

Not 12 St. John--though the coincidence of numbers and names would have been nice--

but 222 St. Charles: Our classmates' houses came packed with pizza boxes and beer cans. We had crepes, creme brule and cooking wine

and a tiny little tv with a vast muppet-movie collection and lots of little guppies and snails in an aquarium, and a mouse and a guniea pig and a tire-swing and a rabbit.

But I digress.

My point is simply, we're bringing sexy back.

Those other hipsters don't know how to act.

Gettysburg Spring Fest 07

2007-05-02T20:59:00.000-04:00

So I entered back into the mystical world of the college bound this past weekend, however, as a full-blown smithie during my undergrad, I was wholly uneducated to the ways of comingling, coed, and co-drinking that goes on at most US colleges, but most notably for this post's purposes, at Gettysburg College in - you guessed it - Gettysburg, PA.

Gettysburg Spring Fest 07! The very title suggests a drunken aura, a debaucherous hint at what kind of weekend it was to be . . .

Nals and I were visiting Liz mere weeks before her scheduled graduation as a PolySci major from Gettysburg College (concentration in international relations??). Nally braved the bus; I, a far more comfortable 3 1/2 hour train ride from Penn Station. My arrival in Harrisburg began our adventure, and the next 45 minutes consisted of Nally driving the Honda through the blank byways of Gettysburg (Liz having forgotten her license) with Liz forgetting that Nally was driving, and thus, causing more than one occasion for turning the car around to reclaim a missed turn, an ignored stop sign.

We had barely thrown down our travel bags in Liz's cozy, messy apartment when it was off to our first "mixer." A mixer is a function co-hosted by two or more social groups - aka a frat party, with a good measure of sorority sisters thrown in. There were boobs, beer, boys, and baaaaaaaad music - the steeves sisters danced the night away!

Morning brought an AM mixer - and no, there was no diminishment of alcohol given the early hour - who doesn't want to be choking down cough-syrup flavored koolaid and everclear? I didn't, apparently *good grief*

After a smattering of Spring Fest (cookout food, face-painting, cotton candy, and musical guest Black Violin), it was off to Liz's stage appearance as Zanthar, an 11-yr-old's multi-hued figment of imagination. Liz was brilliant, eloquent, colorful (what else would you expect from a steeves?)

The unfortunately named World War 3 (generations of smith alums rolled their eyes) was the highlight of our late afternoon. After much preparation involving camouflage, rum and cokes, black eyeliner turned face paint, and ready-to-be-trashed-clothing, we headed to our third alcohol-soaked event in less than 24 hours. WW3 turned out to be a big water fight, students grabbing anything with which to chuck, hurl, splash, careen, and dash water on guys and girls alike. It was literally hours we spent doing this in the frat's conveniently pool-shaped basement.

And then my tooth fell out.

No joke. A piece of my periodontic equipment fell into 4 inches of brown, rum soaked, sudsy (did i mention laundry detergent had been thrown into the mess? to make the floor slippery enough for sliding of course!) water. With drink, soap, and tears blurring my eyes, I attempted to serruptitiously search the abyss.

"Nally!"

"Nally! Get over here!"

"!!!!"

"Did you swallow it?!!!"

'NO!"

Within seconds our frantic parting of the non-partable waters attracted the attention of the few remaining fraternity brothers.

"What are you looking for?"

"Nothing. It's a contact. Don't worry about it"

"Are you seriously looking for a contact in this?"

The truth was soon revealed and I found myself squatting with my two sisters and four burly fraternity alums, peering into the murky depths that was their basement floor, surrounded by bass and tenor choruses of 'don't worry,' 'don't be embarrassed,' "come on, give us a smile," casting about for the fattest pearl, the biggest oyster, the gayest of rainbow trout, that heart of the ocean flung from the deck of the titanic: my tooth.

Suddenly, the biggest, burliest, sleaziest frat boy of them all paused, held out his hand to me; the tooth gleaming, soapy in his outstretched fingers. Shouts of "you saved the wedding! you saved the wedding!" filled the air as the steeves girls threw themselves upon this beast, hugs abounded, giving me an opportunity to slip off to the destroyed bathroom, rinse off my prodigal tooth, and place it back in my mouth.

Yes, I put it in my mouth. Deal with it.

the end.

The End of An Era

2007-04-30T03:09:00.000-04:00

I've been working for a restaurant, a single, 75-seat occupancy restaurant, for two years, two months, now. It's been a long-time inside a small-space with a lot of faces coming in, in, again and again, and a few that went out.

I said goodbye to two coworkers earlier. One, Whitney, had already left us four months ago and I was saying goodbye again after having not seen or spoken to her since Christmas. Poof! Gone. I also bid farewell to my friend, Eliza, who just recently turned in her badge, said I'm outta here, going to Texas to see them stars (not at all like that, of course.)

I felt two months, two years slide by as they walked out the door. I have seen others leave before these, but I was content then where I was, and I will miss these two individuals like none that have walked before.

There are many more important goodbyes to be made when it is my turn to exit (so soon). These people that you play home with, call Tio and Abuelo, call sister and girlfrien', compadre and culo, become as family...

...and the thing is, see, that we're all really terribly bored with each other sometimes...

...Whitney's birthday was Friday. She'd been in town a couple days. The friday objective was to get wasted...everyone succeeded in their goal. Whitney and I were the last wasters. She already claims not to remember much of the conversation. I am close to finishing a poem to remind her. It was so weird. After so much time, we spoke of things we had never spoken of before. We were mean and nice and it was so utterly frank. We held hands on our final walk through sunrise. We held each other's backs against the strangers we both attracted...it is (was) our job to invite company. We clipped roses and placed them in vases and deflected parasites and peddlers with love from a distance.

Dear Catastrophe Waitress by Belle & Sebastian

Dear Catastrophe Waitress
Dear Catastrophe Waitress

I'm sorry if you seem to have the weight of the world over you
I cherish your smile
There's a word of peace on your lips
Say it and with tenderness I'll cherish you, I'll cherish you

Dear Catstrophe Girlfriend
Dear Catstrophe Girlfriend
I'm sorry if he hit you with a full can of coke it's no joke
your face is bleeding
you'll soon be leaving this town to the clowns
who worhsip no one but themselves, no one but themselves

I hate feeling this way, O,
I hate feeling this way, O,
I know that you hate it too, O,
now that your coffee's going cold, O,
all of the customers look so old, O,
honey, if I could be so bold

Dear Catastrophe Waitress
Dear Catastrophe Waitress

I'm sorry if the kids hold you in cold disregard
I know it's hard
Stick to what you know you'll blow them all to the wall
when they realize what you've been working for, what you've been working for, what you've been working for

Eliza is going to work on her Aunt and Uncle's ranch outside of Dallas for the summer. After her sister marries in August, she will be applying for the Peace Corps to be deployed by winter. Whitney is applying to commence Med School this autumn. I'm so happy for them!...even though my happiness is tempered by the sadness of their parting. O, when will we share Super Nachos again? O when, O when again, will I console a girl as beautiful and bold because some frightened little boy had hidden his ugliness and fear in a guise of control?

The two of them were a tag-team. Blondy and the Brunette, with their blocky bangs and identical stature (towering over children at 5'3'') they could've been sisters from another mister. Whitney was frequently playing with her hair in the mirror (we were really terribly bored with each other somtimes) and Eliza was laughing hysterically to all of Whintey's rants and raves (we had some of the most fun of our lives together) and when Whitney left, something wasn't right, like Eliza had lost her shadow in the broad sunlight.

And now Whitney has returned, to retrieve Eliza, and they are both bound for the next chapter of their lives, turning over the page on the Santa Fe Grill. I am going to miss being really terribly bored with them so much. I am going to miss eating and drinking together, holding hands at the end of long-ass nights, and holding each other's backs against the strangers we were (are) paid to attract.

from Sonnets to Orpheus by Rainer Maria Rilke

Every happy space through which they walk marveling
is child or grandchild of Separation. And the transformed Daphne,
feeling so laurel-like, wants you to change into wind.

Don't worry, girlfrien', darling, my little beautiful sister. I will turn into wind any day now and breeze across your face and you will bend your heavy branches to embrace my formless air. I will never ever forget two years, two months, the two of you.

Morning Glories

2007-04-29T12:44:00.000-04:00

These tiny little sprouts will become long, intertwining vines in a few months, crawling up the iron trellis that was once window bars on our house. And every morning, June through October, their flowers open in shades of pink, blue, and white to greet the dawn.

I had seeded Moonflowers beside these a few weeks ago, but none have yet shown signs of germinating. These, the glories counterparts, would shimmer white flowers with a fresh, sweet smell in the pitch of night. We're hoping to still get some poking up in the next few days.

I also just learned a new technique for working lettuce, spinach and other leafy greens that will keep us in salads plentiful all summer.

Patio Garden Part Deux

2007-04-26T22:50:00.000-04:00

So, this is what approximately 1/5 of our patio garden looks like right now. It is the rightmost raised bed, located on the right rear corner of the patio; it is constructed of brick, pulled up cement tile, and dirt, dirt, dirt - and now, flowers! Annuals mostly: marigolds, snapdragons, impatients, ruby and orange glow . . . .we've had a strange mix of sun and cloud, cool and heat, wet and dry! Already we've got some morning glory sprouts peaking up - 'sewn' less than a week ago! So we'll keep an eye on those . . . .

Also to keep an eye on: we have plans for a garden fountain! The dead stumps that have so decorously stood guard over our patio have been given purpose, meaning, an architecturally pleasing task! They are to house a small pool that will then trickle, no, pour, overflow, joyously babble from bamboo spout to spout, collecting in a smallish lovely container, only to be steadfastly pumped back up to the top of the stoic stump! Observe as our progress is made . . . . .

Reading Raymond Carver

2007-04-25T08:24:00.000-04:00

Just had a new book gifted to me by Faith - the gifting itself was memorable:

"Here, but you have to give it back . . no, no keep it, keep it forever and always."

So it goes with books that we love and feel an urgent need to share.

The book is "What We Talk About When We Talk About Love" by Raymond Carver. It's a collection of stories, most of them only 3-5 pages long - I like this emphasis on the short, short story! I love snippets - love reading them and love writing them, so this indirect encouragement is nice.

The stories in "What We Talk About" have a tremulous quality of saran wrap stretched over a gaping maw - a sparcity that shimmers over the surface of the text, allowing for only a hesitation, a mere breath of peace before the reader vaults down into a well of solitude, pain, and yearning. Somehow, this sketching of a damaged society is fiercely beautiful; even while admitting defeat, the characters seem to be striking out against their loneliness.

As this post is feeling more and more like a review, at this point I should probably select one or two or several of the stories out of the whole bunch for further recommendation or scrutiny or censure, but I dont' want to. It's the kind of book that can (and maybe should) be opened at random - the stories short enough that you are very likely to have landed on an opening paragraph - and devoured, piecemeal , in that way. My first inclination with a book is usally to read from front cover to back, but I think the secret of this book may lie within the rereading of the snippets, hundreds of times over. I feel as though I want to study each story's structure, pull apart its sentances, discover the mystery of its bare (like a brilliant spot light is bare) makings - lean, sculpted, exact, exacting.

All The Raindrops

2007-04-18T17:59:00.000-04:00

The flow of water, after a storm, or after the thaw, is an awe-inspiring wonder of these tiny moist hands of nature that are constantly at work cleaning, carving, nourishing, exchanging...

After last week's earlier minor storm (compared to the weekend's noreaster), I was walking home from the YMCA through the park along the familiar 9th Street Path, past the bandshell and the playground, descending into the vast meadow, past the dog pond and the lake's srping, over hill and down again into the Nethermead, ever down down down to the Boathouse and the Lullwater, past Camperdown Elm, under the Cleft Ridge Span, up the cobblestones to the Oriental Pavilion, alongside the Council of Busts, down the long stone steps, across the Inner Drive, under the wisteria-draped Pergola, across Ocean, down Parkside, up the Court, and until I was on the inside of the great orange doorway of our apartment, everywhere the water was flowing and babbling, clear, mustard, mud-brown, flowing, in tiny rivulets that reflected the tiniest bumps and cracks in the asphalt, in roaring gutters that filtered debris and sewers that gulped and gulped, in ponds that were murky and bloated, waterfalls fast and furious, trees and structures that were steadily dripdripdripping from their crowns...

nature in the city

2007-04-18T10:23:00.000-04:00

Was reading 12 Parkside Ct's bathroom notebook (being, at the time, otherwise engaged) this morning and re-read Johnny's brief writings on the hawks roaming Prospect Park.

(by the by, anyone fortunate enough to visit our bathroom should definitely pick up the notebook and lay down a few lines of their own - don't worry, Jess, John, and I are now all on a rotating cleaning schedule that ensures our bathroom gets scrubbed pinkly raw on a regular basis!)

something he wrote about feeling awe for nature that survives in a city . . . .

Anywhere I've lived, I've never taken enough advantage of the broad outdoors - however, I think living in Brooklyn has indeed, ironically, instilled in me a new appreciation for any scrap of tree, sky, sparrow, hawk I can get. Living next to the park has been a saving grace. I was too big of a wuss to get out in it much during these crazy cold months, but now that there's a least a hinting of spring around the corner (i actually haven't seen any weather reports recently - are we in for more snow or suN?), I hope, I plan, I WILL be in Prospect Park AND the Botanical Gardens on a regular basis.

Seeing dirty little sparrows on subway platforms always engages me, lifts my thoughts from the darker depths of commute, work, commute. These little birds dont' care that their butts should be white and not sooty grey - they pick and eat and live and chirp and fly amongst the refuse of the train tracks, making nests between the station overhangs and signs for Manhattan bound trains. They hop and explore and sing like there's something they know that I don't . . .If these little guys can be happy, productive, inspiring in their day to day livings in The Big City, why can't I? why oh why can't I?? sorry, drifted off into judy garland land there . . .

Spring has never been my favorite season (I associate these coming months with the agony of barely controllable allergies), but I think that may be changing . . . .the recent warm, wet days (albeit, they've been interspersed with cold days, snow even?) have awakened a new feeling of possibility in me, an uncurling, uncrusting of my hibernating self. It seems rain has played a special role in melting away the shell that's been protecting me; this shell, useful for things like getting a job, getting used to being a part of the work day commute, (battling the worst in people that seems to rear up in situations involving public transportation) I think has been dulling a part of me, of the things I like, like to do, like to see -- Caitlin has been a little stifled by this slightly smaller, coffee-driven, go-through-the-motions, make-it-through-the-work-day Caitie. This is coming out slightly wrong - It's not as bad as it sounds, lots of every day is good, great even - and I haven't even gotten to the part about the rain! Writing again is making me get side-tracked . . . .

so the rain . . .we had had a lot of snow, perhaps it was january or february, and the snow was old, crusted and piled up everywhere, clinging to surfaces more than blanketing them. Then, one morning, the rains came. It's amazing, now that I think of it, I don't even know if there WAS rain - I DO know that it was a warm day, warm enough to melt all that old snow. I was waiting at the Parkside Ave station for the Manhattan-bound Q train, and all the snow was melting, furiously.

Remember that scene from Hero where two of the main characters fight it out in the hall filled with fountains, stones, and Go players (huge stone Go boards! shuffleboard-like as the opposing stones are pushed back and forth with long poles!)?? Water is everywhere, dripping, dripping, making a simple, impossible music. It was like that, Parkside Ave transformed into an indescribable expression of Nature. From each overhang, water fell, steadily, unendingly, not in sheets, but individual strong drip drip drips, the sounds of it echoing in the tunnels, up at the faces of the few passengers standing there with me. I was transfixed. I listened and watched, for as long as I could, feeling clean and brightly fresh, enjoying the cold that was not goose-bump producing, but one that the folds of coat could easily block, that tightened my cheeks and cleared my vision, cold that my turned-up collar welcomed with tiny crystal joy.

Ryan Cookes It Up With "The Adventures of Shroom Man"

2007-04-18T02:32:00.000-04:00

jimmymaker, also known as Ryan Cooke in some circles, has done it again. he's brought film-making to the outer limits of man's wandering, the tragic circumstances that lead to his madness or ruin, and painted a beautiful world in its passing.

for those of you who have never seen Jimmy Maker (in which the underground sci-fi classic "The Useless Robot" is featured) or The Grand Pianist, or any of the future movies yet to be made, let me know, I can get you copies (but not of the future ones, of course.)

the talented and nutty (c'm here, squrul!) writer/director/editor really outdid himself this time by taking a day off work to become a team-ster combination writer/director/editor/cameraman/actor all-by himself...

alone in the woods...

where it is never certain...

you will find your way home.

As in all good pieces of cinema, this one's sparse but spectacular soundtrack is perfectly placed.

where will you go when this day is over
a gambler's purse
lays on the road
straight to your door
snakes have gone crazy tonight
winding their way out of sight

a laugh, a joke, a sentiment wasted
seasons of strangers
they come and go
doldrums are pounding
cheapskates are clowning this town
who could disown themselves now

engineer, slow down this old train
cinders and chaff
laugh at the moon
nightbirds will cackle
rotting like apples on trees
sending their dead melodies
to me

Beck- Dead Melodies

Watch The Adventures of Shroom Man on YouTube!

The Sexiness of a Good Shampoo . . .

2007-04-15T13:20:00.000-04:00

. . that is, shampoo the verb - not shampoo the noun - as in "that was a great shampooing" and "she shampooed the beejeezus outta me." There is just something somewhat sinfully luxurious about getting your hair cleaned, rinsed, and cut by a professional. The total submission into another's hands, the surprising comfort of a molded sink basin against your neck, those fingers that scratch while the suds flow! Ok, ok, so it is sexy, but most of all, it's complete relaxation - to a degree that still surprises me when I go to a "salon" every other year or so (laziness+finance=multiple years between trims). Once you've properly reclined in your seat, a towel wrapped around your shoulders, head back and exposed throat feelings slightly vulnerable, you hear the first hiss of high-pressure water jets against the sink. Your shampooer tests the water, waiting for the temperature to be just right (hot, but not scalding), and then the barely felt pull of the rushing water as it soaks your locks, your roots, tickles your forehead and back of the neck. All strands are soaked, none are missed - she gets at the back by cradling and lifting the back of your head in one sweeping motion, dashing the water against it, a curtain of water cushioning the small of your skull. (This sweeping, lifting motion is expertly repeated throughout the soak, shampoo, shampoo, rinse, conditioner, rinse order of events.) Once your hair is sufficiently wet (this delightful process takes longer, obviously, for a long-haired lady than, for example, jesse), the hiss of the water fades as the pressure is decreased to silence. The absense of roaring water is replaced by that first sound of shampoo being pumped into a cupped hand. I wait, breathe held, for that first smell of salon quality shampoo - the smell of clean, soft hair. Strong fingers squeeze the shampoo into your hair, massaging, scratching, gathering the wild flocks of natty, straw-split hairs into a sudsing, slippery warm bundle. The rinse is pleasant, but brief, as a second round of shampoo and massage are soon to follow. The second rinsing is longer, more thorough, a cleansing of magnanimous proportions as grease and dustbunnies and subway slime and smog are washed away, down the drain. The water, again, hissed down to a gentle pause. The conditioner is decanted, and again you wait for that first, slightly different, sniff. This is the stuff that will coat your locks, hugging them in a fresh and soothing big bear hug, wrapping delightful pro-vitamins and silky soft softeners around you. This conditioner is massaged into your head in a slightly different way - not the energetic, soap sud producing vigor of the shampoo cycle, but a rich, slower, more mindful infusing of the botanicals into your freshly scrubbed scalp. The next and final rinsing is more subdued, a winding down of the cleansing process, a gentle return to silence and stillness. The experience has been both emotionally exhausting and invigorating. You are torn between wanting to fling your fresh de-stinkified hair into the wind and taking a long nap. A happy compromise is reached, as you spend the next good chunk of time decompressing in the cutters/trimmers/stylists chair . . . . .

Go Mets!

2007-04-07T09:05:00.000-04:00

Now, I've traditionally been a Yankee fan, having grown up during the classic years of Mattingly, Winfield, and Reggie Jackson. I remember cheering for Mattingly's home run streak in the summer of '87 with the boys playing poker in the background and Mom sitting next to me munching on wings and dip.

My interest in baseball has long since waned, but how can I not be stunned at the beginning the Mets have had this year? In 4 games they have gone 4-0 and outscored their opponents 31 to 3! It is the second best offensive beginning in the last century! They destroyed the defending World Champs St. Louis Cards and kept them in three games to just 2 runs. Now, Damian, you still planning on getting those tickets throughout the summer right? Cause I'll sure be interested in seeing some exciting action if this is how our orange and blues is going to play this year.

Falafel Tomorrow!

2007-04-06T07:26:00.000-04:00

I've always been a little shy of the deep fryer. That much oil sitting on the stove and tossing things in it to cook doesn't seem like the healthiest of cooking techniques. However, I've always been a huge fan of the middle eastern food falafel. Almost any food item from that area of the world piques my culinary and cultural interests -- hummus, tabouli, stuffed grape leaves, turkish coffee, hookahs.

It only seems right that my first attempt at deep frying should come this Easter weekend, honoring the food stuffs of that land from where the religious holidays of this week are rooted. A big beautiful spread of falafel, pita, yogurt sauce, tomatoes, hot sauce, and tahini to make messy delicious sandwiches is just what this weekend is all about. And Jesus rising from the dead, of course.

Wii-niors

2007-04-04T08:35:00.000-04:00

Seniors are getting together at bars and having Wowling leagues. Hopefully they're in better shape than Damian and don't throw their shoulders out.

Brooklyn in the middle of change

2007-03-13T20:38:00.000-04:00

This summer we will be starting only our 4th year in Brooklyn, but we could feel that the change had already begun. Even in our little neighborhood of Prospect Lefferts Gardens we saw it happening before our eyes when every couple of months another UHaul truck pulled up onto Parkside Court. WNYC just posted online a repot entitled Gentrification in Brooklyn One Bodega at a Time.

It feels strange being talked about on the radio.

Mooninites Attack!

2007-02-02T07:18:00.000-05:00

Alert! Alert! Everyone take shelter! The mooninites have come to terrorize your cities and take your children! Hide your women, arm yourselves with eye lazers and protection from the Foreigner Belt! Run for your lives!

Madame President?

2007-01-21T08:23:00.000-05:00

Yesterday morning Hillary Clinton made her official announcement that she's running for president in next year's elections. It will not be the first time a woman has run for the post.

American Women Presidents says:
"The campaign to elect women to the U.S. presidency began over 130 years ago when Victoria Claflin Woodhull pronounced herself a candidate for U.S. president in the 1872 election, in The New York Herald on April 2, 1870." Woodhull ran for the office at a time when women were still banned from the voting booths. It wasn't until 1964 though that a woman ran on a major party canditate.

Senator Clinton, however, is the first woman to be the front-runner in the bid for a party's nomination. She has a large lead over Obama, and a support team of strategists that dominates other canditates - including Bill Clinton. What an interesting White House we would have with Hillary in the Oval Office and Bill working as First Gentleman!

Hours after Hillary announced her candidacy, the political action committee EMILY's List endorsed her. What interested me about this org is that EMILY is not a woman - its an acronym for "Early Money Is Like Yeast," from the political saying, "Early money is like yeast, because it helps the dough rise." Hillary already has a massive war chest of campaign funds; back-up like this can only help. I'm psyched.

Shots to the head

2007-01-11T06:58:00.000-05:00

Talking with John last night about the additional 20,000 troops Bush is sending over to Bagdhad in the hopes of stifling the brewing civil war there got me thinking. He had said that he hopes it'll work - and I do too - but the fire of war has burned too deep for this population that will not be held in check by a few thousand Americans - even in a single city, no less the entire country. Just yesterday there were 60 people found around Bagdhad with signs of torture and gunshot wounds to the head. There were two incidents of car bombs, and another suicide bomber blew himself up in a busy market in the northern town of Tal Afar. The day before 40 people were found around the city in similar execution style deaths while at least two incidents of mortar rounds destroyed houses in cities other than Bagdhad.

Every month for the past 6 months more than a thousand civilians have been killed in Iraq - in Sept alone more than 3,000 people were killed. Each month more than a hundred Iraqi police / military personnel are killed, and last month, at least 3 American soldiers were killed every day. You can read some of the stories that we've stopped getting on the American front pages here at iCasualties. Not a pretty picture, but its the truth -- and it clearly states that this war will be put down by outside influence. We started this thing, but we're not going to be able to stop it. India / Pakistan had to figure it out on their own. Lebanon / Syria war took 14 years to end (and there's still much to figure out) but they did it on their own. Some group will be in power, whether its the Sunnis or the Shiites, but most Iraqis will say that they preferred life with Saddam in power than what's happening now. We could send in 100,000 more troops and it would make little difference in the long run.

This is now an Iraqi question for them to figure out - and in the meantime we are throwing away billions of dollars (over $1 trillion in the last 3+ years) that could be put to enormously good use in a plethora of other situations instead of Iraq. Let's get out.

What A Dream!

2007-01-02T12:28:00.000-05:00

Take a look at this guy, Nicholoas Negroponte, and what he is trying to accomplish. Jesse-- I told you about him when I first heard his story on NPR and you were filled with questions as to how his dream would work. This article has some of the answers and you can use the sidebar-links to search past articles and other websites for additional answers.

It's so inspiring to hear about initiatives like this. It keeps alive the idea that a dream can be accomplished, as long as there is enough talent and motivation behind that dream to carry its bulk. Who knows, maybe one day the talented authors of Optimism From The Hills will combine their niche talents in an effort to do some unthinkably large good deed for the world.

For now, let's watch Mr. Negroponte and be inspired.

Cash Crops

2006-12-19T19:39:00.000-05:00

What do you think of when you hear cash crops? Tobacco, corn, wheat -- right? They do sell in the billions of dollars. In the US, corn sells appx $23 billion; over $17 billion worth of soybeans each year are sold from US farms. These are dwarfed, now, by .... Marijuana. Yep. The 10,000 tonnes of good ole weed is now worth over $35 billion and has become America's biggest cash crop. And still the government refuses to legalize it, and even make money off it from taxes. Of course, should that happen, it would no longer have the same value it does now. But it would still make a shitload more sense then turning millions of pot smokers into criminals and wasting billions on the never ending 'war on drugs'.

2006-12-18T04:39:00.000-05:00

Custer and Crazy Horse at the Battle of The Little Bigdorm

We lived in Schlicter, one of the far lake-side dorms
reserved for the pimply and egg-headed,
the stoners and sociopathic programmers.

Neither Lord nor Yeoman of the outcast tribe,
I was everyman and nomad, roamed freely,
known by numerous names.

It was my room first. He only moved in after
my first roommate, fearing his life, had fled by night.
Before he would leave, he would stand and fight.

He was regimented and decorated.
Every night he counted his medals,
every morning he rose to train.

I lived like an old Plains Indian.
I hunted in bursts, lived off every scrap.
Everything within reach was as much mine as not.

I fucked when I pleased, publically and unquietly.
Clothing was optional and seldom clean.
My clan was always welcome and often present.

He scheduled regular visits from his girlfriend
to coincide with my absences. He crossed town
every weekend to pal around with his J-Crew.

It was my room first. He only moved in after
the Great Campus Father sent him with treaties
based on premises which I could not conceive.

I did not respect them. Raids were launched,
counterattacks returned, decoys deployed.
All the while he bloomed in anger.

I did not see the point. If I did not approve
of his posters, why should he approve of my hours?
If I couldn't stand his music, why should he stand my light?

We lived in opposition, not that I minded much.
To me, it was just more fun and games.
Counting coup as satisfying as making gains.

Maybe I was the bad roommate.
Maybe his ways were better ways
and my ways just stood in the way

of the University's manifest destiny.
Maybe when my means dried-up I went the way
of the Condor, but I never "came in", and it was my room first...

copyright-John Eward "Crazy Dork" Lovrich

Promotion Commotion

2006-12-13T08:32:00.000-05:00

Daniel, a four-star French restaurant on the upper-east side, is being sued by 7 Latino and Bangladeshi employees who claim that they have been the victims of racial harassment and discrimination. The harassment end of the lawsuit involves allegations of the management verbally-abusing the employees with racial epithets and stereotypes. Fortunately, I have never seen this sort of abuse in the various restaurants I've worked in. The discrimation half of the charge, however, is based on white workers who win promotions to higher position with less experience, seniority and qualification than the sueing not-white workers. Working as busboys and foodrunners, they claim to have trained newly-hired white-workers for the higher-paying positions that have been denied them. This sort of thing, I hate to say, I have seen in all of the restaurants I've worked in. Sometimes there are questions of the legal status of the employees involved. In other cases, the mostly Latino workers are legal citizens of the United States who are still denied front-end positions because of their skin-tone and accents. It's a shame. Nothing irks me more than seeing a system of social promotion not based on merit but on social standing. Sometimes the discrimination is based not on race but on age, gender, or even education. I don't understand why someone with a college degree should automatically be promoted above and earn more than someone with a high-school degree who shows more aptitude and dedication in the same profession? Then again, maybe that is the definition of the American Dream: Anybody, no matter how incompetent or unqualified, can get promoted based solely on belonging to the wealthy, all-white, boys club. All the way to the office of the President of the United States.

A Day In The Life

2006-12-05T04:05:00.000-05:00

Recently, a fellow-waitress (oxymoron?) was telling me about some drunkenly realized theory of a completely new and revolutionary world order that involved people who were like-minded moving into tribal communities established in the types of environments they would like-mindedly prefer. The idea being we would all relocate to areas that consisted solely of people with whom we got along.

Strangely, she used New York (like-minded?) as an example. According to her, people who move to New York enjoy seizing life moment-by-moment, grabbing at as many experiences as possible. Four equal seasons changing from one to the other complements this. There are only so many summer days to revel half-naked, so many autumn days to take walks in the park, so many winter days to do all your holiday shopping, etc.

I have difficulty imagining everyone who has moved to New York as fitting this description. Maybe she's partially correct about people who move to New York and end up working in the restaurants. Thus, we were having this conversation comprised of imaginative logic through our tired eyes. All I know is that I love my days off in this town. In a single evening you can go from a Bikram Yoga class, to a poetry reading at a 3-story bar styled after Post-War USSR, to a smoky late-night after-hours poker game. There are libraries, musuems, parks, stores, bridges, rivers, beaches, theaters, venues, gigs, public rallies, private alleys, galleries, restaurants, bars, sections, neighborhoods, boroughs, and beyond.

Another friend who didn't want to see me do any longer-than-vacation travelling said, My father was right--this is the best city to live in. All I know is, I love a day off in New York City.

I can't wait for tomorrow.

It Is Civil War

2006-11-27T22:37:00.000-05:00

Speaking about Iraq being on the brink of civil war, Kofi Annan recently had this to say: "I think given the developments on the ground, unless something is done drastically and urgently to arrest the deteriorating situation, we could be there. In fact we are almost there." I understand why the White House or the Pentagon would want to postpone labelling Iraq's current situation as a civil war, but why would the U.N. beat around the (no pun intended) bush? With the sectarian violence raging out of control like it has for two years, why call it anything else? What is the definition of a civil war?

Well, according to a recent article in the Times (Ed Wong, 11/26/06), there are two main criteria that define a civil war. 1) The warring parties are from same country and vying for control of political center, separatist state, or for a significant change in policy. 2) At least 1,000 killed, a 100 minimum from each side. The second condition has been fulfilled since the earliest days after the invasion. Some estimates put the death toll for Iraqis at 50,000 since March of 2003. The first condition is debated by the White House which claims that the fighters are terrorists motivated only by a desire to sow chaos, that there is no political objective and no clearly indentifiable leader.

Huh?

The seemingly endless occurrences of revenge killings and suicide attacks carried out in ethnically homogenous neighborhoods makes me think of another term besides civil war. Genocide. If not battling for control of the government, what we are seeing is an increasingly violent segregation of the Sunni and Shiite communities within Iraq. Is it impossible to imagine this situation continuing to deteriorate until there are larger-scale, highly coordinated ethnic cleansings of entire neighborhoods and regions?

Kofi Annan, a rose is a rose by any other name. And Iraq is certainly no rose, sir. Iraq is either involved in a civil war or in a two-way genocidal conflict. It is no longer feasible to believe what is happening is simply an insurgency against the Iraqi governement and US occupation, nor an international terrorist campaign a la Al-Qaeda/Hezbollah/Iran/Syria on Western-styled democracy taking root in the Middle East. Iraqis are killing Iraqis over the direction of their country, over who controls the various ministries and security forces, over eye-for-eye and tooth-for-tooth cycles of violence.

Ignoring this reality is getting Iraq nowhere fast.

Hope for Tomorrow

2006-11-08T03:41:00.000-05:00

Happy Day, Happy Day, O Happy Day!

Though it's still too soon to be certain, it seems the people of America (those that showed up to vote, at least) have chosen so far to give 4 Senate seats, 28 House seats and 6 Governorships to the Democrats. With a few more possibly on the way. O, Happy Day! I don't believe it! I don't believe I've felt this good about the state of America, the state of the national political conscience, and the integrity, security and dependability of the voting process in many years. (Six to be exact.)

A dark cloud hung over our heads, my friends. For six long years.

It started in November of 2000, with a narrow election coming down to a single state with the narrowest of margins evident in final exit polling. Gore won. No, Bush won (if you check Fox News.) Bush announces victory.

A long, dark cloud. Supreme Court announces its decision of the Florida recount. It doesn't count. Bush wins on gift of Florida. Gore loses despite popular vote.

A long, dark cloud. Falling buildings. The mass massacre. Sudden vulnerability.

A long, dark cloud. War on the way. Go get him. Bomb those hills till the rat emerges. Smoke him out. Squash his friends. A long, dark cloud. Wedding in Uruzgan.

A long, dark cloud. WMD's. Mobile bioweapons labs. Aluminum tubes. 'Failed' Inspections. Go get him. (Presaging, Ladies & Gentlemen, We Got Him.) Bomb Baghdad till the rat emerges. Smoke him out of his hole. Liberate his enemies. Disband his friends.

A long, dark cloud. Where are the WMDs? A long, dark cloud. Abu Ghraib, X-Ray, John Ashcroft, Bremer. (Ladies & Gentlemen, We Got Him.) Beheadings. CIA says Civil War. US Toll +1000.

A long, dark cloud. Bush defeats Kerry. Tin Soldiers and Diebold Coming, All Comes Down to Ohio. The idiot reelected. Incompetence institutionalized. Arrogance promoted.

A long, dark cloud. Fallujah. A long, dark cloud. 1000 killed in bridge stampede. Shrine massacres. A long, dark cloud. Death Squads. Drill holes in corpses.

A long, dark cloud. Days of forewarning. A long, dark cloud. Predictions of disaster. A long, dark cloud. Bodies floating in rivers. Bodies turned around at bridges. Bodies crammed into the Superdome.

A long, dark cloud. Corruption in the halls. Abramoff. Delay. Ney. Foley. Haggard. A long, dark cloud. US Death Toll +2800. Iraq Toll Untold.

But today, my friends, today the American people asked for change.

Tomorrow, my friends, we wait to see if that change is delivered.

I have hope that this little ray of sun peaking through the long, dark cloud presages a brighter tomorrow.

October in Central Park

2006-10-30T06:51:00.000-05:00

After a magnificent lunch of chicken alfredo with sundried tomatoes, we wandered over to the south end of Central Park on a beautiful Saturday afternoon.

Cait and I went for a stroll through Central Park last weekend, so I'll get some of the pics up for you guys. This was at the beginning of the Mall.

We proceeded to be very lazy and hang out by the fountain at the Bethseda Terrace for a nice long while.

Then we found this guy, Thoth, doing solopera under a bridge span singing in a very strange language, and in very different pitches, while playing single notes on his violin. He danced and jiggled his ankle tamborines and generally put on a very comedic show to his impromptu audience.

And I'm having difficulty getting all this in the order I want. Fred! How do you get your photo blog so nice and organized?!

When light was falling, I grabbed some shots of the incredible angles on 47th street.

New Blog

2006-10-27T10:47:00.000-04:00

Hey guys--I've started a blog for my writings called "Soggy Peanut Shells." Don't know how often I'll be posting but it seems like it would be a useful thing to have a link I can send peops to who are interested in my writing. I think you also should be able to get to it using cmsteeves.blogspot.com Happy reading!

Happy Roomie Moments....

2006-10-27T10:45:00.000-04:00

Johnny dancing to staying alive, knees too old to jive, throwing his lanky-ness all over the living room....

breakfast

2006-10-27T08:53:00.000-04:00

I found a quail in my peanuts this morning. Or rather, a quail-shaped peanut. It was so cute and little, with a fat little bottom and an itty bitty sloping head. I haven't eaten it yet. It's resting amongst the peanut shell graveyard that's spilling over my plate. I'll probably eat it soon. Peanuts--even quail-shaped ones--are meant to be eaten. Apparently there are lots of things you can do with peanuts, but I still think their most important use is to be eaten. How many peanuts are too many? 15? 30? The whole bag? Someone told me that eating the papery skins is good for you--fiber? I don't like to eat the skins. When I eat a peanut, I like to squeeze one end of the shell so it splits, then I pull the two halves apart and dump the (hopefully) two little nuts into my hand. The big ones are the most satisfying to crack open, but sometimes the little ones are extra tasty--I don't know why. So anyway, I like to pop the nuts out of their skins, sometimes shooting them across the table so they have to be retrieved prior to ingestion. What remains just adds to the little peanut shell graveyard. I have to dig amongst the bones and whispery skins to find more nuts, find the live ones. Peanut shells don't seem like regular garbage to me. I imagine them all getting together somewhere---peanut Heaven??--piles and piles of the stuff. Dry and light and skittering over blacktop, pooling in potholes. The saddest sight in the world is a wet, soggy peanut shell.

Another Poem If You Can Stand It...

2006-10-20T11:38:00.000-04:00

Night Journey - Theodore Roethke

Now as the train bears west,
Its rhythm rocks the earth,
And from my Pullman berth
I stare into the night
While others take their rest.
Bridges of iron lace,
A suddeness of trees,
A lap of mountain mist
All cross my line of sight,
Then a bleak wasted place,
And a lake below my knees.
Full on my neck I feel
The straining at a curve;
My muscles move with steel,
I wake in every nerve.
I watch a beacon swing
From dark to blazing bright;
We thunder through ravines
And gullies washed with light.
Beyond the mountain pass
Mist deepnes on the pane;
We rush into a rain
That rattles double glass.
Wheels shake the roadbed stone,
The pistons jerk and shove,
I stay up half the night
To see the land I love.

Makes you want to cross-country, doesn't it? I love the 6th-9th lines. They perfectly capture the motion and the mood of staring out a window and travelling at great speeds. The way you see everything but only for an instant before it blurs into oblivion and the next object, and the next object, and the next... Our minds, in these situations, tend to mirror the passing landscape, with one thought giving way to another, each idea fading quickly as it appeared. I love the fact that he is the only one awake on the train. Oh, how we dreamers like to stay awake past the hour when all the pragmatists have taken their rest. It is Then and There that the secrets, spirits, serpents and lyrics unveil themselves to us. If we are zen enough, perhaps we return to the waking world with a lesson for life in hand; if we are quick enough with pen, perhaps we capture an aspect of this ether-realm to share with the disbelieving daylight.

Don't Get Arrested...

2006-10-17T12:30:00.000-04:00

...even on a misdemeanor. Private database companies are buying criminal records from the courts and various law-enforcement agencies and selling the information to employers, property-owners, and interested parties of any sort. So, a petty offense that the courts and police have erased from their records could still exist on a private database available to any private or public entity that thinks its worth the price to search your name. Got arrested for peeing in public in 1999 going to present a problem buying a condo down the road? Of course, not. Misdemeanor. Expunged from my record years ago. Really? Your application to buy is returned by the Condominium after they view outdated personal information sold willy-nilly by public institutions to private vultures.

Check out the article.

Party time again baby!

2006-10-14T11:56:00.000-04:00

I was actually trying to post from school yesterday, but the server we were using wasn't letting me upload photos, so that'll get up here soon.

However, we do have another party I wanted to share about: The Steeves' house engagement party! The entire family is involved in cooking, cleaning, and taking care of yard work last night and this morning in preparation for the festivities today. There'll be so much good food to eat! And papa Steeves and I hand picked a case of wine last night, so bring your appetities! We're looking to extend the party deep into the evening so if you boys have the time / interest to stay the night, please do.

Yesterday was exactly 1 year to the date before the wedding and today is exactly 1 year to the day. We woke up to a beautiful sunrise and noticed that the lawn was covered in frost! So, next year this time, when we'll all be out on that lawn, we're gonna have to make sure we're bundled up and have plenty of firewood to keep us warm - that and lots of alcohol. The morning after should be a good recovery too, with mamosas and a catered brunch!

We'll take a look over at the wedding site this afternoon sometime too to check out the colors and give you boys a look at what the inside of the Playhouse is -- and to give you an idea as to where you'll be making your toast from!

See you soon!

Excuse Us, But We Were Experiencing Technical Difficulties For The Past 6 Weeks!

2006-10-13T14:12:00.000-04:00

Uh, hello? Anybody out there? What's going on, my fellow hill-dwellers? Where's the optimism, the pessimism, the humor, the insight, the passion? It's been well over a month since anyone has published. It's probably been closer to two months since anyone other than I has published and I know how much y'all hate my poem posts....So, get on it.

Damian- I would like to know how Game 1 of the Mets/Cardinals series went C'mon, this is a magical sport being played by a magical team in a magical time! Is there nothing you would like to share with your fellow hill-dwellers and our enormous online audience?

And Jesse/Catie- How was Cider Day? Was it any different from other years, now that the two of you are engaged to be wedlocked? How about the Party? Is there any message you would like to send out to all of your lovely friends who showed up and represented like rock-stars in honor of your love?

Jesse- new position?

Catie- new home?

Johnny- is there anything going in your life worth sharing with the hill-dwellers?

I'll get back to you on that. I'm a little busy right now and it's so much easier to put pressure on you guys to write something than to come up with something myself.

Peace!

Love!

Showtime!

Poem for Today

2006-09-07T11:32:00.000-04:00

The Passage by Robert Creeley

What waiting in the halls,
stamping on the stairs,
all the ghosts are here tonight
come from everywhere.

Yet one or two,
absent, make
themselves felt by that,
break the heart.

Oh did you know I love you?
Could you guess?
Do you have, for me,
any tenderness left?

I cry to hear them,
sad, sad voices.
Ladies and gentlemen
come and come again.

I read this poem earlier today at The Poets House which is a ridiculously cool and totally free resource-center that sponsors events and houses a 45,000 volume collection. I know, I know...sounds pretty lame for everyone out there save us few poetry-plucking pansies. Anyway, in the middle of the collection is this wonderfully relaxed reading room where people go about their business of reading, writing or napping in mutually-respected solitude. After reading some incomprehensible old-school San Francisco surrealism, I turned to a couple collections of Creeley's much more accesible work. For the record, accessibility is everything in poetry to me. I guess I'd rather write a single Beatle's song than a hundred Rachmaninoff concertos. Afterwards, I took the 6 train down to City Hall and from there a slow amble with many stops across the Brooklyn Bridge. Unsurprisingly, my mind was visited by Ghosts of Relationships Past, Present and Future. I was both gladdened and saddened by a procession of memories. Although a simple poem, there is such sincerity in the pain, such palpability in the speaker's remorse, that it has the hard feel of something undeniably authentic...say, an antique mahogany letter-writing desk as opposed to a particle-board and plastic computer station. So leave a window open for your ghosts tonight. They may no longer be here in person but they still have something to say.

(Oh, by the way, haters. I posted this yesterday, it just didn't publish for some infuriating reason.)

Angela's Ashes

2006-08-20T00:27:00.000-04:00

I'm ashamed it's taken me till now to read this memoir published ten years ago by Frank McCourt.

His gift for dialogue that leaps off the page and jigs around your ear is unmatched. Without any ability to recreate the accent aloud, I read through the pages and heard conversations in perfect, regionally-varied brogues as the McCourt family travelled from Belfast and Antrim in the North to Dublin and Limerick in the south. And it's not just F.M.'s ability to recreate an Irish dialect on the page, but also to do justice to Brooklyn's manifold tongues:

Awright, awright, you Irish. Jeezoz! Trouble. Trouble.

Bet your ass, said Joe [Cacciamani]. I see them babes comin' at me I jump inna Hudson River.

Mrs. Leibowitz: Wait, chiltren, wait, darlinks. Won't be two seconds...Look at him. Little actor awready. So, chiltren, how's your mother?...So pee, awready. You boys pee and we see you mother. Oh, Mrs. McCourt. Oy vey, darlink. Look at this. Look at these twins. Naked. Mrs. McCourt, what is mazzer, eh? The baby she is sick? So talk to me. Poor woman. Here turn around, missus. Talk to me. Oy, this is one mess. Talk to me, Mrs. McCourt.

Told from the author's perspective, the descriptions and observations mature and develop as the author grows older, as does his language, so that at any point in the narrative you feel as if you are living inside his mind journeying from naivette to anguish to revelation. His ability to recreate the emotions and thoughts according to the awareness of a 3 year old early in the book is incredible.

The saddest stories of death and hunger and poverty are related without pity or piety and are more often than not mixed in with a sense of humor that only the truly miserable and impoverished can maintain. This book had me laughing at things that I'm sure will condemn me to the Eternal Doom with the rest of the Presbyterians ;-)

When I look back on my childhood I wonder how I survived at all. It was, of course, a miserable childhood: the happy childhood is hardly worth your while. Worse than the ordinary miserable childhood is the miserable Irish childhoood, and worse yet is the miserable Irish Catholic childhood.

I can't recommend 'Angela's Ashes' highly enough. It is one of the most powerfully honest and human works of literature I have ever read. Even if my Aunt insists that the author, whom she has met, is a pompous and garrulous self-righteous son-of-a-bitch, that boy can write his ass off and manage to say some profound things of the human heart along the way.

Ah, pick it up, will ye?

1st World Pretensions

2006-08-18T14:31:00.000-04:00

Just read an article on BBC's site about the wealth gap in Brazil that focused on menial jobs in what it considered Brazil's 'informal economy'. Such menial jobs that create employment, but not productivity (according to the argument), include 'ascensoristas', or elevator operators in corporate buildings, people who stand outside passport photo machines feed your money in and cut your picture to size, street vendors and 'catadores de lixo', dumpster divers who rework and resell their finds

The author states early on, "When Brazilian companies want to advertise vacancies for manual or clerical workers, they often rent space on the backs of sandwich-board men... [it] points to a wider tendency in Brazil of employing people in menial jobs that, in more developed countries, do not even exist."

Well, the UK must be an oasis of opportunity that does not exist here in the US. I've never been across the pond, the pound is the premier currency, so that must be the case. Because here in the 'more developed' country of the US, I see hundreds of men employed wearing sandwich boards advertising fitness clubs and gentlemen lounges, thousands of folks passing out flyers for stores selling discount watches and electronics, hundreds of people standing on the side of roads and highways selling water bottles, watermelons, and all types of Chinese-manufactured junk that doesn't represent much more than recylcled trash to my mind.

Maybe the author should visit New York, the financial epicenter of the free world, before he makes such absurd claims that menial and unproductive jobs for poor people serving the rich only exist in 2nd and 3rd world nations of inequality.

Poem...a week?

2006-08-16T10:38:00.000-04:00

Okay, okay. I should be ashamed, I know. After publicly pledging to post one a day, I fell off after two days. Pretty sad. Save your comments and wise-cracks for somebody who isn't a 9th degree black-belt in the deadly martial art of Fuk-Yoo-Fu. How about a poem every Wednesday, the hump in the middle of the workweek's aching back, the hardest to spell and most phonically phunky of days, the day with the most letters that can be rearranged to spell sadWendey...o, sad Wendey, don't cry, today's is a happy poem:

Last Gods - by Galway Kinnell

She sits naked on a rock
a few yards out in the water.
He stands on the shore,
also naked, picking blueberries.
She calls. He turns. She opens
her legs showing him her great beauty,
and smiles, a bow of lips
seeming to tie together
the ends of the earth.
Splashing her image
to pieces, he wades out
and stands before her, sunk
to the anklebones in leaf-mush
and bottom-slime--the intimacy
of the visible world. He puts
a berry in its shirt
of mist into her mouth.
She swallows it. He puts in another.
She swallows it. Over the lake
two swallows whim, juke, jink,
and when one snatches
an insect they both whirl up
and exult. He is swollen
not with ichor but with blood.
She takes him and sucks him
more swollen. He kneels, opens
the dark, vertical smile
linking heaven with the underearth
and licks her smoothest flesh more smooth.
On top of the rock they join.
Somewhere a frog moans, a crow screams.
The hair of their bodies
startles up. They cry
in the tongue of the last gods,
who refused to go,
chose death, and shuddered
in joy and shattered in pieces,
bequeathing their cries
into the human mouth. Now in the lake
two faces float, looking up
at a great maternal pine whose branches
open out in all directions
explaining everything.

Remeber skinny-dipping at Harriman, speaking the language of faeries and fungi, watching the slow gaping mouths of fish peck at the organic matter floating up from inbetween the slimy tendrils of green-things at the bottom, the pubis of the lake, and our hair lifting off our bodies and waving in the viscous breeze, bottomless blue skies stretching over hillsides bristling with brocolli, the wise-quacks of tough-guys disguised as slowly sailing ducks, the warm exfoliating whetstone upon which we laid our near-nude bodies until our muscles and skeletons could regain their terrestrial proportions...that's what this poem makes me think of everytime. Hollaback if I'm making any sense!

On the Verge

2006-08-13T01:34:00.000-04:00

There is a big change coming... I've been playing... We'll soon host our own web services, display all of our photos online, run our own blog, and have a brand new shared canvas on which to paint the story of our lives (mostly words and thoughts) ...

Start using linux kids... it is by far the way of the future.

Mark it!

2006-08-04T15:12:00.000-04:00

Engagement parties:

1. September 23rd at the Brooklyn house. For the kids. Pot luck style, tell anyone you know - remember the rule: 2nd degree friends. Please bring either an appetizer, a main dish, or a dessert. If you'd like, some kind of drink as well. Party starts at 7pm and runs through the night. Let me know if you'll be staying.

2. October 14th at the Steeves' house in central jersey. This is the family party and all that's required is that you show. Probably an afternoon to evening party with the immediate and secondary families. You'll all be meeting and being re-introduced to lots of peeps here. But that'll make the wedding that much cooler when you've already met them.

Mark the dates!

Hankapi

2006-07-30T17:38:00.000-04:00

Engagement! Weddings! Marriage!

Caitie and I are engaged! WooHoo!!!! Exactly five years after our first kiss I asked Cait to marry me last night along the banks of the Raritan River, and she said, "of course". We are, as you all know, ridiculously in love, and are wildly excited about the next year or so.

First things first: we will be having two engagement parties. One at the Brooklyn place in mid-late September for the friends. Thinking it'll be potluck with a karaoke theme, as it was such a hit last time around. Second party will be at the Steeve's house in early October for the family, but the really close friends will be invited as well - that's you boys.

We're in the process of brainstorming where and when for the wedding, but we'd like to work something out for a really big reception, and then have those who want to stay over at an inn or hotel or something for the night to continue the party into the morning and have breakfast the next day before breaking, similar to Becky and Nathans.

Love you guys.

Sufis Rule!

2006-07-21T15:57:00.000-04:00

Laughing at the Word Two - Hafiz

Only

That Illumined
One

Who keeps
Seducing the formless into form

Had the charm to win my
Heart.

Only a Perfect One

Who is always
Laughing at the word
Two

Can make you know

Of

Love.

Hafiz was another Sufi poet of Islam in the 14th century, but had preached a very liberal view of religion, one very out of step with popularized religion today. He lived in Persia, but knew of and venerated Rumi who had lived during the 13th century in modern day Afghanistan. I always enjoyed Hafiz's poetry a little more than Rumi's because he entered into whole-being rhapsodies of his love of people and the divine. He always expressed the relationship between himself and the divine as this gentle, intimate, very sensual experience. His phrase, "That illumined one who keeps seducing the formless into form" blows me away with its subtle, almost tangible, sexuality. And, of course, another reference to the reality of interconnectedness.

Poems?

2006-07-19T21:37:00.000-04:00

So, where are all of Johnny's fabled poem-a-day poems? Fallen by the wayside after two days?!

Well, then, here's one of my favs:

Out Beyond Ideas - Rumi

Out beyond ideas of
wrong-doing and right-doing,
there is a field.
I'll meet you there.

When the soul lies down in that grass,
the world is too full to talk about.
Ideas, language, even the phrase 'each other'
doesn't make any sense.

Mitakuye Oyasin leaves room for individuality wheras philosophies from the east tend to stress the underlying oneness of all things. That field where we are truly we and not you and I.

The Perfect Swing

2006-07-10T21:35:00.000-04:00

The homerun derby is on and it being 2006 there are some awesome cameras on the field. One particular camera is at field level and is an ultra fast motion camera. I wish I knew more about the tech behind it but basically it slows down the swing so you can see every detail as the batter comes around at the ball. After watching Ortiz smack 10 homers to move into 2nd place (behind NY's favorite D. Wright), ESPN ran footage of Ortiz's swing.

It was beautiful. It was majestic. It made me cry.

In "The Animatrix" there is a story called World Record (watch it you dopes... it's 9 minutes). Basically the premise is that this guy runs so fast... so well... that he actually breaks out of the Matrix. Of all the Animatrix stories, I loved this one best. It illustrates the truth that sport transcends the prisons of our minds. When everything clicks and we're running full blast we forget the troubles of our lives and the difficulties that we face and for one moment we are perfect.

I have a fascination with sport as an adult. Football is my first love. The power, the speed and intensity are such a draw. But this year I learned a new passion. The agility and finesse of baseball's fielders and the perfection of the batter's swing. Singles, doubles and triples are wonderful to watch, but king of them all is the homerun swing. It is calm, it is controlled, it is disciplined and it is magic. Like the runner in World Record it transcends space and time and frees us of our surroundings. We become that swinging bat and the flying ball.

Thank you Big Papi for bringing a moment of joy and passion to me. Baseball has been so mired in steroid scandals, overpaid players and insensitive remarks, but for one moment, all of that faded away. I was once again an eight year old boy awash in the joy of a homerun and I have the tracks of tears as my souvenir.

Blackbirds...

2006-07-08T02:49:00.000-04:00

I'm Such a Good Boy that I'm Posting Today's PoemAday before I Go To Sleep, because the Likelihood of Doing It tomorrow in the Morning Before I Go To Work is Much Less Likely. Mark My Words (REad My Lips, NO NEw...) , A PoemAday for a Million Days.

DESIRE - by Joy Harjo

Say I chew desire and water is an explosion
of sugar wings in my mouth.

Say it tastes of you.

Say I could drown because you left
for the time it takes a blackbird to understand
a pine tree.

Say we enter the pine woods at dawn.

We never slept and the only opium we smoked
was what became our mingled breath.

Say the stars have never learned
to say good-bye. (One is a jewel
of blue magic in your perfect ear.)

Say all of this is true and more

than there are blackbirds
in a heaven of blackbirds.

Harjo is a poet of pure emotion, not of ideas. Therefore, her images, metaphors and poems are not subject to rules of gravity or logic or causation. They are not trying to express any of those things. They are moving in a wheel around a feeling, or, maybe many feelings wrapped up in a larger feeling. The trick is to turn the wheel over and over until, just like those tops with the spiral painted on them would draw our eye in a swirl to the middle, you sink into the center. I'm not saying don't think about her poems. I'm saying read them over and over and you will find your interpretations as to their meanings may change but a feeling refines. It's really frustrating, actually, for someone like me who is a gemini, an air sign, someone used to conceptualization not meditation. Which is maybe why I enjoy her work so much. It makes me work at something that is about not working but watching, waiting.

A Poem a Day for a Million Days

2006-07-07T11:03:00.000-04:00

Okay. I say I'm going to do a lot of things that somehow, suprisinigly, never seem to get done. So, I'm a little wary to put this out there for fear of embarassing myself by dropping the ball on it. But I'll go ahead anyway. As a bit of a self-induldgent exercise for my own benefit, I am going to post a short poem a day on our blog. Hold up, don't panic- not my poems- good poems by good poets in good taste. I'll follow with a little paragraph of what I like or don't about the poem, the mood it creates, the meaning it musters, or some useless biographical tidbit about the author. This will hopefully add to the culutral dimension of OFTH, though if nothing else, will force me to post here daily and keep my head full of good, short poems.

Alright, here we go. Into the mystic.

Southern Sunrise - by Sylvia Plath

Color of lemon, mango, peach,
These storybook villas
Still dream behind
Shutters, their balconies
Fine as hand-
Made lace, or a leaf-and-flower pen-sketch.

Tilting with the winds,
On arrowy stems,
Pineapple-barked,
A green crescent of palms
Sends up its forked
Firework of fronds.

A quartz-clear dawn
Inch by bright inch
Gilds all our Avenue,
And out of the blue drench
of Angels' Bay
Rises the round red watermelon sun.

If poetry is prose condensed into the perfect words, in the perfect order, then methinks Ms. Plath was in the right line of work. In this poem as in much of her work, I feel she writes along a razor's edge between the 19th and the 20th centuries. Her images are certainly modern, insofar as they largely exist for their own sake, not solely as allegory for some methaphysical story, and have a sense of the surreal and absurd on top of the sentimental. And her subject matter is more immediate and less grand-standing than those poets of the earlier century. But her meter is so tight, her vocabulary so phonically-conscious and specific, that her poems always allude to something eternal, classic. And I just love the way it ends so playfully: Rises the round red watermelon sun. Makes me want to wake up in Tara to the sound of Scarlett/Sylvia/Johannsen/Plath's voice saying Oh, Rhett, it's getting late, we have so much to do today and I reply Frankly, my dear, I don't give a damn, the sun is shining and the weather is sweet, yea, makes you want to move your dancing feet, yea as dreadlocks sprout from my pomaded slick and reggae music rises from the slave quarters as giant spliff-like clouds slowly drift into the giant cherry incinerator of the sun and the whole languid day gets stoned out of its gourd.

A Million Dollars a Day for a Million Days

2006-07-07T11:01:00.000-04:00

If certain estimates and projections are correct, the full cost of the Iraq war by 2015 could exceed 1.27 trillion. This includes long-term considerations such as Veterans Benefits paid over their lifetimes and other expenditures not being included in the 'official' war tally.

As writer Matthew Yglesias notes in his article in The American Prospect, a trillion dollars is a million dollars a day for a million days. INSANITY. I urge you to check his article out. He outlines in quick detail 11 ways we could've spent that money more wisely and the result is a dizzying sense of hope and disappointment, of potential and failure...

O, let America be American again-
The land that never was yet-
and yet must be-

Langston Hughes

WIFI Comes To The 'Hood

2006-07-06T23:39:00.000-04:00

Apparently, there should be two WI-FI hotspots up and running in Prospect Park by the end of August. I'm not sure if I will actually wander into the park with my lil' Dell all that often. Usually, when in the park, I'm in the mood for running, disc throwing, beer drinking, dancing, stretching, or babe-watching. None of which really require wireless web access. Nonetheless, I'm very excited that the park will be so hip and hi-tech and the option will be there should I choose to read my email at the boathouse, scan ezines along the long meadow, or search for nude pictures of minors near the playgrounds... Just kidding, guys! God, relax. Just a joke- a horrible, evil joke.

Distractions

2006-07-06T19:52:00.000-04:00

I have this thing I've been doing all my life when I need to get something done. I find a hundred ways to do it differently, just to spice things up. I do yoga, practice standing on my head. I read histories of arcane individuals like Crowley and Rasputin. I go through my music collection, twice. I write blog posts.

We all have our own personal procrastination techniques, some more damaging than others, but these are really emblematic of the daily activity of distracting ourselves from what really matters. Family, friendships, love. Why are we so afraid of that which we love the most? We are worthy.

Just When We Thought The Nightmare Was Over....

2006-06-28T12:11:00.000-04:00

So, though a long way from being clean and organized again, our apartment had almost recovered from the awesome renovations Sigi did a month ago. That is, until the automatic water-feed on our boiler locked in an on position and filled the entire building-worth of steam pipes with water until the water came gushing out of air-valves on a 2nd and 3rd floor radiator, dripping through the floors and pouring out of the ceilings. Well, that's just the technical mumbo-jumbo. Here are the lovely images:
I like to call these two photos: "the happy plumber" and "I'm smiling, but I'll kill you."

Notice the lovely yellowish tint to this unpotable boiler water....Delicous!

"People Get Ready...

2006-06-25T01:53:00.000-04:00

...There's a train a-comin
You don't need no baggage
just a-climb on board."

Curtis Mayfield wrote those lyrics in 1965 as a reaction to the civil rights movement of the time. Here we are 41 years later and I have yet to see the train. The distance between the races is so great, the divide so wide, that we can't even look each other in the eye as we pass on the street. Friday night my friend was called a "slave owner" while he stood on the a corner minding his own business.

There is such a contrast between what we are told and what is real. My whole life I was taught equality and justice, that there should be no color barrier. I pledged allegiance to the republic for which it stands with liberty and justice for all. But when was my allegiance repaid?

Dr King wrote in "I Have A Dream":

"This note was a promise that all men would be guaranteed the inalienable rights of life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. It is obvious today that America has defaulted on this promissory note insofar as her citizens of color are concerned. Instead of honoring this sacred obligation, America has given the Negro people a bad check which has come back marked "insufficient funds." But we refuse to believe that the bank of justice is bankrupt. We refuse to believe that there are insufficient funds in the great vaults of opportunity of this nation."

Sadly, Dr King and I disagree. I don't believe that this country, as it stands right now, can fulfill its promise to its citizens. We do not live in a society of equality or justice and it is not a goal for our civilization. The bank of justice is truly bankrupt.

I don't know what to do with that. I don't know how to make peace with it. The best news program on television runs on a comedy station and isn't "real" journalism. There is no media outlet willing to talk about what is. They simply throw more smoke in front of the real fire.

We sit on a time bomb of injustice, inequality and dishonesty. It is only a matter of time before it explodes. So people, get ready, there's a train a-comin...

Great News Futurama Fans

2006-06-23T07:40:00.000-04:00

Don't know if any of you love Matt Groening's second baby as much as I do. Matter of fact, I think I love it more than the Simpsons. Unfortunately, the networks didn't agree and all that's left are the Adult Swim reruns.... but wait.... what's that you say... 13 new episodes... all original cast members.... could it be?

See here for more information (actually a link to more information). I hope this is a "test" season and after it succeeds they'll bring the show back permenantly.

Oh Joy!!!

2006-06-19T05:12:00.000-04:00

Patricircumlocution

Father, who came before me
who formed me from the letters
of his own nucleic story
and the verbs he connected
from this collection of consonants and vowels,

I am the thought and its expression
wrought from your natural progression
out of him and into me
and out of yours into mine:

the direct objects becoming possessive,
the recipient containing the incipient.

This is the cycle.
This is the wheel created
in the beginning of time
refined with each modernity
and always defined
by its essential unchangeable roundness.

Here I am turning,
I am turning your letters
into verbs of my own.

2 for 1 Drink Specials Father's Day

2006-06-19T04:37:00.000-04:00

Working a double behind the bar is an experience I am glad to say I 've had even if I am having it at 26 years old while my bachelor's degree collects dust and my student loan bills pile higher.

It is very unnatural for the body to remain standing for 16 hours in a row without a single moment of weight being lifted off the feet. The best the bartender in such a situation can hope to do is shift weight from one foot to the other and lean back against the bar displacing the pounds.

My feet are pounding right now. The undersoles of my heels feel like someobody beat them with a meat cleaver and then shocked them with a defibrillator. Sounds strange, I know. Until working a double behind the bar, I had never been forced to stand on my feet for 16 hours in a row without a single moment of rest from the weight of my body.

It is a strange and almost unique experience that bartenders go through routinely, some on a fairly frequent basis.

I think of my father, and then I realize it is Father's Day and I didn't get a chance to call him and wish him well because I was working a double behind the bar. I wouldn't be surprised if he was too. For the past dozen years he's been swinging doubles at the bar, sometimes two or three in a row. Three in a row. Imagine spending 48 hours of a 72 hour period standing. There are few professions if any I can think of that would require someone to do such a thing and so only bartenders and maybe the soldiers manning the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier can relate.

My father's feet have changed. Part of it is age, part of it is genetic, but much of it is physical stress. Varicose veins speckle his tender feet with patterns of purple and blue that remind one of overdone face make-up for Star Trek aliens. They appear permanently hobbit swollen. And he comnplains of them falling asleep. Lazy bastards. What- tired after your little 16 hour stint holding the rest of me up?

Without this job I would never have known the physical sensations and mental landscape of this place my father knows so well. I'm glad I can say I've been there for no other reason than to share an experience with such an experienced man who I admire and look up to in so many ways.

So, I guess I just want to say Happy Father's Day, Dad. Dads everywhere. Standing on your own two feet trying to make ends meet. I only hope that everyone is so lucky as to get the opportunity to proudly walk a while in their father's shoes. Even if it's 16 hours of walking in a row...

Crash

2006-06-12T23:39:00.000-04:00

See it if you haven't.

I am often faced with my own racism/prejudice/biggotry and I struggle with how to manage that in both the moment and my lifetime. This film reminds me that I'm not alone in that struggle. It is also a beautiful lesson in Mitakuye Oyasin... we are indeed, all related.

I'll catch you all on the flipside

back in Jersey

2006-06-09T18:22:00.000-04:00

hey all...finally got my laptop hooked up to the wireless network in my house, yay for me! It's going to be an interesting summer--probably my last extended stint at my family home in Jersey. As a result, I've been going thru my room--entirely...like it hasn't been gone thru in 18+ years. I'm finding drawings and homework assignments from first grade! second! I was a darn cute kid back then...I've kept some of it, tried to get rid of most of the non-essentials--still, it feels good to me to think that i'll be looking through these remaining boxes when i'm 30, 50, 80..and hopefully some of it will still be around and I can show my grandkids how Tyler Sharkey gave me a picture of a red sports car for my 3rd grade birthday, even put their little hands in my toddler plaster handprint. I'm sure I've still kept too much of it--i'm a packrat by nature, afraid to throw things away "in case i'll need them".

So i'm excited about the coming year--nervous, but very excited. I've said it before--i really need to step up, to take responsibility for myself like i've never needed to before. I know I can always count on my family for support, but its time now that I shouldnt' need to depend on their support. I was talking to Jess a bit back about how exciting, inspiring it can be to realize that you are responsible for your own life, that you are going to be the one making the most of it, owning it, filling it up as full as you can with good things. I'm going to have to find that sweet spot balance of downtime and fun, fulfilling activities. The whole first, maybe, 17 years of my life was go go go, pack my schedule, committments to everyone and everything, no time for myself or a social life....it seems in the years since then the pendulum has swung entirely in the opposite direction, i've put a lot of value in relaxing time with friends, movies, tv, family..not as driven, not as committed.....i feel like my happiness lies somewhere in between..its time for me to wake up, stand up, take chances, put myself out there..who am i not to be excellent at whatever I do? who am i not to enjoy myself? learn new things? learn so many new things! i want to workout and learn to breakdance, use power tools, find my way around brooklyn, delve deeper into the spirituality i feel humming around me.. and still have time for lazy weekend mornings with my love, time to visit my sisters, my missing limbs.........i seek the balance!

Ektomi

2006-06-08T17:09:00.000-04:00

I'm having difficulty getting the apartment back together again since being home from Massachusetts. Cait and I did a great job on the bed, the closet, and the backyard. But I look around the place and I'm still stunned at how messy and dusty everything is, even after John cleaned and dusted. I've been working, and back in school, but I'm not as focused on the world yet as I was before the Hanblecheya. I'm just about done with Seven Arrows, I'm singing the ceremony songs during the day, and have been relatively distant from the world; at least I feel that way. I'm coming back though. I've been thinking about the spider. Ektomi. Just before Josh sent me down to the site he said to me, "I've done something. Not sure what it means, and we'll talk about it after this weekend - I've gotten us involved in the Ektomi Dance." I still don't have a good explanation for it, or for why he choose to say it then, but he was as out of It at that point as I was. There are some Ektomi stories need telling.

Photodiary Part 1: Spring is a Happening, Happy Place

2006-06-06T05:20:00.000-04:00

My enjoyment of these photos is probably inflated due to taking them with my brand-new firstest real camera. Still, I hope they offer you a glimpse of the beauty (I think) I see during my disparate days here in the NYSee...

Click on pic to make it bigger

Anyone know how to get back to the car...Jess?

2006-06-01T15:50:00.000-04:00

Wopi-La to a Friend

Sensitive to the four directions
skin to the wind
hands visor eyes squint
locates sun shadow angle time
Dependable when lost when late when down
leads with an able snout
and canine grin
A long time ago threw his watch
into the sun and watched the sun rise
with diamond precision
Saw it wind through the sky
and imagined unseen tiny wheels
behind the pace of things
Whereto follows suit with an instinct
and just when comes in a split-blink
If spirit tells him bound he bounds
I tail him into lands untold

***********************

Jesse - I started this poem on the bus ride up to Massachussets. I finished it this morning. This is my Wopi-La to you. It is unsuprising to me that you found this way and are walking this path. My earliest impression of you from when we first met was of a person closely in touch with the earth and its living, breathing organism. Thank you again for all the wonderful places you have brought me and continue to bring me in our friendship. To the ends of the earth, buddy, to the ends of the earth.

Follow-up To Below Post

2006-06-01T01:42:00.000-04:00

Here's a great quote from Philip Caputo's Vietnam memoir, A Rumor of War, that puts another perspective on the idea of a Warrior praying for his Enemy:

Eating the rice on that desolate hill, it occured to me that we were becoming more and more like our enemy. We ate what they ate. We could now move throught the jungle as stealthily as they. We endured common miseries. In fact, we had more in common with the Viet Cong than we did with that army of clerks and staff officers in the rear.

Happy (Belated) Memorial Day

2006-06-01T00:33:00.000-04:00

This past weekend I heard a veteran make a prayer for the American soldiers of past and present wars. While praying especially for the US Soldiers fighting in Iraq, he made a prayer for the Iraqis too. It takes a whole lot of compassion, understanding and honor from a warrior to make a prayer for his enemy. But this man was made of that type of stuff. It reminded me of my favorite Vietnamn song, Goodnight Saigon by Billy Joel. Toward the end of the song the US Soldier sings his praise of his Viet Cong enemy. Whatever anger we may feel at the architects of this war for the path of destruction it has carved, it is important to take time out and recognize the suffering and the sacrifice of all those who stand inbetween it and their people. The songs of Iraq have yet to be written. They are being sung in the streets everyday. Civilians kidnapped, tortured and murdered. Soldiers and journalists torn to shreds by unseen bombs. Police officers shot dead in broad daylight. Politicians and their families gunned down on their way to work, the store or their place of worship. Scars that will be generations in the healing. I have a broken necklace with beads of red white and blue stripes that for years I've been keeping in a box reserved for objects with special meaning. I bought it from a Vietnam Vet who was selling jewelry from a blanket on the sidewalk. He told me stories of the war as if it had only happened yesterday. The husband of my mother's best friend couldn't celebrate July 4th for years and years because the sound of fireworks sent him to the floor sweating and trembling. A professor at Binghamton University once told my class the story of being an American POW in Dresden and of dragging the corpses of his German captors out of the rubble after the US/Allies firebombed the city to the ground. After a point, is there any right or wrong in a war anymore-- or only a great need for healing?

Goodnight Saigon - Billy Joel

We met as soul mates
On Paris Island
We left as inmates
From an asylum
And we were sharp
Sharp as knives
And we were so gung-ho
To lay down our lives

We came in spastic
As tameless horses
We left in plastic
As numbered corpses
And we learned fast
To travel light
Our arms were heavy
But our bellies were tight

We had no home front
We had no soft soap
They sent us playboy
They gave us Bob Hope
We dug in deep
And shot on sight
We prayed to Jesus Christ
With all of our might

We had no cameras
To shoot the landscape
We passed the hash pipe
And played our Doors tapes
And it was dark
So dark as night
And we held on to each other
Like brother to brother
We promised our mothers we'd write

And we would all go down together
We said we'd all go down together
Yes we would all go down together

Remember Charlie
Remember Baker
They left their childhood
On every acre
And who was wrong
And who was right
It didn't matter in the thick of the fight

We held the day
In the palm of our hand
They hold the night
And the night seemed to last as long
As six weeks
On Paris Island
We held the coastland
They held the highland
And they were sharp
As sharp as knives
They heard the hum of our motors
They counted our rotors
And waited for us to arrive

And we would all go down together
We said we'd all go down together
Yes we would all go down together...

Actions Speak Louder Than Words

2006-05-23T15:36:00.000-04:00

Additional evidence for my belief that the tough stance being made by House Repubs on immigration is an attempt to appeal to conservative-base voters without interferring with the pro-business implications of illegal aliens remaining in the country is evidenced by the fact that the House is requiring employers to submit worker info in 3-6 years from passage of their bill while the less severe Senate bill would require same info in no more than 18 months. See through the smoke and mirrors.

La Lucha Follow-Up

2006-05-21T10:08:00.000-04:00

My hope the Repubs will self-implode confirmed by BBC.

La Lucha (The Fight)

2006-05-19T12:11:00.000-04:00

If the House is the most representative body of the Federal Gov't, in that it represents the 'choices' and 'voices' of small districts the country over, we have lots to fear. Although, with mid-term elections approaching, confidence in Bush eroding, and the Republican camp mired in scandal, perhaps what we have is lots to hope. Whatever next term will look like, how frightening is it that Bush is scolding the House Repubs to think and act more compassionately when creating legislation around immigration policy, border control and the fate of millions of undocumented? His recent White House address on the issue was a political tight-rope in which he sought to mollify the arch-conservatives in the House and around the country on one side while calling again for a guest-worker program with the possibillity of citizenship for the currently undocumented to appeal to the center and center-left. (The Left-Left and the immigrants I know, of course, are not entirely happy with his proposals, either. They want full citizenship, no strings attached, because they feel they've paid for it by their labor and law-abiding, family-centered communal ways.) Does Bush actually have a sense of empathy and respect for these hard-working, death-braving migrants from the resource-looted and democracy-interrupted oppressed-half of our hemisphere? I almost want to believe that somewhere deep down in the tarry-depths of his oil-slick soul, there is a tiny vestigial piece of humanity that is taking light around this issue. However, it is probably more likely that, once again, he is simply doing Karl Rove's bidding by staving off the arch-con xenophobes in order to build a long-term constituency for the Repub party among the ever-growing, ever-Catholic Hispanic community. Remember, Bush-Rove won 40% of the Hispanic vote last time around. That's a powerful number looking down the road. But if the GOP is a friend of businesses big and small first and foremost, which I believe they are, then I imagine that the legislation we will see passed will be largely rhetorical and symbolic and that the situation on the ground will change little. Illegal immigrants will continue to pour into this country in droves. (People like to say it was the 1984 Amnesty granted by Reagan which gave thousands of undocumented people instant citizenship that is responsible for encouraging the huge numbers that have crossed over since. I think it has more to do with Ecuadoran men being paid 5 American dollars for a 10 hour day working the fields only to find that one whole chicken costs 5 American dollars and a family of 4-12 can't live off one chicken alone.) Big businesses like the Ag-firms and the meat processors and multitudinous factories will continue to hire them under the board and against the law so as to be able to pay their labor without all the costly benefits and protections a citizen is entitled to. Small businesses, like contractors who have seen a huge boom in building in synch with the real-estate bubble and restaurants from here to Timbuktu, will continue to use undocumented labor to increase their hard-earned, entreprenual, American profits growing. It is to no Americans advantage to have illegal immigrants granted citizenship. Sure they'll throw some taxes into the system, probably alleviating the crushing Social Security debt a bit, but the overall American economy will slouch because right now there are 11 million plus employees out there not collecting on government handouts or filing insurance claims or even getting paid for their overtime in some cases. If and when they do, the end-of-quarter numbers for the nation's businesses would not look as good as they could if half their payroll is invisible. No. Wouldn't be good for any American. Unless, of course, you consider the immigrants themselves Americans. In which case it would be very good for them. They might even get to save some of their hard-earned money for a return visit to their country of origin to say hello to wives, husbands, children, parents, granparents, friends and communities they haven't seen in a long, long time.

Colbert reporting

2006-05-02T11:24:00.000-04:00

I know you have something to post soon, John, but wait and read this first. Stephen Colbert as the White House Correspondent's Dinner. Brilliant.

http://www.commondreams.org/views06/0501-30.htm

Switching schools

2006-04-24T19:34:00.000-04:00

Hey there all,

I'm in the process of interviewing for new schools - charter schools. They're public schools, in that the kids go to them for free, but they're privately funded, meaning that the teachers are paid by the school and not the dept. of ed. I'd be out of the union, I think, lose out the coupla years towards pension, lose out on the likelihood of tenure, and any other benefits that come with being part of a massive union. But, the school itself would be much more positive than what I'm in now, the teachers, parents and students would all be involved thoroughly in the education of the kids, and I might make a little more money, cause I'd be putting in more time during the day. What do we think?

Julie's joining us!

2006-04-18T20:51:00.000-04:00

But she's uber-radical, and she's taking over the hills in her mission to get Bush impeached. Let's make her welcome!

Love ya Jules

A Nice Quote About Iraq

2006-04-17T13:46:00.000-04:00

From Here

Newbold said the Iraq war was launched "with a casualness and swagger that are the special province of those who have never had to execute these missions -- or bury the results."

Plane pentagon

2006-04-12T18:27:00.000-04:00

A year or two ago I saw a video questioning what had happened on 9/11. It raised some issues regarding response time to the planes in nyc, a possible building felled just southwest of the north tower, and the crash at the pentagon. I was listening to an air america program just now and the host - randi rhodes - in a rambling tirade against the president - mentioned "and what happened at the pentagon? i still haven't seen an engine, a wing, a tail! but i digress..." So I googled 'plane pentagon' and it came up with a huge number of conspiracy theories. I knew that what I had watched was out there and very vew people would give it an ear. But it seems a lot of people are asking questions, and they don't seem like terrible questions. Officials just scoff at the questions, but the criticisms have come from officials as well. And the pictures I've been looking at certainly don't show a plane anywhere...
...
...
thoughts?

I'm not just drunk, I'm pissed!

2006-04-08T04:43:00.001-04:00

Seriously, guys-what's going on? It's been three years and nigh a month since the USA invaded Iraq and deposed malevolent dictator Saddam Hussein. Sodom's on trial for crimes against humanity and lightless Iraq is seeing the lives of dozens a day destroyed. Right, I know this, we all do. So what's going on? Civil War, right? The Kurds want an autonomous, oil-rich, Sunni-free North. The Shiites want a centist, , theocratic, capital-controlled, Sunni-free Baghdad. The Sunnis want a reminiscent, minority-controlled, secular brutocray. Civil War, right? Wait a minute. What about the fourth-option? The USA/UK coalition wants affordable oil, position in resource-rich Eurasia, and displacement of the ideological blood-war. And fifth? Russia wants a continuation of their military-industial jackpot. Sixth? Islamic, fundamentalist terrorists want publicity, terror, chaos. Who's responsible for the tens of thousands of dead? Who's going to approach the family members of the 71 Iraqis who died today while filing out of Mosque? Who's going to hand a folded-flag to the families of four US soldiers who died today in Iraq? Who's going to tell me what the f's going on and who the f's responsible? Why is there so much blood-shed, everyday? Is it sectarian hatreds and civil-war? Is it colonial manipulation, reconstruction blood-money, capitalist greed? Is it the will of the historic moment, as Tolstoy would have it? What the f---? What the f---? Somebody- Caitie, Jesse, Damian, somebody please, tell me why so many people die everyday in that country. One simple explanation will do. Can anybody come up with it?

No, maybe not. You're right. Everything's just peachy.

2006-04-08T04:39:00.000-04:00

peachy

Population Stats

2006-04-08T04:37:00.000-04:00

China versus USA

Freedom's Just Another Word For...

2006-04-06T12:14:00.000-04:00

...Who has more prisoners per capita, China, Nigeria or the USA? Who has more prisoners gross, China or the USA? Who has the highest percentage of female prisoners in the world? For answers, check out this handy BBC table.

Freedom's Just Another Word...

2006-04-03T16:48:00.000-04:00

"for nothin' left to do.
Nothin' ain't worth nothin' but it's free.
Feelin' good was easy Lord, when Bobby sang the blues.
Feelin' good was good enough for me,
good enough for me and Bobby McGee."

Sometimes a sad song is all you need :-)

I'm an Uncle

2006-04-01T20:43:00.000-05:00

My brother got married a couple of weeks ago and has a step-daughter... that's one.
My sister gave birth to her daughter yesterday... or maybe today. I think it was late in the evening on the west coast but early in the morning on the east. I wonder what that means.

Anyhoo... that's 2.

On Friendship

2006-04-01T20:30:00.000-05:00

Sometimes its just good to know somebody understands what you're thinking. No judgement, no suggestions, just simple understanding.

Thanks for the talks jg, they always make me smile.

Liver and Spleen

2006-03-27T20:21:00.000-05:00

First year, I was a liver and a spleen. I was enlarged, enraged, retaliatory. I was sensitive and unpredictable—don’t do anything to anger Spleen, she could rupture. I attacked the rest of me, now my smaller self, and I scared my smaller self by pissing orange-yellow, shedding twenty pound in three weeks, stoking a raving fever for two of those weeks. I took over the body, it became mine, a sausage skin of silver fish and bone for me. I, the liver, the spleen, commanded as the largest organ. I spilled out my ears and mouth corners. I filled up my eyes till they bulged with me, hot expanding liver flesh. The doctors threw Tylenol, cranberry juice, apple sauce at me; I laughed in their faces. The new roommate dutifully visited me; she left before her organs could get any funny ideas. The boyfriend read to me. Herman Hesse. It calmed me some. It smoothed my deep, raging wrinkles, it eased the sausage skin, the throbbing spleen-berry inside. It quieted the sound of my own body blood rushing in my magnificent organ ears. I let him come, from time to time. And soon I did not notice how each passing day I grew smaller, less rageful, more thoughtful. Spleen has nearly disappeared she is so small now. I hear my body blood these days but it is like gentle rain drumming, like falling water, far, far away.

Tonight

2006-03-25T08:52:00.000-05:00

There's a party in the city tonight for Angela and Goob - I don't really know any of the details - but I was thinking about going. Anyone want to come? If not, i'm open to suggestions of any kind. We can all meet up in Hoboken, maybe.? Let me know - I'm not working so i'm up for anything.

Balls

2006-03-23T12:28:00.000-05:00

Well... all this talk about balls got me hot... so I went searching for internet porn about eating balls... all I found was this site...

I hate you all... except John who's my real friend.

Oh yeah and he comes to see JDB shows with me when all the rest of you bitches bail.

"God... he is the biggest beetch of them all."

The Answers Will Come Around Again... If You Just Take The Time

2006-03-20T16:33:00.000-05:00

Strange... strange... I don't really understand myself here...

So I haven't seen E. now for over 2 weeks. We've been in touch but to say its anything more than a "Hi how are you" here and there would be a lie. A week or so ago when I realized it would be so much time before I saw her again I started to let go of the thought that we were going to be together. I figured it would fizzle and die without us talking or seeing each other.
Strangely I don't think that's going to happen. She continues to call and text, as do I. She just called me from the airport to say hi and she asked me to call her tonight. She kept in touch while I was in AZ and Chi. And she continues to pass these little game tests I set for her. I don't call and sure enough she does...

Strange...

As the weeks have passed I've found myself less and less consumed with her, but liking her more and more. There is a consistancy to her, even in our distance, that is becoming somewhat reliable.

Becky keeps saying to me "You're dating for the first time in your life." She's probably right. I haven't "Married" her in my head and I'm really just letting the situation run its course. I'd lie to say I'm not hopeful for a particular outcome but, well... I have a broader vision. And I have her to thank.

As I've approached more of a central balance around us I think I'm also coming to understand how she feels. I think she likes me. I think she may even want to be with me. But I think she also holds hard to the things in her life that are hers. She's not going to make undue sacrifices (at least at this point) to encourage a relationship. The relationship is going to need to work around us instead of us around it.

What a novel concept... I wish I had understood this sooner. I can't MAKE it work by bending over backwards. If it doesn't work then I have to let it go. For the first time in my life I think I'm ready to do that. Being with E. in whatever way I have already has strengthened my self confidence phenominally. Who she is inside, outside and the way that we met shouldn't have worked for me. But it has, and that's made me rethink a lot of self image stuff. Perhaps I have more going on then I think I do. I'm not talking about the egotistical crap that covers up my insecurities... I'm getting to the heart of the matter here. Perhaps I have far less to be insecure about than I think.

Snippets

2006-03-15T14:55:00.000-05:00

I like cheese. I like it a lot. We’re talking many different varieties: gouda, swiss, gruyere, good old cheddar. And goat cheese! I love goat cheese. When you’ve got some, you find some pepper jelly as well, and wheat thins, and you layer the goat cheese on top of the wheat thin and then the pepper jelly on top of the goat cheese. Each bite is a little bit of sweet, sweet Death. And monterray jack with jalepenos in it? Ahhhh, you’ve got a perfect snack right there. Ritz crackers work best for this—just melt some slices of your “pepper jack” onto the Ritz crackers in the microwave and the cheese runs and then re-solidifies as soon as it hits the fresh air. I can pop eight, ten of those without a blink. Oh, and the snooty grandmother of all cheeses: brie. I usually just hack away at big old block of that armed with any old crackers I have around, but sometimes, sometimes, when it calls for a special occasion, a true masterpiece is required. A small wheel of brie works best for this but a big slice will work as well: put the brie in a small dish and cover the top with a jam or marmalade of your choice—raspberry seems to work particularly well. Then bake the brie until the cheese is gooey on the inside, and voila! This treat is decadent, messy, and best shared! And now I realize I’ve almost forgotten one particular stinky cheese, close to my heart: gorgonzola. Go ahead, say it again, nice and slow—gorgonzola. The letters lie thick and heavy, tasty on your tongue. And it’s the ‘z’ in ‘zola’ that makes it unique. It’s a versatile, hearty cheese. Put it in soups, sauces, salad dressings, on breads, crackers, melba toast! Cheese. I would enjoy it any time of day, on any occasion. It breaks the ice amongst your enemies and gathers round your closest friends. Cheese! Cheese!

2006-03-10T11:20:00.000-05:00

I find myself becoming more and more structured in my classroom - everything has a place and there is a procedure for every action. My goal as a teacher is that I can leave the room, I can not even show up, and the students know exactly what they're expected to do and they do it on schedule. I want the class to run itself smoothly and productively.

I was just in the office doing some paperwork - my kids were at lunch - when 4 of them come bounding in, in various forms of distress, and two were bleeding, one from the nose, the other from the lip. Now, I know that they're 1st graders, it's my second year of teaching, and they are emotionally disturbed, but is it too much to ask to follow the rules when I'm not around as well?

I'm back!

2006-03-07T08:29:00.000-05:00

Finally, after three weeks of being almost entirely out of touch with the world, I again have a cell phone. Same exact phone, same number. What was most surprising to me was how much I felt I really needed it. There were business calls I needed to make, but couldn't; calling family, school colleagues, and Caitie had to be put off. Thankfully, nothing overly dramatic happened that I wouldn't have been able to be reached - and of course, using online services like this blog and email helped. It just made me reflect though on what a recent phenomenon it is to have access to almost unlimited and instant communication around the world. How were wars fought, materials transported, correspondence sent when everything was truly snail mail? Fify times slower than the snail mail we have today. Being acclamated to this high-speed mode of information flow is both wonderful and terrible - when it is taken away.

This Weekend

2006-03-03T11:21:00.000-05:00

Anyone have anything interesting going on this weekend? I have a load of school work to get done, but there's plenty of time for hanging out in the city somewhere if someone's got something in mind...

Community Disturbance

2006-03-01T13:50:00.000-05:00

During a transition from lunch to the classroom, the two girls in my class got into a fight in the hallway while walking with another teacher. I interviewed both and found that there was another student involved, egging them on from the sidelines. In any case, I had to call all the parents and inform them of the circumstances before the kids did. This was the second time I had to contact the parent of the new girl in the class for behavior issues. When I told her that I called home about the fight she had gotten into, she broke down into crying and a fear came over her that was instinctual; through all the mumbling of the next 5 minutes all I really got was "I want my daddy". I immediately went to the counselor about the behavior, both of us acknowledging the possibility of abuse.

We, as a society, look at these kids and label them 'emotionally disturbed', place them into a special education environment significantly separate from general education, and spend our work lives trying to modify their behavior. They might be six years old, but somehow we place the burden of change on their shoulders. I've no idea how to go about doing, but somehow parental education needs to be taking place in these communities. If that burden lies on the shoulders of public educators, I'm afraid that a cycle of disturbance will continue indefinitely. But if I were six years old and had lived in six different foster households or was afraid to go home to mom because she's gonna beat the shit out of me cause teacher called, I sure as hell would be "emotionally disturbed" too.

It Works!

2006-02-28T15:37:00.000-05:00

I wouldn't have believed it myself, but I've just successfully relieved gas-related stomach pain by rotating myself like a rottisserie chicken! That's right, for those of you out there who are subject to the occasional, uncomfortable gas-related stomach cramp, I've got the cure for you. Simply rotate from your back to your right side to your stomach to your left side repeatedly, allowing for a few minutes between each position, and you will find the cramps dispersing, relaxing, vaporizing before you know it. The reason this works is because gas bubbles get caught in our intestines, which are a series of back-and-forth bends and turns, and rotating allows for the bubbles to travel more quickly through this windy passage. And after travelling through this windy passage, you'll find yourself feeling relieved and releasing windy messages from both your ports.

Cheers!

Doctor John

2006-02-23T10:22:00.000-05:00

I've rushed things. I can't believe I've rushed things so much that I've ruined it. I needed answers. Right away. I couldn't wait just to see where things were headed, just to take it slow. Let life run its course. I needed control over the reins; I needed to know what it was, what we were... that we were a WE, and that there was something more there than just fun.
I had this conversation with him last week. I found myself speaking with such clarity, a grace under pressure I had never experienced when confronting a male in this way. I knew exactly what I wanted, and was able to articulate it so clearly. He does that to me - he brings out an intensified version of myself; he gives me butterflies. (And to quote dawson's creek, as it is a show with a great depth of meaning... "never lose the butterflies.")

I started writing about the conversation he and I had, and why its over... but I'm not sure I understand it enough to comment on it yet. Besides, this isn't really about him or even understanding why he doesn't want this right now. (Though justifying it may lessen the blow to my bruised ego.) It's about coming to realize what I can offer in a relationship. That I don't have to be the one with all the responsibilities; and I don't have to be the one always being silly and lovey-dovey. I don't need to treat a relationship like some lab mouse, always testing to see what kind of reaction can arise.

I am really going to miss him, and the friendship we had. I could've talked to him for hours on end, tangenting, coming back, forgetting where we were, laughing along the way. Even when we talked about ending, it was thoughtful and heartfelt; uncomforatble at points, sure. But for the best, I suppose. Maybe I should have been more patient, maybe I should have let things play out. But I have trouble with gray areas, or at least gray areas that are created by others. Simply put, the older I get, the more I come to realize I am like mom.

(I apologize if this post seems choppy - my head is choppy right now. cloudy, gray.)

Unsure of My Steps

2006-02-23T08:20:00.000-05:00

As I unlocked the door and stepped back out into the hallway my head spun. Thousands of thoughts and millions of feelings carried me as I floated down the 3 flights and out onto the streets of Astoria.

I could write the cliches that I've written here about loves past. I could write about how I'm swept off my feet by this girl. But the truth is, I'm scared. More scared than I have ever been around a woman.

I barely know her but I am captivated. She is the most beautiful woman that has ever turned affection my way, and man has she ever. But if that were all there was to this I'd be fine. I'd take it in stride. Pretty girls are a dime a dozen. But if she's a 10 on the outside, she seems a 50 on the inside. She is calm and confident, patient and kind. Her stories of the past aren't filled with addiction, turmoil and torment. Quite the contrary, she tells of peace and pleasure, good times with good friends, and an ability to set goals and achieve them.

I barely know her but she seems to be exactly what I'm looking for. I knew in the past that complications from circumstance and history would stand in the way of my relationships. I knew from the get-go that there would be obstacles to overcome, and I know that there will be here too. But there is a calm compatibility to our time together that is... well... peaceful.

I barely know her but I'll take my chances and see where this all leads. I am very curious, I am quite intrigued, I am scared as hell but most of all... I'm excited to have love at my fingertips again.

In the immortal words of Josh Dion:

"I drive late at night
shining city lights
it can't be wrong 'cause it feels so right

Oh what must I do
to get this message through
I'll show her love,
you know I have to
Make her my girl"

February

2006-02-17T02:16:00.001-05:00

These are moments rare, though increasingly frequent. I've had some wine, hanging out with friends, or find myself in a large lecture class, hundreds of smithies captivated by the same pedagogue, hundreds more mere months away from graduation, escaping the bubble. Anyway, these rare moments (and I should be writing my english essay) catch me, surprise me, and they are this: that we are all connected, so fragile the boundaries that separate us, enclose us. How easy, how effortless to reach out my hand and find a common thread, the same pains and joys. What is it that holds us apart? That causes us to avert our eyes on subway platforms, street corners, groccery stores......what are we afraid of? I remember last year in London (having never regularly taken public transit before) challenging myself to making eye contact with people on the tube, in the stations--and holding their gaze. Forcing some sort of connection, affirmation of awareness, presence. It was hard. Rarely successful. So many hangups to get in the way: what if you're a serial killer? what if you smile? what if you ignore me? what if you approach me? what if I don't have the time? what if we feel some unexpected connection, and simply walk away? How can we feel so distinct, so disparate? There is nothing physical, nothing tangible holding us back from that single, simple point of contact.

Callouses

2006-02-15T11:12:00.000-05:00

My hands are hurting today. They have grown soft from a year of not plumbing. The abrasive cloth used to clean copper water supplies, the brick and mortar I wiped away with my hand, and the hot soldered pipe I grabbed through the thin barrier of a rag have combined forces to leave my fingertips sore, crying underneath each fingernail, to raise infant blisters on my palm and to stain, crack and dry out my skin.

Today my hands will hurt more as I return to the labor. Tomorrow they will hurt less. Once upon a time they were immune to this pain. They had acclimated to the environment, calling brick, mortar, solder, heat, aridity into their very organ, unifying with these elements to form a symbiotic relationship. Yet only a year has passed and that hardened skin is already gone, a bonnet lost to the gusty rain of time passed.

It is like this with everything we do in life. At first we are vulnerable, soft, wounded. With exposure we become strong, hard and invulnerable. However, never so calloused that time cannot shed away our armor and reveal pink tissue again. With love, with art, with spirituality...we acquire molds that we wear around. In time the mold erodes and we emerge naked, ready to hurt and learn again.

Hi-Tech Johnny

2006-02-15T01:59:00.000-05:00

Well, this is my first post on my new laptop...first computer I've owned in 11 years! First-off, I'd like to thank all the people, without whom I wouldn't have graduated college or written on this site previously, who let me sit at their machines all those years. Jesse, Steve/Margaret Woodford, Heather Lovrich (who lent me her laptop for a year and had it returned missing keys due to a run-in with my cat's claws!), Syd Glasser, Jackie and Fred, Drew-Dog Whittet, Kate/Beth, Brooklyn Public Library, Northvale Public Library, Tappan Public Library, the SUNY Binghamton computer center, Sigrun Taliaferro...thanks for everything, it meant so much, but I'm glad to say that my butt will never have to sit in your desk chairs anymore!!!

All I've had time for so far is downloads and more downloads but I am looking forward to buying a digital camera (soon as I get paid for this washer/dryer installation) and to one day maybe building a website so I can join my friends Fred and Syd in high-tech self-promotion. It's amazing what a powerful tool this thing is for education, entertainment and communication. I hope everybody out there reading this on their own computer takes a moment to be grateful for this tool. There are many many peeps out there for whom this reality is an unaffordable dream. We are lucky.

Peace, Y'all!

First Black President

2006-02-13T23:00:00.000-05:00

I just watched Dave Chapelle on Inside the Actor's Studio.

Let me say this... if our country would elect this man president we'd be in much better shape. He's a fine person and he seems to really have his head on straight. It would be nice if we could finally all have the discussion about race in America that he seems so hell bent on bringing to the fore front.

Hey... didn't he do a "Black Bush" sketch.

Thanks for the Party

2006-02-13T11:22:00.000-05:00

Thanks to all you who contributed to the awesome night we had Friday with all the singing and dancing. Would not have been the party is was without any of you. Lauren, it was great having you around with your crew and having you on stage singing. (Why didn't Brian ever get up there?)

Cait, thank your girls again for making the trip down and having so much fun with all of us. They definitely rocked the house all night.

Not sure when the next party will be, or what the theme will be, but we'll make sure that everyone is invited again. And we'll try to time the beer brewing process to perfection so that there'll be another, different brew for the next one.

Peace y'all!