Pacific Rim, Movie

Erin and I absorbed a matinee yesterday. In his particular Internet stream, this was something of interest. I had not otherwise heard of it.

We arrived to an empty theatre: would we be alone thru out? Nay, a good 13 others joined us for this Wednesday entertainment.

In the offing is just about nuthin’. There’s a not quite buddy pic with Mark Walberg and Morgan Freeman except that it turns out Denzel Washington is Morgan Freeman now. Or vice versa? A dystopian future flick has Matt Damon as part of the vast prole underfoot separated from the primo non-polluted satellite where bleachy prune Jodie Foster rules the best part of society. Doesn’t look like one of her best roles. Plot-wise, well, you know, but it looked good, with wide futuristic vistas and stuff. Finally, I would hope, George Clooney and Sandra Bullock as astronauts skywalking when I guess a collision with space trash requires 2 hours of cinematic saving of each other way way way above the earth. No thank you, times 10,000. Creeped out just thinking on it. Other crap on the way, can’t think whosis whatsis. Don’t miss it if you can, as I think Louis B Mayer said.

I had the vaguest expectation for Pacific Rim, monsters versus robots. The extended set up explained that destructive giant monsters have appeared, Godzilla plus a lot. Seems a rift in an undersea plate has a portal to another dimension, thru which pass these mega-monsters. The movie explained it more briefly than that so people wouldn’t hurt themselves thinking about it too much. Anyway, you mention other dimensions, everyone nods knowingly.

The monsters seem intent on coming ashore and devastating. Godzilla wants its plot back. It’s later explained, if explained is really the apt term, that dinosaurs were precursors of these beasties, in an earlier alien attempt to take over the planet. The monsters (I think) are tools of this alien race that takes over planets, uses them up, then moves on.

So, still in the set up, us earthlings discover that normal war machines were insufficient. The human world, as one, developed gigantor robots. To run these majestic destroyers required two people. The strain of commanding such mongo machines was more than one person could handle. Thus pairs were used. There was a three-armed bot run by triplets, but it didn’t last long. As Erin pointed out, the triplets must feel special to have a bot built just for them.

Pilots connect psychically thru some process called the drift. No need to explain how. Basically, one person would be right brain, the other left. The two pilots would move arms and legs and the robot would perform those moves. There were hints of Transformers, GoBots, and Pokemon in all of this. Also War of the Worlds. Almost plausible too, if you accept that physics and biology don’t exist. I mean, getting into a bot had all these NASA-like procedures, which created a sort of reality.

Continuing, still, with the set up, we meet two brothers, one of whom clearly has pectoral muscles. They are pilots and we see them give battle. The scale of the monsters and the robots is kept loose, at a guess between 10 and 100 stories tall. The word ridiculous comes to mind. The younger of the brothers gets ripped from the robot, and the older barely survives. Okay. Now we can get going in the present tense.

Some five years later, surviving brother has quit the bot biz. The whole bot program is in disarray.  The monster are evolving, and the bots are getting beat. The whizbang world leaders have decided to place funding in building a wall to keep the monsters out. Oh, that oughta work. I’ve neglected to describe how these shark-like dinosaurs destroy cities: they run amok. Nothing has stood up to them, so why expect the wall? Okay, stop asking questions.

Our hero at this time is helping to build the wall, an exaggerated Texas border. The wrenching death of his brother has left him in doldrums. The head of the bot program seeks him out. Funding will last just a few months more, until the stupid wall is finished. He wants to make one last all out effort against the monsters. Oh, the monsters are called kaiju, which is Japanese for something. The bots are called jaegers, German for hunter.

Luckily, I never saw Top Gun but I know that it echoes here. Raleigh, brother of dead Yancey, must prove himself to the elites who didn’t quit the service. Raleigh, surprise, is not exactly by the book. Marshall, the bot program boss, brings in a woman as an expert to decide who shall be R’s partner. Turns out she’s highly qualified but Marshall won’t let her be part of the fighting. Raleigh does martial arts with various candidates for partnership. It’s a chance to show that he has pecs too, like his brother. And abs. The woman scores him harshly, tho he succeeds against all. This pisses off R, who challenges the woman. They spar, with sticks, and she wins and he magnaminously accepts her, but Marshall still says nay.

Meanwhile, there’s a cocky Australian who is teamed with his father. He snarls at R, and finally they fight. Dramatic tension, or something kinda like. Expect the two to develop a grudging respect for each other.

The world seems to be going dingo, with the onslaught. The monsters have mouths within mouths, which is an inexplicable trope that I’ve seen in other movies. Anyway, comic relief with two scientists. One is flippant American nerd biologist, the other is German math major with a cane. They have competing theories about the monsters. Rather outre, especially the German, but lively.

R and the woman finally are teamed, against Marshall’s instinct. In battle, she gets lost in the drift. The drift is Vulcan mind meld, but in that zone she could not forget her own past, in which as a child, she flees the devastators that killed her family. She freaks out and nearly kills a bunch of people. Discredited.

The monsters are arriving in grander configuration. Time for the last best. The idea is to blow up the fissure where the inter-dimensional gate is. I missed plenty as the movie proceeded. The nerd biologist drifted with part of a monster brain. Learned stuff, I’m not sure what.

The bots seem pretty unlikely. They are huge + huge, but really. They are carried to the battle via helicopters, which seems primo lame. Dropped into the sea, they walk thru the waves. Let’s just forget about physics for a while. They move with the grace of Rock ‘Em Sock ‘Em Robots. Completely and completely out of their element, no matter the element. A lot of crashing about. When battling on land, you get all the collateral damage you could need and more.

The bots mostly punch and slam the monsters. Occasionally they use highly effective rockets, and you wonder why not always go that route. Well, the monsters can spit up a furious sort of acid that completely ruins a bot, but they choose to do so rarely.

Nerd biologist needs a complete alien brain to perform drift on. He seeks out Ron Perlman, only actor in the flick that I’ve seen before. Perlman enjoys the chance to act out with his sleazy flesh monger role (alien flesh and stuff is used for all sorts of sketchy stuff).

Well, no need to serve up the plot further. Nerd biologist discovers, with the bickering help of math guy, that the fissure cannot be breached (with atomic pow) without alien monster. That is, the portal closes to aliens (id est humans).

Dramatic expected deaths, and all, and it is down to Raleigh and the woman. We learn that she was a child who Marshall saved and then upbrang. He dies, of course. This last bot is just about done working, arm missing and stuff. Situation normal for bits to fall off and electrical stuff flashing and burning. They’re going to grab a monster and drop the bot down into the fissure where its nuclear core will be set to explode. Raleigh sends his injured partner to the surface in a pod since only one can perform blow up sequences. The bot explodes as per, closing the portal. Raleigh manages to escape in a pod. Blimey!

I wonder if I got half the plot here. I’m sure all 15 of us in the audience frequently said “Oh, I saw that coming” during our 2 hours in this other world.

And yet.

Despite the cliches running wild, the characters seemed to stand stalwart. Marshall had to give a rousing speech before the final battle. It’s the same speech as given in Independence Day. Marshall gets to put a period to the final paragraph with this great line: “We have canceled the apocalypse.” As Erin asserted, no finer line.

I found all the actors strangely likeable. Guillermo del Toro directed. I’ve heard the name but have nothing to attach it to.

Movie Totaly Sux: Gods and Generals

Saw this made for tv effort last night. I should have been less hopeful but it's about the Civil War, so it had that going for it. And little else, it turns out.

The movie derives from the sequel to the novel by Michael Shaara, Killer Angels. That one was about Gettysburg. Shaara interweaved several character plots into a reasonable whole. Of course the battle itself is intriguing.

Shaara also wrote a prequel, which concerned many of the same characters, but back in the days of the Mexican War. Michael Shaara didn't write Gods and Generals, his son Jeff did. And that brings up the unfortunate problem of franchise.

Years ago, Arthur C. Clarke took on a protege, perhaps several. Gentry Lee was one. And they started collaborations on sequels to Clarke's famous books. I don't want to hear about it. If the gold mine is played out, salting it won't actually make it better. Frank Herbert apparently went crazy writing Dune sequels. They got weirder and weirder, and then we find that his son has taken the reins. Anne McCaffery's another who took on some leech for a pilot. I see it only as attenuation. I hate it. Look, Jeff, just because your dad could do it, doesn't mean you can.

But okay, I never read Jeff Shaara's book. And the movie is, after all, about Stonewall Jackson. How can you screw it up? With a concerted effort, that's how. Team effort, headed by the noxious fume called Ted Turner.

Ted Turner made Killer Angels into a small screen spectacular. It wasn't that great but it was filmed on location. Turner lurks behind this shambles, as well, again filmed on location.

First of all, the makeup artists never came to terms with the Age of Extreme Facial Hair. We're not looking at characters but rather bearers of beards. Several actors get to wear dapper mustaches. Most, however, look dispirited behind the shrubbery. You try to tell James Longstreet from George Pickett. I guess the shooting schedule didn't allow the time for actors to supply their own beards to the movie magic. Stephen Lang, who plays Jackson, wore Brillo on his face. Brillo!

The movie starts slow, then eases up on the accelerator. Robert Duval as Robert E Lee receives invitation to lead the Union against the insurrection. With compelling blah blah blah about his home blah blah blah Virginia he declines the offer and instead opts to lead the South.

This scene should have been a warning because while Duval, I think, gets the accent right, the acting seems too openly actorly. I believe the director causes this. Most of the screenplay consists of florid speeches. Thus the actors are set up to make each word count. That means tics, pauses, and slowed pace. Acting!

So then for a miserably long time, various characters come to grips with the coming storm, enlisting or seeing loved ones go. Everyone's got a speech. Stonewall foremost has the Good Book to fall back on, in case his speechifying needs a little gloss. In times of darkness, quote the Bible.

Historically it's probably true that many leaned on the Bible for encouragement. In this movie, it only comes across as the pitter patter of received wisdom. It all sounds like rote. Stephen Lang, who plays Jackson, doesn't make him crazy enough. I take the historical Jackson to have been a fire eater of sorts. Perhaps not to the John Brown level, but tightly wound. Lang has Jackson take the Bible as more like an instruction manual. The scenes where he and his wife share a few verses have the ring of Kraft cheese.

Don't worry, Northerners can bloviate too. Jeff Daniels plays Joshua Chamberlain. Chamberlain was the moral core of Killer Angels. Here he's just another blowhard, as is his wife, Mira Sorvino. They have a scene in which she confronts him about going off to war. She manages to recite an entire Richard Lovelace poem before Daniels could open his mouth. The scene gave the aura of Shakespeare refined to pure fakery.

Daniels tops her later on by quoting a quite lengthy stretch from the writings of Julius Caesar. He and his soldiers are in formation at the time. At first Bull Run. Awaiting to enter the fray. Not a single Maine boy in the ranks rolls his eye.

The focus of the movie is the South and their just cause. You can argue state versus federal rights, it continues in argument now. Slavery was an ancillary issue, but you wouldn't know it in this movie. Jackson takes on a black cook—I don't know if he was free or a slave—who feels as strongly about his Virginia homeland as Lee. It's just a little too nice.

After a while, some battles actually occur. Bull Run is the first. I'm being picky but when soldiers charge they do so without hint of berserker. Seems like with cannons crashing and bullets catching soldiers in mid stride, a bit of adrenalin might be apparent. Nope.

Early on we meet a family of Southerners. Two of the boys are off to the war. The professionally distraught mother must fret their fate with her daughters. Later, the Yanks invade the town. An ambulance is found to cart them all to safety. A slave and her children offer to stay behind to take care of the house. The ambulance rattles off, for some reason towards the incoming Yanks. I thought some sort of drama might occur but the ambulance bangs a u-turn and heads away.

The Yanks come to the house. The slave lady and her children come to the door. They are dressed in finery. The Yanks ask suspiciously if this is their house or their master's. The woman says it is hers. Great! Saved the effing house for Southern Mistress.

On Christmas Day, pickets from both sides, Johnny Reb calls to Billy Yank. They decide to make a trade. Johnny brings a pipe and Billy a cup of coffee. Johnny sips and Billy smokes. They barely acknowledge each other. Wordlessly they return cup and pipe, and saunter away. Surprisingly underplayed scene.

Eventually Jackson gets hit by friendly fire, mutters about crossing the river, and dies. It took hours to get to his point. The black cook is there at Jackson's funeral, faithful to the end. Beth gave the movie her highly regarded Worst Movie Ever award. I felt like I accomplished something getting thru it without sleeping too much.

War of the Worlds, Tom Cruise, and Kim K

I think it has been established that language no longer exists. Not the imprecise language of words, that resists definition and professes roots in gardens. Instead we have a hardcore gallimaufry of manufacture. Can poets match that test?

We saw War of the Worlds the other night. It was an entertainment and worth reseeing, but a word to Steven Spielberg: you might want to pull up your socks. As far as atmosphere, it isn’t a patch on the Gene Barry starring thriller. Okay, I saw that one when I was believable (able to believe): a young and willing auditor of marvels, and the words that tell them. Marvels like Tom Cruise (synecdoche for Hollywoodia) have made me wary, wary. Spruced up marvels of any ilk, I mean.

Spielberg’s movies usually look good; this one looks hasty, compiled, and a bit sloppy. It held up as entertainment, a worthy purchase from the supermarket cheap rack, but embarrassing, perhaps, in terms of Spielberg’s oeuvre. It aint no Close Encounters.

Tom Cruise irritates me, which means I should investigate. I don’t mean Scientology or that stuff, that’s just the human side of murk seeping thru. As a Star of Acting, he makes me flinch. I grant him actual acting skill. He’s not just a one tempo puppy (Arnold, Bruce, Sylvester). Unfortunately, you always see the gears turning, the calculation. If he could just let go of that occasionally, I might release some of my irritation. Anyway, he’s competent as actor, even so.

Fred Allen said something to the effect, Hollywood is where you brush away the glitter to get at the real glitter inside. Tom’s inner glitter is hard to express in words. Is he goodlooking in the certifiable, documented, Hollywood way? I guess so. The young Cruise seemed like a stupid high school jock. He looked malleable, with a mushy, wet clay smile. Perhaps the clay has hardened, he looks more chosen now. I mean, he fulfills the checklist, except that he’s unacceptably short. And yet he lets that be no barrier.

He resembles the veritable Kim Kardashian in some ways. In Hollywood terms, she’s no spring chicken. The rage of age has brought her unforgivably into her 30s. Yet she’s buffed and bound and looks perfectly identifiable. She is thus allowed to become pregnant. Who knew that women got heavy when pregnant? According to my read of magazine covers at the supermarket, Kourtney and Khloe have also become pregnant. And fulfilled (and yet).

You do wonder about these Kardashians. When journalists must explain the Kardashian quantity, the women are called stars of reality shows, i.e. stars of their lives. It’s an odd complex, but then, Tom Cruise has been doing that right along, tho not in so many words. Not in any words, let’s be honest.

Kim is the star Kardashian. Khloe is the baby. Besides getting married, divorced and pregnant, Khloe doesn’t seem to Star in much. Kourtney was a something or other on one of those shows, but has since been fired. It might even have been her job to get fired, so that the larger theme of being something within nothing could supremely squirt into the atmosphere of attention. Kim, meanwhile, has been the spokesfemale for Midori watermelon liquor, at any rate, tags on bottles have forensically flaunted the Kim K image. Which has led to the enviable position of attachment to the Kanye West whatever, with further episodes beckoning.

Kourtney may be some sort of avatar. Rumour has it that she’s really O J Simpson’s daughter, which puts scale to the property (Kardashian Inc.). She’s notably taller than her sisters, and… and… Oh, I dunno…

I guess they are all avatars. The conservative wrecking ball demands a secret insensitivity to human iniquity. That’s why healthcare is such a great topic of contetion. Within the meta-range, Cruise and the Kardashians make unmitigated flarf out of life terms. I say flarf because it is context recontexted. The Kardashian flarf is immobile, however, lacking words. It’s not really flarf, or anything, at all.

I sweated bullets when the aliens almost finished off Gene Barry et al., in that black and white movie. Almost, but the human-saving virus did its deed. Spielberg thoroughly brushed that tension aside as afterthought. Instead, it’s the majesty of monster that he,and we, indulged. Independence Day, an exhilarating romp, as they say, showed how wonderful monster can be.

Cruise and the Kardashians are monsters, in the old school way. It says in Merriam Webster that monster derives from monere, to warn. I guess that’s all I’m saying, in my personal science fiction here.

Star Trek Into Darkness

Yes, I saw Star Trek today. We intended to do a matinee, but Beth had an appointment in town (Boston town), that ate into the afternoon. I went along so that I could say, I think you should have turned back there.  Tho seriously we got in and out meetly. And Boston Common is just so lovely, a city being sensible. So we had pizza then went to the cinnyMAH.

Re upcoming films, I got nothing to look forward to. I don’t even remember what’s coming. Superman doesn’t excite me. I don’t even want to illustrate the demise of western, eastern, northern, and southern society as these summer mishaps flatten the intellectual step of our many nations. Snarky boom, the end.

Much anticipated movie, this ole Star Trek. None of the tv shows excited me. They were entertaining but I cannot see them in the Beloved category. The first movie clicked on all cylinders. This one probably did too, but I guess I wanted to see redefinition of the genre. The crackle of this ensemble clearly delivers a strength. There is rapport amongst the actors and a written ease given to them. If the tv shows had this sort of energy, they’d still be on the air.

I had an odd feeling of the plot being both rushed and stalled. It’s an action film problem, where the ACTION takes basically meaningless time while the plot waits. The action is expressive if not vivid. Fight scenes are essentially vivid blurs augmented with crunching sounds. The equation drips policy, as if no real action occurs, just elevated plot advances. What I mean is, if we have to have fights, let the ballet play. Jolting remarkable agitation is another way of saying confusing.

Which reminds me that one of the movies in the foredoom is a modern martial arts mess. Martial arts movie times the square root of video game, plus 3. The trailer had the despicable catch line that winners remain standing. Losers equal pogrom, holocaust, tornado victims. I mean really, is that the math?

Another math was in Star Trek, when the admiral’s daughter wants to help Kirk with his bomb problem, or something. Anyway, she says, turn away, and she proceeds to strip down to underwear. Which is a calcified James Bond moment that has no reasonable position in a grown up movie. She had to change into bomb defusing clothes, oh yeah. Peter Weller played her father the admiral. He had an old school army accent. His daughter had a swish British one. Adding that up right now.

Christopher Pine has brash down pat. To me he perfectly performs the idea of Kirk, which Shatner never really approached. I read one or two Star Trek novels. The whole idea of the franchise as franchise made me glum because it seemed to regulate how people made and how people enjoyed scifi. Anyway, I kept thinking, Shatner’s doing this, saying that??? The esteemed Priceline guy has that kind if imprint. We get it as well with Pine: he’s going to grow up to be Shatner? You just don’t see Shatner in bed with two alien females with tails. That’s another James Bondian off note, btw.

Benedict Cumberbatch is the god of autistic embrace with his Sherlock Holmes. He was good here, grisly evil with a nice accent. I suppose we need one more hyper-powered wundermann. What made me flinch, tho, was that he was Khan. Ricardo Montalban’s expert hamminess needn’t be challenged. The idea that JJ Abrams has to stick to the clunky timeline of the original is dispirirting.

A scene in which the Star Fleet command endures a helicopter attack recalled a similar scene in Godfather 3. Good Lord, copping to Godfather 3!!!!!! The action gets a bit blurry and the slaughter is wholesale but it’s pretty dynamic. A space ship crashing into a city later on recalled 911. I kinda think they ought to leave that alone.

Abrams repeats a few scenes from the first endeavour. Kirk and Khan diving out of a spaceship in freefall, tho this time it looked like they had control of their fall. The fight on the drill from Number 1 turns into a fight on some sort of moving platform in Number 2. In both instances, my vertigo made up for the lack of vertigo of the contestants.

Bones, Sulu, and Chekov have to wait for Number 3 to get more lines. Not that they were that busy in the tv show, but Scotty was featured some in this flick. The door’s open for Khan to return, but I would rather that the Enterprise move on.

Oh jeez, I just remembered that one of the upcoming movies features Michael Douglas, Morgan Freeman, Robert DeNiro, and Kevin Kostner or was it Kline in a puerile Vegas hijinks movie. The Hangover at 70, with Academy Award cred: ugh!!! Anyway, Star Trek was a fun movie, perhaps more muddled than the first. The first had the advantage of surprise: we didn’t know if Abrams would get it right. Knowing he can, we might get a bit picky.

As we were leaving, an usher told us her son was in the movie. He played one of the aliens in the opening homage to Indiana Jones sequence. It was fun to hear the proud mother. Her son’s been in some 12 movies, so he’s got something going.

Concord Estates and Woods

Since last summer, Beth and I have gone to the same place in Concord to walk and take pictures. The wish would be daily, the actuality more like 2-3 times a week. The place offers extensive and varied acreage but we usually take the same route, a mile loop around an old millpond. Despite such a limited area, we have found something new and engaging every time. The flow of seasons and weather present continual change.
Neither Beth or I consider ourselves photographers, at least in the sense of trying to make “art”. We just take pictures of things that catch our eye. We don’t fuss with the pictures either. Especially we don’t amplify the colours, which is a sort of common romanticism focused on idealism. There is no “truth” in these pictures, just interest.
We share the camera. I take the most pictures because I like to click away. Beth puts more thought into her camera work. We point and talk and ask questions.
Yesterday, we entered the woods by a different route. Years ago, I skied in from this path, but I remembered nothing of it. One drives down a country road with grand estates on both sides. This was all farm land, in Concord’s working heyday. The estates show it, with barns and horses, fences and rock walls. Some owners sly the taxes by growing hay and calling the place a working farm. It all was probably very good farm land, the land of Concord seems blest, but it all now just represents American extent. Food comes from someplace else now (tho some farms remain in town). In fact life comes from someplace else, because even Concord isn’t good enough to satisfy the wants. What’s here in this town is muchly all documentation of what is “Mine.” I don’t really begrudge it, don’t envy the owners,  not in a come the revolution sense. I am, however, wary of hedge fund success and the a-holes who hire it.
The grandest estate has numerous buildings. The main house is old, with several chimneys (chimneys in the middle of the house rather than the side, as this house showed, indicates older houses). The barn is large and trig. There’s a ridiculously lovely old beech tree, a cluster of apple trees (in bloom!). A small house on the estate has a pretty kitchen garden of herbs. The lawn close to the main house has been mowed to golf course trim, but much of the open area has been allowed to engage its natural grassy habit. When I say natural, I mean the grass grows tall and other plants are allowed to grow. The cycle burgeoning toward reforestation of course will be stymied in the fall.
We left all this comfortably unnatural wonder and followed the path into the woods. The paths are somewhat tortuous. I got lost once on my bike, with my attention tuned to avoiding rocks and roots. I ended up eating my bike but got out alive.
We met a family on the path who, oddly, walked in single file, dad first, the kids, and mom. It didn’t look like they were there to engage but of course I don’t know that. I could imagine the allure of television and vid games hanging heavy with the crew.
Sunlight glimmering on leaves. A few tiny violets still in bloom. Lily of the valley. I thought I saw the flick of a deer’s white tail but it was a sidelong sight, perhaps a bird instead. There were deer tracks at the place. Deer stay scarce during the day because many who walk these woods bring dogs. I consider dogs part of the habitat. Love to see the happy wet coming up to greet us.
We wound down hill till we came to a small, rather dismal pond and a fenced in field. Sitting above it was the house at the top of the hill near the other entrance to the woods. We actually drove up the long driveway once. The house itself is no big deal, no mansion, but it’s a glorious chunk of land. Our view from the shady path revealed the hillside as just about a cliff. Clouds at the moment showed a cumulous heft but didn’t block the sun. Spring in this world of poor mutts.
We found trillium next to the path, and geranium. I’ve seen lady’s slippers in the woods here, and we were hopeful. Honeysuckle and lily of the valley were everywhere and in bloom, gorgeous scents. There was an exotic tree that I’ve never seen before, very large leaves and beefy flowers somewhat like roses or peonies. We got the idea that this was a formerly tended area left to make its own way.
The path led to a sign on a tree indicating private property. We turned around. A cyclist soon came bounding down the path from the verboten area, unmindful of such restrictions. We took another direction. The whole hillside was covered with lily of the valley. Like with honeysuckle, the flower is small and undramatic, but the scent is intoxicating.
We looped back to our entry path. We greeted a family marching in, alerting them to the hillside of lily of the valley. There were 15-20 cars parked along the road in, but we saw the contents of perhaps 4.
Much of this is town land. I know a little school called Harvard owns some of the land. I don’t know if our steps ever landed on Harvard land, whether Harvard allows access. On our way home, we stopped at the organic farm near where we usually enter the woods. It’s a beautiful looking farm, nestled at the bottom of the hill with the Concord River on its far side. Happily, this land is held in trust, a farm “forever”.
Beth’s uncle built a place on the Jersey shore just after WWII. Nothing was there at the time but things changed dramatically over the years. It was a small place, even after it was enlarged, about 50 yards from the water. It sat on a street that ran perpendicular to the water. The houses along the shore road kept getting bigger, so that when I first visited, ocean view was blocked. One entered the beach thru an alley between two McMansions.
The depredations of Hurricane Sandy destroyed or greatly irked most of the houses in the area (Beth’s aunt had moved some years before). One shouldn’t and cannot make that some kind of justice against these magnates of exclusivity. One can, surely, see—if blinders are removed—that this “land” is a spit of shifting sand, however. The monuments were not bound to last, even by the measly standards of human lifetime.
As beautiful as the estates in Concord are, someone’s going to realize it’s just a tax bill. And the throng grows of those who want a piece. Of course it is all Maya. Daniel Boone lighting out for further expanse simply has little chance nowadays. Expanse is now dictated to us in little notes and messages. Might as well see what these messages say.

American Idle

We do not have cable, which is close to admitting that we have no electricity. We realized the ROI was getting pretty slim. Even before that, I found myself not really interested in what television offered. I watched but didn't invest.

I am now in a state where I don't now recognize many of the people on the cover of People, let alone the the supermarket tabloids. This leave me uneasy. All this culture in which I swim, passing me by. Okay, I know who the Kardashians are but am pressed to say what their hold on us is.

So anyway. I saw a bit of American Idol last week. The last (perhaps only other) time I saw the show, Simon Scowl was still a judge, and the talent was at a much more amateur level. My recent viewing, I guess the competition was well along; the singers were competent and they had accompaniment. But the fabrication was just as taut as before.

The orchestration endemic to the show is a political nuisance, and always has been. Simon of course played it the best. His commentary was mean and republican: you're all equally bad. His pleasures were concessions to the idea of winning, and winning big. The other two judges, Paula and Dawg, were there to pretend hope existed. Hope has always been a nice story line in this country.

The latest set of judges showed less centre. Whereas Simon anchored the centripetal force, no one really holds the chain with this latest bunch. Nicki Minaj comes the closest. Her comments seemed unrepentently sour. She's balanced by the cheerful Mariah Carey. Supposedly there's tension between the two, which is just the respected theatre we feel that we need. Folksy hip Keith Urban adds a thoughtful note, and R-Dawg is R-Dawg. I checked Wikipedia, by the bye, and Randy Jackson has serious cred as session bassist and producer. Cred on American Idol is simpler, he just has to say Yo Dawg.

The three singers competing were all women. I don't know if categories exist in the show: male, female, group. The singers all sang heartfelt ballady tripe. Excuse me, I sound a little impatient. I guess they're effective songs, just not on my turntable.

Each singer had a taped session with Harry Connick Jr before performing live. He'd joke with them in a friendly, folksy way then tell them how great they were. Shrug.

After an enthusiastically received song by one of the singers, Nicki Minaj directly said that something was missing. Well first she said she liked the singer's pants. Minaj noted that the singer didn't commit to the song enough. Plausible, tho not perceptible to me. Surprisingly, Mariah agreed, tho she said so in a nicer way. Keith agreed too, but allowed that nerves and pressure effect performances. And so on.

That's the keynote to the show: it goes on. Ryan Seacrest hosts the show, taking the media mogul crown from the now completely dead Dick Clark. Seacrest has no rough edges, is just politically there as a process of containment. Basically, he runs the republic. His blandness, like Clark's, lets him into our homes as the Mayor of Distraction.

And since we have once again had terrorist attacks here in the U.S., thank heavens for the distractions. The patent says that America gets together to worry about American Idol. Well, the country worries about Bachelors and Bachelorettes too, which to me is an amazing insight into our country's soul. We're watching people pretend to date!

I'm sure this goes on in other countries, I'm just not up on the latest data.

I know Idol is losing ratings and, flashpoint, Randy Jackson, as well. People are right now discussing how irreplaceable Dawg is. Honestly, why do I know this?

That Idol exists doesn't bother me. It's the professional wrestling of entertainment. Maybe Nicki Minaj (from parts unknown)has a foreign object in her hand as she points out a performer's failing. It's a zestless subject of conversation, the probity of catastrophic political muteness. That's the less good side of this crap.

Of course that Benghazi tv show has become popular, and we're still watching reruns of Boston Marathon Mayhem. I think the perpetrator did it. They usually do. And we need to know that perps are responsible. Makes things nice and clear.

Ironman 3

Saturday, 5/4, was Erin’s birthday. Twelve years ago on the same date, he had four stainless steel pins removed from his femur. The pins held the bone together so the breaks could heal. He was in study mode this past Saturday, so he and I went to the movies Sunday. Pretty full house, e’en tho a beauty day. New England is good for fine days but doesn’t often string them together like this past week. Anyway, the trailers:

Well jeez, everything explodes! I know there‘s no reason to get thoughtful, but why are we so excited about explosions and crashes? I don’t know from Fast and Furious, but I get the faked up dynamics of crash, vengeance, and super-powered nothingness. The franchise is up to six, and I have no doubt you could not tell the episodes apart. Oh this is the one where the car crashes and spewing guns represent justice. Justice, sir, is what I hand to you.

Marvel has Thor comin’ at us. The comic that I remember, Thor flickered between the mighty god and the limping mortal. The first Thor movie strained too much at the soap opera sentiment, Marvel’s gift to comix. Went nowhere near the limping mortal. The best parts of that movie were the interactions of god world with this one. It looks like this next one dishes up the next Armageddon, again.

Marvel also exudes The Wolverine this summer. I don’t find the character, or Jackman, interesting. Wolverine seems like the type who would engage you at a party with how his liposuction operation didn’t work out, I mean it’s all on his sleeve. Okay, he’s a hunk, maybe the human growth hormones he takes gives him a rash. Let’s just say his gravitas seems a bit phony.

A Hunger Games sequel seems prodded. I stand posted as having little knowledge of Hunger Games, but this seems like tripe. I care for none of these flicks, waiting on Star Trek. At least no animated blockbusters in the offing.

Oh yeah, the Lone Ranger. Of some interest to me, but it looks too explodo. Seems like nowadays, scale = explosion. Putting the explosion into a less explosive era just rocks too hard.  I never saw Downey’s Sherlock Holmes but I glean from the trailers that they’re not a matter of grey matter but instead action hero. Which is an off note (and more) for me.

Ironman has one resounding resource: Robert Downey Jr. I cannot think of an actor with a more ready, flip delivery. I know nothing of acting but I think there is effort and craft in his flip delivery. He commands the rhythm, so that you don’t know what to expect, tho the set up is obvious. His effort and understanding carry the film.

I missed the 2nd I-man. There seems some effort at continuity. I know there’s reference to The Avengers.  Comic continuity has always been a bete noire, like anyone could make sense of all the plotlines.

The plot of I-man 3 is simply a petrie dish in which things happen. Add zingers and and explosions and you’re done.

I only vaguely remember The Mandarin from the comics. Sort of a Fu Manchu arch-enemy type. Today’s worst nightmare. In 3, he is firstly served as an Osama Bin Laden cubed. He takes credit for mysterious bombings that don’t offer any evidence of bombs.

I started to flinch when the Mandarin appeared, because it gave off the odour of let’s get the Muslims. Moreso, bombings as entertainment shows an odd panache. I mean, after the heart-rending and hand-wringing of the past month. Ben Kingsley does a lively job with the character, tho. Ominous and crazy, with an interesting rhythm. We feel better, it seems, when that one crazy person is identified. That guy is our problem.

In a flashback, Tony meets with an attractive lady scientist and a wild-looking crackpot science type. Both are just bumps in the night for pre-enlightened Tony Stark. More later, of course.

Tony suffers post traumatic stress disorder, apparently from the Avengers movie. It’s good that the writers have heard of such a thing. Gywneth Paltrow is tiresome, I’m afraid. I think People named her the most important something. In the first I-man, she appeared so that it could be said that she appeared. I think she shall continue to look 25 for a few more years. Can’t last forever, and what are we going to do then? Not really to blame her for that, it’s just a cultural rule that a 40 year old Paltrow would be unacceptable. Same with Jennifer Aniston. Same too with Tom Cruise, as I think of it. Even tho it’s okay for men to age.

Tony Stark, finally ready for action, challenges the Mandarin to bring it on, going so far as to give his Malibu address. Attractive lady scientist comes to warn Tony about crackpot science type, now somehow a hunk. Then Mandarin’s choppers attack the Stark compound and everyone almost gets hurt.

I think I-man flies away. Pepper takes ALS to safety only… Perfidy! ASL and hunky crackpot are in cahoots.

Tony ends up in snowy Tennessee on a snowy Christmas Eve. His Ironman costume is broken. He meets a young boy who is fresh from some Frank Capra movie. There’s a cheesy back story there. Luckily, Stark snarks, and the malevolent attacks on our heartstrings are neatly averted. Some great lines between Stark and the kid. Downey gets next to the people when he acts. Even with the big apparent ego, he’s there with the other actor.

Thru out the movie, bits of I-man armour fly about, often to satisfying slapstick effect, but sometimes gimmicky distraction. Kinda wonder why that bit stuck.

There’s an I-man prototype that works for the government, with Tony’s friend Colonel Somebody inside.This must have shown up in I-2.  A bad guy gets into that suit and attacks Airforce One. El Presidente is snatched, and a hole in the plane causes many to be pulled from it. Rather than freeze to death immediately, all 18 decide to plummet until I-man manages to collect them all and place them safely in the ocean. From there they wave to the hero. Nice!

I guess I should mench that ALS developed a something that allows regeneration. Prob: unstable: causes people to explode. Which is the answer to the bombings.

Anyway, it looks bad for the Prez, bad for Colonel Somebody, bad for the world. Tony finds the Mandarin’s compound and, well, it turns out that the Mandarin is a fake. He’s an actor. Kingsley plays him as a small time actor. Kingsley has fun with the role. This guy is supposed to be an innocent figurehead but in one scene, he kills a man. He has captured a businessman then, by invading everyone’s television, including the President’s, he kills the guy on tv.

The movie is pretty violent, in the careless way we like it. Bad people die and sad people die, everyone else can worry about justice.

So the guy behind the Mandarin is hunky crackpot. He shoots ASL when she evinces a moral streak, and so, well, gotta bring it to the mat. Colonel Somebody joins Stark fighting the bad guys with the most explosions possible. An army of Ironman suits aid the good guys. Pepper appears to be dead after a fall into an inferno.

The final battle, I-man vs whack job, is the usual unmeasured mess. They trade vast blows with no effect. Still, it looks like Stark will be toast until… Pepper Potts blasts fire thru her mouth. She’d been infected by the same thing as the whack job. Dunno why this particular attack worked. But it cooked him.

After that, a check in on everyone. Oh by the way, the vice president was somehow involved in the evil plot. The end suggests that Tony Stark may be quitting the superhero biz. We’ll see about that.

It’s fun to watch tho there is a lot of relevant stupid going on, in all these possible flicks. It’s not much different from the stupid in real world, like, okay, for instance, the actions and reactions, the explanations and panic, surrounding the Boston bombing. Magic fire will come out of our mouths and solve all problems. Count on it.

Henry Adams on Snooki Polizi

Reading The Education of Henry Adams, a quirky autobiography, if ever. It takes some getting used to his grimly acerbic third person account, but there's a guarded hilarity in there, and real intent.

A phrase struck me—he speaks of his education in Germany—to wit: “...when by-products turn out to be more valuable than staples.” It reminded me of Williams' laser beam: “the pure products of America go crazy.” Both phrases gained traction for me because, at the gym, I saw part of a bio of Snooki from Jersey Shores. I haven't seen that show but the capillary action of American culture assures that I somehow “know” about it.

And I won't run Nicole “Snooki” Polizi down, but I think it is fair to wonder why she's whatever she is. The bio paints her as a someone trying to be someone, wit the deft arithmetic that “someone” = “no one”. Or more accurately, no one = something, accent on thing. We, audience that we are, seek not works but thingness. Snooki is a quantifiable thing, no doubt. Her pure product, which isn't her or hers, is crazy, let's be honest. We, audience, seek quantity. She (by which I mean this formidable televised thingness, not the “person”), is a quantity, one that we can measure. I have sort of lost gumption to investigate further.

There exists a sense in this trembling country that by-product is product, just as Adams intimates. Poisoned water table is a product somehow (miraculously, you ask me), because we need fracked oil so much. Somehow we need Snookis, id est: heroes: as in: broken leg college b-ball players, swimmers in Olympics, champion gymnasts moving on in career: nobodies elected to somebodies. The democracy of fame.

Emergency Room TV

Here is what. Beth's mother, staying with us, revealed a surprising high blood pressure. She does cardio and lifts weights, and usually maintains good bp, so this was cause to visit the emergency room (Emerson hospital, where I was born). They didn't keep Beth's mother, and gave a course of action.

I went with Beth to take Norma there. I kept to the waiting room, when she finally got called, in a fit of discretion. My last trip to the emergency room, I had been bit mildly on the butt by one of three dogs. The only concern was rabies, tra la tra la. While waiting, I watched loathsome 700 Club then or some such, the fare on the tv. Pat Baboone hawked gold as investment, which reminded me of Jesus in his fit of pique.

Yesterday, the offering was first of all Katie. It's that Couric lady, boiled down to iconic 1^st name. Larry King, I swear to god, reported how he tried to put the moves on the young Katie, impress her with his suspenders. The current Katie seems ageless. Perky smile to the end.

I had a book with me so wasn't attending carefully. One segment concerned a website that brings women together on the Internet. Sort of feminist but really it's just more accommodated enterprise. Not so much feminist as those who benefited from feminism. The site will still have the same yuck as anything else on the net. I mean, the show is geared to the feminists who watch television at 4 in the afternoon.

Another segment seemed about the same thing, tho I don't remember its specifics. All squeezed into a segment, with noise and commercials between segments. Television. Katie is good at the three minute interview, I just don't get the three minute interview. Especially as it could as likely be with a half life semi-celeb or the Prime Minister of Somewhere Important. All boiled down, neat.

Next came Ellen, another first name basis. Her sitcom was drab but she's a pleasant enough entertainment entity. She started the show with a stand up routine just as shitty as Jay Leno's, a disturbing lack of effort. Apparently it is free amphetamines for the studio audience because they were jacked to the nth. I guess I could seem exciting with a claque like that.

One of the lame jokes concerned the recent near miss asteroid. A few minutes later a pretend asteroid was sent down a cable to surprise no one. It was like elementary school.

The main bit of the show concerned a woman who had been on previously. Just an ordinary person like who watches Ellen daily. She was on earlier to explain how she does stuff for everybody. I mean, so I infer. As a reward for this generosity, Ellen sent a camera crew to the woman's workplace, a beauty parlour I think.

The woman was suitably animated, which apparently makes her funny. Ellen meanwhile stares at a monitor as if she were looking at Dick Tracy's 2-way wrist television. A grinning minion was onsite at the beauty parlour, ready to scream as needed.

First there was a need to seem surprised that a camera crew was at the beauty parlour and Ellen had deigned to communicate thru the airwaves. THEN a male stripper appeared, but he and his pecs were largely ignored. Finally Ellen presented the woman with fifty thousand cash money. The minion had a briefcase she was supposed to open but had to go off camera to undo the stuck latch.

Ellen's show has the annoying habit of showing both upcoming and passed bits from the day's show. I thought they were already done with that but the woman had to do thru her screaming surprise, joined by the grinning minion. This stuff accounted for several segments thru out the show.

In a quieter moment, Ellen interviewed Josh Duhamel. I'm sorry, I don't know who he is. I've heard his name but can attach it to nothing. Standard stuff, helped by Ellen's mild flakiness.

He's either married to or girlfriended by an additional celeb, I don't remember who. After references to Valentine's Day—the show was a bit dated (1973 was my guess)—Ellen presented him with “sexy” heart-shaped underwear. It was a de rigueur sort of gesture that no one wanted to play with. Josh did put them on but didn't let it bloom into a bit. However, later in the interview, he said, “I hate to admit it but I have a heart on”. That seemed pretty good but then I realized that he just read it off a cue card. Oh of course, this is television.

Gosh I forgot that after Ellen's perfunctory stand up, she announced it was time to dance. Her band—a guy on a keyboard—started in on something lively. The crowd went crazy, many moneymakers were shook. Ellen glided around to some other music in a distracted way, like she wanted us to know she had ADHD.

Josh got another segment, wherein he and Ellen asked a studio member questions. A bag of green goo from Nickleodeon hung over her head. After sufficient wrong answers, the bag would fall on her head. Her final question was what is the third planet from the sun. Cue the hilarity.

Bethany Frankel I'd heard of. Darn it, I never saw Real Housewives of Anywhere, but I know she started and sold Skinny Girl margarita. So there's that. She wasn't interesting. She has a show that supposedly shows off her business acumen. Someone who has been mentored by Bethany on that show came on to sing Bethany's praises. The mentored has developed a product, to wit: dolls that attach to cameras so that children will smile when their picture is taken. That seems like a curious nothing but then I never sold a margarita mix to Jim Beam for millions.

The local news followed. It's been a while since I watched the local news. Many of the same people, only older. This one has a face lift, that one looks all crinkly. At least it was the A-Team. The bench players tend to do that frowny face to show concern for those folks whose house burned down. Updates on new pope deliberation.

Entertainment Tonight followed but I won't try to detail that mess. However there was one Kim Kardashian story I cannot pass by. Since Kim's youth is fleeting, or fleeing, she has upped the ante, beauty regimen-wise. The latest trick from the heroes of cosmetic surgery is oh my god injections of one's own blood. This entails oh my god jabbing needles in the face to get the blood, then centrifuging the platelets out—I was a little too shocked to wholly get the science—and then oh my god the face is jabbed again. And that was Kim's blood bespattered mug right there. My god!

Oh, there was also a news story in which someone had interviewed Matt Lauer. Apparently Matt did not put the skids on Ann Curry's Today hosting gig, says this guy speaking for Matt. I just want to know why Matt is important. I get Katie to the degree that she's lively. I guess Matt's good looking, and sort of a comfortable presence, but I am yawning as I write this. For god's sake, why Larry King, for that matter? Why Bethany? Help!

And all the while, the hospital. A police officer asked if I was Eddie (I wasn't). A grandmother and young granddaughter waited while mother was attended to. The girl went immediately to a busy board, on which was a telephone. She would call Andrew inviting him to come by, then go to grandmother and tell her Andrew was coming by. She called someone else to invite them to come by to see Andrew, who was coming by. Etc. This went on.

The television put forth many hyperventilated announcements concerning the 1/2” of rain we would get thru the night. None of the rivers that might flood flooded.

Laboured Musings on my Father’s Death

Eight years ago today my father celebrated his 94^th birthday. Tho he had been bedridden for two months and was in serious decline, he really did celebrate. The entire family came by that day to see dad. This gave Beth and me a chance to go out, a brief respite from care duty. While out we confirmed to each other that we could no longer care for dad at home.

We tried. He required 24 hour care. Even with a hired caregiver, Beth and I were swamped. And how was it all affecting Erin?

When I entered the room, I found people making the best of dad's best. Dad had perked up as he hadn't in two months. He was alert and responsive, even if he didn't speak. And he even ate ice cream and cake. He really hadn't eaten or drank anything in weeks but now he was enjoying ice cream. He was shockingly perky, as if belying the effort of Allen and Beth.

Dad went into the hospital with pneumonia, which he'd had before. As a patient, he was stoic. He didn't complain much, accepted the eternal annoyances of hospital care. At some point, he confided to Beth (not me) that this was his last. It didn't seem like it except that he had stopped eating and drinking. The hospital sent him to rehab after a few days. He didn't improve. I don't remember the details but at some point there was a meeting with the rehab people and the social worker with the result that dad would be brought home.

An oxygen system was brought in, and round the clock caregivers were hired (one per shift). I remember one wild night with a blizzard and shift change. It was like a hallucination for me, trying to rest with brouhaha all around. Beth or I had to help the caregivers because there were things that a single caregiver could not do alone.

My father became surprisingly combative at this time. I was helping to turn him over and he wailed at me, “Why are you doing this to me?” It was all too much.

His 94^th birthday then. I entered the room with this family of mine, carrying a burden of betrayal. It felt cruel that I now had to announce that we could no longer take care of dad. And on his birthday, and at a time when he showed a boost. I burst into tears as I did so. No one argued the point but no one thanked us for the effort.

The next morning, I waited for the ambulance to take dad back to the rehab, which now would be hospice care. Beth took Erin to homeschool class and some normalcy. I had to watch as the ambulance drivers put dad on the gurney and lifted it into the ambulance. My brothers, their wives, their children were elsewhere, anywhere else, I presume.

We visited him at the rehab but he was clearly going down. He didn't want anyone around.

On his ninth day back at rehab, Beth and I visited him. After a while, Beth left me alone with him. His breathing was terrible. I was prepared to stay with him till he passed. I spoke to him. He was awake but not responsive. He didn't seem to want me there. He gestured unhappily. I decided to leave.

My mother died when no one was around. The family kept a pretty thorough attendance but she seemed to wait until she was alone to die. It was this thought that let me leave dad. I stepped from the room and again burst into tears. The attending nurse hugged me.

When I got home, I called my brothers and let them know that dad didn't have long. An hour or so later, one of my brothers called to say dad was dead. None of my brothers were able to get there in time. I took and still take satisfaction, I'm sorry to say, that they did not get to see him one last time. The day was, it seemed fitting, the last day of winter.

I write on a chilly day that nonetheless feels like spring. Red polls are chirping and investing themselves at the birdfeeder. I miss dad. I don't really miss my family—those brothers, sisters-in-law, nephews, and nieces—except as a kind of unsatisfying invention of family loyalty and love. They complained about how we cared for dad, and this, and that. Burdened those who were doing the work.

Both my parents just wanted a family. They wanted to see their children and their wives and their grandchildren. Lives of busyness made visits rarer and rarer. The nucleus disintegrated. Little else remains but ill will.

I've seen one brother since dad died, at a funeral of someone we both knew. I have heard from none of the others, nor have I tried to get in touch with anyone. The three brothers, the three wives, the six nephews and nieces. Petty things occurred and petty things grew.

Eight years later, I see the boundaries that I assumed didn't exist. We weren't really that close. We tried, in honour of our parents, but we were too ready merely to delude ourselves. And I want to write about this but I don't want to complain. I know we all have our stories. I'd like to step across the boundary.

I'm a little envious of those at the AWP groupgrope, just down the road. Arcane subjects to share in Publish or Die Land. It seems a closed system. The panels would interest me, but would they help me? I'm still talking my father's death, and disappointment with my family. I'm trying to find a language in between the anger and sadness, and better than either. Poetry is no good if it lacks intensive spring.

BruekL Reads Bramhall

For the past 14 years, I have posted poems to the Wryting-L listserv. Alan Sondheim helped start the list, which has gone thru a couple of name changes. The lit has evolved into a small community of writers who post work that fairly settles under the rubric Experimental. We dassn't worry about the term except to say that the work posted varies greatly in conception and style. I have met a few listees in the flesh, and have corresponded with others.

Recently, Bob BruekL went to the trouble of close-reading a poem of mine. Bob should be better known because his writing is vivid and startling with an often scatological hilarity. People rarely comment on work presented, so Bob's extended reading of my poem proved surprising. In correspondence, Bob has pretty much stated that there''s Gertrude Stein then everyone else. He is nonetheless well-read, and read each word with care.

I herewith post my poem and his response. I do so not to add weight to my writing, but to present someone's approach to reading poetry. As a poet, it is not really my job to know what I'm doing. I am a conduit. That does not mean I renounce intention and technique, it means I honour the process of the words' gathering. A poem doesn't write itself, it finds itself, thru the poet.

Below is my poem, which I also posted to my poetry blog, Simple Theories, here. Bob's reaction, which he calls “Luminoius Lint”, follows the poem. Apologies for the spacy format in Bob’s section. Now how he presented it, but too time-consuming to correct.

* * * * *

You Will Hear a Dial Tone to Confirm Your Connection

My dying dad, we talk of rags. The beginning sees the Winston cigarette that somebody wanted. Later approval wore shoes. My dying dad in 2005, fit full of years. Destination smoke. You could say that, tho he smoked a pipe. His smoke was named relishing, which is a principle of poetry.

Why the weird gaze, populace? You old in the hills when you smile piles of underwear track panic. Scouting density is the new fat band. Traces of words stick to rock walls and halos. The linear fat check smiles Galadriel paddle ball. After it smoke rendering oil, the torso of occasion bends windward.

Words of rotation caulked the seeming. The present dad is when you look on a promontory. Whilst, in the evening, memory wants oil. So sliding posse fetch, to bring outlaw rampart dogma home.

The cattle of dad goes to prime. Each word conks oboe with a brow beat. You say intend, everyone else matches panza division hearing loss. Express words in digits of computed aggression, and sorry for the sag.

Too many words associate with too many not really exact ponds. A pond is life and dad. In dad the concept of dad, the concept in all time of dad, when really, it was a form. It bled into a country flag, forming the moral equivalent of lint.

Rags excursion sent my dad. You in clergy, belfry, Reader, pant.

* * * * *

Luminous Lint (by Bob BruekL)

What is this Poem about?  Is it a complex Poem?

Is it a luminous Poem?  Is it a Poem about concepts?

Is it a Poem about words?  Is it a Poem about words as concepts?

Are words nothing but concepts?  Is it a Poem about Poetry?

Are all Poems ultimately about Poetry?  What is Poetry?

Is it a Poem about lint?  

 

Obviously it is a Poem about the Poet's connection to a memory.

It is about from what he has descended, his flesh and blood.

It is about a bunch of memories, some of them seemingly seared

in his brain.  But the Poem is about the Poet's destiny too,

the Poet's dying:  the destination of the Poem is destiny,

the dying of us all, of all creatures, all things, the Universe itself.

But there is THE BEGINNING, and in hindsight, all beginnings

can be seen to see, to harbor insights into what is to come.

But LATER, when everything is worn out, when everything

has gone up in smoke, puffs of words linger.  Words can

imply anything, but things -- objects -- rear their ugly or

beautiful heads constantly, almost accidentally.

 

So "a principle of Poetry" is squeezed into this Poem,

into almost all the Poems of Allen Bramhall, in fact.

Grammar itself, words, sentences -- all these are subjects

of his Poems, or seem to sneak into all of his Poems.

His Poems are about Poetry, even though the number one

subject of this Poem is the memory of his flesh and blood --

heart and brain, the balls and guts from which he has been

at least partially conceived and created, from which he has

been begot.  The Poet asks us why there is a "weird gaze"

on our faces.  But only Poets know that no Poem is weird.

The Poem is not only about the line from which he descended,

but it is about things like PANIC and DENSITY and FAT.

 

But "traces of words" always "stick" around to enlighten

and muck things up, creating other levels of slippery complexities --

and dare I mumble under my breath -- gaiety and even hilarity

in spite of our ultimate destiny.

 

"The torso of occasion bends."  All of our bodies "bend"

toward a seemingly dire death.  But why is death necessary?

It IS necessary, "but words of rotation caulked the seeming"

of it -- ah, caulked the seams of death, attempting to screw it,

or at least screw around with it.  Rotating words are being

screwed into the subject of the Poem that it be tightly fixed

in memory, or cemented into something -- anything.

 

A solid contact is being attempted in this Poem.

Thereby the Poet can at least temptor pre-tempt

a heads-up about the memories that are being

stirred-up and aroused by the rotating words of the Poem.

(And it is not an error to admit that all feelings

are inundated with pain.) 

 

The Poet is stalking all of the words in his Poem

from a "promontory" that he himself has constructed

that he might see what the heck is being destroyed

and re-created, particularly about the subject

of the Poem which is the opposite of death.

 

"Whilst."

 

All the while this is simultaneous with the unruly memories

and things that are "sliding" and slithering away,

away from the Poet's heart and brain and grasp.

Is the Poem the Poet's attempt to harness something solid

and permanent out of the mess that is the opposite of death?

"Each word conks oboe with a browbeat."

The beat is the rhythm of the coming of death,

and the echoes of deaths that are no longer coming

because they occured, and now nothing remains

but memories -- the remains of memories.  So?

"Express words in digits of computed aggression..."

The Poet implies that the complexity of a Poem

can mar the description of anything, even a pond.

But can a Poet ever possess enough words?

Are words the problem, or is it the fault of each Poet

in how they are abused?  A Poem can express

the love one possesses for anything.  This Poet,

in this Poem, is expressing his love for the Spirit,

Soul, and Body -- for the flesh and blood

that once was here, and is now gone -- yet here

in memories and a Poem, and never totally gone.

Love, memory, a Poem -- are all of these things

only concepts, ideas, structures of words,

foaming words, words foaming at the mouth?

Are words only "the equivalent of lint?"

The Poet's message to us seems to be that

the unconscious experience of the opposite of death

is sacred, and the conscious experience of it 

is shocking and spectacular.  Whoever you are,

wherever you are, whatever you are --

if you are not dead -- "PANT" in awe.

***

In the American Grain by WCW

I've read this by William Carlos Williams several times, with growing assimilation of its importance. One more of his books that pushed poetry-as-genre around. I did not initially realize how important I thought history was, how much history made sense in the realm of Poetry. Olson drew me into the proposition, and of course Pound. Williams, here, divines a sort of folk expression in his reading of history.

This is an almost unexpected book for me: poet looking at history in a sort of down forest, beguiled, and workmanlike way. It is critical but also poetically rendered. Not scholarly insofar as he cites few sources , and he invests the subjects as solipsistic characters. Yet Pound spoke of epics as poems with history. Williams sees America (the continents) as epic.

Williams grasps the (mostly) familiar highlights and pulls them up to, you know, see the roots. The approach seems somewhat like D H Lawrence's Studies in American Literature. It's an amateur's approach. Enthusiastic but hors de l'ecole. Both books bear the rambunctious of people finding their own path.

Williams takes to soliloquy much of the way, which gives the work a poetic span. He keeps a firm eye on things, and stays free of Whitmanesque cant. At the same time, the soliloquizing asserts that it won't be following the cardinal rules of historical research. Williams is not trying to be definitive, in the sense of one bell tone of agreement. He is choosing angles from which to look.

With Columbus, he provides what was for the time (less so now) a rare wait a sec. I grew up long after this was writ, yet the Columbus I knew discovered America on a merry holiday in October. There arose no question about what that meant. I heard no accounting of people slaughtered in the vested interest of the usual perps. He was served up strictly as Hero.

I know in social studies or whatever the classes were called, we learned about Cortez, Pissarro, and the others who came for glory. They were offered more as discovers and explorers (which they were), rather than conquerors (which also they were).

It was almost Hall of Fame material: Cortez (Ty Cobb, the bastard) beat the Aztecs, Pissarro (Rogers Hornsby) outpointed the Incas, Balboa (Jackie Robinson) first saw the Pacific, etc. The incredible slaughter and wrenching hardly made it thru the code, as taught. Williams wants to peek under the code.

Williams puts emphasis on the Conquistadors, with Cortez, de Soto, de Leon itemized in gross urging. Raleigh appears in grandiose reaching, yet held at bay in the connivance of Elizabethan will. Williams' intent along and thru out is to avoid or outlast the hero's plea. Nothing here like Whitman’s yawp.

Recently reading Hawthorne, Melville, and Poe, I noticed how they held history. Especially with Hawthorne, the settings seem both primordial and close at hand. Time had impact. This New World was busy inventing and reinventing itself. Williams, here, is reading that effort and those changes.

Seems like you can place this with Stein's grand American experiments. Each is a determined effort to make sense out of all the documents, declarations, exclamations, diatribes, darting humilities and humiliations that contrive this country, this land, this place. I mean, that's a poetic project to assert.

Out & About: Art Show, Wal-Mart and Stuff

As part of our out and about Saturday, Beth and I stopped at Wal-Mart. We sought something specific that has eluded Beth at various other stores.

I've only been in Wal-Mart a couple of times. We had to go there when in West Virginia, because in WV, Wal-Mart represents everything possible. And much that is impossible. Around here, other choices exist, at least for now. Only fairly recently did I discover that a Wal-Mart exists so close by, just the next town over, on the Lowell-Chelmsfored line.

A group of Girl Scouts were selling cookies out front. I realize the cookies are putatively for a good cause—the question is how the mon is spent, only something like 10% goes to the troop itself—but why do people speak of the cookies with awe, as if they differed from the usual yuck displayed on supermarket shelves?

I expected a greeter but no one met us at our entrance. I guess they 'd be pretty busy, with all the people rushing in. Beth enquired of someone with a name tag to where she might narrow her search, and that person gave polite directions. The store, tho, seemed overwhelming. Not so much its size, but the demanding industry it fosters. The aisles are narrow, giving a sense of product reaching out at you. I saw a lot of stuff. Stuff, I tell you. It all lunged at me.

The floors were stained and dirty. Such a whip-crack organization, you'd think they could muster some cleaning. The stains really seemed telltale. And I might say that the employees looked stained and dirty, as well. Likewise the customers. Wal-Mart's production line feels ruthless. I realize that these impressions were bestirred even before I entered, but a fair look validates the prediction. The turbine is heartless.

Wal-Mart circles around the idea that there is stuff that people need. Not only that, there is stuff that people need to need. Works for both employees and customers. Provide incentives that seem like necessities, be it a 60” flat screen or a seven cent raise with Sundays off, and let them see the penalties for defaulting. Marx would tell you there it is for all of us, and he's right. Wal-Mart just squeezes harder.

Further north, we made our ritual obeisances to Costco. I don't mean to be promotional and shan't furnish commodious likes that Facebook can use as currency. The Costco experience is just nicer, even yesterday when it was crowded and pushy. Sure they have 60” flat screens, but at least you can see the door.

Once we put the swag away, we toddled off to an art gallery opening. I have remarked before on this gallery in Acton. Located across the street from one of Acton's proliferation of strip malls, the gallery is an old, rambling farmhouse. It's a creaky old place. In fact, signs warn that the upstairs can handle no more than 10 people at a time.

These openings allow the semi-swish of Boston's Northwest burbs to come together for wine-and-gnosh, and art. This once, the fare was largely non-representational. I'm good for anything. Well, upstairs is a portrait of a boy. Just his face, infused with a glow. I cannot imagine such a thing on my wall, even if the kid were mine. Too sentimental, and just stuck in time. You know, that time when young Alfonse was clean and perfect, as he never really was. That portrait has been hanging there for quite a while, so I suspect my sentiments are shared.

The representational work tends toward winsome landscapes, woods, meadows, salt marshes. The first paintings that tempted my interest were of the Hudson Valley school, Thomas Cole and such. I still happily enjoy those.

Some of the presenting painters were there. I sort of would like to talk with them, but they tend to smell out sales potential and react accordingly. Well, I feel like that's the case. One of the attending artists was named Joe McCarthy. Of course everyone knows Joe McCarthy as the winningest Yankees manager, and a down to earth commie hater.

You can look at the painter's website here: http://www.ejosephmccarthy.com/Artist.asp?ArtistID=9469&Akey=9X6R9CJP. We have reached the point of annoying cool in the making of websites. If the point is to see and learn about something, why couch that something in a blinking, moving, distracting (or distracted) tableau?

I think it was another artist, but possibly just a smug patron, talking earnestly about her little 10 acre homestead that she maintains as a farm. As she asserted, if she can produce but $1000 profit off said land in a farming way, her taxes ease significantly. At least, as Beth noted, she keeps land as land, rather than a 25 home subdivision bereft of trees.

Two large abstracts were best of show. Beth was especially transfixed by one. I cannot fairly describe them but both had the quality of depth, which I like. One even featured pinks, a colour I don't usually favour, but it worked here.

We spent maybe 2 hours there. Looking at art is such a pleasure, altho when many works are available, I find it hard to stay with just one. I feel a constant Oh look over there. Several otherwise interesting paintings disappointed me because they didn't show brushstrokes. The artist applied the paint smoothly. I like the texture of brushstrokes.

If you think I am placing the art gallery in contradistinction to Wal-Mart's weaponry, think again. The idyllic scenes make us yearn, don't they? Or the idea of the wonderful thing on our wall. And some people are thinking, will this painting go with the couch in the living room. Still, art asserts a different plane, a different engagement. It can save us, but we all have to try real hard.

On the way home we stopped at a grocery store for light bulbs. Just imagine a grocery store for light bulbs, what would it be like?

Beth likes to engage store people. I don't think it would be possible from the looks of the Wal-Mart people. The store's pall would prevent that. The cashier at the grocery was a teenager, and he didn't respond. The bagger, who hardly seemed 14, did. The cashier smiled at something said, and seemed to wish he was less cool and could join in like his perky co-worker.

Beth asked the bagger how late he worked. He answered, “I leave in 6 minutes.” He then announced that he was going to Dahlia's for dinner. That's a local restaurant. Beth and I both went oo, because it's a nice restaurant. The boy then said, “I'm picky. I hope they have good food. Do they have steak and rice?” Dahlia's features a Mediterranean menu, and may not include steak and rice. I mean, this chipper young fellow may not be so engaged with the fried polenta as was I.

Beth mentioned working in restaurants in Nevada when she was young.”Las Vegas?”, asked the boy with interest. No, Reno. The boy mentioned some incredible ride residing in Vegas. The wonder of it was apparent in his face. And that's a start.

The Hobbit

Just saw this new grand oeuvre. It simply could not match the expectation (or hope) of the previous trilogy. That it would be stretched out to three movies totally boded ill. Still, I def wanted to see it.

As to movies upcoming, the new Star Trek looks like more of the same, and I’m fine with that. Hoping my stomach can handle all the vertiginous shots of people falling from incredible heights. A zombie movie seemed funny. A zombie falls for the unundead, and this begins a humanizing of all zombies. I don’t know if this is sustainable. It is hard to accept the zombie craze, anyway. After George Romero, where’s the fun, and how is it all cool?

Anyway, The Hobbit as movie began with Bilbo deciding to tell Frodo the Whole Story. This was just an excuse to bring back the beloved actors. Christopher Lee as Sarumann also shows up later unneeded (no reflection on the good Mr. Lee). I don’t like when marketing forces get in the way. One thing to say, tho: outside of Acme Sword and Armour, product placement is at a minimum.

The envisioning of the hobbit world is enticing, all green and sunshiney. Tolkien had his jones about the simple life—Guy Davenport claims that Tolkien took a lot of that from his time teaching in Kentucky. Kind of Thomas Hardy and John Clare, all idealized. The kingdom of the dwarfs was also finely rendered . That grand kingdom in the mountain looked awesome. I tire of the swooping shots from above, however. Apparently there’s some rule about including these shots nowadays.

Then we get down to the story. Bilbo is played by Martin Freeman, who plays Dr Watson in the recent BBC update of Sherlock Holmes. He’s okay. Peter Jackson collected good casts in both LOTR and Hobbit. The dwarfs arrive and it is a bit of a thing to deal with. Tolkien wrote as if we basically know what dwarfs look like. You figure that they all look alike. Jackson fills in the lines and gives them diversity.

Balin is ancient and looks like a jolly old elf. Dwalin is taller and younger than I expected. All the dwarfs have Scottish accents. I know it is not news, but note that the bad guys in Tolkien seem to speak gruff Eastern European languages while the good guys speak mellifluous Gaelic or good, solid English, if you catch my meaning. Each dwarf does something different with hair and beard. It’s like Braveheart but grander.

Most of the dwarfs have unfortunate prosthesis noses except Thorin. Thorin is the Viggo sex appeal of the movie. The dwarfs have a fun interplay, and Bilbo the ill-at-ease outsider trips along.

The movie would have been different if anyone involved had read the book. The scene with the trolls is one that could not be cut. Jackson plays it tunelessly. He relishes the grossness of the trolls. There’s a Shrek-y cuteness implied but they made me squirm. Well Shrek made me squirm too. And whereas Gandalf cleverly gets them bickering in the book, so that they forget to hide from the rising sun, in the movie Gandalf just stands like a backlit rock star and announces the troll’s imminent lithification. Just a deflation of Tolkien.

In a moment of flashback, some malarkey arises about a dwarf battle against the Orcs. The Orcs almost win the field but Thorin rises up and defeats a giant White Orc. This is a load of hooey. Extra slaughter for your enjoyment. The White Orc might be the brute that Brad Pitt dispatches at the beginning of Troy.

Radagast the Brown makes an appearance for no discernible reason. He’s concerned that an evil power has entered the forest. He’s portrayed as having a bird’s nest under his hat, and bird shit in his hair. St. Francis Assisi pray for us. This is part of an attempt to link the Dark Lord, here the Necromancer, to the story. Technically, it is called retrofitting.

Radagast has a super-powered bunny sleigh and there’s an improbable scene in which he lets Orcs on Wargs chase him about as the Dwarfs run merrily about. O Screenwriter, what is your darksome intent?????

Gandalf sez, dive into this hole in the rocks, and I’m like dude, what up? Only because marauding elves happened along that this wasn’t a death rap. But yo, hey! The hole goes to Rivendell.

The Dwarfs don’t like elves, there’s some tension there. Never mind that, here in Rivendell we have earnest exposition to impart. Starring Elrond, Gandalf, and Sarumann. Not forgetting Galadriel and her glinting, gimlet eyes. I really thought Sarumann might be cgi. The possibility is real, Christiopher Lee is 10 years older than his LOTR days. He has a weird flat look. Ian McKellan also looks much older. Christopher Lee is an eminence, and I bow, but his inclusion is screenwriter willy nilly. Lee complained that a lot of his scenes hit the cutting room floor for LOTR. The Hobbit must be recompense.

Okay, the dwarfs et al slip from Rivendell and enter the mountains. Here they almost succumb to collateral damage as the stone giants playfully toss boulders at each other. The dwarfs find a crack in the mountain, but it’s a trap. They plummet down a shoot and end up as Orc captives.

In the melee, no one notices Bilbo and he slips away. Again, it seems like Jackson is oblivious to Tolkien’s sense of character. The inconsequent hobbit who finds the strength is much muted in Jackson’s version. The meeting of Bilbo and Gollum runs true to the book, at least. Not many if any cgi figures top Gollum. Most seem lifeless to me. Gollum comes across as childishly funny and purely malevolent, and does so winningly. I noticed, by the bye, that Andy Serkis (Gollum) was credited as a scene director.

The dwarfs meet with the outsized king of the Orcs, whose grossness tops the trolls by at least 7, and I’m talking Celsius. This is just one more example of Jackson leaning toward the cartoony side.

Following strict deus ex machine procedures, Gandalf arrives to save the day. He and the dwarfs start running, slaughtering as they go. It’s all bumptious, raucous and stupid. I don’t see the dwarfs of Tolkien as being such balletic fighters. Gandalf likewise. Final score, Dwarfs 23004, Orcs 0.

The Dwarf cavalcade rumbles out of the mountain and Bilbo gets by Gollum. Immediately they have the White Orc and his minions on their tails. The Dwarf Crew climb some convenient trees at the edge of an inconvenient cliff. Pretty precarious, let me tell you. After some nyeah nyeah by the White Orc, Thorin comes down to do battle. Ass kicked, but doughty Bilbo prevents the killing blow. Then the gigantor eagles save the day.

And that’s pretty much it. Like how Fellowship ends with but a glimpse of Gollum, Hobbit does so with a glimpse of Smaug. Unfortunately, I can wait. Tolkien thought a lot about the back stories. Jackson’s scriptwriters figured out everything over lunch. I got a strong Pirates of the Caribbean feeling: throw everything into the bucket, see if anyone pukes. With such a clearly defined path, you wonder why Jackson wanders.

Hawthorne, Briefly

Read a story by Hawthorne called “Sir William Pepperell”. A hankering came on me for some Hawthorne. He writes from an interesting context, both restrained and con strained. Yet he seethes withal.

I read from the Library of America edition, wherein the story sits under the heading Stories and Sketches. Is sketch a 19^th century contrivance? Baudelaire and others went that way, as well, but sketch seems like a wholly American version. Just making a stab here.

The title character really carries no more importance than anyone else named in the story. He's just one of the great men of the colonies who seek to fight the French and Indians. This is not strictly the French and Indian War but part of the entire rupturing New World cause of expansion.

Hawthorne sketches, yes, the actors in these events. He does so in a snide and critical manner, an almost unbespoken hilarity. Hawthorne finds the moral plain luridly attractive. He writes from above yet feels himself drawn into the murk. Of course one sees that in “The Scarlet Letter”. “Pepperell” is much less a story than “The Scarlet Letter”. The main dynamic is critical.

Hawthorne writes just this side of Gothic. Dark forces fascinate him, yet he's aware of his own Puritan streak (which I might call another dark force). He often writes within a historical epoch that seems primordial. Under Hawthorne's pen, the 17^th century was a time of gods and heroes stumbling. The years that follow bear a punitive smell. Frankly, he's right.

The ridiculous hierarchies of Europe were brought willy nilly to North America, where they contrived to take seed. With squirrels running thru treetops from the Atlantic Seaboard to the Mississippi, the context for these seeds differed greatly from that of Europe. European culture came clattering and plundering into these woods and streams. The New World is simply the Old World with shaky foundation.

The characters, the people, in “Pepperell” are pompous assertions of old ways. Moral injunction is given to all manner of restriction, a la Tea Party. Morality is something to be placed upon others.

New Year’s Stuff

New Year’s Eve and New Year’s Day never ranked high with me. We used to take the tree down on New Year’s Day, so it officially and lamentably ended Christmas for the year. The celebrations always seem forced. Still, there it is. I am content to ignore it but we’ve had pleasant and interesting celebrations.

This year we decided last minute to go into town and see the fireworks. The complication was that I worked till 10:00. In fact it was a very busy day, and I was on my feet the whole time. I was ready for sleep. Still, why not?

Beth was well-prepared when she picked me up. She had our camera. Also my down jacket, as protection against cold winds off the harbor.

Erin had already gone in, to watch anime at the Hynes Auditorium. Beth and I went to the Alewife MBTA station. Not only did the T offer free transportation, even the parking there was free. That gave a neat feeling of freedom. The trains seemed to run constantly. I mean every five minutes, at least.

Public transportation means the public display of people. You cannot help taking figurative snapshots. A group of young people headed in, with one of them carrying a 30-rack of Bud Light. Getting off the Red Line, I was almost presented a box of better beers that a guy trying to enter the car carried. I could probably have snatched the seemingly proffered beer and made off with it, due to the press of people.

We changed to the Green Line, and had to go thru the confusion of determining which train heads in the right direction. The words Outbound and Inbound bear no meaning for me in these circs. Well, we chose poorly. We went away from our destination a couple of stops before we turned around and headed back. Then a quick jaunt on the Blue Line.

On one of the crowded cars where we had to stand, Beth lurched a bit when the train started. This immediately caused a young couple to spring up and offer their seats. I preferred to be in readiness to get out thru the crush so I remained standing. Not ready for young ones to offer me their seat, either.

We got out at the Aquarium. The sight of the old Custom House greeted us. Not so many years ago—well, in the 60s—it was the second tallest building in Boston at 24 stories. It’s less than half the height of the tallest ones now. I remember a picture in the newspaper regarding Boston’s extensive redevelopment program, with many new buildings rising. It showed rubble up to the Custom House clock. I naively thought there really was that much rubble. Hook, line, and sinker.

Beth enquired of a policeman where the fireworks were. He pointed down the wharf. The steady flow of people going that way confirmed his assertion. I have to note the women wearing high heels with platforms. The icy, uneven surface down there made for treacherous footing for them. Such shoes tend to make the foot look hooflike, at least that’s my impression.

We waited for Erin to make his way to join us. We then followed the crowd till we came to an open place at the railing. Several years ago, I put my father to bed and we snuck off. This was a risk because if he woke he’d think it was morning and get up, but we took our chance to get out. Somehow we got in, found a place to park on the wharf, saw the display, and got out before the traffic oozed up. We got back hardly after one, and my father slept thru.

Hotels and restaurants all around us, and crowds plus crowds. In front several sailboats were parked. Their rigging was trimmed with white lights. We had about a 20 minute wait. Next to us was a trio of jocular college students. They were drunk, two of them very so. They were concocting a plan in which two of them would go off in search of three girls who they could kiss at midnight. The other would remain behind to keep their place. Naturally the two drunker ones chose to go on the hunt. Beth joked with them a bit then the two questers went off. The other one good-naturedly chatted with us.

The questers returned after five minutes without success. One of them, tho, soon dashed off hopefully again. The other two talked to each other. The drunker one spoke with slurred speech and forceful drunk opinions. He didn’t like the Tea Party. The errant knight returned again with no success. He kept wanting to do things like climb over the rail, which his more sober friend took pains to prevent. The sober one also told him to be careful of his soft drink, which almost ended up on a guy’s white sweater.

At midnight, Beth and I kissed. The trio exclaimed a sincere aww, sans the expected innuendo. During the fireworks, they managed to find sexual expression in the explosions. Which was charmingly goofy. I didn’t set the camera to continual shoot mode but kept the shutter going as if I did.

Afterwards, our three friends drifted away. The drunk ones were planning more feats of drinking or amour. Their soberer friend wanted to be sure they all could make it home safely. We walked back from the wharf and momentarily thought we could outwait the crowd but it kept flowing. The T stop was jammed. We walked literally one block to the next stop and there was no problem getting down to the trains. The trains were packed and a stifling crowd waited for the next. While we waited, a chorus of “Rudolph The Red-Nosed Reindeer” rose up, or erupted, I might say. We probably waited only ten minutes to get on a train but I was starting to feel a little overwhelmed by the crowd.

On one train, it appeared that a father was trying to encourage and/or forgive his adult son for something. I didn’t hear much of it, going mostly by the earnestness of the two of them, standing there in the middle of the car.

Getting to the next train, there was a guy bellowing “Happy New Year everybody”. It seemed to be his mission to bellow this important sentiment. He stood near me in the car. He and a fellow who had just gotten off shared a New Year’s moment. The loud guy pointed at the other and blared his salute, and the other pointed right back. Neither acted like they knew that New Year’s happens every year. I didn’t feel like it was my job to tell them. The loud guy asserted that people should stop drinking now, and we (he and his friends) should start.

On the final train back to Alewife, Beth and I couldn’t sit next to each other. After a couple of stops, however, space freed up. I moved next to her. She said, “Hi, are you married?” I answered “Twice”. (We renewed our vows this year).People turned to look at us.

We were not the only ones leaving Alewife. Ahead of us at the light to get onto Rt. 2, a car parked barely on the meridian. From it, two policemen emerged. They were there to do what the traffic lights could not. A third policeman was down the road. It really looked like he was disco dancing, waving his arms above his head to assure us to ignore the traffic lights. We got home after 2:00. I got up at 6:00 to feed the cat then slept two more hours. I didn’t have to go to work till 11:00 but I’m kind of wired to rise and sort of shine.

This was by no means a wild celebration but we liked it. The pressure of forcefully enjoying oneself can be pretty demanding. Those tv presentations, whether Guy Lombardo or rockin’ Dick Clark, participants look regimented into the celebration. I just want to say hi to the sun again.

Christmas Songs When They Suck

Every year, the Christmas season teases me with its contradictions. I can see why non-participants in the cultural tradition feel put upon by this formidable phenomenon. I still enjoy the season but have altered my view of it greatly.

Like I’ve said, the contradictions cause bafflement. How does the birth of a Messiah blend with a comic book character who delivers presents to children blend with a massive economic dynamo? Yikes!

I’ll focus my ruminations on the music of the season. I’ve spent the last six weeks force fed largely commercial Christmas music at work. At home I listen to better fare. I’m ready to throw a few punches.

Bruce Springsteen sings “Santa Claus is Coming to Town.” Okay, we know Santa is a jolly old elf, but the song comes across as badgering if not threatening. Creepy even: “He knows when you are sleeping, he know when you’re awake / he knows if you’ve been bad or good, so be good for goodness’ sake.” Right there, we see the use of duality in its most restrictive and legislative. Eff that, frankly.

Bruce is being ironic, of course: he’s allowing himself silly time in concert. There’s the cheesy repartee with his band at the beginning, the Boss as boss chiding his band. Then Bruce and the crisply functional band start in one the song per se. It’s like those radio ads wherein a singer with chops attempts to put some soul into the used car emporium’s jingle. Bruce cannot help turning on the Sincerity Machine, singing in his usual loud overdrive to succour a sense of serious meaning. It’s a crap song, however, and doesn’t deserve the effort.

That’s sort of the point of commercial Christmas songs. Take some drippy old song or hatch a new one, in both cases being sure to throw patented style over it. Elvis sings the egregious “Blue Christmas” as a satire of himself . The Beachboys do “Little St. Nick” as just another hot rod song, a genre they pretty much invented and wore out. The song has the objectively silly line: “Christmas comes this time each year.” They do not pretend to mean anything. Why should they?

For some reason, I’m okay with “Jingle Bell Rock”. It twines with personal memory. I remember it from Christmases when I was young. I don’t so much like it as respect its position in my memory.

Gene Autry gave us “Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer”, a fun song for children to sing. It adds a confusing twist to the legend of eight reindeer that I believe Clement Moore invented. Sometimes Rudolph’s there, sometimes not. Rudolph is ostracized and bullied, an odd darkenss brought to a spritely song. Rudolph’s abnormality redeems him, but why does Santa allow a bunch of assholes to pick on Rudolph? Only if Rudolph can deliver is he deemed worthy. Eff that, too.

Autry also gave us “Here Comes Santa Claus”. The idea of Santa Claus Lane, down which Santa comes, is too precious for me. It sounds downright stupid when Elvis sings it. The idea of good children and bad is disturbing. Children explore their world, make mistakes. The things they do wrong are feelers into the world. With their disobedience and mistakes, they learn boundaries. This and “Santa Claus is Coming to Town” side with lockstep. Is that what Christmas is about?

A bunch of songs aren’t Christmas songs at all, but fill the Christmas landscape. “Jingle Bells” is bouncy fun to sing, especially for children. It provides a Currier & Ives picture of what one might do on Christmas, just as Bing Crosby dreams about a white Christmas. Northwest of Boston, I’ve seen white Christmases, brown ones, warm ones, torrential ones. Must be half the country would be surprised by a white Christmas, and portions have tropical ones. That charity song, “Feed the World” laments that there won’t be snow in Africa this year. As if Currier & Ives patented Christmas.

“Winter Wonderland” and “Sleighride” both continue with the snowy picture. Many fatuously clever versions exist of both tunes. That sort of enforced innovation mostly comes across as smarmy. Leave the songs alone.

The “true” Christmas songs, the carols one might sing in church, most often seem best when sung straight. No need to add a lot of style to “Hark the Herald” or “Silent Night”. These songs have their mojo. “Deck the Halls” and “The Twelve Days of Christmas” seem perfect, strange, fun to sing.

The movie “Meet me in St. Louis” gave us “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas”. In the movie, Margaret O’Brien as the little child in the family has a histrionic tantrum when confronted with the idea of the family moving. She lops the heads off of the snowmen in the backyard. To comfort her, Judy Garland sings this song. It is full of the sadness of separation, made more piquant at holiday time. It bares a fear many have, of loneliness and isolation when everyone else is happy in family embrace.

Andy Williams sings “Happy Holidays", a jaunty description of Santa’s visit. It has a jazz-like swing to it. By jazz-like I mean barely like jazz at all unless you’re an old fart. and I suppose the lyrics owe something to bebop. I mean, “whoop-de-doo and dickory dock / and don’t forget to hang up your sock.” With Andy’s mellow voice, it comes across as strained, however. It means to mean but cannot possibly mean what it means, if you know what I mean.

“The Twelve Days of Christmas” is another fun song for groups to sing. The imagery beguiles even if you don’t know what lords a-leaping might entail. I read where each verse relates symbolically to the Christ story. I don’t recall the explanations nor know if there is some scholarship behind the assertion. Obviously something exists in that vivid gallimaufry.

The song has often been played with. In one version, the gifts are transformed into composers, so that the verse with Beethoven is followed by the familiar notes of his 5th symphony. And so on. An atrocious version transforms the song into “What I Hate About Christmas”. Each verse carries a complaint acted out in a variety of voices: The bills!!! The lights don’t work!!! Somehow, a number of the complainers sound like stock Jewish characters merely sans “oy vey.”

And that gets me to wonder at the pronounced agitation of the season. For two months and more, the commercial program churns to deliver Christmas to the consumer. And we are, apparently, lifeless to resist.

Beth and I make it a point to get to the mall during the Christmas season, tho we go with no intention to buy. We just walk thru and look at things, see the machine in action. Oh boy, Sweatshop Apple will take 10% off some of their less popular items!

Christmas becomes a set piece with everyone carrying a list of musts to observe: must make cookies, must buy gift for Uncle Tim, must attend office party, must see the Nutcracker or The Messiah. The urge is to live in “Silver Bells” or “The Happiest Season of them All”. Paul McCartney wrote the characteristic but lame “Simply Having A Wonderful Day”. It is all inculcation, albeit mindlessly performed.

Christmas churns up deep-seated results. Like I said, “Jingle Bell Rock” still affects me. I react not to its musicality, which is kinda blech, but to how it instigates some competitive memories in shivering child time. At the core is a child’s wonder at the world. This wonder is ecumenical and should not be lent to any one side. The bullying thrust of Christmas Incorporated paves over the keener dynamic that we should be sharing. That dynamic shines forth in much of the music, tho not in most of the crap that I have mentioned here. The lesson, finally, I suppose, belongs in discovering what Merry means. It sounds so very nice.

Thanks to Charles Olson, or Why I Read History

Charles Olson caught my attention on two fronts when I was a young, apple-cheeked writer trying to figure out poetry. One, as a writer doing things with language that I at first resisted but found myself drawn to: disjunction, foreign language, and a primrose of a narrative that rejected straight lines. Two, the immediacy of history, even in its smallest elements. With Olson, they certainly could be pretty small.

Prowling amidst Olson’s work, and that of those affected by him, decidedly helped me into a writing sensibility that I could work with. The sense of history’s immediacy gave me some power to feel contrite, and empathetic. That is, history became a common all, a touchstone by which.

That lesson from Olson about history comes to mind now, with two books. I am reading Battle Cry of Freedom, by James McPherson. During the time up to this past election—Obama vs. Mitt for all the marbles—I read Truman by David McCullough. Both books seem to bear on contemporary events.

As a president, even as a candidate, Truman seems unlikely. He didn’t go to college, which nowadays would be an impossibility. Even a knucklehead like G. W. Bush “went to college”. Truman was simply a farmer thru the first part of his life.

WWI gave him an opportunity to establish his leadership skills. He became captain of an artillery unit, with a good dose of unlikelihood. His practical skills and his ability to get along with people helped him succeed. After the war, his haberdashery was successful enough until the depression took the bottom out. He was not a stumblebum, as some have claimed: the circs were bad.

He was social. He joined the Masons, that network, and otherwise stayed connected to people. He kept in touch with the men who served with him in the war. The father and uncle of a long time friend ran the Democratic machine in Missouri. Truman became Judge then Senator as part of that machine by being reliable. He earnestly went about that business. Missouri was a completely Democratic state then, tho there were factions. He managed to cross factions.

Truman was never anyone’s first choice. Others had failings of one sort or another, and there was unsullied Truman. The same happened when he became Vice President. All the sparkling choices either cancelled themselves out or revealed stridencies that spoiled their venture. Even running for president, Truman was a second choice.

I’m getting wordy here. Truman had practical accomplishments, not designated ones like a plum degree or some shifty exploit in the business world. Specifically, he wasn’t some buffed up myrmidon for Silver Spoon Inc.

Truman had the aroma of racism and anti-Semitism, the product of the era. Yet Truman was, to use a Masonic term, square. He was the first president to press for civil rights, for instance. Given the racist air of the past few years—bestirred by Barack Obama’s presence on the national scene—it shouldn’t amaze that Truman pushed for anti-lynching laws. I mean that lynching could have somehow survived in a culture that legislates against, you know, murder. Yet we know that defenses for racism are silently on a lot of lips.

Truman supported the creation of a Jewish state, against considerable contention. I felt a real sense that expediency was not his central motive. He had this firm sense of what’s right, not the wavering declarations of a candidate who fine tunes the talking points to the specific stupid audience.

Reading this book, I saw how many issues have changed little. I also see how efflorescent dickheads have commandeered the machine. Poll-reading jellyfish (not to insult jellyfish) pretend to stand up straight. Mitt Romney was only an oppositional concept, not a real candidate (McCain was just an opposition). As troubadour for a racist audience, Romney didn’t push where push needs pushing. Imagine Mitt Romney sitting down between Churchill and Stalin one month after being sworn in.

Truman was direct in his language, sincere, and thoughtful. He wasn’t always “right”, that would be a ridiculous expectation. But he was real at what he did, which is an expectation we should have for our political leaders. He had little money when he became president and little when he left, tho a book deal from Life Magazine soon gave him funds. Can any president since say the same?

I have had Battle Cry of Freedom for years now, but only now am reading it. When I first got it, my interest in the Civil War circled around the battles, the drama. McPherson takes his time getting to that. McPherson is a full third of the way into the book before he gets to the attack on Fort Sumter. He provides a detailed rendering of the forces that led to the war. It’s not just state’s right versus anti-slavery, as everyone can realize. It’s many divergent forces, social, political, and stupid, that brings this country to an angry implosion.

The jibber jabber about secession today exhibits zero comprehension of what that might entail. It’s a childish sort of whining by those who think they aren’t getting their way. The slavery issue, which the framers of the Constitution dodged, took a long coming to this head. How could a country exist with a division on this issue? It finally could not.

I recently found myself writing rather “partisan” pieces in the days leading to the election. It was how I dealt with the ghastly urgencies of false language and disrupted empathy, Glenn Beck type assholes with simulated virtues in their mouths. Iniquities spoil our language because it is so difficult to find words that will stand true in the face of war, slavery, anti-Semitism, and such other doors that close on our humanity.

Charles Olson gave me a sense of mission as a writer. Language has been undermined by political underwriters. The necessity, then, is to find ways to write words, and read them, such that meaning isn’t twisted by endeavour. Olson helped me to see this path.

Simple Theories

I got caught up, in the words and machinations of the politic. Immersion and then distinction let me write some poems. The point is not opinion,  but rather the words in the presence. Thus the ongoing, captured here:

 

http://simpletheories.blogspot.com/