Sensory Overload

The Poetry of Silence

Years ago, I somehow wrote a post about my version of The Function of Art.  Today, I learned a little about the function of poetry.

From today's edition of The World:
        The Politics of Poetry

Another art form is under scrutiny from another group of arbiters of taste.  In Britain, the Queen's English Society says it's fed up with modern poetry.  These guardians of the English language say it's not a poem if it doesn't have rhyme or meter.  That's open to debate.  Which leads us to ask: what is a poem?  The World's Alex Gallafent has the answer, or rather, the answers:

Sometimes a poem is an ode to love by Pablo Neruda or some nonsense verse by Lewis Carroll.  It could be a sonnet from Shakespeare or a howl from Ginsburg.  It can be all these things and more.  So, sure we could talk about the rules of poetry, whatever they might be.  But instead let's consider the function of poetry.

Remember Terry Waite?  He was one of the hostages held in Beirut. Well after his release, Waite wrote a poem:

Yesterday is with you now
the same train
the same grandmother
the same forefathers
now you may cry the bitter tears of anguish
now you may howl with the primitive howl of a lost soul
now you may embrace
forever

Now, you may like Terry Waite's poetry; you may not.  But it's a good guess that writing it had value for Mr. Waite.

Poetry can also hold value for communities.  The British poet Simon Armitage wrote this poem three months after September 11th:

Here is an architecture of air.
Where dust is cleared,
nothing stands but free sky, unlimited and sheer

Smoke's dark bruise
has paled, soothed ...

[Mr. Armitage] "There seems to be an urge to communicate through poetry and poetry has always had some kind of responsibility right down the edges.  Every now and again, the moment seems right to put things down in words."

So, poetry can be some kind of record - a detailed snapshot in language.  And it doesn't have to come from full-time professional poets.  Take for example Malaysian lawyer Cecil Rajendra : when he's not practicing law, he's practicing his poetry and he enjoys it: "The language of law is very ossified and stilted language, whereas in poetry, the language is more creative - it's more dynamic."

Here's part of Rajendra's poem, Apologies to the Trees:

...if only politicians were trees
think how our budgets and diets would be balanced
their fruit, flower, roots, and leaves could give such rich sustenance
and what a bonus it would be
if we the constituents could hack them down each time they became a nuisance
if only
politicians were trees...

[Now, you may like Mr. Rajendra's poem; you may not ~ but if you have never heard of Cecil Rajendra, I urge you to read more about this fascinating social justice lawyer-slash-political poet.]

. . .[Finally], all poets ... should listen to this wisdom from the late Mexican poet Octavio Paz:

....al poeta lo conocemos tanto por sus palabras como por sus silencios. Desde el principio el poeta sabe, obscuramente, que el silencio es inseparable de la palabra....

...poets are known both for their words and their silences.  From the beginning the poet knows that silence is inseparable from the word....

Good advice for poets and politicians.

[Note: I didn't transcribe the entire report.  There are two more poems included, and you can listen to the entire 4+ minute report, here or other stories from The World, here.  The lovely image is by Edric Hsu.]

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In 2005, Waite gave a lecture in Maadi, Egypt about his experiences in solitary confinement for four years in Beirut.  The title of his lecture was 'Survival in Solitude'.  Waite described his survival technique, of having to learn to live from within:

As Waite saw his physical body disintegrate he knew he had to learn to live from within. In his mind he ‘wrote’ poetry and thought of books he knew well. He used the language of his mind to create harmony in his soul. Your whole life is in your head, really; you cannot see, hear, think, talk, etc., without your mind. Therefore, you must use creative imagination to keep your soul going, but you must also discipline the mind so that it doesn’t run away from you and think of the worst possible scenario. Also, he said it is important for everyone, at some point in life, to be self-centered; not to be selfish, but to know the self. When you do this, you realize the dark side of your self along with the light side, and you must face it. You cannot focus on obliterating the darkness, but rather embrace your humanness and heighten your lightness for the world.

And so, I remain primarily silent ~ nothing much here tonight is original thought; you can hear it and read it on the Internet (and I really hope you click on some or all of the links when you have time).  I want only to share with you a little of what I heard today ~ a little food for thought in case, like me, you didn't have dinner; a snippet of what ran through my thoughts today and continues to mill about my mind as the northern California wind boldly howls outside, rattling the window panes as forcefully as it thunders through my thoughts ~ and this moment seemed right to put into words ~ so that, without speaking, without meeting, without knowing ... we share something.

Give the Butterflies a Break

From today's edition of The World:

It's about 180 miles as the crow flies...the purple crow butterfly, that is.  One hundred and eighty miles is the length of the annual migration of purple crow butterflies through Taiwan.  The purple crow butterfly has a much shorter trip than its migrating North American relative, the monarch butterfly; still, it's not an easy journey.  The purple crow butterflies fly along busy roads where they can get sucked into traffic.  So, Taiwanese authorities have taken to closing parts of the highway to give the butterflies a break.

Caroline Gluck reports from National Freeway No. 3, "the front line in the battle to try to protect the butterflies."  This is the second year running that the National Freeway authorities have taken measures to try to protect the butterflies from  being crushed or killed by traffic as they make their annual migration from southern Taiwan to the north where they go to lay their eggs.  The measures are costing around 83,000 U.S. dollars, but the Director General of the Taiwan area National Freeway Bureau says it is money well spent, for this special creature.

When the number of purple crow butterflies reaches more than 500 per minute, authorities will close a section about one mile long along the outer lane of the freeway.  They will also set up 13-foot safety nets, fencing in part of the outer lane to encourage the butterflies to fly high above the traffic.  And, hundreds of new trees have been planted along the highway to serve as butterfly rest areas.

When Ms. Gluck traveled to a farm about 12 miles from the highway, thousands of the butterflies were taking nectar in the woods, gathering strength before they continue on their long journey.  The purple crow butterflies are highly sensitive to cloudy or cool temperatures; they won't move on until the weather conditions are just right.

Someone once told me, through a random thought, que la belleza aparece sin avisar.  Thank you Taiwan, for protecting your mari-posas.  San Francisco knows this is important too, especially in Yerba Buena Gardens:

If you know me, you'll understand this post.  But even if you don't, please remember to protect your personal butterflies~ that person who makes you feel butterflies in your soul ~ whomever and wherever they may be ~

And on that note, I give you these notes ~ an ode to maripositas everywhere ~ the sexy, the scandalous, and the sweet ~

Mariposa en Havana ~ Si*Sé

Mariposa Tracionera ~ Maná

Mariposita ~ Alberto Marino

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in a moment ~

~ a perfect moment can seem like the sweetest lifetime ~

On Thursday nights I gather with a small and sweet group of friends to work on a semi-writing volunteer project; it's very private, it's very intense ~  and every Thursday night, the starry sky on my drive home is infused with the pale yellow tint of the laughter they evoke from me, and the brooding midnight-blue of B's smoky voice, the fire-engine red of the sparks that bounce off of Y's curls when she talks, or the copper-coated words of comfort R throws into the pot of proclamations we all take turns stirring up.

On those Thursdays, there is usually a moment, sometimes two or three or six, where my heart lights up as I watch someone's eyes glimmer with Understanding or Passion or, even, Need.  Although we have a certain task to work on, often personal stories come out, and so I have learned bits and pieces of each person's history or home life ~ some of it intensely private so that I could never share it here; but I can share what the experience is like for me, learning about people in this way.  There are some groups where the work is the focus, and personal issues don't seep in as any sort of distraction ~ those groups feel close, without really being intimate.  But intimacy in some groups, for some work, is so vital ~ and I'm so glad to have stumbled upon a group of hard-working people who are so open to being so raw sometimes; and with whom I fall in love all over again every week.  This doesn't mean we see each other during the rest of the week, or that we hold hands and sing Kumbaya on Thursdays.  Instead, I get to experience  jewel-like moments with them that I then get to slip into my pocket so that I turn that moment over with my fingertips, touching every smooth corner of the thought or the sentiment, for the rest of the week ~ it means that I get to spend the rest of the week thinking about these people, and appreciating them, and really taking to heart the things they say.

Last Thursday, someone made a strong statement, and another person asked, "Why would you do that?"  Without pausing, the first person responded ~ "Because I have your heart in my hand."

It shook me up, it rattled my cage of thoughts ~ we haven't known each other very long and I was taken aback that someone would say something that intimate and mean it, and be so protective.  It made me think of the people who say and do things knowing they have my heart in their hands, and so are very careful with it; and it reminded me of the people who don't do that; and it showed me the complete strangers who do that were looking right at me.

The moment hung in the air for a nanosecond, and the conversation continued ~ on to something else ~ but now the conversation, and these relationships I am forming, are cradled in these protective hands ~ so I think I will swing in that cradle for a bit, to see what it feels like when people are careful with your heart.

I wasn't going to write about this but then I heard a show and an album about those moments ~ that flash of a moment where you fall in love, or your world changes ~ and so I felt like the Universe was telling me to just spit it out ~ to tell this little story.

First, I listened to the Valentine's Day episode of This American Life.  Sometimes I like the Prologue much better than the actual acts, and that was the case with this episode.  In the Prologue, Ira Glass speaks with Richard Klein of Cornell University, who explains that the way we view love really began with love poems in the 13th century — an illusion.  Ira Glass asked "what do we talk about when we talk about love?"  His answer ~ "this very moment" ~ the moment you feel it.  Richard Klein said it is that "coup de foudre," that bolt of lightning, of seeing someone and instantly falling in love.  The Prologue wasn't about the aftermath, or the reality of it all, or how love changes ~ it was about simply the moment that your life changes, when you fall in love.  For me, it seems to be every Thursday night.

For Richard Klein, it is Petrarch and Il Canzoniere, which Petrarch wrote for Laura, the woman into whose eyes he looked and fell instantly in love, but with whom he had little or no personal contact, ever.  There is a wonderful collection on-line of Petrarch's work, with the simple caption: For a woman he would never know, For a woman he could never have, He should change the world forever.  The passion that Laura deNoves stirred in Francesco Petrarch led him to compose the first lyric love poems ever written ~ 366 of them to be exact, all an ode to Laura.  I envy the impression she made.  Even near the end of the obsession, in poem 352, Petrarch writes vividly about the profound impact of that first glance:

Spirto felice che sí dolcemente
volgei quelli occhi, piú chiari che 'l sole,
et formavi i sospiri et le parole,
vive ch'anchor mi sonan ne la mente:

Happy spirit that glanced so sweetly
from those eyes, brighter than the sun,
and formed the sighs and speech,
so alive they still echo in my mind:

From an Italian, 13th century Renaissance humanist to a 21st century SoCal self-described pocha blogger, matters of the heart are still what drives us to write with passion, to write about the impact on our being of that first moment we look into that other person's eyes ~ and we are changed forever.  Petrarch wrote that before that moment one lives in a life of distraction, and when we encounter the eye of the other, it turns you into something else ~ all you want to do is to return over and over to that ~~ to that feeling, that impact, that moment.   

In the podcast, Richard Klein also  explained that the ancient Greeks had (at least?) two verbs for "seeing" or "to see."  The first verb means "caring observation" ~ the second refers to "the look the eyes can flash, like lightening, like dragon breath, that not only illuminates the eyes, but sends out the kind of fire that penetrates the eye of the other ~ a separate word for that moment when the eyes flash and imply a fateful encounter."

We all know that feeling ~ that moment of initial rapture ~ we all also know quite well that it doesn't last; it's just a dream.  But it seems to me that the most profound people are the ones who love finding it all over again with the person who elicited the feeling in the first place.

And so Thursday I look forward to falling in love again with the colorful batch of spirits who help me write ~

On that note, I leave you with this song, Tiny Heart and Clever Hand [mp4], by Tender Forever, off their Wider album.  (It's sweet and funny and fun ~ stick around past the howling wolves in the Intro.)  I think Tender Forever's biography fits the theme, and Me, perfectly today:

Melanie Valera is the throbbing heart and head philosopher of the solo band, Tender Forever. She cut her performance teeth on the street of her hometown of Bordeaux, France, covering sixties girl bands standards for money for a whole year as part of the Bonnies. Along with this enriching, character-building experience, this hyperactive lady started a long-distance electro-pop project with an American friend she had met on the very last day of her trip to S.F., Ca. Garrison Rocks, a spontaneous love-at-first-sight band, endured and evolved, up until becoming a Franco-American orchestra including 3 new members. The team performed about 40 shows in 7 months, notably with Little Wings (K recs.) and Ted Leo (Lookout).

Oh, and the Hand Open With Heart is a mosaic by Cleo Mussi.

winter

    Let us love winter, for it is the spring of genius.
            ~ Pietro Aretino
   
It is winter in Oakland ~ there is no snow, there are no snow angels, no snowmen smiling in the front yard of the house with a white picket fence.  Instead, there is rain ~ gray skies, and days and nights and yet more days of rain; and when there is a break in the rain, you walk gingerly along softened, drenched streets, quietly and softly under the hesitant sun, hoping you don't disturb the warm hazy rays or wake the rain gods ~ and you remember, quietly, alone, to yourself, to love the downpour because the glint of a squeaky-clean world is, maybe, almost, worth that feeling of nearly drowning.

or maybe that is just me ~ because I love the rain ~

This winter ~ now ~ I look forward to Monday and Wednesday nights when I listen to silly Spanish talk-radio on the drive home, to get in the mood for my Spanish conversation class ~ and to the solitary, dark drive home ~ headlights like two daggers cutting through the fog that wraps itself around the hilltop campus, gliding down steep rain-slicked streets, switching back to English ~ music, thoughts, words, alone in the car.

Tonight I caught up with NPR's All Songs Considered January 10th podcast ~ as usual, an eclectic and impressive line-up: Billie Holiday, The Magnetic Fields, The Jesus and Mary Chain, Peter Gabriel, Vampire Weekend, Fire on Fire....and right before the end, an epiphany in the form of a song, 'For Emma' (mp3), by Bon Iver (pronounced 'Bon Hiver', which is 'good winter' in French).  When I heard the song, I was speeding along a dark highway, alone on a damp winter night; my mind swimming in cold murky thoughts ~ somehow, it was all lovely.

So of course I came home to read more about this Bon Iver person ~ real name Justin Vernon.  I know all the Kool Kids, the bloggers and the internet stars, already know all this, but I learned tonight that Justin self-released his album last summer ~ and the album is the product of what sounds like an amazing solitary journey: four months time spent writing and recording in isolation last winter in his father's hunting cabin in the woods of Northwestern Wisconsin.  If you don't know about this amazing album, read the hype at Reveille Magazine.   (At the end of the article, there is a link where you can stream the entire album, which is due for a national re-release next month.)

When you hear the album you will agree that "all of his personal trouble, lack of perspective, heartache, longing, love, loss and guilt that had been stock piled over the course of the past six years, was suddenly purged into the form of song." God I wish I had that talent ~ to purge pain and produce instead something brilliant like this album, or even something simply lovely, or something quietly cataclysmic. ~~  I just had a déjà vu, like I've felt this before and written this before, even this part where I realize I'd felt and written this even before that ~ sigh, maybe the third time is the charm. ~ Justin Vernon chose isolation; he walked through its door. ...... But what do you do when isolation chooses you; when it opens the window to your soul, pulls you through it, then locks the door behind you?  Where's the album that tells you that story?

On this album, Justin's lyrics on Stacks are pithy and potent ~ this man knows what he's feeling, what to say, and how to say it:

This my excavation and today is kumran
Everything that happens is from now on
This is pouring rain
This is paralyzed
...
Whatever could it be
That has brought me to this loss?
...
This is not the sound of a new man or crispy realization
It's the sound of the unlocking and the lift away
Your love will be
Safe with me

But my favorite is 'Skinny Love' (mp3), where Justin asks you:

Who will love you?
Who will fight?
Who will fall far behind?

~ because I am one of those people, maybe the only one in the entire world, who really believes that these are the questions that truly matter ~ because when someone allows themselves to really love you, and when you allow yourself to love them in return, then everything, everywhere, falls into place.

Music You Need To Get Right Now

Quick note to say ~~  if you don't have Gozo Poderoso, the 2001 album from the Colombian duo Los Aterciopelados (which means "The Velvety Ones"),  then you should run, don't walk, to your computer to order it right now (oh, right, you're here already...and yes I know it is 2005).  :)  Today's life-altering song ~~  Rompecabezas {mp3}, which translates in English to the word "puzzle" but the literal translation means "tears/rips heads"....and if you know what I am working on, and going through, these days, you will agree the song fits perfectly.   The song's complete lyrics are here ~ but here's an appropriate part, with apologies to non-Spanish-speakers, but hey, you live in the U.S., learn Spanish!  ~   :)

Empiezo una nueva vida
un rompecabezas que tendré que armar.
Bien lejos, lejos de su influjo
esa extravagancia que torció mi fe.

Ya no quiero ir hacia usted corriendo,
ya no quiero más gritar su nombre.

Bien lejos, lejos de su influjo
era casi muerte, que fue su querer.
Empiezo....

Ai, gracias to the amazing VC for schooling me on this album, and for getting my iTunes song count to 2250 ~ now if I only had an iPod!  ~ :)

Happy Birthday Langston Hughes

February is Black History Month and February 1st is the birthday of James Langston Hughes, perhaps America’s most famous African American poet, playwright, novelist, and travel writer, and a major figure of the Harlem Renaissance.

Hughes was born into an abolitionist and politically-active family on February 1, 1902, in Joplin, Missouri.  Langston was the great-great-grandson of Charles Henry Langston, who was one of the first two Black men admitted to Oberlin College (the other was his brother, Gideon). 

Charles's other brother was John Mercer Langston, an educator, civil rights leader, a visionary reformer and an accomplished statesman and lawyer.  John Mercer was the first Black American to be elected to public office ~ in 1855, as the Town Clerk in Brownhelm, OH; he later served on the Oberlin City Council and the Board of Education and then as the first African-American elected to (the 51st) Congress from Virginia ~ this was the late-1860's!  John Mercer earned his B.A. and M.A. degrees at Oberlin, of which he wrote:

To Oberlin belongs the honor of being the first institution of  learning in the world to give woman equal educational opportunities and advantages with man. To it, too, belongs the honor of being the first college of the United States to accept the negro student and give him equal educational opportunities and advantages with the white.

But John Mercer was denied entry to Oberlin's law school.  Embittered but undeterred, he read law in the office of Philemon Bliss, a lawyer, legislator and anti-slavery activist  from Elyria, OH.  Twelve months later,  John  Mercer stood before a committee of three of the five-member District Court and was examined on his knowledge of the law.  They unanimously certified Langston's qualifications, but felt that as a Black man, under Ohio's Black Laws, he could not engage in a lawsuit against whites.  They returned to an 1842 state supreme court decision which said a "nearer White than Black" mulatto was entitled to the rights of a white man.  Ruling Langston "White enough", they admitted him to the Ohio state bar in 1854. 

This is how John Mercer became the first Black lawyer in Ohio (!), where he practiced law for 15 years.  In 1868, he founded the Law School at Howard University in Washington, D.C., and (in the tradition of Oberlin) made Howard's hallmark race and gender diversity; he later served as Acting President of Howard.

All 3 Langston brothers were committed to the Black freedom movement, organizing antislavery societies at both the state and local level, helping runaway slaves to escape along the Ohio section of the Underground Railroad, and giving public addresses about social reform, which included appeals for women's rights and temperance.   

This is the family Langston Hughes was born into ~ he had no choice, really, but to become the celebrated writer and activist that we all now admire and respect.  And so I leave you with one of my favorite essay/poems by Hughes, the (sadly) still-relevant and timely,  Let America Be America Again (1938) (in particular I love the last line ~ yes, let's work together as green states):

Let America be America again. Let it be the dream it used to be. Let it be the pioneer on the plain Seeking a home where he himself is free.

(America never was America to me.)

Let America be the dream the dreamers dreamed-- Let it be that great strong land of love Where never kings connive nor tyrants scheme That any man be crushed by one above.

(It never was America to me.)

O, let my land be a land where Liberty Is crowned with no false patriotic wreath, But opportunity is real, and life is free, Equality is in the air we breathe.

(There's never been equality for me, Nor freedom in this "homeland of the free.")

Say, who are you that mumbles in the dark? And who are you that draws your veil across the stars?

I am the poor white, fooled and pushed apart, I am the Negro bearing slavery's scars. I am the red man driven from the land, I am the immigrant clutching the hope I seek-- And finding only the same old stupid plan Of dog eat dog, of mighty crush the weak.

I am the young man, full of strength and hope, Tangled in that ancient endless chain Of profit, power, gain, of grab the land! Of grab the gold! Of grab the ways of satisfying need! Of work the men! Of take the pay! Of owning everything for one's own greed!

I am the farmer, bondsman to the soil. I am the worker sold to the machine. I am the Negro, servant to you all. I am the people, humble, hungry, mean-- Hungry yet today despite the dream. Beaten yet today--O, Pioneers! I am the man who never got ahead, The poorest worker bartered through the years.

Yet I'm the one who dreamt our basic dream In the Old World while still a serf of kings, Who dreamt a dream so strong, so brave, so true, That even yet its mighty daring sings In every brick and stone, in every furrow turned That's made America the land it has become. O, I'm the man who sailed those early seas In search of what I meant to be my home-- For I'm the one who left dark Ireland's shore, And Poland's plain, and England's grassy lea, And torn from Black Africa's strand I came To build a "homeland of the free."

The free?

Who said the free? Not me? Surely not me? The millions on relief today? The millions shot down when we strike? The millions who have nothing for our pay? For all the dreams we've dreamed And all the songs we've sung And all the hopes we've held And all the flags we've hung, The millions who have nothing for our pay-- Except the dream that's almost dead today.

O, let America be America again-- The land that never has been yet-- And yet must be--the land where every man is free. The land that's mine--the poor man's, Indian's, Negro's, ME-- Who made America, Whose sweat and blood, whose faith and pain, Whose hand at the foundry, whose plow in the rain, Must bring back our mighty dream again.

Sure, call me any ugly name you choose-- The steel of freedom does not stain. From those who live like leeches on the people's lives, We must take back our land again, America!

O, yes, I say it plain, America never was America to me, And yet I swear this oath-- America will be!

Out of the rack and ruin of our gangster death, The rape and rot of graft, and stealth, and lies, We, the people, must redeem The land, the mines, the plants, the rivers. The mountains and the endless plain-- All, all the stretch of these great green states-- And make America again!

 

roads & destinations

...
Nothing is gained by flying
to escape this globe
that trapped you at birth.
And we need to confess our hope
that understanding and love
come from below, climb
and grow inside us
like onions, like oak trees,
like tortoises or flowers,
like countries, like races,
like roads and destinations.
~ "Philosophy" by Pablo Neruda.

These words are from the poem "Philosophy," one of Pablo Neruda's last, written in 1973 while he lived on Isla Negra and in the midst of the battle he lost with Cancer.  The poem and 20 others were published posthumously by Copper Canyon Press in a collection called The Yellow Heart ~~ the title of the collection, explains William O'Daly, who translated the collection, comes from what you'll find as you uncover the layers of intimacy Neruda invites you into:  "the yellow light of Neruda's waning years, with its irreverence and satirical humor, [which] breaks into varying emotional hues and tones."  I'll come back to this in a minute (or two)....

I know I haven't been around lately ~ neither on the blogosphere nor in parts of my real life here in Oakland ~ maybe if I were more anonymous I would be blogging more about what is going on in my real life.  But I can't ~  there is so much going on in my head right now, and I wish I could use the blog as the release but complicated factors make that impossible, it seems.  Partly also, frankly, I've lost my inspiration to write, or blog anyway, with the fervor I had, say two months ago, which feels like two lifetimes ago.  I know I'm losing readers with this prolonged absence....but I don't want to disappoint anyone with insipid venting and angst, or insincere reflections on politics, the election in Iraq, or the dismal state of  public education in California.  Hopefully, those passions will be refueled soon. 

My recent state of "disconnect" has manifested itself in other ways besides a blogging-moratorium ~ mainly this consists of my uttering "I'm dead inside" as a weak attempt at humor when my friends try to coax me back out of my shell, or (as I found out Friday night) in the form of an invisible and  impenetrable "cone of silence" hovering around me, which works as a shield off of which words and compliments bounce so that strangers who try to chat me up (say, in bars or coffee shops) do not find engaging conversation, but instead a polite smile and hasty retreat.  That is not like me.  I feel like certain recent events in my life have permanently altered certain positive traits of my core identity ~ say the simple ones such as trust in people, a desire to connect, or an enjoyment of the art of conversation.  I don't know how to get them back, or if I will...ever.  And the idea is maddening, frightening, frustrating.....and partly inviting ~ the easy way out, right? 

But some things that did happen this weekend ~ what compels me to write, at this moment when I have some monumental things to do ~ is that because of the blog, a few very amazing people have shown me incredible support, understanding, and hope.  To compound matters, this was a weekend when I saw a few very important people from my (pre-blog) law school days (daze), and experienced the same profound support.  I mean, people I have not even "formally" met have, rather quickly, connected enough with me that they are able to distill portions of my personality into song recommendations or book recommendations ~ metaphors for my current state and a "safe" way to reveal to them some of my harsh "truths." 

V. sent me two very appropriate Mp3's to introduce me to the music of starsailor ~ Good Souls and Poor Misguided Fool.  First of all, I don't think anyone has ever taken the time to email me Mp3's of what I may be feeling, courtesy of a good pop song.  Amazing technology ~ but more amazing humanity.  Then, "Jefe" (a social justice bad-ass) pulled a very impressive "High Fidelity" moment and sent me a personal Music List he compiled for me and about me....which is right on target.  Not only that, he knows part of the angst I am facing in February so he summarized his impression of what I mean to my friends into one beautiful and amazing sentence, and sent me a link to this book:  And Our Faces, My Heart, Brief as Photos by John Berger, and this quote by Berger:

The poverty of our century is unlike that of any other. It is not, as poverty was before, the result of natural scarcity, but of a set of priorities imposed upon the rest of the world by the rich. Consequently, the modern poor are not pitied...but written off as trash. The twentieth-century consumer economy has produced the first culture for which a beggar is a reminder of nothing.

How can people you don't know, know you much better and purer than the one person you thought knew you best?  ~ As for the friends I saw from law school, they all work hard to end poverty ~ to raise justice to eye-level and within arm's reach. 

On one level I am so proud of them and yet on another, I am intimidated by their brilliance ~ do I measure up?  Can I do these things, too?  How do they allow the beauty of their external struggle to enrich their inner struggle, whereas so many people (myself included sometimes) allow the darkness of  their inner struggle (that fear, angst, trepidation I am always scolding you about) to dilute the light and love of their external  journey?  Yeah, you see?  It has been an intense weekend, in inverse proportion to last weekend's maudlin anniversary.

And, as if to illustrate the intensity of the weekend, I had two very telling telephone calls.  In one call  yesterday, I tried to reach out to someone very important in my life, who has hurt me in ways words cannot capture.  You know that feeling when you've had all these images of that person and how great they are, even when they're not, and then you finally call because you feel good and positive and not out of some need to hear their voice but rather a desire to connect, for them to hear from you ~ and you have the brief conversation and you hang up ....and then you realize, "Wow, that person has just carried on with his/her life as if I was never in it ..."  ~ Don't you hate that feeling?  Not only does it feel like the wires in your phone are disconnected, but you now know so is the fragile link between you and another person.  ~~ And yet....I had a phone conversation today with someone I hardly know, and this time the discomfort came from a clear connection I was feeling with another human being ~ something, as you know, I have been avoiding.  A connection filled with moments of commiserating about the similar experiences we are having in the law and life, and so many other things.

And these two phone calls, and the wonderful gifts of words by people I hardly know, and the love I feel for my law school classmates and the work they do ~ you know it all adds context to that damn internal dialogue which has been berating me for weeks now. 

Which is why I went back to re-read Neruda's poem, Philosophy...because I need to deal with my trappings and make them open doors rather than impenetrable walls, and because I need to rebuild that "hope" in me that has been, literally, shattered by recent events ~ rebuild it in a different shape or form, or using different, sturdier raw materials.  And I have to share with you what O'Daly writes in his introduction to The Yellow Heart:

In The Yellow Heart, as in many of the later books, the acceptance of death hinges on the decision to live.  The process involves a lifelong dialogue we have with ourselves and with our responses to things that happen every day.  But life, like a hurricane or a dog, is always what it is ~ it never lies.  Neruda believes that we alone are responsible for the integrity of our inner dialogue, whether the actions that result are socially unacceptable, impetuously heroic, or futile.  Our response to life is shaped by our responses to the moments of clarity we are given, those glimpses of cerulean sky in which truth is migratory.  When the inner dialogue is rooted in a world not overly distorted by abstracted fears, then understanding and compassion grow inside of us "like tortoises or flowers."  When we do not need our arrogance or greed to protect us from the inner or outer world, we come face to face with truth, and our creative energies are renewed.

Remember when I said that January 22 marked the day I should have stopped being impetuous?  Well, I want it back ~ I want that gift back...an impetuousness of heroic proportions.  And, this weekend I had a few moments of clarity ~ only time will tell if I heed the wisdom of that clarity, though.  I thought I had such a moment when I picked up the phone to make that call on Saturday ~ I thought I was untangling myself from fear and staying focused on the good parts of another person ~ and sadly the conversation was actually a way for me to find my way to the truer, harsher reality.... ~ and I get caught up in these single, broad, life-altering moments.....so that I forget the hundreds of seemingly tiny, everyday experiences that shape me more fully and and deeply.

Recently a friend and I discussed this as "el ritual de lo habitual": the experience of maintaining awareness of the Truth in every moment of our ordinary existence ~ finding our own personal way to the divine spirit (whatever that means to you) through what are seemingly life's most mundane acts.  When you brush your teeth tomorrow morning, look in the mirror, look deep into your eyes, into your own Soul, and ask your Self: What is your Truth?

As for me...I need to go cook dinner now ~ I'm broiling a nice salmon steak stuffed with cous-cous (thank you Trader Joe's); and I will try to remember that my dinner-ritual offers more Truth than meets the eye (or mouth). ~ :)

All's Bare in Love and War

I saw a dear friend and mentor the other night for dinner and, even after knowing him for over two years, was amazed at how much of an onion he still is to me ~~ every meeting, every conversation, feels like I am delicately unwrapping the layers of an onion ~ even the stinging I feel in my eyes, because the things I learn from him and about him (and in turn about myself) are stark, sharp, and eye-opening . . . we talked for over an hour before dinner, going through old photos of him in his hey-day with an out-to-THERE Mexican-afro, photos of his children and family, and funny mementos.  And then, because we share a love of poetry (as in I love to plagiarize it and he loves to actually write it), he confided in me some of his recent work and invited me to critique it and discuss it with him.  And this process was amazing because he would read the poems out loud to me, without allowing me to look at the words and read along with him ~ I had to sit still.  And Listen.  And let it sink in.  And visualize every colorful line without the outline of the black-and-white text to guide me.  I have never really done that before.  After he read each poem, I clamored for him to let me hold the paper, so I could see it, and touch it, and feel it.  I mean imagine . . . the sensory experience of hearing a poem, then seeing it, then touching it ~ all as it touches you.  And it was the most amazing way to really know each poem and learn more about my friend and how he interacts with his art . . . which is that much more amazing considering what he does for a living.  But our conversation and one of his poems, which I can't publish here, reminded me of a wonderful line from Octavio Paz's Sunstone/Piedra del Sol ~

"the world is born when two people kiss" 

Octavio Paz wrote Sunstone in 1957 ~ the poem is 584 lines long but it's written as a single cyclical sentence (at the end of the poem the first six lines are written again, so that the poem doesn't end but rather returns to its beginning) ~~ Paz's structural basis for the poem is the circular Aztec Calendar, which measured the synodic period of the plant Venus (584 days), and Sun Stone is the universal name for the actual Aztec Calendar, which was carved in the 15th century and buried under the main square in Mexico City.   When Sunstone was first published, Octavio Paz noted that "the planet Venus appears twice each day, as the morning star (Phosphorus)  and as the evening star (Hesperus).  This duality (Lucifer and Vesper) has inspired every civilization whose people have taken Venus as a symbol, a sign, or an incarnation of the essential duality of the universe...."  And I'm sure you know that Venus is also the Goddess of love and beauty.   ~ These are all themes that Paz explores in the poem ~~ and that line from Sunstone in particular inspired one of the poems my friend wrote.

Sunstone is complex, erotic, and lyrical  ~ and aren't we all?  I've read and re-read the poem at different times over the past ten years and am still trying to understand it all ~ and that's the best kind of poem, the best kind of emotion, the truest relationship you could wish for . . . one you continually deconstruct and just when you think you understand it, you notice one teeny, tiny element in a corner somewhere which disrupts your entire analysis and you have to start from the beginning again, those same six lines, and allow yourself to be taken on the journey again, down a different path, or maybe down the same path but with a different perspective.  I read somewhere that Sunstone is supposed to express Octavio's sense of the deep loneliness of man, which can be transcended only through attempts at communion, sexual love, compassion, and faith . . . I think that's true ~ and by that I mean, yes the poem is about that, and yes life is about that, and yes it's a tortured, cyclical existence but, when done well, it's profound, maddening, enriching, chaotic, and humbling.

Anyway, back to the point . . .that line ~ "the world is born when two people kiss" ~ it's from a section of the poem where Paz writes about the effect of that kiss . . . when all is transformed, all is sacred, and we are able to break free from the laws and notions which confine us:

...the invisible walls,
the rotten masks that divide one man
from another, one man from himself,
                            they crumble
for one enormous moment and we glimpse
the unity that we lost, the desolation
of being man, and all its glories,
sharing bread and sun and death,
the forgotten astonishment of being alive;

to love is to battle, if two kiss
the world changes, desires take flesh,
thoughts take flesh, wings sprout
on the backs of the slave, the world is real
and tangible, wine is wine, bread
regains its savor, water is water,
to love is to battle, to open doors,
to cease to be a ghost with a number
forever in chains, forever condemned
by a faceless master;
                            the world changes
if two look at each other and see . . . .

Ai, the poem asks you to put a lot of faith in love and in faith itself ~ and even your Self . . . isn't that how it should be, though?¹

How often do we forget the astonishment of being alive?  Have you looked in the mirror lately and been amazed and astonished with yourself?  Go do it right now.  Go on . . . I'll wait . . . Look at yourself and See.  Look at each Other and See.

That's what we forget.  Astonishment.  Every Day.  About ourselves, and what we do, and how we live, and, damn, that we live at all.  That slave who needs to sprout wings?  That slave is You, and your self-doubt and preconceived notions.  That faceless master?  You again. 

Yeah, if love is battle, I'll take my war wounds ~~ I think I've earned a Purple Heart by now.  Because love and war compel you to reveal your rawest rage, your truest testament, your purest pain . . . and so we do it.  Because when we don't, that's when the War is lost ~ not a war with others, but that battle within ourselves that is desperately fighting for connection and understanding and love.

So, this astonishment ~ that's what I felt the other night with my friend, as we deconstructed poems and career advice and wistful stories about our first loves back when we were each teenagers.  My friend wrote poetry even when he was in high school and he kept copies of the love poems he wrote to his girlfriends back then.  One sheet was crinkled and brown and the ink was fading ~~ he wrote a few lines after his first kiss with a girl he liked . . . it was amazing and simple. ~ and the girl had written back, but she wrote in Japanese . . . and years later he had someone translate what she had written: "I like you.  I have fallen for you.  What would you like to have . . .?"  ~~ They were 15.

So ~~ poems and conversation and amazing food and a brisk night in San Francisco . . . astonishing.

^1.  "Woe to the man whose heart has not learned while young to hope, to love -- and to put its trust in life!" ~~ The hero's final words in Victory: An Island Tale, by Joseph Conrad.  Or, in the fine fine words of the Black Eyed Peas ~~ "Gotta keep my faith alive til love is found."

Six Kinds of Cookies and Four Kinds of Truffles

If you happen to love the theater, like I do, but you happen to scrape by paycheck-to-paycheck, like I do, then you get creative on how you satisfy your passion for performance, your adoration of acting . . . you might, for example, volunteer to usher at a local theater so you can see the hottest new play for free.  So, tonight, after work, I drove for an hour in pouring rain, across the slick span of the Bay Bridge, dodging detours on rain-soaked San Francisco city streets, to the Magic Theater at Fort Mason ~ ~ in hot pursuit of Adriano Shaplin's latest play, The Pugilist Specialist, which opened on December 1 ~ I was dying to learn more about this 25-year-old "wunder-kid they call a cross between Miller and Mamet".  I have been a volunteer usher before and always enjoy the simple job of handing out programs to strangers and parroting, "Enjoy The Show!"  People smile back at you and thank you for delivering a fun evening to them ~ now, that's my kind of job . . . the grantor of theatrical enjoyment.

When I arrived at the Magic tonight, the House Manager told me that I would be the only usher ~ um, SUPERSTAR may be the phrase I used, although she may have simply said, "yeah, just you."  So, I received a sort-of "volunteer promotion" to . . . the CONCESSION STAND!  Now, you may laugh, but if you have never worked in the food-service industry (like me), and if you are thus not accustomed to the mountains of information you must memorize (like, say your menu), then the following jumble of words may be what the instructions tonight would have sounded to you (which is to say, me):

"So...(big breath)...everything is two dollars except for the things that aren't like the wine which is five dollars and the brownies which are three dollars oh and the truffles which are a dollar and the beer which is four dollars but when in doubt charge two dollars there are six kinds of cookies oatmeal-raisin almond/coconut dipped in chocolate the peanut peanut-butter-cup chocolate-chip macadamia with white chocolate and toffee-crunch now there are four kinds of truffles macadamia-nut all-dark-chocolate raspberry and the Grand Marnier oh and four kinds of chocolate bars and some have nuts which might be a problem for allergy sufferers so make sure people know if there are nuts in anything they buy we have Sam Adams Pale Ale and bottled water and three kinds of carbonated water Aranciata Limonata and Pellegrino and coffee refills are free oh and the complete play is sold in book form for five dollars and don't forget to use the white wine glasses for the white wine and the red wine glasses for the red wine so we can get an accurate count of concessions sold after the play ~~ {big breath} ~~ so that's it, you got all that ok?"

ME: {Gulp.}  Um, oh sure, of course.  EASY.  Great.  Yes of course you may go work the door and I will be just FINE here.  Alone.  With money to count.  And change to make.  And Pellegrino to peddle.  Oh look . . .  {deer in headlights stare}  Here come some customers . . . What can I get you folks?

So, while most people were home relaxing after a long day at work, maybe flipping through the T.V., maybe enjoying some music and a glass of wine . . . I was serving wine, trying not to spill it on myself, trying to do math while standing . . . in heels  . . . let's see . . . two glasses of wine and one candybar . .  no?  a truffle instead?  Oh sure . . . wait, do I carry the one and take the square root of the panic multiplying in my head?

Oh don't worry ~ I did great ~ it was fantastic fun AND I made like $3 in tips!  Enough to cover the bridge toll . . . except, um, I didn't get to keep the tips . . . I guess I donated my tips to the non-profit theater and, well that was OK because the toll taker got down on one knee and asked me to marry him (for real ~ totally made me smile and made my night) and I got the bottled water for half-off so, well, hmmm, OK, actually I LOST money tonight . . . but damn the play was amazing, as I experienced it from the aisle seat of the second row, spitting distance from the glare of Adriano himself, as he played out the vile Lt. Freud.

The play is about three marines preparing for a secret assassination ~~ that the "Communication Specialist" rarely speaks and appears physically uncomfortable with expressing emotion is but one of the brilliant elements in this play.  As the Chronicle theater critic wrote, " 'Pugilist' is an incisive and allusive critique of American military values, ranging from a pervasive disregard for international law and arcane perversions of language ("Victory forgives dishonesty," the soldiers reassure each other) to the use of female soldiers as media symbols (with unsettling echoes of the manipulation of the Jessica Lynch story)." 

The lone female in the ensemble, Lt. Stein, opens the play as a fierce soldier and stoic ethicist, more annoyed than broken by the rampant sexual harassment  . . . "Secrets are my armor.  Silence is my camouflage." And so begins the sparring, the quick-paced wicked word-play the three marines and their Colonel toss around like glittery grammatical grenades ~~ from the moment Lt. Stein asks, "Are we to expect any international or domestic backlash against a clandestine political assassination," to the moment  Lt. Freud, the sniper, expresses his loyalty to the Mission: "Sir, our true interests are for you to know and me to fire at the target.  I'd rather not share a pillow with the public good."

The play touches on exploitation, passions diluting military focus, empathy, feminism, masculinity, language, communication . . . and a strange deconstruction of ~~ pork hot dogs and apple pie.   The final ten minutes are intense, full of suspense . . . and an eerie famililarity.

Ultimately, one of the greatest lines in the play is, "If at first  you don't succeed, redefine success."

First American mash-up released by Interscope Records

I know it's old news to those "in the know," but . . . what do you get when you mash-up Beck's hip "Debra" with the smash debut, "Frontin,'" by Pharrell Williams feat. Jay-Z, and then add some original drums and a human beatbox performed by the mash-up king of New York,  DJ Reset?  You get the super-smooth "Frontin' on Debra," the first American mash-up to be released by a major label (Interscope Records).  You can read more about this, here, at beatmixed's blog.   Since "Debra" is one of my all-time favorite songs, and since I swoon at the sensory overload of Pharell's voice, and since I definitely dig the mash-up, I'm heading over to iTunes for some downloading!