I don’t know art, but I know what I like

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Business took me over to the Walker Art Center today. Afterwards, since we’d parked the car over by the Parade Stadium parking lot, we decided to take a walk through the Sculpture Garden on the way back to our ride.

It wasn’t the nicest day outside; gray skies, temperature around 40 and a light but cold wind. Nevertheless, there was something very appealing about walking down the paved lane toward the famous Spoon and Cherry bridge.

On a summer day, the view from the lane toward the sculpture is like unto a rich oil painting:

On a day like today the effect is very much pen and ink. In summer the leaves on the trees soften the lines and obscure the trunks of the trees. Today the trees looked like stark, straight columns converging on the sculpture, echoed in miniature by the parallel hand rails, as the red orb of the cherry became the focal point against the gray sky and the dull grass. The leaves were now dry, gold flakes pushed by the wind into a long ribbon that meandered the lane more or less in a diagonal.

I know the view is no accident. Someone with vision and precision laid these lines with precisely this effect in mind and I sense the subtle harmony of balance and perspective. Behind me, inside the Walker, are some beautiful works — and many that are tortured executions of an artist’s self-absorption, intended to resonate only in some critical echo chamber, to be praised for bringing us face to face with some existential ugliness or dissonant reality or other such twaddle. In this moment outside, however, and in this light, there is a beauty and grace and a palpable, pervasive resonance, despite the bitterness of the day.

Or I suppose you could just say it was pretty.

FAGS fighting back

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Don’t look at me like that. In this case FAGS stands for Fight Against Government Suppression (it’s also Brit slang for cigarettes), and is the name of an English political party established by pub-owner Hamish Howitt, the first pub-owner in England to be prosecuted for violating the country’s new smoking ban for pubs and restaurants. Howitt, a non-smoker himself, pleaded guilty but vows to continue to allow smoking in his pub and to not pay the fines.

From Scotsman.com:

I’ll still ignore smoking ban, vows publican fined £500
KIM PILLING

A SCOTTISH pub landlord vowed yesterday to continue to allow his customers to flout the smoking ban in England after being fined for offences at his bar in Blackpool.

Hamish Howitt, 55, who was born in Glasgow, was fined £500 and ordered to pay £2,000 prosecution costs after he admitted flouting the ban, which was introduced in England in July.

The owner of the Happy Scots Bar is the first publican south of the Border to be convicted of breaching the law. Howitt, a non-smoker, has been a staunch critic of the ban and set up a political party called Fight Against Government Suppression, or FAGS.

However, District Judge Peter Ward, sentencing Howitt at Blackpool Magistrates’ Court, said his campaign had been “silly, misguided and pointless”.

Granted, it’s not exactly William Wallace mooning the Brits, but Howitt has definitely set out to pick a fight as the signage on the outside walls of his pub demonstrate in these Flickr photos here and here. (Normally I would download the images and post them here rather than poaching bandwidth by linking to the site but the images are copyrighted and I don’t want to stretch the “fair-use” doctrine, especially when I don’t know who to credit for the originals).

Howitt doesn’t risk losing his head (merely his pub license) for his violations, though judging by the comments from readers at the end of the article, there are some who wouldn’t mind seeing him drawn and quartered.

As a dedicated non-smoker myself (never smoked, in fact) and someone who has deliberately avoided public places that are too smokey, I nevertheless side with the rights of private property owners to manage their legal businesses (and customers using legal products) as they see fit, free from government encroachment, especially when dubious science is involved. (I’m sure it won’t be long before some study links the number of smokers being forced outside to man-made global warming.)

Of condolences and “coincidences”

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Many, many thanks for the comments, links and emails from so many of you expressing condolences, prayers and sympathy for the death of my father. It’s hard to express how comforting such seemingly innocuous gestures can be, but I will try in a later post. Suffice it for now that my family and I are very touched.

Here’s something kind of interesting: the Diana Der Hovanessian poem, “Shifting the Sun,” that I posted last Tuesday (Lord, has it been that long already?) is a poem that I heard for the very first time in January of 1997. I was listening to MPR and Garrison Keillor’s “The Writer’s Almanac” as my family and I packed our bags, having just received word that my grandfather had died. I was stunned by the appropriateness of that poem on that day, and made a mental note to track down a copy of it when we returned home. Obviously I was successful, and we eventually placed a copy of the poem in the memory book that went out to family members after my grandfather’s funeral.

My father passed away Monday night, October 29, barely four months after being diagnosed with lymphoma. On Tuesday morning, October 30, The Writer’s Almanac featured this poem:

As Death Approaches

I can’t believe I’m laughing!
I’d have sworn I’d be
shaking or sniveling.
And I sure didn’t expect
a limousine.
I’ve never been in a limousine.
No biggy.
I’ve had better than fame.
Who needs the pressure?
As for fortune, I’m filthy.
That’s why I’m laughing.
I’ve had so much love:
the giving, the getting.
It’s shameful.
It’s embarrassing.
And it’s too late.
No one can take it away!
And I’ve had the pain
to help me appreciate it.
Thank God for the pain!
Easy for me to say
now that I’m going!
But no, seriously,
the kicks in the teeth,
the gut, the rugs
pulled out, slammed doors,
setbacks, snubs.
Without them, I’d
never have recognized
Love, bedraggled,
plain eyes shining,
happy to see me.
Do I want more?
Of course I want more!
I always want more
of everything: money, hugs,
lovemaking, art, butter,
woods, flowers, the sea,
M&Ms, chips, tops, bottoms,
trips — I did give up drinking —
time, sure, and yes,
I’d like to see
my grandchildren,
if there are any.
I’d like to see my books
but more has never
been good for me anyway.
Enough — that’s what I’ve
always needed to learn,
and is there a better way?
So this laughter
I had to work up to
through so many tears,
it just keeps coming
like a fountain, a spray.
Let it light on you
refreshment, benediction,
as I’m driven away.

By Susan Deborah King, from One-Breasted Woman. © Holy Cow! Press, 2007.

There’s so much in there that sums up what my dad would have said or felt, and for it to appear the morning after he died…and the perfect poem after my grandfather’s death…coincidence? Oh, but of course.

I can’t say I agree much with Keillor’s politics, but I like his stories and I enjoy the daily Almanac’s. Somehow, however, I see the hand of a higher author and finisher.

Shifting the son

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Shifting the Sun

When your father dies, say the Irish,
you lose your umbrella against bad weather.
May his sun be your light, say the Armenians.

When your father dies, say the Welsh,
you sink a foot deeper into the earth.
May you inherit his light, say the Armenians.

When your father dies, say the Canadians,
you run out of excuses. May you inherit
his sun, say the Armenians.

When your father dies, say the French,
you become your own father.
May you stand up in his light, say the Armenians.

When your father dies, say the Indians,
he comes back as the thunder.
May you inherit his light, say the Armenians.

When your father dies, say the Russians,
he takes your childhood with him.
May you inherit his light, say the Armenians.

When your father dies, say the English,
you join his club you vowed you wouldn’t.
May you inherit his sun, say the Armenians.

When your father dies, say the Armenians,
your sun shifts forever,
and you walk in his light.

by Diana Der Hovanessian,
from the book “Selected Shorts”
published by Sheep Meadow Press.

Related posts:
In My Father’s House, Part 1
In My Father’s House, Part 2
In My Father’s House, Part 3
Turning Toward the Mourning
In My Father’s House, Conclusion – yet to be posted.

Turning toward the mourning

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Turning Toward the Morning
by Gordon Bok

When the deer has bedded down
And the bear has gone to ground,
And the northern goose has wandered off
To warmer bay and sound,
It’s so easy in the cold to feel
The darkness of the year
And the heart is growing lonely
For the morning

Oh, my Joanie, don’t you know
That the stars are swinging slow,
And the seas are rolling easy
As they did so long ago?
If I had a thing to give you,
I would tell you one more time
That the world is always turning
Toward the morning.

Now October’s growing thin
And November’s coming home;
You’ll be thinking of the season
And the sad things that you’ve seen,
And you hear that old wind walking,
Hear him singing high and thin,
You could swear he’s out there singing
Of your sorrow.

When the darkness falls around you
And the Northwind comes to blow,
And you hear him call your name out
As he walks the brittle snow:
That old wind don’t mean you trouble,
He don’t care or even know,
He’s just walking down the darkness
Toward the morning.

It’s a pity we don’t know
What the little flowers know.
They can’t face the cold November
They can’t take the wind and snow:
They put their glories all behind them,
Bow their heads and let it go,
But you know they’ll be there shining
In the morning.

Now, my Joanie, don’t you know
That the days are rolling slow,
And the winter’s walking easy,
As he did so long ago?
And, if that wind would come and ask you,
“Why’s my Joanie weeping so?”
Wont you tell him that you’re weeping
For the morning?

Now October’s growing thin and November’s coming home. I’m thinking of the season and the sad things that I’ve seen.

In the morning I’ll be turning south, toward what was my father’s house…

Commando with Confidence

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Here are the Night-hens, sort of live blogging at Panera in SE Mpls., while having coffee.
MD: Instead of raisins, this should have currants in it.
TL: It should have chocolate chips.
TL: Why does my back always hurt?
MD: Because you kick people all night.
TL: I don’t kick people all night.
MD: Then you kick them for two hours.
TL: I didn’t kick people for two hours.
MD: Then you slapped, or punched, or whacked them with your bow staff when you’re not kicking them.
TL: And it’s only for an hour.
TL: Mom it’s b-o, not bow.
MD: Ha Ha your staff has BO.
TL: Handy, isn’t it?
TL: The Toga party was fun. (Referencing an event at the Nightwriter’s work, yesterday)
MD: Did you have to wear a toga? I don’t have a toga, I’m over-dressed.
TL: I saw a whole bunch of ladies walking past wearing togas and I said “What’s with all the togas?” and they said, “Oh, were having a toga party, feel free to come over.” Then I went, and chugged apple cider.
TL: There was a ring toss there with all the bottles stacked right next to each other and a sign that said ‘Spin the Bottle’ and I gasped. And then I saw a sign underneath it that said ‘(Just Kidding), Ring Toss’. There was a parade with a bunch of cross-dressing, ugly, old guys. Because the woman they chose as home-coming queen didn’t want to do it, so they chose the next best person and it was a guy. The homecoming queen was wearing a white frilly dress and had a cigar in his mouth. He also had a mustache.
Hey, There goes the gym shorts and loafers guy.
MD: He’s just wandering around.
RM: He’s loafing.
TL: Go commando with confidence.
RM: Why did you say that?
MD: She’s just into that kind of thing. Tell us, how does it feel?
TL: (With hand raised) It feels, it feels . . . . sigh.

Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhh (angels singing)

A woman walking by whispers in RMs ear.
RM: (to lady) Well, thank you, bless your heart.
TL: What did she say?
RM: She said “You’re a very attractive lady.”
TL: You know this picture is going to ruin any credibility I have on the internet.
MD: You think you have credibility?
TL gives MD the evil eye.
RM: Oh, we need to go.
MD: Barnacles.
MD: That ends this session of whatever this is.

What you realize

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What You Realize When Cancer Comes

You will not live forever—No
you will not, for a ceiling of clouds
hovers in the sky.

You are not as brave
as you once thought.
Sounds of death
echo in your chest.

You feel the bite of pain,
the taste of it running
through you.

Following the telling to friends
comes a silence of
felt goodbyes. You come to know
the welling of tears.

Your children are stronger
than you thought and
closer to your skin.

The beauty of animals
birds on telephone lines,
dogs who look into your eyes,
all bring you peace.

You want no more confusion
than what already rises
in your head and heart.

You watch television less,
will never read all those books,
much less the ones
you have.

Songs can move you now, so that
you want to hold onto the words
like the hands of children.

Your own hands look good to you.
old and familiar
as water.

You read your lover’s skin
like a road map
into yourself.

All touch is precious now.

There are echoes

in the words thrown
before you.

When they take your picture now
you wet your lips, swallow once
and truly smile.

Talk of your lost parents
pulls you out, and
brings you home again.

You are in a river
flowing in and through you.
Take a breath. Reach out your arms.
You can survive.

A river is flowing
flowing in and through you.
Take a breath. Reach out your arms.

“What You Realize When Cancer Comes” by Larry Smith, from A River Remains. © WordTech Editions.

California fires are close to home

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My sister and her husband and twin daughters live in Oceanside, CA, just north of San Diego and pretty much in the middle of the fires. I’ve been trying to keep up with the progress of the fires and its proximity to where they live. CNN has some interesting video, but watching on TV is maddening since every two minutes Anderson Cooper or someone reminds you to stay tuned for their upcoming program on global warming and how its related to these fires. Somehow I feel like there’ll be a lot more smoke in that report than there is in San Diego County — and it looks as if there is a LOT of smoke in SDC.

I’ve Google-mapped my sister’s address and also found NASA’s MODIS (or Moderate Resolution Imaging Spectroradiometer) map of the fires in the area, as of 1900 hours on Oct. 23. (See image below).

The red areas are fires; yellow marks areas that have already burned. My sister and her family are due west of Vista on the map; the small red blotch north of Oceanside, I’m pretty sure, is the fire located on Camp Pendleton. By comparing the various images I can pretty much pinpoint their home in comparison to the fires, and I’ve also seen maps pointing out evacuation centers near them, including one at a church that I think we visited when we were out there a few years ago. You’d expect the prevailing winds to be off of the Pacific, blowing inland, which would be good news for them but these are the notorious Santa Ana winds, the ones Raymond Chandler famously referred to in his story, Red Wind:

“those hot dry [winds] that come down through the mountain passes and curl your hair and make your nerves jump and your skin itch. On nights like that every booze party ends in a fight. Meek little wives feel the edge of the carving knife and study their husbands’ necks. Anything can happen.”

The Santa Anas form over the Nevada Basin, then come riding westward up over the San Gabriel mountains and stampeding down into Southern California like thirsty cowpokes at the end of a long trail. This week fire comes along for the ride.

You can see it coming in shots from space, through satellite pictures beamed into your living room, the reality still somehow so unreal. The technology at my fingertips is incredible, yet the sense of helplessness seems all the more complete because of it. Nature can be a bitch. I’ve tried several times to get through to my sister’s cell phone and the circuits were predictably jammed either by traffic or missing towers or both. So far I have gotten one message through that reached her voicemail. Senselessly I told her to call when she gets the chance, as if she wouldn’t do that anyway, but it was good to make some contact, nebulous as it was.

Fortunately there’s someone who has a better view than even the satellites and the best technology can provide, and isn’t dependent on cell phone towers or microwaves for communication. I’ve got him on the line.

Update:

We received an email from my veterinarian sister, aka “Queen Chick of the World and Marathon Mom” Wednesday afternoon:

We are all fine and safe in Oceanside except for the daily dose of snowy ash covering the neighborhood. Oceanside, especially near the coast is not a worry, even with the start of a fire near the Camp Pendleton/Oceanside border that occurred due to a transformer explosion near the front gate commissary. They feel this one will be contained very quickly and it is moving northwest. The DeLuz area near Fallbrook and the Riverside County border is pretty scary still. We had guests due to the evacuation this week — one bathroom, plastic up, dry wall dust and all! Jenny and Gene had to evacuate their home in Fallbrook but so far their home is still safe. Fortunately most are safe of our group and clientele. The fire on Palomar Mountain is not controlled; the Witch Fire has threatened a lot of our clients in Escondido and Valley Center and now Julian and is not considered controlled. The weather is changing slowly and they feel that they will have a turn around in the fire control today or tomorrow. The San Marcos fire was west of the clinic and we did not have to evacuate the clinic but it has been very smoky and we are full up with injuries and evacuated pets. More later!

The black days of October

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Twenty years ago this month the Twins won their first World Series and my wife and I were married. Stellar events to be sure, but in the last week has been a lot said and written about Black Monday — October 19, 1987 — the day the Dow Jones Industrial Average dropped more than 500 points (don’t blame me, I was out of the country on my honeymoon).

Then, just a few days later, another dark day — as noted by this morning’s Writer’s Almanac:

It was on this day in 1987 that the United States Senate rejected the Supreme Court nomination of Robert H. Bork on a 58-to-42 vote. Bork was one of the leaders of a judicial theory called “original intent,” which is the idea that Supreme Court justices can only base their decisions on what the framers of the constitution originally intended. If the constitution doesn’t mention a “right to privacy” then there is no such thing as a “right to privacy.” This idea was controversial, but Bork decided to enter the debate head on, and he openly discussed his constitutional philosophy with the senators. Democrats portrayed him as a radical, and when the final vote of the full Senate came on this day in 1987, Bork was rejected by 58 to 42. Republicans have since argued that Bork was the target of a smear campaign, and they began using his last name as a verb, saying that they wanted to prevent future nominees from getting “borked.” The word “bork” was recently added to Webster’s dictionary, defined as, “[Seeking] to obstruct a political appointment or selection, also to attack a political opponent viciously.” Robert Bork said, “My name became a verb, and I regard that as one form of immortality.”

Several years ago I read Bork’s “Slouching Towards Gomorrah: Modern Liberalism and American Decline.” As the two parts of the title suggest, I found the book an interesting juxtaposition of being both acerbicly entertaining and accessibly academic. Here’s one quote that describes the author’s life path:

In many ways, I understand the Sixties generation because at that stage of life, I reacted similarly. Suburban, middle-class life seemed stifling. Dixieland jazz was my rock and roll. All night partying was my escape, political radicalism my protest. The superintendent of schools in a heavily Republican suburb had to be brought in to prevent me from running an editorial in the high school newspaper calling for the nationalization of industry. Denunciations of bourgeois values rolled easily off my tongue. Fortunately, mine was not a large generation and very few of my high school classmates-none to be precise-felt the same way. There was no critical mass. By the time I got to the University of Chicago, where there were student radicals, I had been in the Marine Corps, an organization well known for teaching the reality principle to its recruits; and the Chicago school of free market economists educated me out of my dreams of socialism. I was fortunate; the Sixties generation was not.

Perfect weather

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Crisp, sunny autumn days like last Saturday are great — and as refreshing as biting into a Honeycrisp apple, but there’s a special seasonality to an overcast day in early fall like today.

This morning the sun rose but never shook off its blanket and the gray backdrop was the perfect canvas for the prima donna colors, helping the grass in my yard take on an extra-deep and lush green while the reds, yellows and oranges of the various leaves on the ground and still on the trees competed for attention. I enjoyed driving through my neighborhood, looking at the leaves that had fallen since last weekend’s rakings and, like the children at the bus-stop, resplendent in their new jackets, just waiting.

On days like these it is hard to keep your eyes on the road, but even at that I was rewarded. As I pulled up behind the line of cars waiting to turn left off of the Ayd Mill Road I broke into a smile when I recognized the autumnal glory of red taillights and flashing orange turn-signals in gleaming clarity that would not have been possible on a sunny day. Perfect. Absolutely perfect.