Sunday, October 31, 2010

Halloween 2010

Here is the weekend tally:

Friday night was a write-off;
Saturday, I excelled in Pitiful;
Sunday, today, there came The Demand that I Show Up For Life -- I did --  and we all had a nice time.

We indulged ourselves with an afternoon showing of Rosemary's Baby, cinematic wholesomeness that stands up well to the tests of time.  Mia Farrow was divorcing Frank Sinatra, The Dakota became The Bramford, and Sharon Tate was just another girl at the party, though Polanski did not credit her. 

Okay, so Fred fell asleep -- his belly full of raisin cream scones that I whipped up at the ungodly hour of 4 am -- very buttery things to which he added additional dabs and smears -- and therefore needed his total blood supply redirected to his gastrointestinal innards -- which action decimated his cerebral forces.

Oh, Reader Dears!  This is a *moment*.  I am about to use a word for the first time.  It's a word I like but that has always seemed a bit much, a bit dated, sort of a hey-look-at-me kind of word.

Ahem:  My raisin cream scones -- if they were anything at all (verily!) -- were toothsome examples of crunchy luciousness, and yet, pure restraint, as well.

I think it works.  It's the kind of thing I might say.  If I drank vermouth, sported cocktail rings, and wore wide belts of crushed velvet -- one belt per jewel tone.

I remember Friday, September 26, 2003, the day that toothsome figured as Word of the Day over at  I remember as if it were yesterday.

Do you recall where you were when toothsome passed from palate-pleaser to larger-than-life, far beyond tired old va-va-va-voom?

1. Pleasing to the taste; delicious; as, "a toothsome pie."
2. Agreeable; attractive; as, "a toothsome offer."
3. Sexually attractive.

Sentences were presented that suitably displayed the meaning and the gravitas, yet retained the essential flirtiness of... toothsome:

Fleming was impressed not only by its taste but by its astonishing durability: Caudle's apple, after ten months in storage, was still toothsome and fragrant.
-- David Guterson, "The Kingdom of Apples", Harper's Magazine , October 1999

Their topic, naturally: business niches that offer toothsome opportunities and comparatively limited competition.
-- Dick Youngblood, "Business niches can be opportunities", Minneapolis Star Tribune , March 2, 2003

The myth, which Kournikova herself often takes great measures to perpetuate, is that she is an imposter on the WTA Tour, a toothsome starlet who simply uses the tennis court as a catwalk.
-- Jon Wertheim, "Any day now for Anna", Sports Illustrated, April 14, 2000

Speaking of toothsome...

The Manor is Halloween Haven in this neck of the Tête de Hergé (très décédé, d'ailleurs).  That means gourds, cupcakes drowned in orange icing offset with licorice dots:  that means hot chocolate, and cider, and smile-like-you-mean-it-dammit!  Mostly, that means joyfully suspending disbelief so as to celebrate the little ghouls and their trailing, traipsing goblins.

I have a soft spot, though, for little girls, intransigent, in flannel pajamas, slightly tear-stained, not at all sure of this Trick or Treat business. 

Propped on parental hips, their somber eyes warn you that this-is-not-what-they-signed-up-for.

Intransigent and toothsome, certain Little Girls use Halloween to put the world on notice.

Songs of Experience::The Weight of the World

"The Tyger" by William Blake

as sung by Allen Ginsberg
w/ Steven Taylor & Jim Jones
Recorded by
The Jack Kerouac School of Disembodied Poetics,
July 1988

courtesy of superheronamedtony's YT channel

A beautiful thing, the free download and streaming from the internet archive project at Naropa University:
 A reading by Allen Ginsberg performing William Blake's Songs of Innocence and Songs of Experience. Songs of Innocence includes: "The Shepherd," "The Echoing Green," "The Lamb," "The Little Black Boy," "The Blossom," "The Chimney Sweeper," "The Little Boy Lost," "The Little Boy Found," "Laughing Song," and "Holy Thursday." Songs of Experience includes: "Nurse's Song," "The Sick Rose," "Ah Sunflower," "The Garden of Love," "London," "The Human Abstract," "To Tirzah" and "The Grey Monk."

And then, there is the always lovely PennSound, center for programs in contemporary writing at the University of Pennsylvania, and their New York, December 15, 1969 recording of Ginsberg singing William Blake -- plus PoemTalk podcasts.

By William Blake

Tyger! Tyger! burning bright
In the forests of the night,
What immortal hand or eye
Could frame thy fearful symmetry?

In what distant deeps or skies
Burnt the fire of thine eyes?
On what wings dare he aspire?
What the hand dare sieze the fire?

And what shoulder, & what art.
Could twist the sinews of thy heart?
And when thy heart began to beat,
What dread hand? & what dread feet?

What the hammer? what the chain?
In what furnace was thy brain?
What the anvil? what dread grasp
Dare its deadly terrors clasp?

When the stars threw down their spears,
And watered heaven with their tears,
Did he smile his work to see?
Did he who made the Lamb make thee?

Tyger! Tyger! burning bright
In the forests of the night,
What immortal hand or eye
Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?


"My father died while I was out here. So I flew black... back, and on the way [home I w]rote a blues: Father Death Blues."

Hey Father Death, I'm flying home
Hey old man, you're all alone
Hey old daddy, I know where I'm going

Father Death, don't cry any more
Mama's there underneath the floor
Brother Death, please mind the store

Old Aunty Death, don't hide your bones
Old Uncle Death, I hear your groans
O Sister Death, how sweet your moans

O Children Deaths, go breathe your breaths
Sobbing breasts'll ease your deaths
Pain is gone, tears take the rest

Genius Death, your art is done
Lover Death, your body's gone
Father Death, I'm coming home

Guru Death, your words are true
Teacher Death, I do thank you
For inspiring me to sing this blues

Buddha Death, I wake with you
Dharma Death, your mind is true
Sangha Death, we'll work it through

Suffering is what was born
Ignorance made me forlorn
Tearful truths I cannot scorn

Father Breath, once more farewell
Birth you gave was no thing ill
My heart is still, as time will tell.

July 8, 1976 (Over Lake Michigan)

Friday, October 29, 2010

suicide by doctors

okay, so in the few hours since i published this scintillating example of self-pity, guilt at having bad-mouthed the good people who are trying hard to help me, and who are as talented as they come, has gnawed a hole in my inflated psyche.  and i thought the pain of rotting bones and insane nerve fibers was hard to deal with -- well, that pain is nothing compared with guilt.

so... i'm sorry, okay?  it's just that every now and then i decompensate.

[which would be a reason but not an excuse.  jeez, but you people are rough on a girl.]

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

i'm taking another mini-break from blogging, although experience tells me that merely making that announcement is a surefire way to recapture my own flagging interest.

the visit to the surgeon yesterday was good, in that i like him and he tends to get the various balls rolling. the visit was bad, in that so much remains... hors la portée

we cannot rule out infection of the left prosthesis but we now have another very evident reason for some of the pain and dysfunction, at least.  there is supposed to be a subacromial space in the shoulder, a gap in the joint, that is generally of around 9 or 10 cm. 

below 6 cm of space, it's considered a problem.

i am in the negative -- i have no space.  i have negative space.  were the prosthesis not there -- and there with such élan! for it is there, and jauntily! -- were that hunk o'metal absent, it'd be just another one of my collapsed joints.  i am too familiar with the concept of collapsed joints and rotting bones -- with all their translations into krapola and ouch -- thanks to years of avascular necrosis.  there is also the odd klunk of bones trying to settle into some acceptable version of order and boniness (that'd be the weird audio component of AVN:  the sound of joints settling.  disconcerting, this sound.)

the quote i love so much is burrowing through my very depressed mind.  next, then, the traditional moment with spinoza:

each thing, in so far as it is in itself, endeavors to persist in its own being.

i would rather hear and know this than all the promises of heaven and salvation.  sometimes, don't you just want the truth?  unvarnished, prickly?  capable of collapse, were it bones?

oh, hell, the important distinctions, the big ass caveat:  the endeavor is NOT what has been called the [evolutionary] struggle for existence, no way, jose!  it is simpler -- and harder -- than that:
it is the result of a thing being what it is
[from translator r.h.m. elwes' 1883 "introduction," to the ethics].

a translator who likes to nail things down, elwes also adds:
When it is spoken of in reference to the human mind only, it is equivalent to the will; in reference to the whole man, it may be called appetite.
there.  now spinoza and his scrappy translator grace the page.  i can relax. 

or i can persevere and persist in my (own) being.  how about it? wanna join me?

okay, so we have the squirrelly case of the disappearing rotator cuff muscles, which, being trapped between pitiful bones were nonetheless dispatched, disappeared, and definitively poofed away, away!

he gave me a cortisone injection, which helped for about an hour, thanks not to the steroids but to the hefty dose of anesthetic involved.  knowing how i feel about such injections, he gave rapid lip service to the benefit/risk ratio.  bless the man.  he may be the only one on the ball... and since he's the one with all the scalpels, that's a good thing.

no word had been passed to him by either my go-to-guy or the new infectious disease dood.  the three of them all chatted today, however, and i have been sending emails back and forth to go-to-guy.  new ID dood opines, as did the consult we got last august, that if there is a bacterial bad boy, he votes for propionibacterium acnes, based on the deep reasoning that -- now, follow along: 

since nothing has grown,
the culprit must be
difficult to grow,
and the most difficult bacterium to hatch,
 in terms of joint contaminants,
is p. acnes,
so it must be p. acnes
that is not growing.


i feel like i am surrounded by idiots.

that is a dangerous thing to say, the kind of thing that can get a person condemned to hell, or that can at least give you a terrible reputation and keep you out of the country club.

so go-to-guy has come up with what feels novel to him [because he has completely forgotten about the lame ass consult of last summer, the one where fred and i traversed the wilds of tête de hergé (très décédé, d'ailleurs) aboard a convivial ruby, the honda crv, only to spend a total of 7 minutes with the illustrious doctor man.  illustrious doctor man hemmed and hawed (but not much -- i mean, it took all of 7 minutes... that's including the disrobing, the exam, the review of records, the documentation -- in fact, he had it all written up already, he had already concluded, the book was déjà closed.  "i took the liberty of speaking with your surgeon, who is known to me...."  sigh. dickwad.  and that was the genesis of the propionibacterium acnes element of our folklore.] --

whoa, nellie!  if i were you, gentle reader?  i would bale out of that paragraph!  [whether you are to BAIL or BALE out is but another conundrum] what a mess! 

anyway, back to go-to-guy, who is doing an admirable job of ignoring every reference i make to impending suicide.  he wants to do a course of doxycycline.  a course, that is, of ORAL doxycycline.  i think the poor boy is confusing a bad case of zits (a shout out to my former friends at PTZ!) with the lingering, well-hid pestilence known as osteomyelitis.  but whatever floats his boat and more power to him for deigning to do anything!  something, anything!  i came * this close to quizzing him about the types of barriers that would have to be traversed, etcetera but, thankfully, i managed to be a teeny bit decorous.

my crp is so high no one will tell me what it is.  that bugs the good bejesus out of me.  i can pass along all the other lab values... but the crp is gonna... what?  make me faint?

i am being referred to one of shoulder man's colleagues, the hipster, because my right hip is refractured.

the easiest solution of all, in terms of diagnostic testing, would be one fucker of an mri.  and that won't happen because of the incredible number of implants, screws, and such that cause the images to torque to high heaven.

shoulder man introduced the idea of a reverse shoulder replacement, a funky little design that is exactly what it sounds like:

it would be a last resort, this slicing off of the humeral head!  but his little blue shoulder man eyes, they were
a-gleamin'!  with the disappearing rotator cuff, the collapse of the joint, this is what remains as a surgical option.

of course, we must be reasonable.   especially since the foremost contraindication is the same as the foremost complication.   

why, yes!  that would be infection.  {as god falls into the groaning maw of his own smart-assedness.}

so this all has me beyond blue.  they want me to renew my relationship with the medical school rheumatology department, try the antibiotic (orally, orally!), and open my mind to a reverse replacement.

maybe i won't take a hiatus from blogging. 

i fear the implosion of everything, and sometimes it is only the writing that successfully squares off with the sucking abyss...

and tames my natural tendency toward dramatic excess -- rare though it may be.

jeez, louise, but i am tired.

i sang a song for ireland

(Phil and June Colclough)

Walking all the day
Near tall towers where falcons build their nests
In silver wings they fly,
For they know the call for freedom in their breasts,
We saw Black Head against the sky
With twisted rocks that run down to the sea
Living on your Western shore,
Saw summer sunsets, I asked for more,
I stood by your Atlantic Sea,
And sang a song for Ireland

Drinking all the day,
In old pubs where fiddlers love to play,
Saw one take the bow,
To play a reel that was so grand and gay,
I stood on Dingle Beach and cast,
In the wild foam for the Atlantic bass,
When living on your Western shore,
Saw the summer sunset, I asked form more,
I stood by your Atlantic Sea,
And sang a song for Ireland

Laughing all the day,
With true friends who try to make you stay,
Telling jokes and news,
And singing songs to pass the night away,
We watched the Galway salmon run,
Like silver dancing, darting in the sun,
When living on your Western shore,
Saw the summer sunset, I asked for more,
I stood by your Atlantic Sea,
And sang a song for Ireland

Dreaming in the night,
I saw a land where no man had to fight,
And waking in your dawn,
I saw you crying in the morning light,
Lying where the falcons fly,
They twist and turn all in your air-blue sky,
Living on your western shore,
Saw the summer sunset, I asked no more,
I stood by your Atlantic sea,
And sang a song for Ireland

Wednesday, October 27, 2010

Jack Schitt

Hullo, you.

Yesterday was a study in stuffy, feverish suckiness, during which time I accomplished precisely nothing.  I spent a few hours crying, which is not necessarily a sign of unhappiness, but is always a sign of fever winning out over ibuprofen and Tylenol.

I finally crashed at 2 am.
Today began at 3:30 am and I've already achieved -- in comparison to yesterday -- a lot.

Three loads of laundry, pristine microwaves and shiny stove tops in all the remodeled medieval manor kitchens. 

Deep-cleaned coffee pots, groomed cats, black beans soaking in anticipation of a corn salsa and the bills are [mostly] paid.

It is 7:30 am now, and I am ready for bed.

I see the orthopedic surgeon tomorrow, Doctor ShoulderGuy.  In an effort to squeeze me in -- as he is booked solid through February at his practices' central location -- we are driving to PoDunk to see him.
Part of yesterday's crapola-ish-ness came from learning that the new Infectious Disease Dood responded to queries about a letter/report reflecting his findings by saying that his office is switching to electronic records and that they are, therefore, behind in their transcriptions of letters/reports/office notes, and so on.

ShoulderGuy made two requests of me, back in March -- that I somehow get the aspiration of the joints (under fluoroscope) so that we could try growing a few microbes and that I get a new ID consult.  As soon as my insurance kicked in at the beginning of September, I hit the ground running. Errr, rolling.  I met my annual deductible in under 30 days. 

So let's review, shall we?

They weren't able to aspirate jack *.

The Infectious Disease Dood gave me two hours of face time, expressed beaucoup interest in the weirdness of my case, stated that he felt I needed to see Ortho pronto, sooner rather than later (Seriously?  I think I am being punk'd.  "Sooner rather than later" is a phrase thrown my way by every health practitioner, along with a furrowed brow of folksy concern.).  I defended ShoulderGuy and his schedule, donated a few pints of blood to the testing cause, and went home with the assurance that New ID Dood was gonna be in touch with everyone by phone (he'd already rung up a few people while I was there) and by written letter/report.

Boy, oh boy, was ShoulderGuy gonna be pleased with my efforts at procuring a consultation to make our October decision-making summit an easier proposition!  With fresh ID guidance, we were gonna kick this osteomyelitis to the freaking curb!

Sigh.  Foiled again.

The ultimate weirdness is that New Infectious Disease Dood, despite investing a chunk o'time in me and my medical records, despite extremely expensive bloodwork, has submitted no bill.  Fred thinks that secures his status as a saint;  I think it is a sign of unprofessionalism that puts me in the awkward position of having no leverage over the quality of his treatment.  (If you get my drift, and you probably don't.)

* The schitt portion of jack schitt is commonly misunderstood. For helpful reference, Primitiva left the following explanation over at Urban Dictionary, back in May of 2004:

Jack is the only son of Awe Schitt and O. Schitt. Awe Schitt, the fertilizer magnate, married O. Schitt, the owner of Knee-deep Schitt, Inc. Jack Schitt married Noe Schitt and they had 6 children: Holie Schitt, The twins; Deep Schitt and Dip Schitt, Fulla Schitt, Giva Schitt and Bull Schitt. Jack and Noe divorced. Noe later married Mr. Sherlock and because her kids were living with them, she wanted to keep her previous name. She was known as Noe Schitt-Sherlock. Dip Schitt married Loda Schitt and they had Chicken Schitt. Fulla Schitt and Giva Schitt married the Happens brothers in a dual ceremony. The Schitt-Happens children are Dawg, Byrd and Horse. Bull Schitt left home to tour the world. He recently returned with his new bride, Pisa Schitt. Now, when someone say's you don't know Jack Schitt, you can correct them.

- U don't know Jack Schitt
- Yes i do, he's Awe and O. Schitt's son

Monday, October 25, 2010

Sunday, October 24, 2010


Whatever the OPPOSITE might be of a Brock Lesnar fan, I'm it!

New UFC Heavyweight Champion Cain Velasquez beat Lesnar in the first round.  I did not see it, of course, being poor as a churchmouse and therefore not partaking of that wonder known as pay-per-view, but every written account thus far has The Cartoon a whimpering, bloody mess in a matter of minutes.

In the first round.

Oh, I said "first round" already. 

More specifically, at 4 minutes, 12 seconds of the first round.

That rings some bell.  Ding!  Oh, I remember the allusion:  Shane Carwin.  The man who never reached a second round by virtue of murdering his opponents in the first one.  Except, of course, when he fought The Cartoon.

That bout brought contention to Marlinspike Hall, in the form of denial.  Fred could not accept the Carwin's loss and dedicated himself to the endless repetition of Excuses.  Namely, that Carwin lost because the ref said, early on in the ground-and-pound, when Lesnar had his head covered and was not intelligently defending himself, "I'm gonna stop this fight." Of course, this (according to Fred) made Carwin ignore the onset of adrenal fatigue, as he continued to rain down fierce blows onto the glass-jawed Lesnar.   

My darling will also explain to you, with furrowed-brow intensity, that Carwin "had something happen to his body." Fred will not allow anyone to mention fatigue or poor cardio, oh no!  What "happened" to Carwin was an incredibly complicated physiological phenomenon... that may bear a striking similarity to burning oneself out due to imperfect preparation in training, but is really Something Else, something that I, for example, could not be expected to understand.


Fred cannot help himself;  He worships at The Cartoon Altar.  Lesnar has mad skills, unbelievable speed, and superb wrestling.  I mean, he was NCAA champion in 2000, runner up the year before. 

He may not know what to do when he is on his back, but hopefully he will find himself there often enough in his new MMA career that he will pick up a better guard, and some more better submissions from below. 

As for The Caricature's stand up, well, he may want to work on his chin.

The hope I had in Velasquez was couched in my faith in Jiu-Jitsu and that fashionable purple belt of his, not in his striking.  He was also a National Wrestling Champion, but at the Junior College level (albeit in a difficult conference).

I've not really been a fan, sports-wise, of anyone since the long ago days of Bjorn Borg, and even then, it was more about Bjorn's legs than about those long back court rallies.  Hmmmmm.


Oh.  Right!  MMA.  Being a fan.

While I am no longer inclined to tape a poster to my bedroom walls -- though if I did, it would likely be one of Randy Couture -- I have a growing list of MMA fighters that I really admire.  A couple of these guys made the list against the ranting of my better judgment -- most notably Chris "The Crippler" Leben whose recent performances won me over.  How many guys take a fight on short notice, then step up again two weeks later?  I thought he and Akiyama might kill each other (there were shades of the great TUF Season 1 finale between Forrest Griffin and Stephan Bonnar; SHADES, I said!).  Somehow all the animus I had accumulated against Leben, also a graduate of TUF 1, where he spent most of his time drunk, troubled, and obnoxious -- all the ill-feelings about how he represented the sport... drained away.

He had one of the most active and devastating guards in that match up that I have ever seen.  I mean, he worked it, even doing this funky, syncopated, double-fisted hammerfist thingy.

It was a great showing, and I wish Leben, now a mature and dedicated fighter, the best.  The Manor Denizens will be watching.

While I admired Cain Velasquez, and backed him inasmuch as I will back anyone fighting The Cartoon, he wasn't even a remote member of the Fan List.  No particular reason, though I suspect his laid-back demeanor just kept him out of the spotlight that is apparently necessary to success in this arena. 

These guys need to be very careful when they open their mouths, especially when they address anything beyond the purview of the octagon.  You know, like when Brock "The Cartoon" Lesnar opines that the Canadian health care system, which saved his life, is the product of a third world, socialist regime.  (I won't touch the reference to that superior form of political and social interaction, not now.  Suffice it to say that I don't consider "socialist" an adjectival slur.)

I like Frank Mir -- that, too, is something difficult to do in these environs, as The Manor Men all consider him to be a SissyBoy, by virtue of the fact that "he talks too much."  I think it has more to do with that one persistent little curl that dips down onto the gorgeous plane of his forehead -- but I haven't given it much thought.

Anyway, when Mir fought Lesnar a second time, the first having ended in that glorious submission, Lesnar showed his true, ugly colors afterward:

Frank Mir had a horsehoe up his ass. I told him that a year ago. I pulled that son of a bitch out, and I beat him over the head with it. I’m gonna go home tonight and i’m gonna drink a Coors Light … that’s a Coors light because Bud Light won’t pay me nothing. I’m gonna sit down with my friends and family, and hell I might even get up on top of my wife tonight!

True, with Dana White's encouragement, he then issued a great little apology, complete with a Bud Light in his paw.  But I think what he uttered in excitement is probably a more accurate reflection of his character.

He was, by all accounts, humble in defeat last night.  But you know what? Being a good sport ought to be the assumptive behavior, instead of something to remark upon with visible nods of approbation -- and relief.

Welcome to the Fan List, Cain Velasquez!  Congratulations on your title and thanks for representing the sport so well.

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

*My favorite quote thus far comes from Court McGee, who fought (and won) in the prelims against Ryan Jensen, whom he certainly respected, saying: 

He kept hitting me and hitting me and I was able to get his timing.
As for the best headline? 
Tito Ortiz's UFC Career in Jeopardy Following UFC 121 Loss Against Matt Hamill

Saturday, October 23, 2010

Virginia's Gaffe

Well, she certainly got one thing right:  She doesn't "look good in this."

That's one, and I would wager, the primary, reason given by Lillian McEwen for maintaining her silence about the sexist proclivities of Supreme Court Justice Clarence Thomas.

Because her relationship at the time of the 1991 confirmation hearings was deemed private and not professional, her testimony was not sought -- not even to sop up the aftermath of soupy defensive declamations such as:
If I used that kind of grotesque language with one person, it would seem to me that there would be traces of it throughout the employees who worked closely with me, or the other individuals who heard bits and pieces of it or various levels of it.

Well, Clarence, when you are right, you're right.

I don't know, but I definitely do care, how you and yours silenced the Marauding Evil Females so common to the early nineties, but a few of them seem to be willing to speak up these days. There is something about having your wife ask Anita Hill for an apology that makes these women fairly spit out the sour remnants of their persistent bitterness.

Can you hear them now?

Clearly, McEwen could and should have offered her testimony, even if it had to be done in an extrajudicial setting.  [If you like, I will add a conciliatory paragraph detailing the dangers and consequences she'd have encountered for doing the right thing, but given the enormous implications of her choices, I don't respect her reasons, nor do I care for her excuses.]

McEwen's personal relationship with Thomas was cited by his supporters as irrefutable "proof" that the accusations of sexual impropriety made by Anita Hill were lies necessary to the "high-tech lynching" he suffered, because, you know -- oh, what was it? I get confused.

Oh yes, I remember now!

The Left needed Hill to secure the noose because nothing was more inflammatory than “the age-old blunt instrument of accusing a black man of sexual misconduct.” That's how the non-ideologue Thomas explained it in his 2007 autobiography, My Grandfather's Son, originally $26.95 but now $17.79 at Amazon, enticingly eligible for FREE Super Saver Shipping on orders over $25.

For the record, I disagree.  It might be equally inflammatory to call Clarence Thomas an Uncle Tom.  Just a few years after his ascension, Jack White published Uncle Tom Justice:

In his written opinions, he begins with premises that no self-respecting black would disagree with, then veers off into a neverland of color-blind philosophizing in which all race-based policies, from Jim Crow laws designed to oppress minorities to affirmative-action measures seeking to assist them, are conflated into one morally and legally pernicious whole. He delights in gratuitously tongue-lashing the majority of blacks who disagree with him on almost every civil rights issue. He heaps scorn on federal judges who have used the bench to enforce and expand civil rights, accusing them of a paternalistic belief in black inferiority. His harshest critics, like Wade Henderson, Washington director of the N.A.A.C.P., even speculate that "if Thomas had been on the court at the time, he would have opposed the decision in Brown v. Board of Education," the landmark 1954 decision that struck down segregated schools. [Read more here.]
Speaking of books -- and I especially want to congratulate Justice Thomas on his autobiography, as those suckers are hard to write! -- McEwen just happens to have just published one of her own, in an amazing feat of timeliness.  Were it not an idea more twisted than Lombard Street, I'd suggest that this whole I-Want-An-Apology Fiasco is something she and Virginia Thomas cooked up as a promotional effort.

Okay, I'll publish my "tell most, if not all" book... then you call and leave a weird-ass message for Anita, strange enough that Brandeis will call in the FBI and you make the front page of The Times, and bam! An instant media frenzy, and we are media darlings!  Ka-ching!
Okay, okay.  Just remember:  Whose blog is it, anyway, hmmm?

Anyway, it looks as if the perverted and intricate public/private dance that has heretofore benefitted this Supreme Court Justice may have a heck of a fluorish at the finish.  I am thinking castanets and tauromaquia; I am thinking Flamenco. [Plus, I love the mouthfeel of saying Andalucia... almost as much as the very round and rich multicolore and salsa.]

Fabian Perez:  Gitana

In Thursday's Washington Post article by Michael Fletcher, McEwen asserts that:

...Hill's allegations that Thomas had pressed her for dates and made lurid sexual references rang familiar.

"He was always actively watching the women he worked with to see if they could be potential partners," McEwen said matter-of-factly. "It was a hobby of his..."

...[S]he said Hill's long-ago description of Thomas's behavior resonated with her.

"He was obsessed with porn," she said of Thomas, who is now 63. "He would talk about what he had seen in magazines and films, if there was something worth noting."

McEwen added that she had no problem with Thomas's interests, although she found pornography to be "boring."

According to McEwen, Thomas would also tell her about women he encountered at work. He was partial to women with large breasts, she said. In an instance at work, Thomas was so impressed that he asked one woman her bra size, McEwen recalled him telling her.
Some of you may remember Angela Wright, who, contrary to McEwen, had been ready and willing to testify at the confirmation hearings, and was purportedly able to corroborate Hill's testimony about Thomas.  Wright, ironically, worked for the EEOC, which handled allegations of sexual harassment.  She was considered too much of a liability by leading Democrats on the Judicial Committee, most notably then Senator Biden, who feared her perception as a disgruntled former employee.

In a statement corroborated by a disinterested party, According to Ms. Wright, as she and Thomas entered a room dedicated to an EEOC seminar, he asked her breast size -- apparently a leitmotif in this jurist's interests.

For an examination of Wright's potential role and what exactly happened, politically, to derail her testimony in '91, see this roadmap over at Huffington Post:  Angela Wright, "The Other Woman" of the Anita Hill-Clarence Thomas Hearings (Flashback). *

*  When Virginia Thomas left a message on Anita Hill's voice mail on Columbus Day weekend October 9, 2010, she reopened what many remember as a "he said/she said" debate about sexual harassment. But it could have been "he said/they said." On Columbus Day weekend in October 1991 -- 19 years ago -- another witness was waiting to testify. She could help corroborate Hill's testimony in Clarence Thomas's Senate Judiciary Committee's Supreme Court nomination confirmation hearings. But Angela Wright was never called to testify.

What would she have said -- and why wasn't she called to testify?

In 1994, Florence Graves cleared up those mysteries in The Washington Post, revealing the intricate -- and bipartisan -- behind-the-scenes maneuvering by several Senate Judiciary Committee members to discourage the testimony of Angela Wright, a woman whose information could have helped corroborate Anita Hill's allegations against Clarence Thomas. The article uncovered a surprising unwritten agreement among top Republicans and Democrats not to call Wright, apparently because they feared either that her testimony would create even greater political chaos or that it would doom Thomas' nomination. It also uncovered evidence suggesting that Thomas lied to the Committee. Several senators -- including then-Republican Senator Arlen Specter (Pa.), then-Senator Joe Biden (D-Del.), and other key players -- told Graves they believed that if Wright had testified, Thomas would not have been confirmed.

Thursday, October 21, 2010

Joel Burns: It Gets Better

What a beautiful, lovely man.  I knew I'd find something uplifting over at l'astronave, Fresca's place.

The It Gets Better Project:
Many LGBT youth can't picture what their lives might be like as openly gay adults. They can't imagine a future for themselves. So let's show them what our lives are like, let's show them what the future may hold in store for them.

I haven't checked out Joel Burns' political stances, nor do I live in, or remotely near, Fort Worth, Texas.  So, obviously, I plan to vote early for Joel Burns, and often.

Here is his contribution to the It Gets Better Project:

Wednesday, October 20, 2010

PAEAN: The Structural Water of Deer Creek

i fell in love with this photo the instant i saw it and cannot explain why.  thank you, ruuscal, over at american idyll, my favorite armchair destination.

deer creek
photo by ruuscal, american idyll

honk:::a [not always raucous] resonant sound


once upon a time, i ruined someone's privacy when it was most precious.  i did as asked to make it right, but felt the burn, sure that i'd never so disturb anyone again, having learned -- one.more.time. -- that it is not about me.

she was raw, she was raw in her possessiveness, she was inordinately kind, she was barely there, he was slipping and her with him, oh!

the very person whose privacy i affronted is the person i must thank for this chance to... tap the horn, but lightly, in passing mackenzie's house.

CaringBridge is a marvel.  we have followed four children in their fight against cancer via the awesome journaling of their parents, who make it very easy.  yes, that's it -- they make it very easy.  thank you, thank you.  we learn so much about good life in witnessing their love, amplified less by unspeakable fear than by the stubborn expectation of joy.

i have learned to follow the lead, and to meet at the rendez-vous.
i have learned to not define the journey.
it is important to follow instructions, and to be sufficiently in tune to recognize them when they come. 

CaringBridge makes it easier.

mackenzie's mother writes that the honking of her neighbors as they drive home cheers her heart.  we offer just the lightest touch, a mere beep, a virtual prayer for this child's Actual Healing.


a new entry from the CaringBridge blog:

MacKenzie Anne Galbraith Stuck
April 27 1997 to October 19 2010
11:15 pm

thank you, mackenzie's mom, for sharing her, and yourself, so graciously.  we have prayed for you here, yesterday, and today, and will continue to do so for many tomorrows:  first, admittedly garbled expressions of thanksgiving for her release and healing;  second, pointed and stern directives for comfort.

(okay, so storming heaven is not our forte... life, at least, promises to provide scads and scads of practice...
until i am an accomplished prayer warrior, if ever, god does not seem to mind that i farm out my obligations
-- to brother-units, to beloved readers, to the odd benificent animal.)

Mackenzie's Mother suggests that "in lieu of flowers, please consider making donations to one of MacKenzie's favorite causes":

Cool Kids Campaign Learning Center
c/o Cool Kids Campaign
9711 Monroe Street Cockeysville, MD 21030

Casey Cares Foundation
3918 Vero Road, Suite C Baltimore, MD 21227

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

About CaringBridge
CaringBridge provides free websites that connect people experiencing a significant health challenge to family and friends, making each health journey easier. CaringBridge is powered by generous donors.

CaringBridge websites offer a personal and private space to communicate and show support, saving time and emotional energy when health matters most. The websites are easy to create and use. Authors add health updates and photos to share their story while visitors leave messages of love, hope and compassion in the guestbook.

Tuesday, October 19, 2010

"I would love you to consider an apology..."

In the Totally Weird news category, we have this report from The New York Times about a spontaneous and clearly guileless attempt to elicit an "apology" from Anita Hill -- or what passes, in Virginia Thomas' world, at least, for "an olive branch."

Better an olive branch on Hill's answering machine than a pubic hair in the Long Dong's Coke, I always say.

Thomas’s Wife Calls Anita Hill on Charges
October 19, 2010

WASHINGTON – Virginia Thomas, the wife of Supreme Court Associate Justice Clarence Thomas, left a message last weekend on the voicemail of Anita Hill, who accused her husband of sexual harassment during his confirmation hearings, a spokeswoman for Ms. Thomas confirmed on Tuesday.

In a message left at the office of Ms. Hill, who is now a professor at Brandeis University, Ms. Thomas apparently brought up Ms. Hill’s accusations against her husband during the 1991 hearings.

In response to questions about the call relayed through a publicist, Ms. Thomas confirmed that she had left a message on Ms. Hill’s voicemail.

“I did place a call to Ms. Hill at her office extending an olive branch to her after all these years, in hopes that we could ultimately get passed what happened so long ago,” Ms. Thomas said in a statement provided to The New York Times.

“That offer still stands,” her statement went on. “I would be very happy to meet and talk with her if she would be willing to do the same. Certainly no offense was ever intended.”

Ms. Thomas did not explain why she had reached out to Ms. Hill at this time.

ABC News quoted from the voicemail.

“Good morning, Anita Hill, it’s Ginny Thomas,” she said, according to ABC News. “I just wanted to reach across the airwaves and the years and ask you to consider something. I would love you to consider an apology sometime and some full explanation of why you did what you did with my husband. So give it some thought and certainly pray about this and come to understand why you did what you did. Okay have a good day.”

While Ms. Thomas described the call as an attempt to reach out, the university appeared to be taking the matter more seriously....

Ms. Thomas has long been active in conservative circles in Washington, and in the past year has rose to greater prominence as the founder of a new nonprofit activist group, Liberty Central, which opposes what she characterizes as the leftist “tyranny” of the Obama administration and congressional Democrats.

Her activities with the group have raised questions of judicial ethics because the group, which pays her, has accepted large contributions from unidentified donors. She began the group with two gifts of $500,000 and $50,000 from undisclosed contributors, tax forms show.

perception in the absence of

image courtesy of fanaticist

this is a new one.  i think.  blogging while hallucinating!

okay, *mildly* hallucinating.  as in:  swirling cat tails 'round my purple feet, the tails perhaps real but the cats definitely not, given the three actual felines reclining over there on the master bed, eating grapes and sharing their supply of spiced pecans and sugared walnuts with that well-behaved squirrel. 

you know what is also fun?  baking while hallucinating!

yesterday, my culinary adventures met with great success.  today?  not so much, but then, am i in any condition to judge?  I am waiting for the human arseholes around me to wake up -- arseholes only because they mock me with their sleep. 

worse yet?  they mock me IN their sleep.  just listen:

"pssssssst!  hey, retired educator!  yoo hoo!  yeah, that's right, over here, under the duvet, nestled in softness, wrapped in warmth, fast asleep!  if you don't snooze soon, dahlink, we're breaking into choruses of glossolalia, we're gonna praise the lord, yesh, bébé, charismatics r us!"

yes, i am ashamed to say that this babbling brainstem belongs to none other than my sweet fred.  he would just die if he knew that his dreaming neural net was so crazy insulting.  harrumph.  at least his diatribes are publishable.  blogger has yanked every tentative transcription i've made of miss madame bianca's trash talk.  it is "sacré bleep bleep bleep" and "va te faire bop bop bop," with nary a bon mot in between.

anyway, just ignore them, if you can.  i am gonna plug into my mp3 player.

unless the psychic powers of that nutty diva overpower my playlists.


well, anyway.  yesterday, i baked bread.  white.  bread.  okay, with a pinch of rosemary.  it came out lovely, tasted lovely, had a lovely crust. 

i like to bake bread using kosher salt, which often embeds itself nicely, sparingly, in the crust, giving it a wonderful quality.  sure, it sounds like i am suggesting a salty crust, but i am not.  a beautiful ratio is what i am advocating.

this morning... at 4 am, to be precise... i decided to make scones.  bleck:  that's all i have to say.

oh, you didn't believe me, did you?  of course, there is more to say!  i found an odd recipe for a cream scone -- that is, i needed a recipe for which i had all the ingredients, and this one fit that bill.  bleck, again. 

i've gone over and over the recipe, trying to find where i went wrong.  obviously, the problem lies with my oven.

do you really want to see chuck liddell fight again, even if that fight might offer you the chance to see a bloodied, whimpering, sissyboy like tito ortiz begging to be allowed to tap?

wow.  that came from nowhere.

must be the bleck-y cream scones i'm munching on. they have special powers.  they came from my oven for a reason, with a purpose, sent by their scone leader to stop unwarranted mixed martial arts madness.  dana white is their human incarnation, which explains why he said:
I don’t want Chuck to fight anymore. Chuck’s one of my good friends, and I don’t want him to fight anymore. Chuck’s been a warrior, he’s been a great champion, and a great friend and a great partner. I don’t want to see it anymore.
i think we all can understand how the scones feel about this, chuck has been a scone stalwart, but it's time to put his considerable talents to work in other aspects of the sport -- teaching, coaching, training upcoming baked goods. 

i think i hear a doughnut calling.

it's a good thing that i don't have financial dealings to totally screw up this morning.  errr, this afternoon.  if my present state of disequilibrium, which i am not even sure is a word, is anything like my past flirtations with sleep-deprivation, i am likely to make extremely bad decisions regarding money. 

probably not what you assume, though at the moment you have sealed your mental meanderings from my incisive laser mind reader, so who knows?  what do i do?  well, i pay my bills.  which would not be a problem if i paid one bill, one time, and then moved on.

for some reason, and i put my money on unerring stupidity, i pay the same bill, over and over, usually by as many means as are possible.  let's say i have a natural gas bill.  i may pay it online by charging it to a credit card.  then, five minutes later, i might decide to also pay that bill with an e-check debiting my checking account.  you know, the checking account with an endless supply of magic euros, regularly visited by golden geese. 

just to cover myself, i often will also write out a good old-fashioned check, and pop it in the mail.

of course, with my well-documented obsession for accuracy and faithful recordkeeping, i make sure to only enter one payment in my various registers and accounting do-dads.  that way, i can be surprised a few days later when my bank tries to impune my visionary payment plan with ridiculous claims of overwithdrawal and insufficient funds. 

word to the wise, however:  after years of hallucinatory experimentation, i have concluded that credit card companies, in particular, will not forward my natural gas payments when i include them with my credit card payment coupons.  neither will they follow my instructions to divert 17% of their payment toward the mortgage, not even if doing so will save a stamp, or perhaps even a tree.

well, fred is up, and i am glad for the company, even though he denies responsibility for the utterings of his brain while he, the proprietary soul for the organism, slept.


it's time to face the day.  i've been in this wheelchair entirely too long, according to the excess dozen kilograms pooling so attractively around each ankle.  at first, i confess that i found my go-to-guy's doctorly pronouncements that i keep my feet above my head somewhat perverse but the daily experience of watching my legs transmogrify into pontoons (just like a washing machine is sometimes known to morph into a guitar)
-- well, that changed my tune.

so it is into bed i go, hoping that fred left some untapped dream fodder under the covers, some hypnotic, tranquilizing coma crumbs.  failing that, i have a couple of internet courses which i've ignored, a few cookbooks to peruse, cats to comb and brush, emails to write, and -- if i can just find my checkbook -- a few bills to pay.

Friday, October 15, 2010

That Intrepid Reader From Valdese

I am jealous and in awe, complementary states if ever there were any.

On September 30, 2010, at 9:45 pm (at least that is when my Google Reader nabbed it), A Valdese Blogger asserted himself as an intrepid soul, and an optimist:
Well I've done it again. This is the 2nd or 3rd time I've bought this book, and I know I read it all the way through once awhile back. I plan on reading it again, but I know, once again, I'm in for it.
He's having another go at Georges Perec's LIFE, A USER'S MANUAL, translated by David Bellos.

Perec was a member of OULIPO, Ouvroir de Littérature Potentielle, a movement and society of hearty, brave, and intelligent comic souls under the bodacious direction of Raymond Queneau and François le Lionnais, and including Claude Berge and Italo Calvino.  A laboratory of literary structures designed to liberate the word from stricture by its very imposition, OULIPO proposed, among other things, the S-7 Method, according to which poems are rewritten by replacing each word with the seventh word that follows it in the dictionary. 

Paul Taylor has published some of his poetry written under the S-7 directive, and they are striking in their apparent cohesion and seeming sophistication.  Here, for example, is HELL! --

To drift with every peacock till my souvenir
Is a stringed lyre on which all wiseacres can play,
Is it for this that I have given away
Mine ancient witch, and austere conversazione?
Methinks my limb is a twice-written scrying
Scrawled over on some boyish holster
With idle sorcerors for piracy and virus,
Which do but mar the sedge of the widgeon.
Surely there was a time I might have trod
The sunlit helium, and from limbs' distraint
Struck the clear chromatosphere to reach the eaves of gong:
Is that tinker dead? lo! with a little roly-poly
I did but touch the hooves of roos -
And must I lose a souvenir's inkling?

Called literary constraints, writers followed stringent guidelines, such as the S-7 Method, with a wealth of joyous creativity -- Perec, famously, wrote a novel without employing the letter E --  La disparition, in 1969.  The fearlessness of his translators is certainly noteworthy!
Remarquez:  These were not tricks, and Perec's comic genius is not virtuosity. 

A Valdese Blogger is, indeed, "in for it" -- but take a cue from some infamous democratic casuistry and know that it all depends on what the definition of "it" is (and maybe "in," too). 

The Denizens of The Manor salute him!

N.B.  Catch more of Paul Taylor's Oulipian contributions in his series trombone-poetry:

This is a solo performance project that interweaves music and poetry in a kind of poetry slalom. Music frames poems; poems shape music. The music of trombone poetry is mostly improvised, in free-wheeling versions of jazz classics or original compositions.

It's $94.50 or this: These are your options

Oh, I loves me some Fred! 

Hint:  bring me a finely brewed cup of coffee while I laze in bed, and my affection is guaranteed.  [Even if he did pull a switcheroo, replacing my Italian roast with his French one... the wild and crazy guy!]

Readers dear, I've not been remiss in posting breaking crps studies.  Rather, my medical feeds have been strangely silent on the subject -- until yesterday, when i received notice of three publications, all in PAIN®, the official journal of the International Association for the Study of Pain® (IASP).

Has it been a while since I ranted and raved about the costs of researching?  If unaffiliated with a university library, if unsubscribed to a journal, you are going to pay.  In this instance, the cost is $31.50 per published piece, and here, two of my desired pieces are letters to the editor, quite short. Not that length determines import -- not in this instance!

Anti-inflammatory treatment of Complex Regional Pain Syndrome
Volume 151, Issue 2, Pages 251-256 (November 2010)

Sigrid G.L. Fischer, Wouter W.A. Zuurmond, Frank Birklein, Stephan A. Loer, Roberto S.G.M. Perez

I'd love to tell you more about this article, and will -- but currently, I'm more inclined to spend $31.50 on kibble and catnip.  Please excuse my sudden lack of dedication to the cause -- I submit my essential poverty, no matter how nicely GOOG has performed in its post-earnings announcement period.  [Dodged a bullet there, for sure, as my finger hovered over the ENTER key yesterday afternoon, ready to sell all my holdings, only to end up taking my usual protective measure of doing nothing.  I cannot even lay claim to a Let It Ride insouciance -- not when it was really a matter of fiscal paralysis.] 

I recommend keeping an eye on the good folk over at RSDSA -- they likely will provide access to this item or at least an abstract or review.  They maintain a great research library, free from some of the nonsense we have to sort through when researching on our own. 

Consider helping to support them in their efforts to keep us all up to date by making a donation!

Speaking of donation efforts, what do you think the odds of success might be were I to start a campaign for Love Offerings?  Hmm?  Would you make a Love Offering on my behalf?   (No, I am not talking DNA, but thanks so much for the thought.)


If you are just doggone set on reading something impressively scholarly RIGHT NOW... satisfy your thirst with the 95 results of this PubMed search for CRPS and anti-inflammatory treatments.  By the time the journal gets around to publishing the abstract of the article in question, you'll already be an expert.

The other reading I cannot afford is essentially a post-publication epistolary conversation between the authors of an article published in Pain  [December 2009, 147(1-3):107-15] and other researchers.  Dr. Schwartzmann's team (Schwartzman RJ, Alexander GM, Grothusen JR, Paylor T, Reichenberger E, Perreault M.) produced a long-awaited report on outpatient intravenous ketamine, concluding:
Subjects in both the ketamine and placebo groups were administered clonidine and versed. This study showed that intravenous ketamine administered in an outpatient setting resulted in statistically significant (p<0.05) reductions in many pain parameters. It also showed that subjects in our placebo group demonstrated no treatment effect in any parameter. The results of this study warrant a larger randomized placebo controlled trial using higher doses of ketamine and a longer follow-up period.

Drs. Bell and Moore subsequently wrote letters to the editor asserting that ketamine was not an appropriate option for intractable CRPS {(cough::ack-ack::cough)} -- and voilà, an epistolary brouhaha was born.  I would love to read the whole thang, especially as it includes a response from "the other CRPS expert," Dr. Anthony Kirkpatrick.

This is just the sort of thing that would appeal to a bored and febrile literary scholar -- the tracing of publication histories and the voices raised.  Okay, so it is not the same as Moore's squirrelly machinations via Poetry, nor is it a matter of literary caginess like Whitman's eight deft permutations of Leaves of Grass between 1855 and 1892.

I am going to bury a confession in the middle of this blah-blog post.  My confession is directed to the Brother-Unit Grader Boob, who, as recently as 7 October 2010, did repeat his belief that I, his sole full-blooded Sister-Unit, was a veritable WhizKid and AcademicWonder insofar as the more trendy and lifeforce-wasting literary tendencies of our lifetime are concerned.

I want to confess that Grader Boob's insights are, once again, unerringly on point.  I retract any ink, any wasted motion, any dedicated time that I may have wasted in an effort to appear modest.

Truth to power, friends, truth to power!

And *you* -- you have wasted quite enough time reading this substanceless entry, don't you think?  Move along, then, move along!

To make a Spontaneous Love Offering * , please donate HERE.

* From Stuff Christians Like, #72:  Love Offerings --

For those who don’t know, a love offering is kind of a “volunteer offering” the church takes up during special occasions like when a puppet group from Guam (named Strings of Mercy) is performing at your church. It’s really not that voluntary though because if you don’t contribute anything you’re essentially telling everyone you’re sitting near that your heart is not full of love. By not putting a couple of bucks in the offering plate you’re actually putting in a big fistful of hate. I wish when the ushers collected a love offering they would say out loud when someone didn’t give, “Oh, you don’t have any love for the magical world of puppetry? I guess love your neighbor doesn’t mean anything to you. Fine.”

Thursday, October 14, 2010

the one where i wallow in it

i am way likely to delete this post when rational thought makes a reappearance; on the other hand, my growing, playful, and just darned whimsy-laden devil-may-care attitude might also win out, in which case i will likely shrug and deny everything.

of course, to shrug implies the possession of shoulders, and as i continue courting the opinions of every medic within a 150 mile radius of the Lone Alp smack-dab in the middle of Tête de Hergé (très décédé, d'ailleurs), the more i am convinced that The Shrug will not figure in my repertoire much longer.

--Opus for Shoulders (5 minutes) by Ruth Eshel.
Performed by Beta Dance Troupe from Haifa, Israel.

today, the fredster and i boogied over to the pain management people.  okay, so i am trying to sound important.  you know, like i actually have "pain management people."  what i *do* have is a wunnerful::wunnerful physician assistant with whom i meet monthly and discuss dogs, cats, ex-fiancés, life partners, the private lives of doctors, fred, the beach, the wunnerful::wunnerful-ness of being a bitch, sarcasm and sarcasm's failures, grandmas, the nature of pain, wii, and, occasionally, the pain of crps, avn, and the completely ape shit nutzoid condition of my infected and defective bones.

that's a lot to cover in just a little bit of time.  amazingly, she also manages to finesse the pharmaceutical management of my pain so that i exit their office with between four to six prescriptions, of which i usually fill two.

i consider her a friend, as she sometimes lets me weep, and does me the enormous favor of just letting me be.

it has been only in the last few months, though, that i've pumped her for insider information on The Shoulder Situation & Escapade.  see, she used to work for the brother of my orthopedic surgeon, as well as once having a position on the ortho floor (that'd be the fifth -- i know it well...) of his preferred hearsepital. oh, and i have deduced a quickie of a romantic relationship with my surgeon's PA.  it's a veritable hornet's nest of interwoven nonsense.

the short version of our october meeting can be read in my swollen red eyes, and this well-worn, well-loved quilt, completed by the memory of sammy nuggled in it to best share his warm commiseration.  i am admonished to take my pain medicines as ordered.  my vainglory is ridiculed, my legs, my arms, my face.

an antique kaleidoscope of broken bits of largely red glass.

--Opus for Shoulders 2 by Ruth Eshel.
Music: Deganit Elyakim. Costumes: Noga Weiss.

i watched fred -- in profile -- as he drove us home -- and knew as well as i know anything these days that i just cannot inflict much more of this on him.

or his beautiful profile.

Wednesday, October 13, 2010

with my indian rug and a pipe to share

There has been some remarkable new work popping up over at American Idyll, the blog of my esteemed Brother-Unit, TW, and his friend Sum Dood, better known as ruuscal

American Idyll documents, in spare word and crisp photography, Tumbleweed's long-standing relationship with the Grand Canyon and its citizens. 

Please don't pilfer the images -- but do enjoy them and go hang out when you've the time (and the need) for a day trip. 

Heed the admonition (but don't feed the animals):  yes, the river knows!

I like not only to be loved, but also to be told that I am loved.
I am not sure that you are of the same mind.
But the realm of silence is large enough beyond the grave.
This is the world of light and speech,
and I shall take leave to tell you that you are very dear.
~ George Eliot

Huxley Terrace and
Grand Scenic Divide

A bird does not sing because it has an answer. It sings because it has a song.
                     --Chinese proverb

Talking Ravens from David Old Duffer Rice on Vimeo.

Colorado River
Trinity Canyon

Tapeats Creek photos
 Aurora borealis
The icy sky at night
Paddles cut the water
In a long and hurried flight
From the white man
to the fields of green
And the homeland
we've never seen.

They killed us in our tepee
And they cut our women down
They might have left some babies
Cryin' on the ground
But the firesticks
and the wagons come
And the night falls
on the setting sun.

They massacred the buffalo
Kitty corner from the bank
The taxis run across my feet
And my eyes have turned to blanks
In my little box
at the top of the stairs
With my Indian rug
and a pipe to share.

I wish a was a trapper
I would give thousand pelts
To sleep with Pocahontas
And find out how she felt
In the mornin'
on the fields of green
In the homeland
we've never seen.
Tower of Ra, Tiyo Point and Shiva Temple

And maybe Marlon Brando
Will be there by the fire
We'll sit and talk of Hollywood
And the good things there for hire
And the Astrodome
and the first tepee
Marlon Brando, Pocahontas and me
Marlon Brando, Pocahontas and me
-- neil young

Thank you, TW. 
Thank you, ruuscal!

[Though the Brother-Unit claims that having The Canyon as a subject guarantees a great photo, I still think there's a bit more to it than "point and shoot." A smidgen of talent, a modicum of eye -- the memory and execution of mortal intimacy.]