“[C]ompassion fatigue”: Staff ‘too stretched’ to help veterans

From THE AUSTRALIAN -- APRIL 23, 2015 12:00AM

Andrew Burrell

WA Chief Reporter

Perth

Former Afghanistan Digger Sean Milne says he has been let down
 by the Department of Veteran Affairs.
Picture: Colin Murty
Source: News Corp Australia

As Australians gather in Gallipoli to celebrate the centenary of the, a veterans’ support group says thousands of the nation’s recently returned ­soldiers are increasingly desperate and suicidal because the Dep­artment of Veterans’ Affairs is ­severely understaffed.

Arthur Ventham, who runs a support service in Perth’s northern suburbs, said whenever he called the DVA on behalf of an injured veteran he was told that each dele­gate had at least 150-200 case files on their desks.

“They just don’t have the staff to cope with the influx of (compensation) claims,” he said. “As of today, there are thousands of Iraq and Afghanistan veterans who are living in their cars, under bridges and in the bush because they cannot get the help that they need to turn their lives around.”

One badly injured Afghanistan veteran, Sean Milne, told The Australian the DVA had treated him “like dirt” since he returned to Perth two years ago.

“They don’t care — they would prefer I commit suicide,” he said. “That would be easier for them.”

Mr Milne’s psychologist, Josh Hawes, who was deployed to Afghan­istan with the SAS, said his client’s mental health had been ­exacerbated by his poor treatment by DVA officers, who were swamped with claims and had “compassion fatigue”.

Mr Milne, who trained Afghan soldiers, broke his neck and injured his shoulder in an accident near Kandahar in February 2013.

He now suffers from complex regional pain syndrome, which his occupational therapist has diagnosed as a level of pain worse than amputation or childbirth.

Mr Milne can never work again and is restricted in all basic activities of daily life. He has severe muscular spasms that result in regular falls. “It’s like getting tasered,” he said of the spasms.

Mr Milne, who was discharged from the army last year, said he was still waiting for a full-body assess­ment of his injuries that he claims should have been done a year ago. Until then, he cannot ­access a Gold Card, which would cover his mounting medical and dental bills.

Mr Milne said the DVA had not yet accepted that his injuries were permanent and it had an attitude of not believing what veterans say. “They want to disprove you,” he said.

Mr Ventham, who runs the Northern Suburbs Veterans Support Centre, said Mr Milne’s case was the one of the worst he had seen.

“He is a military hero who has suffered unspeakable injustices in trying to gain recognition for his injuries,” he said.

A DVA spokesman said he could not comment on Mr Milne’s case.

[Please read the rest of Mr. Burrell's article's HERE.]

For more information: Anzac Australians on trip of a lifetime

A Year Ago Today

We lost García Márquez a year ago. This photo, still causing me to grin back, commemorates the famous result of his run-in with that thug Vargas Llosa. But yes, among the other things Gabo taught the non-illustrious readers in my family:

"Cease, cows, life is short."

“Cease, cows, life is short.”
― One Hundred Years of Solitude

© 2015 L. Ryan

I Disappoint the Maine Coon, Keeper of The Manor

Would that we were laughing.

The home health aide who has been with me for about a week has fallen in love with Buddy the Outrageously Large Maine Coon (Forever Kittenette) -- click on the link and you'll see the fun of those days not so long ago,  before hospital beds 'n such, when filling the pill container for the week meant watching Buddy get distracted by Little Dobby and... crinkly paper.  Anyway, she calls him her "dog," and he actually sits and makes obscene google eyes at her, even pulling off these quasi-sexual winks and head dips.

It feels an outrageous interruption to request a bedpan in the middle of their trysts.

In the rest of the feline world, Dobby continues to run for his life, with panache -- tail up, ears back, eyes aglow.

Buddy and Dobby, both, as well as Marmy Fluffy Butt, have avoided being drugged, and all three report happy lives, though feel underfed.

Buddy and his Loving Home Health Aide missed each other today, however, part of why our laughter was hypothetical, part of why he was on High Alert until just moments ago.  He may be part dog, this wonderful Maine Coon, just as we have genetically determined that Little Dobster is approximately 90% angel and 10% House Elf.  (Marmy Fluffy Butt defies scientific quantification.)

No one notified us that Loving Home Health Aide was going to be out, and so the key tucked under the drawbridge secret hiding spot nearest Marlinspike Hall's Bronze Entrance Doors went unused as Scary Home Aide banged her way in, waking the dead and those of us toying with that estate.

Fred had been up Doing Duty until dawn.  Loving Home Health Aide had the habit of letting herself in, having a few moments of private google eyes with "the dog," checking on me, then  making the most delicious rye toast and coffee you've ever enjoyed.  Fred could sleep in peace. Even I could drift off, if that odd occurrence came about.

This morning?  Fred slipped; Fred slid. Fred let in Scary Home Aide, asked me if I was "okay with everything," then fell back into what evolved into snoozy restlessness.

And Buddy, who would, even being a fearless pooch, normally hide in the presence of strangers, took up a big-eyed, large-chested stance on... my chest, peering into my eyes with huge question marks. "Defendor of The Manor, really?"

Scary Home Aide did nothing overtly Scary. She simply did what she wanted.  Heading into the closest medieval kitchen to "wash up" the the coffee cup and the plate I had dirtied, I heard no running water, no squishing feet (hard to do in a medieval kitchen!) and I measured the passing of over 20 minutes.

The bed bath was as if a novelty, and not to me, for whom it still is, but for her, for whom it is supposed to be a regular task.

But the things that led to the later need to call my go-to-guy good doctor due to ethereal blood pressure? A knife that would chill your blood. The cooptation of a big old box of my medications -- another unearthly amount of time spent alone with a box that needed only to be set down in my former office, left there, left ALONE there, deposited there in drug solitude -- oh, you get it?!  Weirdly, the thing the flattened my neurons was the repeated retiring to the Sitting Room, out of sight, "to read my book."

Loving Home Health Aide took time off, too.  There is not endless activity, fun, toe-twirling to be had in caring for a gimp in pain with the basic of human needs. She also has a slight affinity for cooking shows -- the spicier sort of profiles -- and, sigh, mistaking me for one of those educators who mistook her students for her own children.  I can talk that talk, and have my parenting opinions, but tend to respect parents over educators in that regard. So she mistakes Buddy for a dog, me for a parent, and I make the perennial mistake of hoping a hiree is a friend.  We may all be in the right, though there is some certainty in the Maine Coon remaining a cat and me resting childless.

However, Loving Home Health Aide sits by the hospital bed, comfortable in a rocking chair, and making use of an ottoman if she (or Buddy) chooses.  Respectful of Fred and how much of this whole endeavor aims to reduce noise and increase his potential for rest, she stays nearby, you know, where she is needed?

So what is wrong with me that I could not just say any of the dozens of assertive things to Scary Home Aide that would have rectified the maladaptive situation?  One was that she made it known pretty quickly how close by she resided. Two is that I am something of a wimp around certain sorts, even when I am paying their meager salary.  I also kept thinking dumb stuff like, "You're a dumb gimp and this just exemplifies that."

Buddy kept singing into my ears that Loving Home Health Aide would have called Fred first thing and kicked her to the curb... and we all could have used our litter boxes and bedpans, had kibble and practiced winking and giggling.

I love the way Dobby keeps hanging in there. "Here I am, back here!
The older one, wiser! Halloooo!"

© 2015 L. Ryan

The Wide Skirt

Some deaths, passings, going "bye-bye" -- the bigger saying "helloooo!" -- I sometimes imagine the first truly cleansing rush of Universal Wind (imagine an Infomercial Exfoliator's Honest Finest: not to take off your fine skin, but to smooth it, finally, as one fine sand paper, no edges, woo hoo!

Sometimes I think of the sweetest, kindest waters to the face's corners as they meet, say, ancient, worked, twirled, and twisted, twined -- for God, karma, and ant forefoot's sake, all -- to become in one non-magical wash, The Shade.

If I take a few days, it's nice not to have to explain all that.

When Joe Cocker died, I'm sure you barely recall my visceral cry, meaning: "Damn it, I never got to writhe with him and do the inexplicable struggle to turn out the light and impart only his meaning to the rocking mic, his roll to the music," and so it was this, from the gut, lazy,
no. no. no!

that really crept out and was over.



I sat and stared at the NYTimes Breaking News Alert about the death of Günter Grass, possibly thinking from, of, and in my favorite depth: nothing.

|BREAKING NEWS ALERT

BREAKING NEWS Monday, April 13, 2015 6:57 AM EDT

Günter Grass, German Novelist and Social Critic, Dies at 87

No, I'm thinking of us, huddled in a field.

Me, on an L-shaped, huge porch in the Philippines, needing a place in all that hugeness -- rice paddies, stepped-mountains, purple skies, incoming afternoon rains, my house -- to disappear.

[Oh, I violate all sorts of things by offering you a tripartite .pdf access... but HERE ]

Because all that mattered were the stories of progeniture, passed through asylums 

and carnies, 

hot potatoes and grandmothers. 

All that mattered was:

The Wide Skirt

uploaded to YouTube by KineticProse

Less of a creep-out-and-gone than not boogying down-and-out with Joe Cocker?  

That Rothko may have painted for Grass.  

As divulged by Bunny about a yellow-block piece adroitly tied to the ripping open of Germany's past... 

I had my moments, my many moments, of weakness, these past few days, none of which can I slough upon Günter Grass, but it did bring half a grin and enough of something to the other side of my rough and discolored face, longing for wind and water to remember what most of us do. 

And it is not this weaker of the color-blocks, no matter how much more Bunny might have reprieved a nation by penning a title to the back, bringing the faraway cost to a less chilly 41 million, and a more imaginable, alterable brilliance to their own rooms.

"Sotheby’s Offering a Rothko Once Owned by Bunny Mellon"

By JOSHUA BARONE  APRIL 12, 2015 4:14 PM

© 2015 L. Ryan

Pray for Jessie Claire! Do What You Do So Well For Jessie Claire!

Oh, Dear Ones, I've been raising Cain.. cane...?  I've been making noise over the Duke Blue Devils, over my inability to stand up from this wicked hospital bed, to get to the persnickety bathroom, over our failure to make it on time to the doctors' blessed appointments, over our equal failures to get the felines to obey the feline rules of the feline household! Did I hear that they're pulling Blue Blue Bell Ice Cream?

Well, forget all our usual silly stuff.  This one night, let's even lay gently aside Grader Boob the Lumpy One, though we'll take turns, okay?  Code words: "Beloved Grump." Night?  Oh, however long,  All right, I CAN do that pray unceasingly thang, and cover Beloved Grump, always.  Just gimme a doggone minute.

There is a young girl who needs our prayers, our good thoughts, our best intentions, our most wonderful of wonderfuls, and if you carry such things with you as a matter of course, then give her your matter of course.If you know karma is what is, if you have been so blessed as to know what is, then go to it, my peaceful friend!

You're familiar, if you're familiar with this blog, with parental blogs guesting here who detail the serious health problems of their children in that marvelous format created for them, mostly to share news with family and friends, CaringBridge, you know it has spread as an interwebs' phenomenon, not always, in my opinion, in a healthy way, but mostly, for sure!  And behind the scenes, no doubt, CaringBridge is on the the ball.

Allow me to introduce Jessie Claire's mom's Robin. First a bee-yoo-tee-fuu-ool picture of Miss Jessie Claire, from the outside, showing an attitude that beats all: the love of another creature, freely given, gently offered.

And timely, too! Happy Easter (a little late)!

And here are some excerpts from Jessie's mom Robin who keeps an honest but upbeat, faithful to God, faithful to herself, faithful to her daughter -- faithful to so much I am often in awe.  If you take the time to read her journaling, through the years, you don't see much change in the faithfulness -- hence, the awe. But if you know the bravery in her honesty, in her writing the doctors' opinions, the many tests results.  I applaud her juxtapositions, done, I'm sure, with the help of many prayers, foot stomps -- whatever goes for a good Bianca Castafiore's aria in her home!*  (please see below, the very below)

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

From CaringBridge's journal for Jessie Claire

MRA
By Robin Henson Jul 2, 2014 11:02am

MRA of Jessie Claire's brain showing Moyamoya Disease impacting  middle cerebral arteries. [Lisa's Edit: The x-ray is unedited, unchanged, as is it's interpretation. There is no way.]  Blood flow is white from contrast.  From the center and "branching" right is healthy blood flow.   From the center and "branching" left there is no blood flow. The cerebral artery is closed.

MRA of Jessie Claire's brain showing Moyamoya Disease impacting middle cerebral arteries. Blood flow is white from contrast. From the center and "branching" right is healthy blood flow. From the center and "branching" left there is no blood flow. The cerebral artery is closed.

Prayers Please
By Robin Henson — 23 hours ago

Before providing Jessie Claire's medical update, Jessie Claire wanted me to share this:    Last week Jessie Claire went to visit her Daddy at work.  She put on his "Deputy Director" badge and went into Senate Chambers at the State Capitol. Seeing the Senators vote on bills was educational, but that wasn't what made the day so special for her.  Jessie Claire was treated like a princess.  The Lt. Governor and several Senator's asked Jessie Claire if they could have their picture made with her, gave her gifts, and a quick tour of the chamber.  I was touched by all the people who said they have been praying for her.  Jessie Claire was quick to thank a few of these gentlemen for supporting childhood cancer and she bragged that she is a Rally Kid (Rally for Childhood Cancer).  

Recently, Jessie Claire has had lots of Easter fun starting with a Spring Fling at her old school, Brighton.  However, she has not felt great in days.  Every time we have been out of the house for 2 two 3 hours, Jessie Claire gets in the car, tells me to get her home because she is tired and does not feel good.  Friday morning, Jessie Claire's left leg was numb (classic TIA (mini stroke) symptom).  Something I forgot to mention last week is that I recently learned that Jessie Claire has been having TIA's (mini strokes) for quite some time.

Tomorrow morning, Jessie Claire is having an MRI for Brain Tumors.  The Boston doctor has added additional testing to check blood flow.  This test will help determine how quickly she needs the next brain surgery which will be done at Boston Children's Hospital.

Some people told me that thought the second surgery I mentioned last week was on the left side of the brain.  Although the left side has arteries narrowing, the urgency is with the right side of the brain.  For those who are new, Jessie Claire's right middle cerebral artery is completely closed.  In March of last year, Jessie Claire had brain surgery to try and create a new source of blood flow to the right side of the brain.  We were told the surgery was needed or she would have a stroke.  Now, a year later, we just learned that the surgery did not work.

So, please continue to pray that God continues to protect Jessie Claire and she does not have a stroke. Please pray for wisdom with the doctors.  Please pray that the the brain tumors are stable.  And please pray that next steps are determined and administered quickly.

Thanks for all of your prayers.  Please share Caringbridge with anyone you know who prays. (Confession from Editor Lisa: This was when I felt compelled to write this funky post.)

[Me again, moi, who swore to minimal interruptions to Robin's perfected texts. Here is a journal entry I missed in what seems between day before yesterday and today, and as Southerners tend to, well, shout out: "Well, butter my buns and call me a biscuit!"]

Preliminary Glance
By Robin Henson — Mar 20, 2015 6:15pm

First, Jessie Claire wants to say "I have a soar-soar throat (from breathing tube) but I'm feeling better and spending the afternoon with my Nana".  I am going to take a minute to brag.  Yesterday was a very long day with some delays, but as always, Jessie Claire handled it beautifully with lots of praises from the nurses.

Yesterday we were told something that we are still trying to process...   but first we are praising God that the "preliminary glance looks good" and there is more blood flow than last year.  I asked lots of questions including "Is there enough blood flow to prevent a stroke? Any additional narrowing of arteries?  Are there any signs that Jessie Claire has had TIA's (mini-strokes)?"  Understandably, he has to "comb through the pictures" before he can answer these questions.  This is all we know for now.

Yesterday one of the doctors told me that he does not think Jessie Claire has Moyamoya.  He gave a good argument on how he came to this conclusion.  He believes Jessie Claire has neuro vasculopothy.  I read a couple of abstracts from medical journals to try and learn what this even means but decided that was a bad idea.

Yesterday was the first time I have ever heard the term "neuro vasculopathy".  However, less than 24 hours earlier, I made arrangements for a pediatric neuro-vascular surgeon and two other doctor's on his team, to review all of Jessie Claire's scans.  This doctor is the Director of the world largest and best Pediatric Neurovascular and Moyamoya Clininc.  They are located at Boston's Children's Hospital.    
 
This has been a year full of fear, devestation, prayer, praises, miracles, and JOY!  As always when we are confused,scared and nothing makes sense, God has gone before us to direct the path best needed for Jessie Claire-- His Path!














*"Ah! Je ris de me voir si belle en ce miroir!" -- Gounod, Faust


© 2015 L. Ryan

to Jessie Claire... to Robin

Young ladies, I apologize!  Your blog post is coming. It was promised on April 9, and I ache to break my promises.

"Stuff" has intervened, but "stuff" cannot win out every day.

I have a wonderful aide who is going to ease much of my frazzle tomorrow.  It is clearly a requirement that one write of Miss Jessie Claire using the wise guidance of her mom Robin's high standards.

And, well, coughcough, there's my own undeniable provenance that has to be a tad toned down but still discernible.

So let this serve as a placecard for the promised celebratory post of the beautiful girl, protected, explained, and our prayers guided by her faith-driven mom.

I'm gonna say: TOMORROW!

And in the meantime, dear family, the good readers here, even if not yet knowing exactly why, know that they are with you, sensing the need, waiting for the details but trusting in the interim.

Tomorrow.

Love.
The "elle est belle la seine la seine elle est belle" magic show




© 2015 L. Ryan

a repost for myself, alone: "your kin have bought the rest by their suffering the loss forever"

a repost for myself, as i keep forgetting who i am, and 
my strengths and purposes. 




From -- Pour un tombeau d'Anatole by Stéphane Mallarmé

RÉSUMÉ :

Le 6 octobre 1879 mourait de maladie, à l'âge de huit ans, le petit Anatole,fils tendrement aimé de Stéphane Mallarmé. Les deux cents feuillets présentés ici par Jean-Pierre Richard furent rédigés par le poète à la suite de cet événement, et pour tenter d'en amortir en lui le choc. Ceci déjà annonce leur valeur : elle tient à leur extraordinaire poids humain ; aucun écrit de Mallarmé ne possède cette qualité brûlante, immédiate, cette puissance crue d'émotion. Mais le pathétique s'en trouve aussi médité et dominé, repris par un esprit souverain, l'esprit d'un grand poète qui met en oeuvre toutes ses ressources créatrices afin de dépasser ce fait indépassable et insupportable : la mort d'un être cher. Comme tant de grands poèmes mallarméens, ces notes décrivent un combat, la "lutte d'un génie et de la mort", lutte à l'issue de laquelle la mort eût été vaincue par le génie. Anatole eût finalement été sauvé par un poème dont ces pages tracent le plan et constituent l'ébauche. Si Mallarmé n'a pu finalement écrire ce poème, il est déjà très important pour nous qu'il ait pu le rêver : car l'on voit ici s'annoncer, ou se prolonger, maint thème développé dans l'oeuvre publiée. Une longue introduction redonne à cette méditation funèbre toute sa cohérence ; elle montre la profondeur, la rigueur, le caractère très purement mallarméens.

Retired Educator here. This is the esquisse, the design, the carefully laid out spaces of an architecture in decline that never knew the light of day and whose replication is full of violence and 'translationary' rape. I love the Paul Auster translation but haven't the inclination to type out his doings of the first ten poem-fragments. Here, however, is his translation of the first section:

child sprung from
the two of us -- showing
us our ideal, the way
-- ours! father
and mother who
sadly existing
survive him as
the two extremes --
badly coupled in him
and sundered
-- from whence his death -- o -
bliterating this little child "self"

There is an inside joke among language teachers and that is to say, liltingly, "Native speakers disagree..." But I hold translations and translators to a higher standard than one of simply being able to correctly channel word and sentiment. "Translators disagree..." is not a problem to be left alone -- rather it is like solving a crime: The problem must be worked.

Or maybe it is more the artifice in play, like that of building replicas of gothic ruins. There is, you know, a robust aesthetic of ersatz ruins, despite the sniff:sniff of those who claim it all romantic kitsch. For the literal minded, it is more a question of restoration.

We work it, we work it, we end up, still, with over 200 ruinous fragments -- la genèse d'un poème -- about the death of his son. Never does the original take completed form; Never could the translation be more than ego-driven lattice work that might bolster the crumbling brick and stone of the original.

Remember always -- and this is, I think, specific to all of Mallarmé -- that in his originality, even his [soi-disant] completed works, there is a high concentration of negative space: the "irrecoverable state of devastation and destruction" that defines a ruin, n.

Were I to work it instead of admiring the sweat of someone else's brow, I would not be snobbish envers literary history -- This work, in particular, demands it. But how do you work and knead anything beyond "[l]e 6 octobre 1879 mourait de maladie, à l'âge de huit ans, le petit Anatole, fils tendrement aimé de Stéphane Mallarmé"? Where is the literary history in that, beyond the date, beyond the age, beyong the provenance?

This is what William Marsh wants us to know -- that Walter Benjamin informs his translation and that he has been respectful of spatial and architectural elements in Mallarmé through some very successful homophonic and anagrammic schemes. There are dangers in citing the authority of Benjamin here, as I don't see the role of the translator of Pour un tombeau d'Anatole as primary authorship, no matter how solemn the task. At the same time, there is no room for error. On this one, native speakers in no way disagree. The less we can posit through the work of literary history and analysis of style, the more dangerous and fictitious our bold restatements become.

Denials of death and negations of history, the fake piles and slivers of disrepair of plaster and paint, trompe-l'oeil trumped, while what is real and undone, or real and never finished, stands as a testament to death, and a validation of certain history: ruins of roman kitchens, the arches and apses of abbeys and cloisters, the armaments of towers, turrets and battlements ("oh, my!")

The ruin can be exploited as a point of meditation -- and as a place of mediation between those things we all are caught in -- life after the other's death, the unimaginable death of a child. Mallarmé is cobbling together all that he can of the experience, saving in his way his son's life, literally making, and carefully crafting, the artifice that is the tomb for Anatole. This ruin of a tomb wants to make the reader squirm, makes the reader question what is inside verus outside, what is private, what is public, what is visible, what is hidden, and what may well be absent, gone forever.

So, yeah, fearless translator, set yourself up as intrepid author! Just kidding.
It's late and we're all tired.

William Marsh explicates his process:

Drawing impetus from Walter Benjamin's claim in "The Task of the Translator" that "a translation issues from the original--not so much from its life as from its afterlife," the following poems attempt to define the "afterlife" of Mallarmé's Anatole while carefully acknowledging both Auster's work and the notion (again Benjamin) that "a translation, instead of resembling the meaning of the original, must lovingly and in detail incorporate the original's mode of signification, thus making both the original and the translation recognizable as fragments of a greater language." With the intention of honoring both the sense and form of Mallarmé's poem (its mode of signification), these new renderings make use of both homophonic and anagrammic translation tools in constructing the English versions (or harmonies) of the original fragments. Employing a set of devices including anagram, same-sound correlations, exact or near-exact cognates, as well as common etymologies (near-matches of meaning), the poems excerpted here try to rebuild the Mallarmé texts in such a way that both the syntactical variety and the physical shape (letters, words, lines) of the originals are reflected as well in the English.



[sections 1-10] [fragments]




1

enfant sorti de
nous deux--nous
montrant notre
idéal, le chemin
--à nous! père
et mère qui lui
en triste existence
survivons comme
les deux extrêmes--
mal associés en lui
et qui se sont séparés
--d'ou sa mort--annu-
lant ce petit <> d'enfant




an infant dies to
us both--de
monstrates our
ideal, child-man
--anew! father
& mother quietly
entrust existence
survive a son in
the two extremes--
malassociating him
acquiescing separate
--death is more--nul
ling this tiny "self" denied



2

(3
meilleures
comme s'il
était encore--
quelqu'ils fussent,
des qualificatifs
digne--etc.
les heures où
vous fûtes et ne
fûtes pas



(3
better is
he becomes --
that which was,
engraved qualities
dignity--etc.
the hours you
fought but never
fought past



3

malade au
printemps
mort en automne
--c'est le soleil
-----
la vague
idée la toux
2



ailing in
springtime
mourned in autumn
--celestial soul
----
the wave -
idea attacks
2


4

fils
résorbé
pas parti
c'est lui
--ou son frère
moi
je le lui
ai dit
deux frères
---



if he's
reabsorbed
is a-part
it's he
--or his brother
me
shall i
say it
two brothers
---


5

refoulée restée
en flanc--
sur de moi
siècle
ne s'écoulera pas
juste pour
m'instruire




repelled - - resting
in womb--
over me
century
won't roll past
just for
my instruction



6

pas connu
mère, et fils ne
m'a pas connu! --
--image de moi
autre que moi
emporté en
mort!




unknown
mother, a face un
recognized! --
--image of me
other than me
transported in
death!



7

qui s'est réfugié
ton futur en moi
devient ma
pureté a travers vie,
à laquelle je ne
toucherai pas --




what's in refuge
your future in me
become my
purity through life,
which i shall not
touch upon --



8

il est époque de
une
l'Existence où nous
nous retrouverons,
sinon un lieu--
--et si vous
en doutez
le monde en
sera témoin,
en supposant que
je vive assez vieux
_______




it's the epoch of
one
Existence in us
in us retrieved,
is not in lieu--
--& if you
doubt these
mundane
testimonies -
let's suppose that
i live long enough
_______



9

préf.

père qui
né en temps
mauvais avait
préparé à fils--
une tâche sublime

--
< remplir--d'enfant
la sienne--la douleur le désire
de se sacrifier à qui n'est
plus l'emporteront-ils sur
vigueur (homme qui'il n'a pas été)
et fera-t-il la tâche de l'enfant



pref.

father who
eve'n in times
gone bad had
prepared a son--
a touch sublime

--
"the double re
plenished--the child's
his own--the dull hour the desir
ed sacrifice to one who's no
more will triumph over
vigor (man he wasn't to be)
& through it all the task of infancy



10

le but suprême
n'eût été
que partir pur
de la vie
tu l'as accompli
d'avance
en souffrant
assez--doux
enfant pour que
Cela te soit compté
pour ta vie perdue--les tiens
ont acheté le reste par leur
souffrance de ne plus t'avoir




the highest aim
nothing but
to part pure
from life
you accomplish it
in advance
in suffering
all this--gentle
infant so that
This will be counted
part of your due--your kin
have bought the rest by their
suffering the loss forever

Bard College's literary journal Conjunctions publishes innovative fiction, poetry, criticism, drama, art and interviews by both emerging and established writers.

The starting point for the [preceding] poems lies in Paul Auster's excellent 1983 translation of
Mallarmé's long poem, Pour un tombeau d'Anatole, released by North Point Press under the title A Tomb for Anatole.

Crazees

© 2015 L. Ryan

outta date ONE

If these are potential stunning new topics astew, in the stir, a-ruminatin', bubblin' in majestic marinations, enter your guesses as to where we've been hanging out these past three weeks, roughly.  Make your entries in the comment section, being as specific as possible, Dear and Belovèd, Chronically Afflicted Readers!

1.  The top three most complete songs-with-lyrics, unavailable in listenable form, that accompanied our time away, had no discernible relationship to our "vacation spot," a term used entre guillemets because of the highest irony and because you cannot -- glad am i -- get a visual of my tired pseudo-academic visual of the hand meme.  No discernible relationship to my mind, but perhaps to yours, more keen with insight?

Acadian Driftwood -- The Band* ^$
Angel From Montgomery -- John Prine* (w/Bonnie Raitt)
Delta -- CSN*
Lookin' Out My Back Door -- CCR*
I'll Rise  --  Ben Harper*
Mr. Tambourine Man  --  Bob Dylan*
Pancho and Lefty  --  Townes Van Zandt*
I Am Not Waiting Anymore -- The Blind Boys of Alabama*

*With weird abruptions, eruptions, abortions, elisions, allusions, transliterations, and inexplicable circumlocutions; without the intended intrumentation, although we thought to achieve the playing of the fairly simple few in "I Am Not Waiting Anymore";  We also confused a cardiac alarm with a car alarm -- on an armored vehicle equipped with automatic weaponry.

^$In a febrile reworking of two lyrics --

Fifteen under zero when the day became a threat

My clothes were wet and I was drenched to the bone

Been out ice fishing, too much repetition

Make a man wanna leave the only home he's known

Sailed out of the gulf headin' for Saint Pierre

Nothin' to declare

All we had was gone

Broke down along the coast

But what hurt the most

When the people there said

"You better keep movin' on"

Everlasting summer filled with ill-content

This government had us walkin' in chains

This isn't my turf

This ain't my season

Can't think of one good reason to remain

We worked in the sugar fields up from New Orleans

It was ever green up until the floods

You could call it an omen

Points ya where you're goin'

Set my compass north

I got winter in my blood

-- of which aberrant specifics I gladly no longer have recollection, the gulf's mild break to the coast, and the sugared fields breaking bad pointing the sweet way, in urinals and bedpans, our bedclothes wet and foul, I seemed always wet and drenched to the bone, at night taking up "Delta," but in waking fits of warmth, water running, smoothing our roughened legs, electrocution always a threat, monstrous white treaty-breakers (reflections of the high command of the motherland in long white billowing attending coats) directing, driving, monitoring, channeling, channel-blocking, calcium-channel-blocking the pressures of our waters, our various surges of wetnesses, of corporate bodies, of cerebration, of Baudelaire's Spleen, of kidneys and salty urines, of frothy spit, of one sticky, rivulet of blood....

oh, i quit.

© 2015 L. Ryan

OUTTA DATE 2

In Emory Hospital, more specifically the CCU spooky unit, the spooks had the Psych Unit Group A, consisting of a large African-American man, leader of the group, in, oh, so many ways, and three Oriental young women, one interesting, in terms of her dress, possibly in other terms, but I, obnoxious, never gave her a God-lovin' chance... oh, and the other two... well, they did not deserve a God-lovin' chance.  Nor a Lisa-lovin' chance, neither!  Cruel AND racist. Actually, I've no idea, no notion whatsoever where the other two originated from, but my linguistic skills can assure you that their primary languages were in the Pacific Island Rim...somewhere. One ceaselessly applied Cover Girl darkER girl skin make up at roughly 5-minute intervals.  Distracting, to say the least.

I find saying the least impossible.

They found saying the least depressing impossible... until Leader Man took over, with the clear intent of wiping the look of horror off my face, and regaling me of stories of UC-B. He gave me memory tests and told me "I am in charge," and they all clumped out.

Was it an experiment. Was it? WAS IT?



© 2015 L. Ryan

Mitch Ryder and the Detroit Wheels-Devil in a Blue Dress

© 2013 L. Ryan

Two Emails: Mostly to the Beloved TW [*Already* Revised!]

Sorry for messing up the time, older sibling.  It seemed necessary. What's terribly luddite o'moi, though? I have four Playlists that go with it, all the same, meant to differ, meant  to include some of yours, some of Kathryn's, Hank's, an amazingly creative musician friend of his Aviva (and the Flying Penguins ) -- but really all I desire is to figure if, when, and, approximately, where, you'll ever stop trying to figure out which number of personality disorders to limit me to. I'm thinking an ODD number (ar ar!) -- knowing the six most close, both genetically and environmentally, to my family:

Antisocial personality disorder 

Avoidant personality disorder

Borderline personality disorder 

Dependent personality disorder 

Histrionic personality disorder 

Narcissistic personality disorder

          Obsessive-compulsive personality disorder

Paranoid personality disorder

          Personality disorders

Schizoid personality disorder 

Schizotypal personality disorder

So close your eyes, cross five out.  Not fair! They've one labeled "Personality Disorders," as if the APA could BE so powerful.  Harrumph.

I figure that's gotta be -- forever, wherever, however -- after the quiet and the music -- to send Robert one a'them greetings from Tête-de-Hergé home-drivin' Lisa-Irene-Bianca-Fred-Aunt Louisa-Uncle Haddock-my real ass' kickin' friends Alicia Harden, a cowgirl, and another real one who sends those tart lemon cookies from Cape Cod, as real a cow girl as I am, Eljay Nayr ---- WAY!  Then, if it is not taken, by too many crowds of floating, wifting, laughing folk, could I have dibs on a colorized Elvis? One of yours maybe?

Bob's attempt, and the fact that he never deigns to read this blog ["Too many words, kid."] is appreciated by his other siblings, mostly, [probably only] TW, maybe Kathryn and her attached, very "sweet" Joe X; $ those rude genetically sub-related siblings, who read without any talent for irony when needed, and with an excess of it, when a dearth would barely do$.

TW an I unnerstanz, az well az miz kathryn an mister Joe X, with more 'n more clarté 'n clarté, 'n laffter 'n laffter, those whose Appalachian ways wez thanks 'n wez refletz 'n giggelz..

By the way, we can call "Joe X" sweet because it's a direct quote from Sweetie/Grader Boob/Lumpy. Then I had my one-and-only conversation with Joe, and Lo! He is hysterical, and sweet.  He is wise, and sweet. He is understated, and therefore beats my funny to death, and I so enjoy the change. He and Kathryn are like -- I've got nothing -- not oil and water, not peaches and water -- just Joe and Kathryn, and they like to keep it that way.

And the Birth Mother, Jeanette, You Young SRA Readers, is NOT included in any of this, by ANY of you, got it?  For:  There does come a time...  She's earned it, raised her due, now has complete dementia, essential emotional and financial embezzlement, and all the nursing care that I do... and so I know how it sucks and is coopted (except in our house!)  

I look under my TV and I see happy gifts from both my brothers -- the complete Marx Brothers, Deadwood, all the Harry Potters (HANK!), all the LOTR (Bob, one twice!), The Wire, and many other things I watch over and over without admitting. To Anyone. One of the greatest plays we've ever seen (Hank loves plays, whistlingwhistling): The Persecution and Assassination of Jean-Paul Marat As Performed by the Inmates of the Asylum of Charenton Under the Direction of The Marquis de Sade (or Marat Sade)* Don't compromise and get Marat / Sade first.

Separate from the boxes of books, tapes, pictures, patches, wonders I wonders at, and prisms -- I receive TW's tomatoes, peppers (several sorts, textures, heats, respectful seeds, a new way this coming year), but there's nothing like those tomatoes, organic, sun-dried; one comes to know them, as one can, by their tint and translucency.  One is sometimes wrong. Chewiness. Suckiness (What's the positive gardening word?) I'm only in my third year. I soak and pick. It's been great fun, and delicious, so slow we've eaten slow, in complement, compliment.  Then I discovered banana beans. And heavy, and light liquors.Vinegars.Ghee. Polentas. A krap load of sauces, with garlics, and mixed tomatoes, and nuts, cilantro, basils, cumin seed, cumin leaves, oh, and lettuces, lettuce leaves. Oh, we had fun. Not always together. A silly idea doesn't seem so dumb at 3am when there is no one to mock you at the cuisinart, art, art, heh, heh, heh. And a little pesto on the toast ain't so funny after all, eh?  For his part, Fred has become a cauliflower disguiser or presenter, at will, given an in-law-of-sorts' provisions. We keep ém, for safe keeping, in their original boxes.

Back to Brother Bob's email of last week:

Those of of us who recommended the suit remember the face, the voice sincerely asking mostly, okay, only, the Mom, who gave good, not out-of-date advice. It was short, sweet, followed by a "Good luck, Sweetie, we love you. Let us know how it goes."

Clink.
Two icy cold Diet Cokes.
A Christian Brothers Chablis.-- quite possibly the last put to barrel, then bottle.

It's of the mid-70's, I think of, also, even earlier, back in Miami, swimming, water polo, Bob breaking away, me the only one I knew was cycling, playing tennis, softball, loving language, maths.  It was Phillipines-N.C.-Miami-N.C.... then a fairly happy split up. Bob to USF. Kathryn to Peace College. Me stuck in G'boro alone with Mom; Dad in Vietnam.  It was, I've said, without shame, the happiest year of my life. The end of the decade was not so happy. I shipped off to an insane little private college where everyone had too many words, and, that year, great basketball!  Then I decided to live in the mountains with true loonies, addicts, alcoholics, people on parole who drove stick-shifts up mountains, and weirdos. Carrot juices, and steam baths. Other amenities! Then I went back to school(s). Eight, to be exact. One, to be exactly worth it.

In case you were wondering, yes, we knew how not to accumulate, how to pack, quick and well, and how to stay out of each others' way.  Except me. And my "[t]oo many words, kid."

Later separations proved, proofed, punched back down, rose again, a little less, a little more, depending. Lacking stinky mother proofs, that bell jar, some jar stinky talent! (A reference to sourdough proof, don't freak out.)

Bob, before he gave up the moniker "Grader Boob" for "Lumpy," currently a contest too heavy for moi to elaborate, between Lumpy One and Lumpy Two--well, I'll present the little that I know, soon. Not my kind of contest.

I would imagine it was about the time one of Bob's students left this fetching review.  There are  worse. We've ALL received worse!  What "tickles"me, in the Southern sense, is this student's goldarn consistency.

Ryan is a bit harsh on grading and he can be a bit moody sometimes. He will help in anyway he can though with your essays. He does explain everything clearly though. He also expects you to do all the readings he gives. He will get very mad if you don't do that readings.

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

From:  Robert Ryan

Mar 2X, 2015 (X days ago)

Howdy--

Ric just sent some pictures from way back, mid 70s.

One, with me and Steve in front of our vending step van, shows the shift changeover from one driver to the next. He did coffee machines; I did coffee, candy, sodas, and so on.

The other, with the vest and tie, has me in part of the suit I wore on a date with Teri to Bern's Steak House, a well-known eatery. And it was on that date, in that suit, that I horrified a waiter by asking for a well-done steak.

Visibly flustered, he stammered at me, "Sir, I'm not even sure that our chef will cook it that way. May I recommend at most, at most, medium or perhaps medium well."

The horror... the horror.

Who knew that the hair would go and...

Well, no more anecdotes today!

Love,

Bob

[Lisa, here: I believe this is "the suit," bought to take one Teri to dinner to ask her hand in marriage.
Teri declined. Her reason? He lacked sufficient ambition. Repeat after me: the phrase of your choice,
because this is a family blog. I know that, well, Jesus wept, but hardly least of all, for Kathryn, Mom,
and Moi, as well, huddled around the phone, weeping and cursing.The photo, so free of well-done steak
 juice (prob'ly the young Ryan's plan, the man lookin' so unfed, and ain't he got the hood up?)
Lisa, years gone now.]

We'll go with Bob's explanation!  He and Steve were vending machine hippy-dippy
machine refillers, which is where I guess that $+%;;@!) Teri got her ideas about
Ambition.She never followed him as he followed him into his classrooms in 
2015, I guess, the !@)(;;^$.
oops.

*by Adrian Mitchell (Adapter), Peter Weiss (Author), Geoffrey Skelton (Translator)


© 2015 L. Ryan

Chag Sameach

The Feast
By Tuvia Bolton

Editor's note: This is an old Jewish story/joke/metaphor. Versions abound. My favorite is Tuvia Bolton's rendition:

There were once two beggars who used to go around begging together. One was Jewish and the other a gentile. As the night of Passover approached, the Jewish beggar offered to help his non-Jewish friend get invited to a seder (the festive Passover meal accompanied by many commandments and rituals) and get a good meal. "Just put on some Jewish clothes and come with me to the synagogue. Everyone brings home poor guests for the seder. It's easy, you'll see."

The non-Jewish beggar happily agreed. On the first night of Passover they went to the synagogue, and sure enough, both got invited to different homes for the festive ceremony.

Hours later they met in a predetermined place in the local park. But to the amazement of the Jewish beggar, his friend was blazing mad.

"What did you do to me?" He shouted. "You call that a meal? It was torture!! It was hell! I'll pay you back for this--you'll see..."

"What do you mean? What happened?" the Jew asked.

"What happened? As if you didn't know! You Jews are crazy--that's what happened! First we drank a glass of wine. I like wine, but on an empty stomach... My head started spinning a bit but I figured that any second we would begin the meal. The smell of the food from the kitchen was great. Then we ate a bit of parsley. Then they started talking, and talking, and talking. In Hebrew. All the time I'm smiling and nodding my head as if I understand what they're saying--like you told me to--but my head is really swimming and hurting from the wine and I'm dying of hunger.

"The smell of the food from the kitchen is making me insane, but they don't bring it out. For two hours they don't bring anything out! Just talking, and more talking. Then, just what I needed.... another cup of wine! Then we get up, wash hands, sit back down and eat this big wafer called matzah that tastes like newspaper, leaning to the left (don't ask me why...). I started choking, almost threw up. And then finally they give me this lettuce, I took a big bite and wham! My mouth was on fire. My throat! There was horseradish inside! Nothing to eat but horseradish! You guys are crazy....

"Well, I just got up and left. Enough is enough!"

"Ah, I should have told you." replied the Jew. "What a shame! After the bitter herbs is a glorious meal. You suffered so long; you should have just held out for a few more minutes...!"


--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The editor again: Jewish history is a seder. We've had our appetite teased with small moments of triumph. But mostly we've had "bread of faith" that our palates can't really appreciate. And generous helpings of bitter herbs.

The lesson? Two thoughts come to mind. You need patience to be a Jew. And since we've swallowed the maror already, we might as well hold out one minute longer and get the feast...

Horseradishes

Herbs for Coughs and Colds, Maror

Maror symbolizes the bitterness of slavery, usually in the form of horseradish mixed
with beets. Having never been a slave, it's hard to be definitive, but it seems unlikely that
 its bitterness is comparable to horseradish. Probably closer to diet Mountain Dew.
This year I mixed the horseradish with a ceviche marinade for tuna and set the fish
over roasted beets.  -- Corey Mintz

Beet Maror Gluten Free

To those who think I dabble in nothing but trivia: Dear Lisa I wanted to pass on an email I received yesterday from Berkeleyan Richard Nagler, who weathered the serial theft of his Wall Street Journal for years with such fortitude. He asked me to share it with you.  Tracey

To the Berkeleyans who have stood by me in this dark and difficult time in my life:   As many of you know, the story of the continual and criminal disappearance of my Wall Street Journal, and my solution to the problem, has been broadcast around the world after Berkeleyside ran with the story. Here’s the outcome: With your prayers and some intense Primal Scream therapy, I am now working hard to put myself back together. The inability to read Karl Rove columns so many times over so many years has left me bereft. Also, just between us, my wife regrets to report that going viral makes one less virile. The fact that the Wall Street Journal editor-in-chief has sent me an iPad with the WSJ App is little consolation for my grievous loss. Rest assured, I do have some Berkeley integrity left. I will be turning over the iPad to left-wing guerillas in an as yet unnamed third-world country, as soon as I have had a chance to test the iPad over the next two to three years. But through this dark episode I have also learned of another theft that threatens the very essence of our Berkeley community. Apparently, there are a few Berkeleyans who read Berkeleyside regularly without paying the minimum suggested $5 monthly subscription fee (I know it's not required, but c'mon). Please God, dear reader, that you may not find yourself amongst this despicable few. For those Berkeley cynics out there who are about to “Comment” on Berkeleyside that this has all been a publicity stunt with nefarious intent, let it suffice to say I have no desire to use my new-found celebrity to profit on or to promote any product or service. What say, Berkeley? Let’s just all “Kick back with a can of COKE®” ©™ and relax. Om sweet Om Richard Nagler

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© 2015 L. Ryan
Whose copyright bears more weight?