Heaven

As a young child, I imagined that heaven was a library.  I envisioned a great room redolent with the beautiful, musty smell of pages from ages past, holding every book imaginable, all while retaining the cozy atmosphere of a private library.  My heaven was full of big, squashy, chartreuse-colored armchairs, the kind a small child like myself could just sink into, each with its own little table next to it, and a lamp that provided enough light to read by and painted everything around its dim pool goldenrod.  Also scattered about the room, reaching from old book-ladder to book-ladder were hammocks hung expressly for my reading pleasure.  Ah, to find yourself in a place where, after having lived your own life thoroughly on Earth, you could bury yourself in the worlds of others, take part in every adventure embarked upon this little planet teeming with life in the midst of a nebulous universe.

If you'd asked me what I wanted to be when I grw up at that age, you most likely would have been presented with a list of every possible occupation--"doctor, teacher, waitress, soccer coach, soccer mom (I thought this was a job.  I also thought minivans were cool.), lifeguard, scientist (I imagined myself looking through a telescope at the stars and sighing), writer, racecar driver, restaurant critic, actress, book-editor, hobo...".  As I grew older, the jobs became more specific, but just as varied.  In fourth grade, I planned to be a marine biologist, a botanist scouring the world for natural cures to a botanist scouring the world for natural cures to diseases like cancer, and a discoverer of rare mushrooms.  And then my ambitions became just plain precocious, "I want to be a social anthropologist!  I'll be an adventurer!" I cried at age 12.  "I'm planning to become a public intellectual," I told people at 16.  I wanted to do it all.    A heaven full of books would be the perfect place for me. 

And really, I don't think my idea of heaven was too far off.  because that's what dying means, really--once you die, you know everything.  Whether you believe in Heaven or Nirvana or Shangri-La or not when you're living, you finally find out if you were right.  And if heaven doesn't exist, and you decompose, the particles of You become a new part of the ever-changing universe, just another component in the Law of Conservation.  So if you find that heaven does exist, and if yours is like mine, you join every living thing...with the added bonus of a squashy chair, a hot hearth to warm your feet on, a dim lamp, and a hot cup of tea.  Oh yeah, and a good book.  Lots of them.

The Laundromat

Mannequins

So, on Saturday I walked home 4 miles from the library and took about 200 photos along the way.  Not as many as I'd like to have taken, and not as many good ones as I'd like, but it was the first time I'd really taken my camera out for a ... jaunt, and these photos of wig-wearing mannequins were some of the better ones I took.  I won't be including all of these either, because photos take forever to upload, so consider this set "Part One" of a series.  Hopefully I'll display progress as I take more and more photos.  Oh, and I love (and appreciate) constructive criticism (and compliments if they're warranted!), so please leave some!  (Photos are copyrighted, as is the writing on this site etc. etc.)                                          

       

 

 

   

 

 

                                                   

Oh Buddy

Oh man. Buddy Wakefield AND Anis Mojgani AND Mindy Nettifee in the same show? This is so amazing. I first heard Buddy Wakefield almost two years ago at a local reading and he blew my mind. He's a funny-looking white, bald man who's got something of the boy about him, but oh man oh my his voice stole away my blinks and my breath for about 45 minutes, and took hold of my mind for about six weeks, during which I wrote him a long, long poem, and he's lodged himself singing somewhere in my frontal cortex ever since. He's an international slam poetry winner, and if you get the chance to see him live, then do. Because you won't be disappointed. He will compose syllabic sonatas in your brain. But don't watch his youtube videos. Because even the well-shot ones can't capture the wonder you sense when you see his finicky jittery person performing, when you shake his hand.

Death Is a Funny Thing

My next door neighbor died.  

So it goes.  

I knew that was what happened even before my dad told me.  It was strange to know like that, especially because we weren't close.  She was nice enough.  Up until I was about 10 years old, she would bake us pumpkin bread every year around Thanksgiving time.    Her death didn't really surprise me I think because she was older (in her 70s) and she'd defeated cancer.  I remember seeing her after she'd gone through surgery to remove the tumor that had grown inside her, and undergone chemotherapy, when her hair was growing back.  There were just little tufts of fluff by that point, and what with her nearly-bald head covered with feathery hair and her beak-like nose, she looked like a bird.  She looked vulnerable.  But she survived, and her cancer didn't come back for almost ten years.  She died because of a foot infection.  A foot infection.  

When I was 11 years old, my piano teacher's husband, in his nineties, died of a foot infection as well.  But she wasn't the sort of person who would die of a foot infection.  This is what bothers me.  She'd conquered cancer.  When she fell and broke her hip a couple years ago, she got through that, too, an injury which kills many people who are younger than her.  She was a survivor.  And she died of a foot infection.  

She'd ignored it for a couple weeks, and when her husband convinced her to go to the doctor, he said it should clear up soon.  

"Just put some heat on it.  That should make it more bearable in the meantime."  

She died a few days later.  Of a foot infection.

My neighbor was the Rachel Lynde of our neighborhood.  She was not the kind of person who had such a death, an ordinary death, a trivial one.  She deserved a death that was more...romantic.  Even old age would have been better.  At least that means she died in a kind of peace.  But a foot infection.  Festering bacteria. ... that just isn't right.

My mom was crying.  She had called our neighbor the night before to see if she knew anything about a strange car parked in front of our house.  There was a man inside eating a sandwich who stayed put for a couple hours.  Our neighbor said she wasn't feeling too well.  "I should have known," my mother said.  "I should have gone over and done something for them."  I put my hand on my mother's shoulder.  I wanted to say that there was nothing she could have done, but I wouldn't want to believe that.  I don't want to say it was just because of old age; that'll mean my own parents will be "old" in 20 years.  

I wonder how her husband's feeling.  We never talked much, but he always goes for long walks around our neighborhood.  I see him sometimes.

JRR Tolkien Trained as British Spy (london telegraph)

If Tolkein had chosen to become a spy, would that have affected the way that The Lord of the Rings unfolded? He always asserted that his epic tale of good versus evil was not inspired by World War Two, but it is clear from this article that, even six months before war broke out, the war was on his mind. Maybe it had a greater influence on his tales than even he realized.

Tolkien: Intelligence chiefs singled him and a 'cadre' of other intellectuals to work at Bletchley Park, the codebreaking centre in Buckinghamshire.Photo: AP

Tolkien, one of his generation's most respected linguists, was ''earmarked'' to crack Nazi codes in the event that Germany declared war.

Intelligence chiefs singled him and a 'cadre' of other intellectuals to work at Bletchley Park, the codebreaking centre in Buckinghamshire.

Its staff - which included Alan Turing, the gay codebreaker - would later decipher the 'impenetrable' Enigma machines.

This saved Britain from German conquest by allowing the Navy to intercept and destroy Hitler's U-Boats.

According to previously unseen records, Tolkien trained with the top-secret Government Code and Cypher School (GCCS).

He spent three days at their London HQ in March 1939 - six months before the outbreak of the Second World War and just 18 months after the publication of his first book, The Hobbit.

... The GCCS began preparing for a second World War in the late 1930s, and knew the importance of establishing a codebreaking centre to defeat the German forces.

...Tolkien and 12 others agreed to a ''tester'' day at GCCS HQ in London, where he was given training in Scandinavian languages and Spanish.

...A record of his training carries the word ''keen'' beside his name.

The GCHQ historian said: ''War was coming and the Government could see the complexity of the electronic encryption that would be used.

...Those who passed the course, and agreed to sign-up, were offered an annual wage of £500 - the equivalent of around £50,000 today.

But Tolkien - who is assumed to have passed the course with flying colours - rejected the offer.

The historian joked: ''We simply don't know why he didn't join. Perhaps it was because we declared war on Germany and not Mordor.''

More (Belated) Remarks on Healthcare Reform

So, before I begin again, I feel I should mention that healthcare reform has been on my mind ever since I got on the road this summer. It was so much on my mind, that I decided to survey peoples' opinions at rest stops. One thing that surprised me was the great extent to which people were simply uninformed about healthcare. While I knew that right-wing politicians and political pundits had been spreading false information about Obama's healthcare proposal, I had not conceived just how deeply these rumors (and their nefarious intent) run, even among older supposedly "better informed" citizens.

A 66 year old woman from Oklahoma is worried about the quality of her healthcare; she believes that she will not be able to choose her own doctor under the new healthcare plan. When we spoke, she was also under the impression that the bill would be disastrous for small business as it requires them to provide healthcare to their employees, while the exact opposite is true. The bill is slated to support small businesses by removing the expenses they incur by providing healthcare to their employees, while ensuring that they have healthcare benefits for their employees. A 60 year old couple from Alabama with Medicare does not support the bill. A 42 year old woman from California said no to nationalized healthcare; it doesn't work in Canada or Europe, she said, so why would it work here? Besides, she went on, those uninsured who need healthcare coverage can get it through medicare and medicaid; we don't need any more governmental assistance in this area aside from the programs that currently exist. She believes that there is no choice as to whether or not you wish to have government-provided healthcare under the proposed bill. When asked where she received her news from, she quickly replied that she kept informed by listening to Sean Hannity, watching Fox News, and Right America. A 62 year old Texan who described herself as "antique" noted that the Democrats in the Senate and Congress "have messed everything up." She chooses to pick her bone with the "fact" that illegal aliens are included in the healthcare plans, pointing out that "California has gone down the toilet because of illegal aliens" (of course, California could not possibly be messed up because of the Republican "Govenator," now could it?). And don't even let her get started on the fact that the healthcare undertaking would put our country trillions of dollars into debt. Of course, for news, she mainly watches Rush Limbaugh "because he speaks the truth." A 39 man informed me that, "with nationalized medicine, there would be no medicine" and that there are "a bunch o' dummies in there [the White House]." However, he did support the bill in the case that a public option, rather than universal healthcare, was on the menu as it would help the uninsured. A 25 year old woman from Arizona supported the health care bill under no circumstances, because, pointing to a case in Canada in which someone had to wait for six months in order for a broken arm to be set, she contended that "socialized medicine" would lead to no relief for the American people.

Perhaps my most compelling interviewee was 67 year old Joan Leblanc of Arkansas. I met Leblanc (a talkative woman with an opinion about anything and everything) in Oklahoma, and she is the sort of old woman I wouldn't mind sitting down for tea with. She chatted with me about her children and grandchildren (she was in Oklahoma to meet her newly-arrived grandson), as well as her concerns about Obama's decisions. Openly conservative, she supports "small government" and staunchly disapproves of the healthcare plan because, according to her, it covers contraceptives and abortions, both of which are quite distasteful to her Southern sensibilities. Perhaps what struck me the most was her observation that Obama possesses "a pragmatic disrespect for the human person." A pragmatic disrespect. For the human person. A pragmatic disrespect. I always thought that pragmatic had a positive connotation when it came to politics. According to Webster's Dictionary, to be pragmatic is to be "practical as opposed to idealistic."

Joyce, an older woman I'd spoken to around election time had been proud of Obama's pragmatism. In explaining to me why she was volunteering for a presidential candidate for the first time in exactly 40 years, she cited the fact that Obama is "pragmatic, a negotiator who draws from everyone's ideas to pick what works, to formulate the best policies." Isn't this what we look for in our leaders? Someone who isn't overly partisan and single minded? Critic after critic of his policies told me that they received their news exclusively from Sean Hannity, or Rush Limbaugh, or Fox News. One woman who doesn't like slanted stations told me that CNN did not meet her standards, and that Fox is a much more dependable, factual station. In a time when we can get our news from wherever we want, when we can choose to listen to "facts" and opinions that echo our own, which reflect our own, we do not often get to reflect on the veracity of what we hear. You may now be noting that when I listened to the dissidents of my opinions with an open ear, their talk only reinforced my own opinions. But I can honestly say that when I first heard some of their testimonies, I was shocked. Illegal immigrants! Trillions of dollars of debts! Abortions and contraceptives (this didn't really bother me, but it surprised me that it would be an issue, especially when organizations like Planned Parenthood take care of a lot of this)! Was this true? I wondered.

What set me apart from these people was the fact that I didn't just take them at their word. I didn't simply accept that non-citizens and non-residents would have their health taken care of by tax payers. I didn't believe that our President, who had promised Change, would sink us into debt like the one before us. So I did research. I read through a lot of the proposed healthcare bill (there's only so much I could take--it's 1018 pages long), called "America's Affordable Health Choices Act of 2009" (I know that names can be deceiving so I read more), a bill created in order "to provide affordable, quality healthcare for all Americans and reduce the growth in healthcare spending." The Bill does not propose that we provide healthcare for those who are in the United States illegally. It allows people to keep their own doctors. It does not cover abortions. And the authors of the Bill made it clear that they don't want this country to go into debt, and indeed, are aiming to reduce government spending on healthcare (no surprise, as Medicare and Medicaid are using up such a high percentage of our nation's resources). By the way, you can find the link to the bill here: http://docs.house.gov/edlabor/AAHCA-BillText-071409.pdf

Beyond the Bill, beyond Democratic supporters in Congress and the Senate, beyond President Obama, there are some surprising advocates for healthcare reform. One of these is Wendell Potter, former head of communications for CIGNA, a health insurance company. He recounted the seminal moment during which he realized just what his corporation was doing:

If you're interested, I'd suggest watching the entire interview (which is about an hour long) on Democracy Now! It's truly eye-opening, and you won't be disappointed; it's something anyone with doubts about what is at stake in this bill should see, and what everyone should view in order to be better-informed about this issue. There is a reason why insurance companies do not want this bill to pass; they profit from the lax regulations that are currently imposed on healthcare. Threats of regulation have not worked in the past. Regulations that have been passed have not been able to curtail the gross practices of these corporations; they are strong, and have great lobbying power. Money is a valuable ally. And they've got plenty of it.

http://www.democracynow.org/2009/7/16/former_insurance_exec_wendell_porter

Work In Progress

I must post a warning before this poem--

DISCLAIMER: My windows didn't burst into a million silver spears from Zeus when I put the pen down on this poem; it has a decidedly unfinished feel to me. I may even take both of the poems I posted today down at some point, when the embarrassment kicks in. But for now you can enjoy my shamelessness.

We are written in the wee hours

when the world is too loopy on blood

flow to think straight (or to

care for neatly-stacked thoughts) and

has time to breathe

deeply

and feel

heavy

and examine the freckles on our

fingertips.

and to decide to play connect

the

dots for

one

last

time.

Who said the oysters have grown up?

Who said the sycamore that's

spreading its arms

apart in our very lungs,

in our ticking tissue-paper pocket protectors,

isn't still learning how to push

pestiferous people out

of its path so it can

breathe some? Who

wrote these so-called histories

of the heart anyway?

This Will Be Another Sleepless Night Spent

I've screwed up again.

Somehow, I've managed to

bring out the self-righteous,

infantile rapscallion in

me, to float myself, flaming

and wingless, suspended over

a sea of piddling babbles

battling for attention in

a bowl of boiling pigs' blood,

sans galoshes. Apparently I

missed the memo. Somehow,

this will be another sleepless night

spent wandering through damn

doggerel, a labyrinth of il-

logic,

wondering how I ever got

in, knowing the only way out is in

sunlight, where I can finally follow

the billowing scent

of birch bark that leads

me to the heat if your crackling

quagmire of a heart

again.

Obama's Address to Congress

One of Barack Obama's Republic opponents on healthcare reform--Representative Joe Wilson (R) of South Carolina--heckled the president last night during his Address to Congress, shouting "You lie!" in response to Obama's statement that healthcare coverage for illegal immigrants were not included in his proposed healthcare reform bill.  Obama turned to the heckler, firmly said, "That's not true," and returned to his remarks.

A couple hours ago, prompted by his fellow Republican John McCain (who was probably still in good spirits for being mentioned and having his suggestion adopted/acknowledged by Obama in his address), Wilson issued a statement apologizing for this infantile behavior.  He acknowledged that he "let [his] emotions get the best of [him] while listening to the president's remarks regarding the coverage of illegal immigrants in the health care bill" and that because his "comments were inappropriate and regrettable ... [he] extend[s] sincere apologies to the president for this lack of civility."  South Carolina Democratic Party Chair Carol Fowler pointed out that no Congress member has ever shown such disrespect for the President before.

While I denounce Wilson's actions, and applaud his apology (he hardly had a choice--if he didn't apologize he'd

become a political pariah, not taken seriously regardless of partisanship), we cannot single him out among many Congressional representatives who were less than respectful of the President yesterday evening.  House Minority Leader John Boehner himself sported quite a distasteful expression throughout the speech, and many GOP House members squirmed like school children in the principal's office at the mention of their misdeeds.  

In other news... 

Speaker of the House Nancy Pelosi and Secretary of State Hillary Rhodam Clinton appeared to be wearing matching bright-red suits at the Address. Coincidence?  I think not!

more thoughts to come about the speech later today--3am is a bad time for thinking, as evidenced by the above

Rep John Boehner, R-OH    

Who Needs Sleep?

I need to start sleeping when I'm actually exhausted, before the night kicks its crazy way into my breath and keeps me sighing.  Who needs caffeine when they've got idiocy, and dreams that must be planted in the light-time anyway?  I'm thinking about Gwendolyn Brooks.  That woman could spin sin into something sippable for sure.  Thanks J. Kroncke.

still on the road

It's 3.15 pm, and we just passed over the Potomac River and entered West Virginia.  The only things I got in West Viriginia, a really lovely state, were a badly skinned knee and an important lesson: don't hurdle fences when you're wearing a long dress and flip flops--it will not work out for your knees.  Or in my case, my right knee.  The woman at the visitor's center there was very nice and cleaned it up for me and gave me plenty of antiseptic cream, gauze, and band aids to take along with me.  My mom was horrified by the bloody mess.  My dad was ... my dad. That is to say, not peeved, just glad I was ok.  It was  good thing that my parents only say the effect of the failed hurdling stunt, and not the stunt itself.  Although I must say, I normally do have very good form as a hurdler.  

I talked to a really nice old man there who told me all about the Blue Ridge Mountains, and I fell even more head-over-heels in love with them.  To be honest, my love for the Blue Ridge Mountains originally stemmed from the fact that I fell in love with Fleet Foxes.  They are unlike any recent group I've heard, utilizing spare vocal harmony and everything from pianos and guitars to dulcimers, kotos, tom drums and organs in order to create their unique sound that's a mix of rock, choral music, hymns, and '60s folk AND baroque psychedelic pop music (hey, they played at the 50th Anniversary Newport Folk Festival this year alongside such greats as Pete Seeger and Joan Baez).   Their songs are, like nature, a delicately balanced melange of beauty and violence.  But mostly beauty.

Anyway, the song is (surprise, surprise) called Blue Ridge Mountains, and it's amazing.  As you'll see for yourself.   

Oh, and did I mention that I'm completely enraptured by Robin Pecknold's voice (and face)?

In addition to this, there's the fact that the mountains themselves are gorgeous.  I don't normally describe anything as gorgeous aside from my mom (or Liv Tyler), but these heavenly peaks are about as gorgeous as anything in the natural world can get. These mountains seem to be made of condensed midnight and every breath-borrowing distance you'd ever want to traverse.  They're just stunning.

see?

I'll post some pictures of my own soon.

July 21, 2009: Gettysburg, Pennsylvania

The Gettysburg Museum was somewhat of a disappointment.  It was situated on the land where the Battle of Gettysburg actually occurred, acres and acres of ebullient wildflowers crowding around the place belying the bloody tale told there.  Unfortunately, I didn't get to look too closely at the gory story.  The tickets were way overpriced; I'm pretty sure that the entire economy of Gettysburg relies on this place for their revenue.  A mile or so away from the museum, at 900 Baltimore Pike, Gettysburg, PA, we came across a military museum that specialized in gear from the Civil War to WWII.  It was pretty cool.  A private museum run by a very knowledgeable military-history junky, the place contains a huge collection of weapons, and you can even try on helmets from the Civil War to the Second World War eras.  I took the liberty of trying one on myself.  It felt pretty strange, wearing the protective gear of someone who had killed for a living.  I'm glad I'm not a soldier. Conscientious objector-ism for me, thank you very much.  

The town of Gettysburg itself is a little anachronism caught in the middle of a series of highways and shops with names like "Unbridled Fine Art", "Clinical Hypnosis"and "Toy Trains" as well as taverns, saloons, and the odd Lutheran Theological Seminary.  A computer store on the outskirts of town seems oddly out of place.  

As we headed toward the Blue Ridge Mountains, through which Confederate soldiers trudged in order to meet the Union Army in Gettysburg, I stared out the car window.  Right next to the battlefield on the US-30, are a children's playground and a health center, which struck me as quite amusing.  The attractions on this battlefield are geared to an odd combination of children and old people; little rompers and old war buffs.  There's even a tiny airport with planes that look like childrens' playthings.

In Gettysburg, people hang their clothes out to dry.  We used to do this at my house (we went without a clothes dryer or washing machine for a few months), and I loved the practice.  It just feels so right, somehow, to be peeking out from behind your clothes hanging on the line, dripping as the golden sun sops up the puddles that form on the ground beneath them. 

Another store advertises "all steel buidings at wood prices!"  We're getting into farmland now, where such things matter.  I find myself wondering what I'd be like had I grown up in a town like this.  How affected have I been by my surroundings?  Any bigotry or prejudice I've witnessed or have been victim to has only grounded me further in my own beliefs.  Maybe I'm just one of those people where placement doesn't really matter.  Who knows.  

seen off the highway:  "CHAMBERSBURG BURIAL VAULTS!"  

Burial VAULTS?  How morbid.  Imagine if we had to keep all our dead in vaults, as though their souls might wriggle out of their graves and haunt us if we didn't make sure they were locked up, never free to live out their wanderlust on the earth again.  Or as a precaution against zombie invasion.  Who wants to see a whole bunch of groaning old soldiers with frothy mouths and limbs that come loose and litter the ground around them?  Or to make sure that all the dead soldiers didn't rise up and resume their battle, tearing themselves to pieces all over again, forgetting that the war was over, that their differences had been settled and their generals long buried.  They wouldn't know about Appomatox, so who could blame them, right?

Indignant Dignitary

The other night while walking down Broadway, past all the shops where Yale students milled about looking for ways to spend their money, a young man clad in lavishly-simple slacks and a Yale sweatshirt stopped to rummage in his pocket for a cell phone, or perhaps a pair of keys. As he extricated his prize, a slip of paper fluttered out, landing behind him. He turned, leaning forward on one foot and peering down at it like a critic ascertaining the value of a painting. Deeming it worthless, he turned and, with all the nonchalance of a shrug, continued on his way. A stony grimace formed upon my jaw. As I approached him, I said (with practiced cool), "You should really pick that up."

Surprised, he faltered mid-step. He looked at the paper behind him, no larger than a post-it note, now clinging moistly to the ground as if fearing for its life, and then back at me. "Are you serious?" His voice--half laughter, half venom--dripped with self-righteous incredulity. Exasperated, I gave him a withering look that said something along the lines of, Fine. Reap the benefits of your Ivy League education and your own undeserved wealth while thoughtlessly polluting the city around you just to preserve your own phony dignity. See if I care.

And I walked on.

I know what you're thinking. For one, I shouldn't be lecturing strangers, unknown volatile quantities, especially strange men, especially those older than I. For another, who am I to be be preaching? From whence did I earn the legitimacy to do so?

It was the latter question which tugged at my mind as I disappeared down into the darkness of Wall Street. I couldn't truly blame him for attempting to cling to what little semblance of dignity he possessed after essentially being labeled a "Litterbug" by a strange girl, could I? I mused for awhile, before countering against this. He could have feigned ignorance, I reasoned to myself. He could have pretended he hadn't noticed the loss of that insignificant slip of paper and said Oh wow, I didn't notice that! Thanks! and pleased me. Railing against him, I tried to preserve my own dignity, placing myself higher than him in every scenario and fuming all the more.

But I was no better than he, perhaps even worse. I may have possessed superior judgment by being able to distinguish between the wrong-ness of littering and the right-ness of picking up after oneself, but this realization did not make me morally superior. Not in the least. Had I been truly morally superior, I would not have been so vociferous a critic. Instead, I would have pounced upon the slip of paper and tossed it into the trash myself. If feeling especially lofty, I would have run after him and held it out, arm outstretched, scrap pinched between my thumb and forefinger like a gift. Here, I'd smile, you dropped this.

Thanks, he would shiftily mumble, stuffing it into his pocket like a candy wrapper. Guilt would wash over him, but I'd just grin. No problem. And then I'd turn and be on my way with a spring in my step, assured that he would never litter again.

But instead, I chose to preen my own facade of dignity, to wallow in my own self-righteousness. What was I supposed to do, pick up after him along with every other careless piece of shit who walked by? What am I, a sanitation worker?

I was acting as nauseatingly self-absorbedly as Holden Caulfield. At that point, I didn't give a damn whether or not the street got cleaned up. All I cared about was labeling someone else as inferior, grinding him to powder like a broken bottle beneath my feet while dismissing the fact that I was no white knight in shining armor myself. My dignity was compromised because I refused to compromise, because I was so concerned with maintaining it that I forgot what it meant to be dignified--living by your principles, remembering that actions speak amplitudes louder than words.

In a city like New Haven, we face the dichotomies of capital at every turn. Outside the majestic, stony buildings of Yale, the homeless lie shivering in the shadows. In the midst of the university's wealth, Annette, a homeless woman, sells dyed flowers to ward off the cold. A young man, no, a boy, walks past the ragged people cowering before storefront windows and drops, not a coin, but an insult, a worthless scrap of paper, at their feet. And I do not pick it up.

Living in a capitalist consumer society, it is easy for us to forget that cash is not our only currency. We do not have only our purses to promote the well-being of our market; we have our values to live by as well. We possess the imperative to perform what our morals, as well as our pocketbooks, afford us. Those who are morally upright must stand all the straighter, and should not fear that bending in service of society will compromise their stature, for indeed it will enhance it. Spare good is not like spare change. It does not linger forgotten in a pocket, waiting to be discovered; it rises forth, demanding recognition and action.

Rambling On

From the East Coast to the West

Got no time to for spreadin roots,

The time has come to be gone.

And tho our health we drank a thousand times,

It's time to ramble on.

7.57 pm

There's about an hour until dusk and I gaze rather lamely out the window I've cracked open, catching a whiff of sweet grass and a glimpse of a long line of trucks carrying cargo from some place or another to some place or another without wondering where those places are.  Rather, I wonder vaguely how the pioneers-with-capital-P (why didn't I just write Pioneers?) felt heading West.  But I'm mostly thinking about the heading, and the Westerliness.  It's a strange feeling, this wrenching of roots, and it's only sinking into me now, when I'm doing it for the second time, and even then nearly two weeks after I left New Haven.  Perhaps it's because I've only been moving down (to Virginia and D.C.) and then up (to Manhattan and Brooklyn) the East Coast this past week or so that I haven't been able to settle in to this blaring, glaring fact.  

It's been comforting to view it with incredulity.  I'm leaving the East.  I'm heading West.  I'm leaving sunrises and heading towards sunsets and it feels like such a dramatic ending, a switch from possibility to resignation.  I'm leaving a place that has become the setting of the myth of my own creation, so seminal.  Leaving such a place leaves me with a heaving sense of finality.  I'm gone.  Period.

Period.

Period.

Period.

But then, three periods form an ellipses, ultimate connotation of endless possibilities, of stories to be continued... 

Saturday, July 18th, 2009 (Washington D.C.)

The trees all shimmer here--even the trunks and branches, as do the borders of rooftops.  If ever there was a golden city, this is it, I guess.  The Washington Monument is a great beacon--no, a great finger--pointing towards a point where the vaulted causeway of clouds ends and the sky, a color somehow both blue and cream (kind of like the capitol-building up close--cream and copper-stained), begins.

The fireflies are starting to appear with fanciful trepidation.  

As the sun sinks, its lights seems to reach higher, and somehow the blue-greens and the blue bruises and the angry blues start to turn to a rusty purple.  

Up in the middle points of the mall, the sky seems to gain confidence, turning from a blank-faced manila to a color like the crest on a blue-jay's forehead.

It's so strange, I don't think I've ever been in a place that can be so full of vitality, with so many crowds of black-suited people striding with purpose and tourists walking about, chattering in groups, and feel as though it is silent.  These broad streets are not humming with voices.  The grass in the national mall is dry but there are green patches under the waving shade of trees so it's a nice walk from monument to monument, from one great, muted slice of history to another.

But then at night, by the river near Georgetown, there was is much noise.  I saw so many bawdy, drunk young people.  Faith in my generation fell like a failed rocket.  What were these people doing?  There were inebriated young professionals dancing aimlessly on anchored boats.  There were tipsy young maidens traipsing about with staggering steps, holding their stomachs, crying "Why didn't you eat the salmon we had on the boat?  Now you're gobbling up this greasy pizzajunk, Karen, and I'm going to have to clean it up when you throw it up later!"  

I don't know why, but I thought, Lately, I've been splitting myself into metaphors, climbing into the swathes of light that protect cathedral-crowns and church spires from the sins of a University town.  A metaphorical description of a metaphor?  Maybe.  But I fixed it up soon enough.  My faith, I mean.  How would D.C. be golden in any light without the fuel of hope and optimism that promotes change, sprouting up like blades of grass, however dry.

Disclaimer

DISCLAIMER: Don't believe the dates here for awhile

the beginning

I suppose this web log must, like many things, begin with an explanation.  I meant to start it about a month ago, but unfortunately I was traversing great plains, mountains, and marshes, (tire) treading over rivers and enjoying a long month-and-a-half with sporadic internet connection.  However, because I filled an entire journal with my musings, I'd say it would be better to, well, begin from the beginning.

I haven't got a clear objective yet for this blog.  I'm just hoping it will serve as a good outlet for my ramblings, essays, poems and the (many) whimsical objects, tangible and intangible, which strike my fancy.  I hope it's not too introverted or inaccessible.  I'd like to think that at least some of the things I spout from my moveable mouth and sprout from my wayward brain are interesting to the general public.

So...

enjoy.