Varieties of Falling

Beauty on a large scale

2012-02-06T20:46:00.002+01:00

I just came across a spectacular photo created at the Paranal Obser- vatory in Chile. This is the barred spiral galaxy NGC 1365, photo- graphed in infrared light. NGC 1365 is a member of the Fornax cluster of galaxies, which is a mere 60 million light-years from Earth. 60 million light-years! The immensity of that distance is cause for great marvel. It also makes me feel, perhaps, a little helpless: we'll never get there! It turns out the Milky Way may be a barred spirall also. NGC 1365 is 200,000 light years in diameter! That makes it much bigger than our milky way. The complete story is here.

Groundhog Day

2012-02-02T18:05:00.000+01:00

As good a time as any to make another attempt at blogging. I don't know what Phil's handlers declared this morning and I really don't care. But seeing one's shadow from time to time is important. A shadow is a good friend. Poor Waldo, he's so close to the ground he rarely projects a shadow. But here's a basset who does manage to project a nice shadow: watch the video.

ETA's Endgame

2011-10-22T13:50:00.001+02:00

Terrorism is a much abused term in our day, often invoked shame- lessly by political leaders to manipulate a passive public. Big Media goes along meekly. (After all, what exactly is "The War on Terror" if not a magnificent, Hollywood inspired title to cower a population into accepting one of the most outrageous war mongering, war profiteering scams ever?) However, the term does have appropriate uses and, unfortunately, "Basque Terrorism" has been one of them. For over thirty years the imposition of fear and, yes, terror, on one part of the population by another has been a fundamental strategy of ETA. Imagine, for example, you are a Basque living in a small town in the province of Guipuzcoa. You are a socialist and decide to run for town council. You will live in fear because automatically ETA will declare you fair game. Because in ETA's worldview any person expressing an ideology that does not jive with theirs is a legitimate candidate for assassination. ETA is very good at assassination. Experienced. They've murdered over 800 people in their long, bloody campaign. And, yes, they have inspired much, much fear. Enough fear to silence some, make others go into exile. That's terrorism. But not everyone gave in. Many, many Basques resisted. Some especially brave individuals, such as novelist Raúl Guerra Garrido, refused to be silenced and withstood years of violence, intimidation and death threats. In the late 1970s and early 80s, during Spain's transition to democracy, ETA was a potent killing machine and successfully goaded the state into responding with violence of their own. It was a dark time, but democratic values prevailed and slowly, slowly, ETA's ultimate defeat became more and more evident.
On Thursday ETA announced the definitive end of violence, a recognition of defeat that has seemed inevitable for some time. Their leadership has been arrested and jailed repeatedly, their ability to bring in the money through extortion seriously eroded. It's good news, even though the statement is a pitiful example of their habitual double speak. So now it's the beginning of what will likely be a protracted and messy process to definitively do away with the organization.

The Martyr

2011-10-21T12:52:00.003+02:00

Yesterday Khadafy was captured and then assas- sinated in Sirte. That extra- judicial execution is un- fortunate, but not very surprising. People are violent and vengeful. Khadafy himself was a ruthless dictator who killed with impunity. I just read that Hugo Chávez has declared that Khadafy is a martyr. Is that the Bolivarian Revolution? A martyr! As Chávez lamented the loss of his close friend hundreds of thousands of Libyans celebrated the fall of the Khadafy regime. (But we should be fair: Tony Blair also referred to Khadafy as a good friend.)

William (not the stats guy) James and Baseball

2011-09-30T16:08:00.001+02:00

I guess being a fan, that is, a fanatic, is in some ways much like having a religious faith. It's a common notion, even a cliché because often when invoked the analogy serves nothing more than to emphasize zealous devotion. But the comparison can be more interesting: fans implicate themselves emotionally (like small children? older children showing arrested development?) with a group in whose activities they have no part. (Well, in fact, I guess by showing enthusiastic support at a sports venue, sometimes fans can, in fact, impact the outcome, but if we're talking about baseball that is rarely the case.) Fans care deeply about people they don't know personally. (Yes, there are exceptions). If the team screws up the fan may feel screwed. These are not all-powerful gods, so it's a very curious faith indeed. The willful submission to irrational behavior is fascinating, strange, sometimes depressing. (Fans, do you think the players care about you?) But also quite endearing. After all, we are familiar with the studies that suggest faith is good for your health. I chose the easier path: faith in baseball itself. And this seems to get me closer to that all-powerful god idea. The game never fails to provide transcendence. I'm always waiting for that never-ending game, but meanwhile, the games we do have occasionally provide such unlikely and dramatic narratives they make me ask to which of James' varieties of religious experience they pertain.

Oh, the Winter that Awaits!

2011-09-29T16:22:00.001+02:00

Just contemplating last night's cosmic shift will keep me busy all winter!

One more strike!

2011-09-29T13:41:00.000+02:00

Mike Vacarro just wrote that last night's baseball events add up to the greatest day in baseball history. And it's quite possible that's no exaggeration. What transpired included both some fantastic baseball and without a doubt unexpected and unlikely events that kept getting stranger and more preposterous. Adrian Gonzalez's God does indeed have a plan. And an identity: author of baseball melodramas so far fetched no publisher will touch them. Now, if you're a Braves fan or a Red Sox fan, just cross out "greatest," pull out your dictionary and get to work. "Worst" doesn't come close to describing it. That goes without saying. Otherworldly. Ghoulish. Torturous. Simply unbelievable. Etc. (No uneasy sleep for me: in the wake of 1986, I opted out. From then on I vowed to become a mere observer of baseball. Some might say I lost the faith. True. But I prefer to think of it as a conversion: if it doesn't matter to me who wins, I win with every single game.)
With time the details fade and last night was tremendously rich with singular moments. Just in Baltimore, which is where my attention was: how about those double plays in the bottom of the 2nd and bottom of the 6th! (Pedroia: sterling defense and a 3 for 4 night, including go ahead homer in fifth!); Ortiz trying to reach 2nd in the top of the 7th (bone-headed!!); the rain-a splendidly extended seventh-inning stretch, allowing events down in Florida to catch up with events in Baltimore!; Scutaro stopping between second and third in the 8th (really bone-headed: Marco, if the ball is caught you're not making it back to first in any case... just keep running!! First man fired: Tim-go-stop-go-whatever-Bogar); Ellsbury stranded at third with no outs in ninth(!); Papelbon, Papelbon, Papelbon. (Gee, I wonder what he's going to throw?); Carl Crawford: catch it, no, not quite... Oh, did we ever blow it! Can it get any worse? YES: the Rays did the impossible and your season is over! Now. And of course we will always remember that when Papelbon struck out Jones and Reynolds to start the 9th and got two strikes on Davis, it really looked like the Sox were headed for Detroit or Dallas. One more strike!

In short, you get what you get. And we haven't even addressed the just as incredible events in Atlanta yet!

Wednesday's Executions

2011-09-22T16:10:00.000+02:00

I doubt it's very often that we execute two people on the same day, indeed, within the space of a few hours. Last night Troy Davis was executed in Georgia. Davis was convicted of killing police officer Mark MacPhail many years ago. Several witnesses in the case retracted their testimony and the case received a great deal of international attention. In Texas, white supremacist Lawrence Brewer was executed for the brutal 1998 murder of James Byrd. In the former case, given the retracted testimonies, claims of police coercion, and the lack of a murder weapon, reasonable doubts do exist. There's no going back now. The work of The Innocence Project (www.innocenceproject.org) has demonstrated beyond a doubt that the danger of executing innocent people is very real. The case of Brewer is very different, to say the least: after going to prison he joined a white supremacist group, wrote about the thrill of murder, and never showed any remorse. In fact, he seemed to revel in it. And yet, in spite of the grotesque, hateful nature of Brewer's crime, he should not have been executed. We have a moral imperative to abolish the death penalty. In our system of injustice, it is inevitable that innocent people will be executed. When the state kills innocent people it loses all legitimacy and incarnates in that moment the most horrible kind of despotism. Having the likes of Lawrence Brewer live out their days in jail is a very small price to pay for restoring some legitimacy to our government. (Above, Manet's "The Execution of Maximilian".)

The Confederate Flag and Racism

2011-08-13T15:12:00.000+02:00

Recently I've seen several images of the confederate flag in town. Mainly on cars, but also on t-shirts. And I always wonder, are these people displaying that image racists? If one were to actually ask that question, the answers would almost always be negative, unless you had the bad luck to happen upon a proud holder of KKK type beliefs. Signs are given meaning by people, of course, so when a confederate flag waver invokes "Southern Heritage," who's to argue that? No doubt people who invoke heritage are proud of their roots. For many, reality doesn't seem to matter when it comes to abstract matters such as identity. There is a strong tendency to idealize. And then there is the "it's all about freedom" set: hey it's a free country, I can wear any t shirt I want..." True. It's also extremely offensive. The name pretty much sums it up: that flag started out representing the battle units of the Confederate States of America during the Civil War. In case you forgot, that's the side that seceded in order to maintain their "states' rights," as in the right to enslave human beings of a certain color. And after they lost the war and were pulled back into the union, these same states made many and repeated efforts to assure the continued subjugation of the former slaves. Not surprisingly, to many citizens, the confederate flag signals a racist, retrograde ideology, not freedom, not a care-free "rebel" attitude.

When presidential candidate Rick Perry was elected governor of Texas he invited rocker Ted Nugent to perform at his inaugural ball. Great choice. Ted came to the party wearing a shirt with a confederate flag on it. Perry had no problem with that. Check out Ted's message to then Senator Obama during one of his concerts.

Bryce Harper's Implosion

2011-08-11T14:00:00.000+02:00

It was a beautiful evening at City Island yesterday and time to get a first look at top prospect Bryce Harper. He had a rough night. In the second inning he reached on an error, then struck out in the fifth and again, looking, in the seventh on a full count. And he lost it, disputing the umpire's call violently, slamming his helmet down, and then really getting in Max Guyll's face. He was promptly ejected. Harper is batting .248 for the Senators. It looks like the kid has some growing up to do. What I found most distubing was seeing an 18 year old acting out like this with a man more than twice his age. Not a pretty sight.
The game featured very impressive pitching from both Richmond starter Eric Surkamp (9 Ks) and Senator's starter Shairon Martis (10 Ks). That's a lot of whiffing!

Replays and Contingency

2011-08-06T05:00:00.000+02:00

Last week the baseball crowd was all agitated again about another blown call, this one putting an end to a very long, 19 inning game between Atlanta and Pittsburgh. Too bad, that could have been an endless game in the making. This was, according to the critics, yet another glaring example of why baseball needs more use of instant replay. In this case, it would have been evident that the umpire missed the call and it could have been reversed. But wait, reverse to what? That's not easy in a game as complex as baseball. In this case the bad call is at the end of a play. Going back is not a simple thing. As Phil Mushnick pointed out, "There were men on second and third, one out. The batter, pitcher Scott Proctor, after grounding to third, fell on his face a few feet out of the box. Had Meals made the right call, the likelihood of a home-to-first double play was strong." So is the inning over? But you can't give an out that was only likely to be made. Many different things could have happened. Trying to determine on what kind of plays you should allow instant replay quickly becomes a messy proposition. We've got some contingency going on here and "instant replay" is not an idea that values contingency. Sometimes we just get it wrong. Our universe seems to be like that. Long ago, God made a bad call. It seems she had already decided there would be no instant replay. So she messed up, give her a break. I still think it's better than a rain out. My Aunt Jo taught me never to leave a game early, no matter how lopsided the score. You just never know... (I went with her a couple of times to Shea Stadium. A young Tom Seaver! Jerry Koosman! Ed Kranepool!) Anyway, that's my thought for today: the game is not over and that's a very good thing. And another thing: contingency itself is contingent.

Baseball and Alcoholism

2011-07-14T16:46:00.001+02:00

A couple of days ago I finished reading Bottom of the 33rd, a wonderful book by Dan Barry about the longest baseball game ever played. (Thank you, Peter!) I remember reading about the game back in 1981, and I've always been quite fascinated by the idea of an endless ball game, but in fact I hadn't really paid much attention to this unique bit of baseball history. It's a fantastic story. The book's subtitle is "Hope, Redemption, and Baseball's Longest Game." Barry does give us many details about the game itself, of course, but the book is to a large degree a series of mini biographies about several of the event's protagonists. The lives of two of the game's participants progress downwards due to excessive alcohol consumption, eventually taking very different paths, one tragic, the other hopeful and redemptive. (The odd detail that this game was begun the evening of Holy Saturday and continued into Easter morning adds a curious frame for the idea of redemption.) It's a book I highly recommend.

In any case, yesterday I was at the Dickinson library and on my way out I stopped to take a glance at the new arrivals bookcase. And there I found Language of the Heart: A Cultural History of the Recovery Movement, from Alcoholics Anonymous to Oprah Winfrey by Trysh Travis. (That name is too good; do you think it's real?) Interesting. I've just spent a little time reading here and there, but for an academic press work it's quite readable. Good job, Trysh! So thinking about baseball and alcoholism has got me thinking about "hitting bottom." My associations can by silly ("hitting," baseball; "bottom," alcoholism, but also baseball), but the idea, the phenomenon of hitting bottom is both sad, sad, sad and also potentially a starting point for hope and redemption. And that got me thinking about Gil Scott Heron, a great precursor of spoken word art and author of that 70s hit, "The Bottle." It's wonderful song. And so sad. "Livin' in the bottle..." (I saw Gil Scott Heron at a nightclub in Boston in 1977 and what I most remember from that performance is "Winter in America." Chilling!) Mickey Mantle, Billy Martin and a host of others. Livin' in the bottle, indeed. Baseball stories. Winning and Losing. I still want that never ending game. And I can assure you, in the unlikely case I ever get to be President of a baseball league, there will be no curfews. (And the foul poles will have arrows at the top, signaling that they are vectors, continuing upwards infinitely, pointing us all up into the endless cosmos.) Play on!

"May I address you as Mark?"

2011-07-12T18:23:00.000+02:00

Yes! I got asked that on the phone this morning and I so much appreciated the kind gentleman's little courtesy: you were kind enough to ask, so of course, let's move on to first names... (I'm filling out a seemingly endless financial aid application for our youngest and I had to call the help desk for some clarification; not only was my telephone helper courteous, he was, indeed, helpful: my question was answered clearly right away.) This little post makes more sense if you read my earlier post on how we address one another. Then you should read Alma Aldrich's post, which is also related.

Last night I heard George Scott's name come up while watching the all star game home run hitting contest (I couldn't take more than 10 minutes -- pretty dumb stuff). He was a memorable player! The Boomer! I wonder what he's up to now. A great mystery: how do you explain his horrible year at the plate in 1968?: in 350 at bats he batted .181 and has 3 home runs! 1968 was the year of the pitcher--Luis Tiant's ERA that year was 1.60!); nonetheless, .181 is truly horrible.

Basque Terrorism and Poor Journalism

2011-06-28T16:42:00.000+02:00

Yesterday El País, the Madrid daily that during the 80s and 90s was one of the world's truly great newspapers, published an interview with Martín Garitano, the newly elected leader ("diputado general") of the legislative body of the province of Gipuzkoa in the Basque Country. Garitano represents a newly formed nationalist coalition ("Bildu") that favors complete independence for the Basque Country. (Bildu did not win a majority of votes, but the opposition parties were unable to reach an agreement, and so Garitano ended up as the "diputado general"). Javier Rivas, the interviewer, says to Garitano that his coalition has spoken more clearly about the needs of ETA prisoners than they have about the needs of victims of ETA terrorism. Garitano denies this and then goes on to affirm that in the Basque Country there are currently over 700 political prisoners. This is false and the journalist didn't call him on it. Maybe it's because everyone knows it's a lie, but I don't think you can let these things go. Sometimes people keep repeating lies and eventually people believe them. Good journalists should help prevent that.

Let's be clear: jailed ETA terrorists are not political prisoners; they are not prisoners of conscience. Many of them are in jail for murder or attempted murder. Others are imprisoned for belonging to an organized armed group that in a 40+ year campaign has killed over 800 people, extorted thousands and forced many to leave their homes with threats of violence.

There is a lot of hope in the Basque Country these days and the absence of violence is to be celebrated. But unless people get honest about the nature of ETA there is little hope for true reconciliation.

Blessed Litter!

2011-06-24T20:04:00.004+02:00

You know what they say about one man's garbage... Let me tell you a story.

A couple of years ago I had an intensely strong gastronomical flashback to a candy bar I enjoyed as a very small child. It was a chocolate bar that was divided into four sections, each one filled with a different flavor (caramel, nougat, and ???) I really wanted to try one of those sweets again, but there was a basic problem: for the life of me I couldn't remember the name of the thing. Every time I passed by the candy section in a store I'd look for it, but it hasn't appeared. I've asked several people, but no one seemed to know what I was talking about. I've dreamed about this chocolate bar, and it's as if I could taste it, but still no name. And thus, no easy way to even know if it still exists.

So this morning I'm on the return half of my walk with Waldo and I see some litter in the curb. A glimmer of familiarity. I lean over. And there it is: Sky Bar! By Necco. Oh JOY!!! Now it makes sense: Necco (New England Confectionary Company) is a Massachusetts based business. (I remember their factory near MIT!) They don't seem to have good distribution in Pennsylvania. It's been about forty-five years since I had one of these babies, and I'm actually pretty excited to know they're still making them. So, any friends or family in the Boston area who come upon this blog post: bring a Sky Bar to Carlisle (or to Little Compton next weekend) and make Mark a very happy man!

The Majesty of Balanchine's "Serenade"

2011-06-24T19:25:00.001+02:00

George Balanchine's "Serenade," set to Tchaikovsky's "Serenade for Strings in C," is one amazing work of art. Last night I saw it for the second time and it took my breath away. Everyone at Central Pennsylvania Youth Ballet, and especially the dancers who performed "Serenade," should feel very proud. After the performance I was feeling perplexed. I was quite certain that what I had just experienced was a gift of beauty of the highest order. At the same time, I had absolutely no sense of what it meant. So there's a question: does beauty need to mean something or can it just "be"? Balanchine offers just a bare tease of a story in this ballet. It's a tease I rejected: the only interpretive sense I could imagine was oriented towards geometry as a metaphor for the richness of human experience. Our lives are like lines, waves, circles... growing complex, doing and undoing, knotting and unknotting. We are bodily creatures and "our" bodies (Balanchine is almost exclusively concerned with the female form here) are beautiful and sacred. Unfortunately, and this ballet's narrative thread reminds us, it's all temporal. Death awaits.
Feeling tremendously intrigued by this masterpiece, I did a quick search this morning and came across this interesting essay.
I can't wait to see it again tomorrow! And I just happened to get NYCB's 2011-12 season brochure and they will be performing Serenade next May. Hope I can go.

Self-Esteem and Dignity

2011-06-21T17:28:00.002+02:00

Do American children suffer from an excess of self-
esteem? The answer, according to recent essays, is a definite yes. (See, for starters, the cover article in the current Atlantic Monthly, "How to Land Your Children in Therapy" and the November, 2010 National Review article "Self-Esteem and Character.") My take on this is pretty simple: parents, coaches, etc. should forget about cultivating self-esteem and focus instead on helping children understand and develop a sense of dignity. (Many people like to talk about "character development," but character has always seemed to me a vague and dubious notion.) I'm probably somewhat self-delusional, but I like to think that as a parent I had an instinctive sense from the beginning that self-esteem was a bogus concept. I'm sure that my ideas about dignity are heavily influenced by Spanish culture, which, I believe, has created complicated links between concrete, exterior signs and behaviors, on the one hand, and abstract ideas about self and worth on the other. In this view, a "proper" sense of self, of "being-in-the-world" renders low self-esteem irrelevant. (Spaniards do coddle their children in some ways, and I have had numerous experiences where visitors have wondered if Spanish parents weren't spoiling their kids. On the other hand, many Spanish parents (and teachers!) feel quite a bit more free to tell kids what dumb asses they are! What Spanish kid hasn't been told a hundred times he's idiota, estúpido, tonto! Kids do do stupid things and they should be called out on it. Euphemisms and lies just confuse. The "Mafalda" comic strip above shows Mafalda somewhat confused: the sign says "Keep Off the Grass," but for the joke to make sense we need to translate it more literally: "stepping on the lawn prohibited." The girl's response: "And not dignity?" That is, so stepping on the grass is off-limits, but what about stepping on dignity? ("Mafalda" is a famous creation of the great Argentine cartoonist Quino.) The vignette is very funny and it makes a serious point: you can mess with people's "self-esteem" and not worry about it, for surely life itself will put it in its proper place eventually. But don't mess with dignity. In adulthood, a very well developed sense of dignity makes one almost impervious to the vicissitudes of life. But there's always self-immolation. This month's example: Anthony Weiner.

One of the things I value most highly about Central Pennsylvania Youth Ballet is how it functions as a powerful antidote to the "touchy feely" qualities of contemporary culture: no trophies, no undeserved commendations, no lies about how wonderfully talented everyone is from the get go. These kids know what it takes.

Finally, yesterday I came across a kid with dignity. This video may seem very strange to anyone unfamiliar with Spanish culture generally, and Andalusian culture specifically. This boy, Fernando Caballo, sings a saeta to an image of the Virgin Mary in a Holy Week procession in the town of Marchena, near Seville. (This was nine years ago; he's still at it today as a young man.) It's interesting how he's surrounded mainly by men. Watch it here. Let me know what you think.

Don Quixote in the XXI Century (1)

2011-06-17T15:09:00.000+02:00

I'm currently rereading Cervantes' masterpiece, but now for the first time in English. (Edith Grossman's translation deserves all the praise it has received.) And here's my thought for today: Cervantes is anything but a dogmatist. The novel values freedom. (Much has been written about that.) Don Quixote's madness produces much laughter in the first part of the novel, but our knight errant is not merely a buffoon, and the essential characteristic that elevates him from buffoonery to universality is his deep connectedness. He is connected not only to Sancho, but to many of those who surround him. One of the most poignant moments in Part I is when he meets fellow sufferer Cardenio in the Sierra Morena. (Image: Don Quijote lays eyes on Cardenio. G. Doré.)

Enough Already with the First Name Treatment!

2011-06-14T21:54:00.002+02:00

I'm tired of it: at the doctor's office, dentist's office, bank, super-market, on the phone... it seems everywhere, everyone's my new friend and we're all on a first name basis from the get go! I'm thinking of getting a button or a name tag: "Mr. Aldrich," or "HELLO, my name is Dr. Aldrich". Something. Actually, this has been going on for many years, but it seems recently all is lost. Oddly, about the only people who don't address me as "Mark" are my children and my students. It's been an interesting challenge trying to pinpoint precisely why this social practice irks me, but I thinking I'm getting closer to the mark. (Pun intended.) Basically, it's the fake familiarity. And to a slightly lesser degree, the lack of respect. This morning at the bank when the very young teller said, "Ok, Mark, is there anything else we can do today?" I was quite tempted to say, "Yes, stop calling me Mark." But I didn't want to spoil my good mood on this lovely morning so I let it go. I hope it's not a lost cause entirely. In fact, there is much lost if we give up using surnames completely. There are some instances in which this treatment may be motivated by a wish to preserve some privacy by not using your last name in a situation where others may overhear. (I've heard this argument used in defense of first name treatment, for example, at doctors' offices.) Those situations, however, are not typical, and in most cases there is an easy solution. At the doctor's office, for example, the receptionist should get up, approach the patient, and address him or her as "Madam" or "Sir".
A few years ago author Ralph Keyes addressed this issue in the Christian Science Monitor. I agree with what he wrote and I encourage anyone reading this to link to Keyes' short commentary. I'd add the following: the notion that more extensive use of first names is somehow a practice that promotes equality and lessens class distinctions is a chimera. To the contrary, individuals who do not have wealth or social rank stand to lose out because they are deprived of one of the few mechanisms available to them for having their dignity publicly recognized. Dignity is (or should be) important to all of us; it's especially important for those individuals who may lack other kinds of capital. I'm sure Amanda (the ubiquitous name tag) meant no disrespect when she addressed me by first name, but even if she had, I have "protection": age, being a white male, and the real currency Amanda just handed over to me. But when a recent immigrant needs some assistance at the customer service desk and the kid behind the counter (condescendingly?) refers to her as "María" as he explains that she's out of luck, she really is, because María is not yet confident enough in her English to respond, "Please, it's Ms García." To all of you, all of us, it's Ms García.

Big Dunce of 2011 #3: Barnes & Noble

2011-06-06T16:35:00.002+02:00

A few weeks ago I received a Barnes & Noble gift card as a thank you from a student. It was a totally unexpected and unnecessary gesture, and much appreciated. The other day I was organizing my desk and came across the card, so I decided to use it before it got lost. I picked out a couple of books from the Barnes & Noble website, but as I was going through the "check out" process the computer told me that the card's balance had been exhausted. That wasn't possible so I called customer service. The woman who took my call checked the card number and informed me that the card had never been activated. I pointed out that was an oversight of the store clerk, that she could see very well on her computer the card had not been used, and that why didn't she just credit me the $25 and let me pay for my books. Impossible. The person who bought the card would have to go to the store where the card was purchased with her receipt to get the problem fixed. I explained that was ridiculous, that I wasn't going to bother the person who gave me the card, that it was highly unlikely the receipt had been saved, and that, in any case, that was putting an unfair and unreasonable burden on the customer for a mistake made by the store. Tough luck! So I asked to speak with a supervisor. The next person gave me pretty much the same story. I explained that the situation was akin to thievery, but they weren't interested. I've tried email, but so far I've only gotten two machine generated responses that are really insulting. This is BAD customer service and creates the impression of a horribly run corporation.

Out at the Ball Park

2011-06-03T18:53:00.000+02:00

The other day I was able to make my first trip of the season to City Island to see a Senator's game. It was very hot, but nonetheless very enjoyable. And it was an interesting game featuring the first place teams of the Eastern League's two divisions. The Senators had won eight in a row and the New Hampshire Fisher Cats were on a seven game win streak. I was impressed by both starting pitchers, but particularly so by the Senator's Brad Peacock. Look for him soon on a major league roster. The game was tied 1-1 in the bottom of the eighth when things went horribly wrong for the Fisher Cats, and for Callix Crabbe in particular. Crabbe is the Fisher Cats second baseman, but at the start of the bottom of the eighth he was moved over to third, as a pinch runner had come in during the top half of the inning and stayed in to play second, replacing regular third baseman Mark Sobolewski. Poor Crabbe bobbled a routine grounder with men on first and second and one out. Handled deftly it could have been an inning-ending double play. Now we've got the bases loaded and still only one out. The next batter hits a soft one hopper to Crabbe and our man hesitates a moment then throws home. Wildly! Later in the inning a ball got by him that some third basemen definitely would have gotten. Three runs scored in the inning and the Senators went on to win, 4-2. It's kind of sad: Crabbe made it all the way to the big leagues with the San Diego Padres back in 2008, but his time with the big team was limited and unsuccessful. His chances of making it back (he's now in the Blue Jays organization) do not look good. And he didn't look good at the plate either, striking out badly twice. Crabbe's tough night is a good reminder of how unfamiliar environments can produce serious difficulties. I really hope it ends well for Crabbe and that better games are ahead for him.

And Without Irony (Note on Granma)

2011-04-29T20:00:00.001+02:00

From time to time I like to take a look at Granma, the daily newspaper of the Cuban Communist Party. In today's web edition the top of the page invites us to take another look at a fragment of one of Fidel's speeches, this one from December, 1988. It's a harangue about the dangers of "social indiscipline," this counterrevolutionary fifth column that threatens to undermine the island. 1988 is twenty years after the beginning of the infamous "Caso Padilla," when poet Heberto Padilla was condemned for publishing his work Fuera de juego. One of the better poems in that collection is "En tiempos difíciles" and it does a nice job of deconstructing the kind of Big Brotherish terror-think that Fidel has been such an expert at inflicting on Cubans for the past half century. Padilla was tortured for daring to call out the double speak. Castro's "reflection" is a battle cry, a call to fight on many fronts. The classic call from the dictator for his people to sacrifice all for the grand cause so beautifully represented by the Leader.
The image shown above is moving around cyberspace as a call for internet access for Cubans. See a brief explanation here.

Big Dunce of 2011 #2: Orly Taitz

2011-04-28T20:47:00.001+02:00

Wow! This woman has totally flipped. She also appears to be a compulsive liar. After the White House released the long form of Obama's birth certificate, this nutcase made the claim that it must be false because Obama was identified on the form as "African" and in 1961 he would have been identified as "Negro." Guess what? It's another lie: the document does not identify Obama, but rather his father, as African. Incredible: Obama's father was, indeed, African. It's hard to know where to begin with this woman. She may have been born in the Soviet Union, but she seems like a true American freak. This is the woman who says Obama is a "radical communist" and a "radical Muslim."

Cuban Media

2011-04-23T14:08:00.003+02:00

This morning newspapers around the world lead with large headlines of outrage and indignation over the grotesque and murderous ruthlessness of Bachar El Asad's massacre of his own people in Syria. Yesterday his gunmen killed close to a hundred unarmed protesters. Granma, the official daily of the Cuban Communist Party has... not a word! (Their International section does report, on the other hand, on a woman interrupting a talk by Obama in California; she was demanding freedom for Bradley Manning, the soldier who made possible the huge wikileaks cache of State Department documents.) Dickinson hosted a Cuban journalist this week, a regime journalist. Hedelberto is a very nice guy with some curious ideas, among them that Amnesty International is a very right wing organization. I look forward to communicating with him regarding Granma's international coverage.

Peter Aldrich, Painter

2011-03-06T16:56:00.001+01:00

Last week my brother Peter was featured in a Boston Globe article on educational oppor- tunities and their benefits in life after retirement. The article is accompanied by a short video on Peter's artistic vocation. I am the proud owner of one of my brother's circus paintings and I hope to enlarge my holdings before long. Peter is an insightful and expressive painter. I love the self-portrait you see in the initial image. The eyes say something very true about my brother. They are thoughtful and wondering, with a touch of skepticism, and the lines running up the checks towards those eyes suggest concentration. Having older brothers and sisters to show me the way is an one of the great fortunes of my life. (Maybe my parents' genes were a little worn for the wear by the time cosmic chance produced me, but, wow, what a compensation!) I doubt that I am a future painter, though one never knows; I do look forward to spending more time writing. And hiking!

Hazel Sabas-Gower's "Green"

2011-02-25T04:22:00.000+01:00

One of the things I have most enjoyed in the process of becoming familiar with ballet is the moment when ear and eye converge. The dancers invite me in for a synesthetic experience. Yes, the famous Balanchine quote: "see the music, hear the dance..." When I saw Hazel Sabas-Gower's "Green" premiered here in Carlisle last month I was immediately drawn in by the organic beauty of the dancers' movements. The dancing was tremendously expressive and the dancers were like living sculptures. This is a work that could be greatly appreciated photographically. (Go ahead, here are some examples: "Green.") Yet, I never felt that the experience was synesthetic. The music by Bach seemed just right, but there was something about the way Ms Sabas-Gower choreographed the piece that made me feel the music was acting more like a canvas on which the dancers were painting. That is, the dancers were not illustrating the music, nor was the music narrating the dance. Rather, the music was like a landscape on which, or perhaps out of which, the dancers moved, themselves becoming the landscape. It was quite beautiful.
Sometimes contemporary dance leaves me cold. It can be overly cerebral, much like abstract expressionist painting. As I was watching "Green" I did not have the sense I was being lectured at. The dance was not challenging the audience with the "do you get it?" pretentiousness that can make some contemporary art insufferable. What I did very much feel was an invitation to consider (reconsider?) our human condition with an open, expansive sensibility. I do feel awe, for example, when I see animals in wilderness settings. Those sightings can be quite special, but I don't suspect the feeling is mutual. How does a coyote experience beauty? It doesn't. What a privilege to be human! That's what I was feeling as I watched "Green."

The Mariinksy Ballet's "Giselle"

2011-02-14T14:24:00.005+01:00

Giselle is another good example of how simple, uninteresting surface plots can offer adequate foundations for great art. Yesterday was my first exposure to this ballet and it did not disappoint. The Mariinsky Ballet (the Kirov in Soviet times) at the Kennedy Center. Splendid! Diana Vishneva danced the role of Giselle. I had seen videos of her dancing, so I was not in the least surprised at feeling astounded as I watched her performance. I was surprised, and quite moved, by the breath-taking beauty of the corps de ballet. The group of dancers who performed as wilis, those malignant spirits who torment men, were so beautiful as to be thoroughly implausible. The elegance of their rhythmic synchronization was dizzying. Further, how can mean-spirited ghosts possibly be the source of such beauty? Of course, the storyline is just romantic whimsy: peasant girl falls in love, then drops dead when true (noble) identity of object of love is revealed. That's Act I. In Act II, ghost of girl rises from the dead to try to spare love interest (who is sincerely repentant for his deception), from torments of wilis (the ghosts of women left hanging at the altar). (The wilis force the men to dance until they drop dead! But, the dancing! The dancing really does seem supernatural. Oh, and Maria Shirinkina and the young man with her whose name I don't remember. Their solos and pas de deux in the first act were outstanding! Incredible!

Big Dunce of 2011 #1: Bill Donohue

2011-02-08T21:24:00.007+01:00

Bill Donohue, the bully from the Catholic League, seems to be pretty clueless when it comes to art. And the truth. Donohue got his hysteria machine going not too long ago over the case of David Wojnarowicz's video "A Fire in My Belly" at the National Portrait Gallery. The video has a brief scene showing some ants crawling over a crucifix. Unfortunately, the museum caved in to the pressure and censored itself, removing the video from the exhibit. Even worse, they apologized for the "offense". The story is summarized here. The video can be seen here. What would Donahue think about this 17th century painting by Juan de Valdés Leal? Although not easily visible in this reproduction, the decomposing body of the bishop is being merrily eaten by ants, maggots and other little creatures. Is this painting anti-Catholic? Of course not! (In fact, it graces the entrance to the church at the Hospital de la Caridad in Seville, Spain.) Western art has a rich vanitas tradition, and Wojnarowicz's work participates in it. The ants may also call to mind the work of Salvador Dalí, another catholic artist Donohue would unlikely approve of.

Wojnarowicz's video could be offensive to some sensitive souls, but there is a very simple solution: don't watch it. What a shame they gave in like that. Donohue ranted that taxpayers shouldn't have to fund "hate speech." First, it's patently absurd to consider "A Fire in My Belly" hate speech. Second, Donohue lies: the exhibit is privately funded. It's not costing taxpayers anything.

p.d. If you want further evidence of what a thoroughly repulsive character Donohue is, listen here to Donohue poo poo the report releasd last year on sexual abuse by Irish clergy. Truly beyond the pale.

Tahrir Square

2011-02-03T16:43:00.005+01:00

The situation in Cairo is simultaneously hopeful and frightening. Mubarak has unleashed his thugs in an apparent effort to crush the rebellion. How the military will ultimately come down remains to be seen. I suspect many generals are weighting their loyalty to the regime. Where lies security? Control? There's a lot riding on the next few days. Mubarak will fall. I'm hopeful that efforts going on right now to intimidate and get rid of foreign journalists and human rights groups will fail. It's easy to see the power of social media--anyone with an internet connection and a twitter account can be a journalist.
Last night (and many nights) I find myself reflecting on the incomprehensible vastness of our universe. Literally mind-boggling. These thoughts often lead me back to the tired idea that in the grand scheme of things we really don't matter. Our insignificance is laughable. Perhaps. But this morning I found myself considering a contrasting idea: smallness is all we have. There is no "grand scheme." This is it. So people standing up for their dignity in Tahrir Square really does matter. The efforts of Egyptian State security to "blow up" civility in central Cairo should be more than enough for the Obama administration to make a more forceful public break with Mubarak. There is no future with him.

Applause

2011-01-08T17:59:00.005+01:00

Have you ever wondered why we show our approval with applause in some situations but not others? For example, a little symbolic clapping is traditional at the end of a ballet class. It is decidedly not traditional at the end of an academic class (unless it's the last class of a course, in which case there may be applause). It's a curious phenomenon. In his weekly article in Diario Sur, Pedro Aparicio has some interesting observations on the growing mania for applause in contemporary Spanish culture. (He main topic is his need for the antidotal value of Emile Cioran's aphorisms.) Always witty, don Pedro describes Spain today as one immense ovation. There is a lot of truth to this: Spaniards applaud in church, in cemeteries, and they put an end to "moments of silence," often too soon, with enthusiastic applause. ("Moment of silence" in Spain, one of the very noisiest countries in the world, is a misnomer, a seemingly impossible abstraction. On the other hand, at least Spanish performers don't have that awful habit, often on display here, of asking for applause. I've observed this on numerous occasions during lectures and other kinds of performances. Earn it!)

In the U.S we are a little more restrained with applause. Recently I performed a fascinating experiment. A recent performance of The Nutcracker by the Central Pennsylvania Youth Ballet at Hershey Theatre included a pre-event talk by noted musicologist Truman Bullard. The topic was Tchaikovsky's score, but he spoke generally about the relationship between the music and choreography, between musician and dancer. He was accompanied by CPYB executive director Alan Hineline and associate artistic director Darla Hoover. Just to add a little levity to the session, I asked about the moment in the ballet when the Christmas tree magically grows. And grows and grows! I wanted to know if they thought it was appropriate for the audience to applaud. (I always feel a tremendous urge to clap when the music crescendos and the tree reaches its maximum splendor, but the audiences here rarely respond.) Darla Hoover jumped right in: oh yes! By all means applaud. And that's just what I did: when the moment came I applauded enthusiastically and the whole theater immediately followed my lead. Easy! Fun! For the evening performance the same thing. Then, during the Sunday show I decided not to applaud. Silence. And the tree did seem to me to offer a slight frown for that lack of enthusiasm. I guess most people just like to fall into applause without having to initiate it.

Applause is a wonderful thing, but indiscriminate, inauthentic applause is unfortunate, even grotesque and can make one feel, as the Spaniards would say, "second hand shame." Let's end this post like this.

Rude Teens

2011-01-06T16:01:00.010+01:00

I've got plenty of un- scientific theories. The past couple of days I've been thinking some about ado- lescence. Two days ago I was in the car at around the time school starts in the morning. I come to a stop sign right by the entrance to the high school. After stopping I could have proceeded, but I saw a couple of kids approaching the crosswalk, so I waited and let them cross. They, of course, did not even pause or look at traffic, just cruised right across the street as if it were a seamless continuation of the sidewalk. Nor did they make any effort to look my way to acknowledge my little gesture of patience and courtesy. Nada. Yesterday I stopped to get gas and went inside to get some water. I offered an enthusiastic "thank you" to the teen-aged cashier. Not a word, not even a glance. No doubt adolescence is a stage in life when a huge amount of attention is paid to self. Teenagers can be extremely self-conscious. Egos are big. And often fragile. Peers are everything. Life would be nightmarish if all one's dealings were with the likes of these snot-faced ingrates I allude to. Nonetheless, not all teenagers are as inwardly directed, not to mention just plain rude, as the ones I've encountered this week. (Indeed, the majority of teenagers I come across are delightful kids, full of energy and good cheer!) And, let's not forget, adolescents certainly do not have a monopoly on bad manners. In any case, here's my thoroughly unscientific theory for today: some adolescents are not paying attention to the world around them. Their self-absorption "wins out" over other areas of emotional development and they consequently grow ever more frustrated. They fall deep into the hole of Self, condemning themselves to a lifetime of misery. For themselves and everyone around them. (I have no idea who the girl in the photo is-just an image that came up under "sullen teenagers." Hopefully just a bad moment.)

Reconsidering Gaudi's Sagrada Familia

2011-01-04T15:53:00.004+01:00

An important characteristic of critical thinking is the ability and willingness to reconsider our own strongly held beliefs. This morning in El País there is an interesting example of this: the architect and designer Oscar Tusquests Blanca reconsiders his decades old opposition to the project to finish Antoni Gaudí's Sacred Family temple in Barcelona and offers a mea culpa. In the sixties Tusquests organized a manifesto in opposition to the effort to restart work on the now famous temple. The opposition was centered on the belief that many of Gaudi's plans and models had been destroyed during the Spanish Civil War and that respecting his vision for the monument would be impossible. In his essay Tusquests explains why he was wrong and why the world is fortunate his effort to halt the project failed. Of course, Tusquest's change of heart did not just happen intuitively. To the contrary, he learned that enough documentation was saved to understand quite well how Gaudí envisioned the temple's basic structure. It's an interesting article. The Sagrada Familia is, of course, a major tourist attraction in Barcelona. For me, Gaudí's occasional "dripping sand" style suggests the weight of gravity: we fall under the weight of the Cosmos. On the other hand, he does seem to like vertical lines that reach up towards the heavens. Tension! (In the image above, one of Tusquest's chair designs.)

Falling in the Milky Way

2011-01-02T19:33:00.003+01:00

Let's imagine travel at very close to the speed of light. Let's say, for example, that your spaceship can reach a speed of 185,000 miles per second. You travel in the direction of the center of the Milky Way Galaxy, which is by some estimates about 25,000 light years away. So imagine that after six years of travel you start to feel a little claustrophobic. You decide to take a space walk. Unfortunately, you are a little absent minded and you forget your leash. Bye! You start to fall. My question is, which way are you falling? How can you describe direction in this scenario? Could you describe the direction as falling at such and such an angle in relation to the center of the galaxy?
Is it any better here on earth? That is, as we go about our lives, do we really know which way we're falling?

The End

2011-01-01T16:02:00.004+01:00

This is it for "After a Year in Malaga," which was a continuation of "A Year in Malaga." 365 posts is a nice suggestive number. Time to change. My next post will be under a new title. Future posts will be less personal and perhaps more limited in scope. Stay tuned, and thanks for reading.

Which way from here?

2010-12-31T21:07:00.002+01:00

What about 2011?

2010-12-31T21:04:00.002+01:00

We're feelin' pretty good.

A Good Year?

2010-12-31T21:03:00.001+01:00

Definitely YES.

Nutcracker

2010-12-31T21:00:00.002+01:00

This year's CPYB production of The Nutcracker was unbelievable. Too wonderful to describe.

Quick!

2010-12-31T20:58:00.003+01:00

This blog has been temporarily abandoned. In my last post I proposed finishing up with 365 posts.
It's December 31st...

Gooder and Gooder...

2010-11-09T14:16:00.003+01:00

Recently I have failed to keep up the typical rate of posts for this blog. This suggests to me that it's about run it's course. I just noticed that this is the 359th post. So maybe I'll get up to 365 and call it a day. I mean a year. That strikes me as appropriate. The daily routine in Carlisle moves along... our lives move along. As no doubt I have written more than once in the past, I'm reluctant to write about family members here, about the adventures, accomplishments, successes of daughters, for example... all the things that make a parent proud. Or about the qualities in a spouse that enables one to live a life of "dicha total," of complete good fortune. So, just trust me, that's what it is. Sometimes, often, actually, I wake up thinking, ok. day, top yesterday. Good luck! And yet, it happens. (It's still true, Mac: it keeps getting gooder and gooder!)

It's a slendid morning in Carlisle, and there's lots of fun work to do.

The Bright Lights of Kelly Khuri

2010-10-21T15:46:00.005+02:00

Here's a great quote from today's New York Times: “This so-called climate science is just ridiculous. I think it’s all cyclical. Carbon regulation, cap and trade, it’s all just a money-control avenue. Some people say I’m extreme, but they said the John Birch Society was extreme, too.” That's Kelly Khuri, a Tea Party activist. I love the "but they said the John Birch Society was extreme, too." Hmm, I wonder what Kelly considers extreme? One of the founding members of the John Birch society was Revilo P. Oliver, who went on to become associated with white supremacist and holocaust denial groups. John Birch founder Robert Welch famously denounced Eisenhower as "a dedicated agent of the communist conspiracy." Kelly, you are brilliant! (That's Robert Welch in the photo.)

Yasir Afifi

2010-10-17T14:24:00.003+02:00

The case of Yasir Afifi should alarm us all: the FBI secretly attached a GPS device to this young man's car so they could track his movements. Afifi is a 20 year old computer salesman and college student. (There are many news articles about this story, just google it.) A Federal court had already ruled that the use of GPS tracking devices (without the suspect's consent) does not require a court order as long as the tracking (for now, it seems these cases involve automobiles) is happening on public property. It seems to me, however, that the physical act of placing the tracking device on one's private property is, in itself, a gross violation of privacy. How is it that the police can go messing around with one's car without a court's permission?

In this case Afifi found out he was being surveillanced when the guy changing his oil noticed an odd wire, which led to the gps device. They posted images online asking for help in identifying the strange object. Then the FBI shows up at Afifi's door two days later asking for their spying equipment back. And you're going to give it back? No way! If something is attached to your car, it's now yours!

Columbus Day

2010-10-12T14:40:00.008+02:00

The blog has been dormant for a while and during this time I have wondered about its continuity. I have decided to continue because I enjoy writing, but I am still pondering some changes in format and focus. In any case, the frequent review of my most recent past is a useful exercise for me. October is perhaps an especially busy month. We have Semana Poética coming up, the new issue of SiRENa coming out, Alma getting ready to leave for Niger, a new ballet... And speaking of new, today I am scheduled to go pick up our new kitten. This should be fun! Fun was the party we had Saturday night for Alma. The weather was perfect, the food was good and plentiful, and the presence of family and friends like a warm, live giving embrace.

Today is Columbus Day, although the holiday was celebrated yesterday. But it sure is an odd holiday. Nothing to mark the event in Carlisle. Nothing at Dickinson. Strange. In Venezuela the holiday's orientation has been flipped: it's now the Day of Indigenous Resistance. Interesting.

How Much Health Care?

2010-09-21T13:16:00.002+02:00

The most recent New York Review of Books includes a long, interesting reveiw/article on US health care. I've yet to finish reading it, but the central argument is that oversupply of services is a major contributor to our spiraling, out of control costs. Doctors have many incentives to order tests and procedures. Financial compensation and fear of liability are major factors in this dynamic. I had my own experience with the system just last week when, quite unexpectedly, I suffered a major reactivation of a long dormant companion: ulcerative colitis. Very mild symptoms, which had been lingering for a few weeks, and which in the past have disappeared on their own, typically in a matter of a few days, suddenly worsened dramatically and I ended up in the E.R., overcome by pain and dehydration. I'm a lucky beneficiary of modern medicine: a simple I.V. feed, spiced with some good narcotic, had me somewhat hydrated and almost pain free in fairly short order. Appropriately, the first call I got that morning, lying in triage, was from my doctor's office, to remind me that I had an 8:30 am appointment. I explained that I was tied to an I.V. at the hospital just up the street and wouldn't be able to make it. Not a problem: Dr. So and So is at the hospital making his rounds and he'll stop by to check on you. But the E.R. doctor got to me first and he ordered a CAT scan. When I got back from that my doctor found me and we were going over my situation. I asked him about the CAT scan, and he confirmed my doubts when he admitted he wouldn't have ordered it since what we really needed done was a colonoscopy, which was performed a short time later at the doctor's office. Waste? Who knows? I can't blame the E.R. doctor, but maybe if someone had told him my doctor was in the hospital they could have consulted briefly. But the hospital has it's routnes. I'm sure this happens everyday all over the country: hey, we've got this really expensive machine, so keep it in use, keep that billing office busy! (At least my doctor got me discharged and could perform this second procedure at significantly less cost than the hospital.) I'm getting great care and I'm extremely grateful: I kind of tail spun into very poor condition and, thankfully, got the help I needed very fast and with fantastic results: those evil pharmaceutical giants do have some good products! But how expensive is too expensive? How are we going to pay for it?

I question myself about posting comments related to private aspects of my life, but in this case I decided to go ahead. It's interesting to see the health care in action, and I'm fascinated by the speedy coming and going of symptoms and pain management. And the same old thing: someday in the future when I'm wondering when it was I had that really bad week I can look it up and I'll find it here.

Falling Acorns

2010-09-12T16:40:00.007+02:00

On Friday after- noon Asun and I were walking to the car when Asun got hit by a hard falling acorn. Ouch. It's that time of year. Yesterday we were hiking along the Appalachian Trail and I was feeling deeply affected by the season's warnings: life ends. warm to cold, green to brown, moist to dry. What to do? How to respond? Acorns were falling to my left, to my right. Then, kaplut, one fell right in front of me. Damn, am I being spoken to? And then, right on cue, Waldo stumbled badly. As he regained his balance he looked up at me, as if acknowledging, yes, I'm getting old, I'm reading your mind. But it was a sunny morning, too, and we just kept on hiking. The darkness wasn't real. I'd like to be ready for that darkness. Maybe it will help if I think of myself as an acorn. I'll get recycled.

And apropos my thoughts, here is the beginning of today's poem from VerseDaily, "Teleology," by Rebecca Foust:

In the seed lies all that it can ever be,
shoot, plant, flower, fruit and

in the end again, the seed.
In the acorn, the entire tree.

Tone

2010-09-04T14:15:00.004+02:00

Yesterday in my poetry seminar we were discussing how poems communicate tone. Initially I noted that there was some confusion about what tone is, so I asked them to forget about poetry and just think about language and communication in general. That helped recenter the discussion. Perceiving tone in non-vocal contexts can be tricky. (After all, tone is a musical term and its etymology is related to the stretching of a string.) In any case, I suggested they consider email and text messaging, modes of communication which are notoriously bad for clarity of tone. (Was that message supposed to be ironic? What does that mean?, etc.) Later yesterday I received an email from a student that conveyed, I trust unintentionally, the wrong tone. And this morning I read an article in the Times about a major mess up at the Met that very probably could have been avoided had it not been for a very poor use of email. Instead of getting on the telephone, Met director Peter Gelb sent German director Peter Stein, an email that made a sensitive situation much, much worse. (Gelb certainly had a right to be irritated, but by exposing his impatience and irritation in an email he forced an outcome that he wanted to avoid.) Read the article here.

So watch your tone. Sing. (I may yet get my nerve up and take some voice lessons--wouldn't it be great to be able to sing?)

Philip Roth's Focus

2010-09-02T13:00:00.003+02:00

Right now I'm listening to Tina Brown interview Philip Roth (at the Open Culture website) and Roth just made an interesting comment that I've heard very similar variations of from a number of novelists: "I write my way into knowledge of the story." I find that to be a fascinating notion. He starts with a line, that's it. He's not recording a preexisting story; the story develops as it is created. It seems that life is like that. What knowledge do I have of my story? Is it mine? Sometimes the finiteness of the narrative proves unsettling, but a part of my brain tells me it really shouldn't: an infinite narrative would be terrifying. But what I really want is to be properly focused on the right now. Properly? What does that mean? I feel that I have, sometimes, an intuitive sense of what it means to be properly focused, but at this present moment articulateness is escaping me. (And I fear that sometimes the nature of our present age, so given to divide our attention, has sucked me in in ways that I do not like at all. Certain kinds of reading and work are the best antidote.

The Bat in the Kitchen

2010-08-19T12:00:00.004+02:00

Yes, this morning, very early, I was greeted by a bat when I got to the kitchen. No, not a baseball bat, the flying kind. Kind of startled me. But what really pissed me off was that the little bugger had the temerity to make its presence known before I had even had a chance to make coffee. That's not cricket! I was made to feel rather anxious by this state of affairs, and then Waldo complicated matters by coming downstairs and plopping down in the middle of the dining room and acting thoroughly unperturbed at being buzzed by the bat. So I'm trying to get Waldo to move, but he just doesn't see what the fuss is about, and at the same time I'm trying to figure out how I'm going to make coffee while not turning my back on our uninvited guest. Perhaps stupidly, I did pay attention to it, and as a consequence I paid a price: standing at the entrance to the dining room, the thing came right at me, really right towards my face. I backed up and, having yet to receive an injection of caffeine, stumbled and... well, nothing really happened, but this was not a bright moment for my dignity, so it's a good thing it was just me and Waldo. I opened the door to the garden and after a couple of minutes the bat got itself out. I think. Unfortunately, after I opened the door I went looking for a tennis racket. When I got back the pest was gone, so can I be sure it left? Maybe it's hiding inside a ceramic vase or in some other small, dark corner. (Asun did discover the vase trick some years ago while doing some cleaning: a mummified bat!)

Well, now I've had some coffee and feel much, much better. Bat: now there's a Germanic etymology for you. I don't understand how you got from this idea of "to strike" to this flying rat. Because people tend to strike at them? (I don't think so.) In any case, it's nothing like the latinate murciélago that you have in Spanish: "blind rat." Now that's a descriptive word!

Where Is the Noise Coming From?

2010-08-17T11:44:00.005+02:00

It's a good news bad news kind of morning. The bad news is I did not sleep well, probably attributable to excessive caffeine consumption yesterday. The good news is I get to really enjoy the early morning quiet that is especially attractive in the hour just before dawn. It's a calm, starry night in Carlisle. But what's with the annoying humming sound? Something, somewhere is causing this humming. It's coming from the exterior but I can't identify the source. I'm pretty sure I've heard this humming in the past. Once the daytime noise starts you can't detect it, so who knows if it's always there or not. Background noise. And rather annoying. Get me back to the woods... In fact, I was thinking on my last hike: wouldn't it be nice to just walk, walk, walk... I've never been on a real long distance walk and it's something I'd very much like to experience.
Sunday was the Feast of the Assumption! Without a doubt one of the most beautiful days of the year!!!

So now it's on to day two of the Willoughby Fellows technology workshop. It will be a busy day.

Finally: your homework is to go see the film City Island. Very funny. Don't miss it.

Deep In the Woods

2010-08-14T20:41:00.004+02:00

For the second Saturday in a row Waldo and I had a splendid hike. We never really achieved a Zen state, but our time on the trail was much enjoyed. It was a cool, overcast morning, great for hiking. We did the Scenic Vista trail out at King's Gap and I had a few curious moments in which memories of previous hikes on this same trail were brought to the forefront of my mind with tremendous vividness. It was a good feeling. About half way through the hike I had a brief moment when it seemed that we were far, far away from any kind of distraction. Beautiful! We were there, deep in the woods, wrapped in a deep green silence. It is a wonderful place to be and I'm sure this is the central treasure that leads me back to the woods again and again. It is very quiet, the light is soft. Many shades of green. It is a gentle, inviting environment, but quite alive. There is nothing spectacular for the senses to behold, there is nothing to do, no call to action. Just being, perhaps in a moment of deistic acceptance.

The Friendly Skies

2010-08-10T13:12:00.005+02:00

There is a funny headline in the New York Post this morning about a JetBlue flight attendant who flipped out at the very end of a flight to JFK. Trying to keep order, he was told to 'f-- off' by a boorish passenger who was doing that annoying act of jumping up and getting the overhead luggage down before the plane has stopped at the gate. And to make it worse the flight attendant gets bonked on the head by the guy's luggage. So our poor employee grabbed the microphone and launched in an f this f that tirade, opened the emergency chute, and, adios, I'm outta here! Maybe he had read David Sedaris' funny essay on modern air travel in this week's New Yorker. And for that he gets arrested. Hell, he should be told to watch his language, then given a promotion! Just the other day it occurred to me how fortunate I am this year: I haven't been on an airplane, that I can remember, in a whole year. That may be the longest I've gone without getting on a plane in my adult life. Bravo!

Signs of decadence are all around us. Has it ever been otherwise? But, in reality, civil behavior here in Carlisle is very often quite admirable. People say hello on the street, are very patient driving, etc.

Oh, I forgot: that JetBlue guy: just before jumping onto the chute he grabbed a beer. Cool under pressure?

Zen Dog

2010-08-08T13:42:00.005+02:00

Yesterday morning Waldo and I had a magnificent hike out at King's Gap. We hadn't done this in a long time. Usually it's too buggy in the summer to be out in the woods around here, but yesterday I woke up early to cool, crisp air. Let's go! About half way into our hike we came to a point where a one mile loop, the Locust Point Trail, heads off to the right. It's a nice hike but I wasn't planning on going that way, thinking that Waldo was going to be tired enough as it was and that any extra distance was asking for trouble. But my little four-legged hiker insisted on going to the right, so off we went. And in very short time we found ourselves in a wonderful state: no distractions, no thoughts, just moving along, following the path, which must be very much like a tunnel to Waldo. No stopping to mark territory, to sniff; just becoming part of the trail, hiking in unison at a perfect, steady pace. No distracting noises, lots of shade. A minimal touch of breeze. Lots of moss on the trail bed. Our breathing even seemed synchronized. Zen. This lasted all the way around the loop. When we reconnected with the Boundary Trail we seemed to get thrown back into a more normal state of awareness. (And, curious detail, we walked by some scat that I believe was bear; I've been comparing images of bear and deer scat on google, and I'm confident it was bear. If there had been a bear on the Locust Point Trail we may well not even have been aware of it, we were that gone. Or that there?) In any case, the return to normal time was fine, and when we came to the stream on the King's Gap Hollow trail, Waldo had a grand time sloshing around in the shallow water. It was about a 3.5-4 mile hike all together. A hike I won't soon forget: that time on the Locust Point trail was magical.

Weeds

2010-08-05T15:14:00.003+02:00

I found myself thinking about weeds this morning. I imagine the concept doesn't have much meaning outside the context of gardening. I'm curious about the word's etymology. It's clearly of Anglo Saxon origin, but what else...Let's do a quick search. The online etymology dictionary helps some: "O.E. weod, uueod "grass, herb, weed," from P.Gmc. *weud- (cf. O.S. wiod, E.Fris. wiud), of unknown origin. Meaning "tobacco" is from c.1600; that of "marijuana" is from 1920s. The verb meaning "to clear the ground of weeds" is late O.E. weodian. Related: Weeded; weeding." Interesting enough. And a good example of how meaning tends to be so heavily dependent on context. In this case, the concept of undesirabiity is at the core of "weed", but that makes no sense until we can grasp the notion of cultivation, be it a garden, a "native" space", etc. Think about it: who can actually identify, in a botanical sense, what plants we refer to when talking of weeds? It's not about botany, of course.

Anyway, weeds got me thinking about negativity in language, which got me thinking about insults, which got me thinking about the thoroughly miserable state of our political discourse, which seems to sink ever lower.

And that was my walk, observing how some neighbors are very attentive to weed control and others not. And that got me thinking about the difference between wanting and fantasizing. In a gardening context. I keep going back to the garden not because I want anything in particular, but because I fantasize about an aesthetic ideal. I'll never get there, but the process is fun and sometimes quite gratifying. After Eden? Perhaps. And I suspect it was the very same "after Eden" fantasy that got me going with weed. Chasing fantasies can blind. And can enlighten. I hope I'm learning something about the distinction. And that's what I'm on guard against, I think: the dangerous illusion of convergence.

In the Neighborhood-2

2010-08-03T14:58:00.007+02:00

Some years ago a the owners of a house a few blocks down the street from us moved out. The house did not go up for sale. No one moved in. A mystery. Before long the property's condition began to deteriorate noticeably. First the yard. Then windows started to break. Shingles fell off the roof, gutters sagged and broke, etc. It became a real mess and an eyesore for the neighborhood. And the sense of decay was made more stark because it seemed so incongruent given the home's coquettish style and the lot's inherent grace. And then the rumors: all of this because of a particularly nasty and bitter divorce. It was said that if you went up to a window and looked in you could see that the place had been purposely trashed by one of the feuding spouses. Eventually someone got the placed boarded up. And there it stood for a long time. We actually joked about buying the place, but even had we been serious we had no one to contact. As it turned out, an older couple did find out who to contact. They bought the place and fixed it up beautifully.

This little bit of neighborhood history is brought to mind because this morning I was walking by this house with Waldo and was impacted by a detail that I'm sure I've observed many times. But today it kind of hit me on the head like a brick. Near the top of the walkway leading up to the front door, perched atop an elegant iron stand about seven fee high is a very large clock. (And I noticed it's a functioning piece of equipment set to the correct hour.) "Welcome. And by the way, the clock is ticking!" I've walked by thousands upon thousands of homes, and this in the only one Ive seen with a huge clock out front, like a sentry offering a gesture of... welcome? Warning? Irony? Unique, in any case. And I found myself thinking about The Clock, the one you can never rewind. Perhaps I'm fooling myself, but I think I'm making some progress in terms on accepting this universal fate. (The photo above is not from our neighborhood, but rather from Detroit.)

Language Minutiae

2010-08-02T13:20:00.006+02:00

I don't recall the exact context, but last week in one of my readings there was a reference to AAA bonds. The author, using the singular, wrote "an AAA bond". I was slightly irritated, because one rarely hears "an AAA bond". Rather, we say "a triple A bond". Of course, we learn that in writing, the indefinite article changes to "an" before words beginning with a vowel sound. (Not always a vowel: "an honest mistake," etc. Other exceptions would be the 'u' sound [as in "you"]: "a united front," etc., and the 'w' sound in some words beginning with 'o': "a one-run inning.") If we write "an AAA bond" we are conforming to the usage norms regarding the indefinite article, but at the same time we create a little static for the reader, who typically converts written signs to vocal expression. In fact, the norm itself arises from that (higher?) principle: writing reflects the spoken language: we write "an apple a day..." because the consecutive 'a' sounds, when pronounced, like to have that 'n' sound added.

Of course, I don't really care much how writers resolve the AAA bond bind, but I find it interesting and am now reminded of a truly fascinating article from the Wall Street Journal that was sent to me the other day: "Lost in Translation". The article reports on recent research that demonstrates how language actually determines culture, perhaps to an extent we could not have imagined. I learned that many languages do not have the concept of "left and right". Rather, they use the cardinal points for this kind of lateral orientation, even for the body. And, experiments have shown that people in cultures whose languages do this tend to have better spatial orientation. That is, they have "a great sense of direction." Learning another language can expand our horizons. The metaphor is perhaps more appropriate than we had imagined.

Identity Theft

2010-07-29T14:00:00.004+02:00

Yesterday a federal judge sided with the Obama administration in its challenge to the Arizona immigration legislation that was to become effective tomorrow. The legal argument in the challenge is centered not on human rights but rather on administrative prerogatives: the federal government claims constitutionally mandated exclusivity in matters of immigration, border control, etc. Regardless, my own interest is oriented towards the lives of real people: the difficult choices impoverished families face and the extreme hardships they undergo. Maybe, if more people gain an understanding of the realities of poverty and injustice then meaningful immigration reform will be achieved. To anyone who reads this, please read the linked articles. The first is rather lengthy, but is outstanding. It is more than outstanding, it is courageous. It is an essay by a court interpreter involved in the infamous 2008 raid on a meat processing plant in Iowa. (Here.) This link begins with brief testimony by the author, Eric Camayd-Freixas (in the photo, above), before a congressional subcommitee; the essay follows the prepared testimony. Camayd-Freixas meticulously exposes the gross injustice perpetrated on hundreds of Guatemalans and Mexicans by a government agency (the little known Immigration and Customs Enforcement) gone rogue. The second article is from today's New York Times and describes the situation of a county morgue in Arizona. (NYT: here.) Together, these articles offer glimpses into the extreme drama faced by some of the poorest people in the Western Hemisphere. My real hope is that the realities described in these articles will become familiar to people who a) can't get past referring to immigrants with a generic, vaguely derogatory "they", or b) who really think that immigrants are "stealing jobs from Americans" (as if these immigrants weren't just as American, and more, than those who would like to believe otherwise), or c) who simply feel threatened by non-English speaking, darker skinned people. Unfortunately, I don't think I've got my intended audience, but I'll keep trying...

A Good Deed

2010-07-28T15:43:00.010+02:00

On Monday afternoon I called our youngest daughter, who is spending some time in Manhattan. A man answers the phone. For a split second a dark cloud takes over my brain. What the...? But in a moment I understand: our little knucklehead had left her phone in a taxi. The driver was very kind and helpful. He explained that our 15 year old had been his last fare of the day and that he had just dropped the car at the garage and was now headed home on the subway. He offered to return the phone the next day and would call when he ended up near Lincoln Center. And it worked: he met Daniela down on the street and returned the phone. It would have been so easy for this guy to just blow it off, but he didn't. He was polite and accommodating. So, three cheers for New York cab drivers! It reminds me of a driver from West Africa we had on a recent trip. Very nice. And this guy, a good man! I trust our daughter gave him a very sincere thank you. And hopefully a good tip.

Speaking of tips, at the time I was trying to call Daniela on Monday, Asun and I had just checked in to a very nice Bed and Breakfast in Oxford, Maryland. Beautiful! Right on the water. An extremely relaxing setting. Anyway, one little detail I couldn't help noticing was the envelope/note suggesting we leave a tip for the cleaning lady. I suppose there are two ways to look at this: one is, if you can afford to stay here you can certainly afford to tip the help. True enough. On the other hand, and I subscribe to this latter mentality: hey Mr. Innkeeper, if you can charge really luxury rates, you should be paying your help a living wage. Or just charge even a little more if the balance sheets are really so tight, but tipping is, in most instances, an undignified custom that we should be working to end. Our "housekeeper"? We were at this inn for one night. Why would you tip someone just for doing their job? In any case, we did have a most enjoyable stay and had fun discovering an area that was completely new to us. Outstanding.

In the Neighborhood

2010-07-26T14:20:00.007+02:00

Not much news in our neighborhood. Now and then I've considered doing a blog in Spanish, mainly for friends in Spain, on the premise that I could make observations about daily life here that some may find curious. Bur what can one say about sleepy Carlisle? No doubt there are lots of interesting goings on to ponder, but it requires some imaginative thinking and perhaps some distance. At the moment I have neither. I do appreciate the sense of place I get here, a pleasure I experience frequently, especially on walks with Waldo. Some parts of our lives need familiarity, and the local landscape, so little changing here in the historic district, certainly offers that. My eight minute walk to work, for example. In the nineteen years we've been here, nothing has changed on that walk: no new houses, no buildings torn down, it's just as it was in 1991. Yesterday we were thinking about that as we passed through the fields behind Mooreland Elementary School: first Alma there as a kindergartner, then Cristina, then Daniela... now Waldo.

Dialogue. Me: Our big problem is there are too many humans.

She: Well, there are a lot more insects than humans. That's a problem.

People en Español

2010-07-24T13:19:00.004+02:00

Yesterday I was waiting in line at Wal-Mart (Ben & Jerry's attack) when I noticed a new addition to the magazine rack: People en Español. Yet another sign of our changing demographic. There have been lots of Hispanic migrant workers just south of here, in Adams County, for many years. (Asun helps out in some clinics they have for the workers, and will soon be bringing her students along, continuing an initiative started by a colleague who is on sabbatical this year.) But there was not a noticeable Hispanic presence in Carlisle until much more recently. The change was subtle and I first noticed it about three years ago in... Wal-Mart. Clearly the local management has noticed the change too. I'm curious about the degree of overlap between the migrant worker community in Adams county and the more recent immigrants who came to provide cheap labor for the construction and service industries. This latter group is much more visible to the general population, at least in this area. Not many people make it out to the orchards and actually witness the hard labor that very few are willing to perform. And who among us witnesses the work in the slaughterhouses? And of course, we don't see the conditions of extreme poverty in Mexico or Guatemala these workers are fleeing in the first place.

I was thinking about that earlier this morning: Carlisle is our little bubble, for the most part, a very pleasant environment. I always get that notion, for example, when I'm in the Dickinson library. Wow! It's a little piece of heaven.

Poetry and Science

2010-07-21T15:18:00.003+02:00

For the past several days I've been dedicating a good amount of time to the work of Manuel Alcántara, a poet and essayist from Málaga. His work will be featured in the upcoming issue of Sirena. Last night I was translating one of his newspaper columns in which he makes a remarkably simple yet astute and eloquently expressed observation regarding our world. He says, "the whole world is home (patria), beyond the flags that mark dominions and the boundaries that stitch together territories." Alcántara's context is a brief reflection on the occasion of Earth Day, 1990. His concerns are most familiar: parochial and selfish interests threaten our future; our survival as a species (as well as that of all other species!) depends on cooperation. His use of the word patria is most significant: it's a term associated with national identification, but is also frequently used in the expression patria chica to indicate the importance of local identities. Alcántara is reminding his readers that we've got it all wrong, of course: the only true home, in a geological sense, the one that counts, is Earth.

This morning I was reading in the New York Review of Books a review of Rewilding the World by Caroline Fraser. Contemporary conservation science makes the same point as Alcántara: creating islands doesn't work. We need connectivity. (Do we ever!) The reviewer, John Terborgh, offers this quote from the book: "We are realizing that conservation is not about managing wildlife as much as it is about managing ourselves–our appetites, expectations, fears, our fundamental avariciousness." Well, the same can no doubt be said of art: it's about managing ourselves, although most would say art is about understanding ourselves. And I'd say that to understand, to truly understand, is to manage. Donne's Meditation XVII, where you will find his famously quoted lines "No man is an island..." makes a similar point within a Christian context.

Back at City Island

2010-07-20T12:21:00.007+02:00

Last night I got to my first Senators game of the year. It was a nice evening and the ball park looked great. And I had the good fortune to be seated next to a very kind gentleman who enjoyed discussing baseball. Our conversation began with him asking me if I were a season ticket holder. He explained that he he had tried to get the seat I was in but that it was already taken. I guess he asks everyone the same question, trying to figure out why he got stiffed. (I had the aisle seat, and that's no doubt why this guy wanted it.) It was, in fact, a wonderful seat, fifth and final row of the field boxes, just behind first base. And at City Island, where there is minimal foul territory behind the plate and along the base paths, you are really close to the players.) In any case, the game started off horribly for the Senators (down two zip before they had recorded a single out, shoddy fielding in the top of the first, poor base running in the bottom half...), slowly settled down (good pitching), then turned fun with a five run seventh. The highlight was watching shortstop Danny Espinosa go 5 for 5, including two homers. (Bristol right fielder Mark Dolenc absolutely crushed one way over the left field everything in the fifth inning.) Even the most routine games involve something memorable. In this case, in addition to seeing Espinosa go 5 for 5, I had the opportunity to see pitcher Loek Van Mil, who just happens to be 7 ft. 1. But that's not all. He's originally from the Netherlands and he pitched quite well for the Dutch team in the World Baseball Classic. He's moving up in the twins organization. But he had a bad outing last night. Speaking of relief pitchers, it's time to check in on the progress of Atahualpa Severino. He's still in Syracuse, apparently having a good but not great year. His ERA is 3.65 (44.1 innings pitched), but his walk to strikeout ratio is not good. I'm rooting for him! (In the photo, Danny Espinosa, playing for the US in the Pan American Games.)

The Bird Feeder

2010-07-16T12:55:00.003+02:00

When I bought a bird feeder a while back I also purchased a two or three pound bag of seed. It lasted a few days. I went back to Wal Mart and came home with a ten pound bag. It didn't last long either. So the other day I came home with a forty pound bag. I'm not certain what amazes me more, the astounding ability of these little creatures to consume one hundred percent of their body weight in very short order, or the impressive economies of scale involved in buying bird food. I don't remember the exact prices of the varying bags of bird food, but the differences are wildly out of proportion to the sizes. $5.99 for 10 pounds and $7.99 for forty pounds (!), something along those lines.

We have been getting great enjoyment from observing these birds just outside the window. And also receiving the occasional fright when one turns from the feeder and flies right into the window. Bang! It's happening with some regularity, but they don't seem to be hurt by it. We've all seen photos of summer tourists feeding the bears in parks, that's a standard image of our popular culture. And for a long time now we've been thinking, oh how stupid we were, how ignorantly intrusive on the ways of nature! So why is it ok to feed the birds? Is it ok? In any case, I have very quickly incorporated the newly enlarged bird population into my sense of "garden aesthetics." They help define the spaces at and above eye level in ways I would not have imagined just a short time ago. Their colorings, mainly grays and browns, are subtly pleasant. The occasional cardinal adds a welcome touch of airborne red, which is otherwise only to be observed in the geraniums. And their songs! Most are, in fact, uninteresting musically (chirp, chirp, chirp...), but now and then you catch a gem. At his very moment I'm seeing a little bird perched right at the pinnacle of a little tree (oh, to not even know the names of the plants in my garden!) and, oh, a squirrel just leaped from the Japanese maple onto the roof, oh my, it's a ballet!

Creative Genius

2010-07-12T14:38:00.005+02:00

Just a few minutes ago I was walking down the street with Waldo. I was in poor condition, feeling both physically and mentally down. Rafael Pérez Estrada saved me. Really, that's the power of poetry. I started bringing to mind some of his verses, but, what a luxury!, also recollections of his presence. Now I'm back home, and a jewel of a poem appeared at just the right moment. The poem is "Demasiadas cosas para un solo poema" ("Too many things for a single poem") and it's classic Rafael: our reality is overpopulated with wonder. In this poem the poetic voice is observing nuns and seagulls at the beach. He posits that they'll have to post a sign prohibiting so many nuns and gulls from flying around at the same time! The poem's central metaphor is compelling: "It's as if all the stars in the sky insisted on coming out on the same night." Saved again!

Joy amid the Tragedy

2010-07-12T12:52:00.004+02:00

Good for Spain. I'm not much of a soccer fan, but we did watch the World Cup final with much interest. The Dutch were intimidated by Spain's superior talent and tried to level the field with hard fouls to disrupt Spain's game of precision passing and ball control. It almost worked. This was a final between two countries with magnificent painting traditions, but in this game only the Spain was Picassian.

I was a little surprised that the tv commentators made no references to the colonial history of the countries involved: Spain's occupation of the Netherlands in the 16th century and the violent legacy of the Dutch in South Africa.

Tragically, terrorism is alive and well: the horrible attacks in Kampala, the capital of Uganda, are unspeakable crimes committed almost certainly by enfeebled minds deeply poisoned with fanatical hatred. Discouraging is way too understated. How does one respond to such madness?

How To Make A Fool of Yourself (Exhibit A)

2010-07-10T13:34:00.003+02:00

Go Dan! An open letter to Cleveland Cavaliers owner Dan Gilbert:

Dear Dan, thanks for making the rest of us look good!

OK, that's my letter. If you are a sports fan, you may well have read the impressively stupid (and poorly written) rant that Gilbert made available for our collective entertainment. The open letter to Cavaliers fans is an excellent example of an immature adult channelling the inner child.

(Spurned? I'll get you, you stinking dope!) When I read the text at Yahoo Sports I could hardly believe it. This guy tops George Steinbrenner. You can read the letter here.

Sometimes I feel a little guilty for reading the sports pages of the New York Times and The Boston Globe, but I justify my behavior with the argument that the sports pages offer frequent life lessons. Today's lesson for anyone who may have missed it earlier in life: strong emotional responses to life's ups and downs (anger, joy, envy, depression...) create momentary obstacles to rational, reflective thinking. So, as one of my colleagues succinctly suggested many, many years ago in a pre-internet age: "file that note and sleep on it".

Plan B: First Position

2010-07-09T12:24:00.009+02:00

"Not many had a plan B." This line got my attention a few minutes ago. It's a comment from a real estate broker and refers to high income people defaulting on their mortgages. The article in this morning's New York Times is about the high default rate on mortgages of over a million dollars. It turns out the rich are defaulting much more readily than the working poor. Yes, it's good to have a plan B. This idea was on my mind recently when I became familiar with the circumstances of a young dancer who has been in Carlisle for the past few years, training at CPYB. This young person seems to have had very weak adult guidance and education does not seem to have been a priority. (This may be quite an understatement, but I don't want to get specific...) In any case, I did find myself thinking, what's the plan B? Ballet as a profession is a very tenuous proposition: only the most elite dancers are going to earn a living wage exercising their passion. And even for those select few, dancing for income is often a matter of relatively few years. Fortunately, our thoroughly unprepared dancer is extremely atypical at CPYB. It seems to me that for the great majority of the kids doing this intense training, the endless hours of dedication have provided a very solid Plan B. And that's my point: education in general is Plan B. Classical ballet training affords its students skills and knowledge that certainly do transfer to just about any sphere of life. Adults who question the value of classical ballet training by pointing out that it's just so much snake oil, a cruel taking advantage of childhood dreams, are sadly missing the point. Can you listen? Can you follow instructions? Do you understand that mastery requires seemingly endless practice? That's just the beginning. These kids also learn great lessons about language, communication, and, ultimately, creativity and beauty.

I'll write more on creativity and beauty later, but for now, just a thought on one of the central benefits derived from serious ballet training: the ability to focus. Small children at CPYB are engaged from an early age in 90 minute classes. That's a long time for a kid, but they learn quickly to stay focused on the teacher's instructions. They also come to understand that the big deal is in the small detail. Those amazing things that professional ballerinas do? They learn that it's not magic and that you don't start at the end, you start at the beginning. There are a million pieces to the puzzle. And, here's a key: the pieces must be mastered in a specific, sequential order. You can't go to step two until you have perfect mastery of step one, and when you get to step two you stay there until it too is perfectly mastered.* And on and on and on... (To this day, I feel quite moved when I see the level one students perform their simple dances on stage: yes, so simple. And so flawless!)

There are skeptics, of course. One argument goes something like this: but there's no creativity, you're turning the kids into little machines. It's stultifying! Let them have fun! Let's start at the end and work back: oh, they do have fun! Simple observation makes this quite obvious. The kids love it. Performing a seemingly simple dance in a group gives these children a very well earned sense of accomplishment. Many hours of practice have been necessary to achieve the desired effect of synchronization, harmony, and, ultimately, beauty. The small children may still be too young to know the word "dignity", but they get the idea. There is something noble about being on stage, participating in a well rehearsed, polished work. (And I very strongly suspect there is a much deeper lesson which they may not become fully aware of until many years later: a satisfying sense of high purpose may result from participating in something bigger than yourself.) Finally, the children learn that creativity is not about "self-expression"; it is not instinctual or even autonomous. Creativity finds expression in language, be it verbal, musical, visual, or kinetic. So, first master the language. That's a life-long lesson that many of us never quite get, but these kids at least are on the path.

*In her citation on the occasion of the honorary degree awarded this year by Dickinson to CPYB founding artistic director Marcia Dale Weary, my colleague Sarah Skaggs alluded to this phenomenon most articulately: "With a Zen-like approach, she breaks down each step into its infinitesimal components. Marcia is a sculptor of the ballet student body. She shapes the body through precise articulations. Her students repeat and repeat and repeat the constituent components of a step—piece by piece—until each part of the whole is perfected. Only then does a student advance to the next level. Similarly, Marcia’s system includes 10, not three levels of competence. Each student moves through a finely graded series toward perfection. No one is “passed through” her system."

Popular Media (Lindsay dunks over LeBron!)

2010-07-08T16:23:00.006+02:00

Over the past couple of weeks I have watched a non-story grow into a full blown international media production: "Where will LeBron James play basketball next year?" Or, perhaps the title should be "Where
goes the King?" This basketball player's designation as "King James" is one of the stupidest and most witless examples yet of contemporary sports hype/marketing. But I suppose also fabulously profitable. Only hardcore NBA fans (and that's a pretty small demographic) really care about James' contract status, but if you expose yourself to popular media you cannot escape the constant attention given to the question of where this guy will end up playing basketball next year. Such is the degree of overblown hype that James is teaming up with ESPN to present his very own prime time program tonight, sixty minutes of air time dedicated to revealing the answer to this fabulous mystery. Insufferable.

I confess I find of greater interest the latest woes of Lindsey Lohan. Off to jail! (And everyone cheers.) It's hard to imagine this impetuous little brat ever growing up. And that's the sad part. Clearly no one ever gave her an education.

Back to sports: in this morning's EL PAIS José Samaño refers to Carles Puyol's winning header yesterday against Germany as a "gol racial". You've got to be kidding me! José, what the hell is a "racial goal"? Is this related to the "furia española"? Such nonsense. (And yesterday the ESPN announcers made some stupid comment about the Spanish players not singing the national anthem and suggesting it might have something to do with nationalist politics, you know, many of the national team's players are on the Barcelona club team... hey idiots: Spain's anthem has no lyrics!! That's why they don't sing.) The notion that there is something essentialist going on here is truly repugnant. EL PAIS used to be a serious newspaper and it played a magnificent role in Spain's transition to democracy in the late seventies. Don't they have any editors? (Doesn't Puyol look a little like Jim Morrison?)

Catching Up

2010-07-08T15:36:00.002+02:00

This post is just notes to help my memory: following the conclusion of the June Series, after Alma and Cristina went back to Ithaca and Daniela was installed at SAB, we had a short week in Carlisle. Friday morning it was off to Little Compton for the 4th of July weekend. Beautiful! We had a big, wonderful gathering on the 4th. And we got to meet our 'new' cousin, Janet Barako. She drove down from Westfield, MA with her husband Joe. That was really nice. On Monday we drove back to Carlisle and left Daniela back at SAB on the way. It was HOT, the traffic getting into the Lincoln tunnel was infernal and I lost my temper in very stupid fashion. It's still very hot, with temperatures near or at 100F. Spain beat Germany to reach the World Cup final for the first time. Last night we had a nice dinner with Mickey, who today is off to California.

Here and gone

2010-06-29T12:11:00.007+02:00

This past weekend we had everyone under one roof. Cristina arrived Thursday evening on a train, having just returned from her trip to France, with a quick visit to San Sebastian included. Unfortunately, an intense thunder storm left trees fallen on the tracks west of Philadelphia, delaying things a few hours and so she missed that evening's ballet. Alma drove down Friday. We had about thirty-six hours together. What a wonderful feeling! And so fleeting. It's all so fleeting. But we have these cyclical tendencies that keep us going, and thankfully we get to gather again this weekend in Rhode Island. Well, we're not sure yet about Daniela, but I'm hopeful. Very early Sunday morning we drove her up to NY for her summer program at School of American Ballet. This just hours after a very intense two performance day of dancing to finish the June Series. Spectacular! And about the same time we were leaving, Alma and Cristina were heading back to Ithaca. So the house is feeling pretty empty this week.

It was interesting to see how they are set up at School of American Ballet. It's all under one roof on W. 65th St., right next to Alice Tully Hall, where Daniela had her great Swan experience as a nine-year old. Now she is in a double room on the 17th floor, with views of Lincoln Center below and the Hudson River just a few blocks to the west. Her suite mates have come from all over the country– California, Ohio, Florida... and two of her friends from Víctor Ullate's ballet in Madrid are also there. At the same time we were getting Daniela settled in, a ballet legend, Darci Kistler, was giving her farewell performance to bring to a close a long, long career (30 years!) with New York City Ballet. (Walking across Lincoln Center Plaza we ran into one of Daniela's CPYB mates, now an apprentice with the company; she was getting ready to perform as part of the corps de ballet.) In any case, here's part of what Times critic Alastair Macaulay had to say in his summary of Ms Kistler's career: "Since then (1992) her career has been a long, slow fade... Her pale autumn has lasted far longer than her bright spring and summer combined, and I cannot see that since 1992 she has been a good role model for the young. Often her mane of hair has been a mere shtick. Her solo dancing in the Stravinsky ballets was wretched, flicking lightly at steps that require a rigor she lost long ago." Ouch!! Makes you think that maybe fleeting is not so bad! (In the wonderful photo by Rosalie O'Connor, Daniela with her partner, Antonio Anacan, in Raymonda Variations.)

Greed

2010-06-22T14:52:00.007+02:00

A couple of weeks ago I put a bird feeder in our garden, not far from a dining room window. It quickly became quite pop-ular and I have learned that the little flyers can go through a lot of bird feed in a short time. Just a few minutes ago I was watching a few of them. (I have not yet made a serious attempt at identifying the different species. Most are grey and brown hued and smallish: sparrows, thrushes, an perhaps the red-winged blackbird...) Just as I was thinking to myself, my, these birds are getting bigger and fatter, boom, one of the recently porked up gluttons flew right into the window. Drunk on the seed! Is this a case of too much of a good thing? I was wondering that myself the other day as I spooned up on one of Leo's almond-coconut-chocolate chip ice creams. What happened to those new year's vows to slim down and get in shape? The year had started off so well in that regard... Will I ever get it right?

Is greed universal? Surely we can overcome it to some degree. Maybe the question is, can we overcome it to a sufficient degree? (In the photo, a song sparrow.)

Flopping

2010-06-21T13:32:00.003+02:00

I've been watching a little of the World Cup and have noticed that flopping is still a big embarrassment to the sport. I can imagine it's very difficult for the referee to make these calls. We television viewers have the advantage of instant replay and slow motion. Still, the FIFA people should really tackle this problem. (Like the pun? Yellow card!) I was very pleased to see New Zealand tie Italy, as it's always seemed to me that the Italians are the master floppers. (No flopping in baseball, by the way, which is another reason it is a superior sport.) One thing I have enjoyed greatly is the British commentator on ESPN. I don't recall his name, but his understated humor is wonderful.

And now I just read about the chaos undoing the French team. Oulala! The Spanish translation of the insult apparently hurled by Anelka at his coach was quite graphic. (I did not see a quote of this insult anywhere in the US papers. Ah, the poverty of monolingualism strikes again.) So Anelka suggested his coach shove something into a particular body orifice while commenting on his hygiene and his mother's professional status. Strong stuff, but not very imaginative. The coach could have responded with some comments of his own. It can get tricky. One imagines that no apology was forthcoming from Anelka, and thus his expulsion. If that's the case, good for the coach.

And speaking of the professions exercised by some women, how about that Lady Gaga. If the news reports are accurate, she's got one lame act: acting like a slut (and certainly looking like one) while visibly drunk is pretty pathetic. More pathetic the people who buy into it.

Summer Approaches

2010-06-17T14:39:00.003+02:00

It's a beautiful morning in Carlisle. Summer is here, even if the calendar would have us wait a few more days. The bright light and green grass made me think of a favorite poem of mine, just three beautiful lines from Walt Whitman. It was first published in 1865 in Drum Taps, but, I just learned, as a mere two line poem. The third, crucial line was added in 1870:

A Farm-Picture

Through the ample open door of the peaceful country barn,

A sun-lit pasture field, with cattle and horses feeding;

And haze, and vista, and the far horizon, fading away.

Just listen to the wonderful rhythms of the first line, so nicely divided into two symmetrical halves of trochaic tetrameter. And he keeps changing it up. So the attractive sound qualities really contribute to the pastoral tranquility. It's summer, it's good, and we see an attractive, productive landscape. But the fading horizon is a touch ambiguous. A receding picture. Infinite? In any case, consider the perspective: this picture is described from inside the barn. We see out through the open barn door, which suggests a very "pictorial" frame. To me, that's one half of what the title is about. Our frame of reference is a peaceful country barn, and we are in it. Not a bad place to be on a hot summer day!

Sometimes these peaceful places may lead us to excessive pondering. I think I'd like my horizon to always be fading, but I fear it's coming closer. And sometimes the best I can manage is "it's o.k." Walt makes it easier.

Disjunctions

2010-06-12T18:09:00.005+02:00

This morning I was at the supermarket and during my stroll I was assisted by a curious individual. This man seemed angry and had a noticeably brusque manner. At first he struck me as quite rude. But I was wrong: he was actually quite nice, pointed out a couple of helpful details and wished me a nice day. Rarely do I come across such extreme disjunction. People are interesting that way.

More disjunction: last night I watched the film A Beautiful Mind, about mathematician John Nash. Asun insisted that I had seen the film with her years ago. I was certain I hadn't. And as the film went on nothing seemed familiar, zero recollection. And yet, Asun is pretty good about these things and I suspect she's right. If that's the case, it's not good for me. How could I forget something so completely? In any case, it was an ok film. The story is certainly interesting.

Lots to think about, much to do. Here's a question: is it important to remember? (I just can't get excited about World Cup Soccer.)

Luck

2010-06-05T14:33:00.009+02:00

Last week there was an interesting article in the New York Times about some kids from the US who have gone to Moscow to study ballet at the school of the famed Bolshoi ballet. (Read the article here.) How times have changed! But in fact, these kids are not the first to do this. Way back in 1996 CPYB student Vanessa Zahorian left Carlisle to go study at the Kirov. She has gone on to have a stellar career at San Francisco ballet. I am always intrigued by people with particularly strong passions. One kid, Joy, put it quite plainly, "I want to be Russian." I can't identify with that one, but I definitely could identify when I read that she burst into tears the first time she saw Natalia Osipova on video. Sometimes beauty is just that powerful. (Osipova is currently in New York for a stint with American Ballet Theatre. Read Alistair MacCaulay's rave review of her performance Tuesday night here.) In any case, regarding Daniela's passion, it seems like really good luck that we are in Carlisle, where the passion is so conveniently engaged. Nonetheless, it can get complicated. I just read a marvelous essay by yet another CPYB dancer from Carlisle, Abi Stafford, a principal dancer with New York City Ballet. She writes in Pointe Magazine about competitiveness, professional anxieties, and how she's learned to manage it all. And I feel confirmed: from the very beginning I've tried to impress upon Daniela that it's about having fun. (She's also taught me the very same lesson.) Fun can be very serious business, can involve hardship, sacrifice, and a lot of pain, but we need to keep coming back to that joy and, I think, to the sharing.

(Luck is tricky to define. Well, perhaps not, but it is complicated when we try to determine how it applies in our lives. Sometimes just about everything can seem like chance. At the other extreme, I often hear said "there are absolutely no coincidences." It's usually affirmed by people who believe in an all-powerful, participatory God. God as Director. I don't believe in that one.)

I don't know if this constitutes a passion, but it sure could be fun: we make an obscenely huge paella, then get a crowd, all nicely equipped with thick oven mitts, and we hoist the paella/throne and procession it to... to some huge cathedral? We've had the bread and the fish, now it's time for a paella miracle. (In the image, above, the making of the world's largest paella, near Madrid. Paella for 110,000! Check out the big equipment!) If I could manage to make a very large paella, maybe not for hundreds of thousands, but, let's say, maybe for a thousand (I've reached 100), and got several people to help parade it in a sacred culinary procession, would that be luck? I don't know, but it would certainly be lucky.

Blessed Imperfection

2010-06-03T18:01:00.003+02:00

What a memorable baseball season! Last night more exceptionality: Detroit Tigers' pitcher Armando Galarraga was robbed of a perfect game when the first base umpire made what will surely go down as one of the most infamous bad calls in baseball history. Poor Jim Joyce, the umpire who blew the call. It will be with him for the rest of his life: he cost the kid a joyous moment! And changed his place in history. Regardless of what happens from here on out, Galarraga will forever be associated with Jim Joyce. In this story there are lots of bad guys and at least one good guy. Let's start with the good guy: Armando Galarraga. He didn't scream at Joyce, didn't berate him, and accepted the ump's post-game apology with grace. He's got some perspective. And I just read that in a short time, Galarraga will walk out of the dugout before today's game and present the lineup card to Joyce, who declined to take the day off, and will be working behind the plate. That's courage! Folks, it's just a game. Everyone needs to lighten up! The bad guys: everyone who's been giving Joyce such a hard time, including Jim Sutton, the stupid ESPN announcer who called Joyce's missed call "unforgivable". No Don, it's not unforgivable at all. Well, that's what everyone's talking about today.

Commencement

2010-06-01T19:50:00.012+02:00

Graduations are for the most part joyous events, but typically involve conflicting emotions, especially for the protagonists, the graduates. For Asun and I the emotions (joy, pride, etc.) were fairly uncomplicated. It was also, for us, another first: attending a college graduation as parents. Not surprisingly, the weekend offered a rich supply of clichés, and it requires effort to stay free of them in reflecting back on the festivities and ceremonies. It was certainly a lot of fun celebrating one of these big milestones with the family all together, including brother Stephen (!), accompanied by beautiful weather and lots of happy young people. The Ohlstens were again our superhosts and that really made it possible for us to enjoy everything in a relaxed and stress-free fashion. Thank you Jay and Karen! And kudos again to Jay, my culinary assistant extraordinaire!

More than once over the course of the weekend I found myself comparing what I was observing and experiencing to my own college graduation. The differences are stark on every level. At my own graduation, I had not a single event to attend that involved me being recognized in any way for any kind of achievement. Alma had several. Looking back now, I can only conclude that what was most characteristic of my college experience was its perfect combination of mediocrity and disengagement. I did learn a lot and made significant progress in terms of understanding some of the basic goals of a liberal arts education, advances that I believe have served me well in the long run. But my experiences then were perhaps inwardly directed in excessive fashion. I imagine that someone tried to communicate the same lesson Cornell's president, David Skorton, insisted on in his commencement address to the graduates: stay connected! I may have been listening, but not closely. While listening to Skorton (I am now, thirty years down the line, a better listener), I found myself nodding in agreement, but also thinking, surely you get more than this for $200,000! Of course! (Of course? The cost of higher education and its relative worth will be endlessly debated, but I'm not going to return to that one today. Suffice to say, I'm confident that the resources we dedicate to private higher education are a good investment.) As for the particular case of our oldest daughter, I'm most confident. As we like to say here at Dickinson, this student is "fully engaged." And very accomplished, if I do say so myself.

In her marvelous address to her classmates, Alma alluded to the irony of calling graduation "commencement": there is no question that students are celebrating the end of something. But maybe that's how we justify such a heavy investment in education: feeling like maybe you haven't learned so much? Hey, not to worry, it's just the beginning. You'll see the benefits later. Without this education you may be at greater risk of false starts. Maybe, maybe not. I really don't know; I, too, feel like I'm just getting started.

Well, who knows what is about to commence. It looks like West Africa for the graduate. Another story for another day. In the photo: why I get up every morning.

Sister Margaret McBride and Solidarity (or its absence)

2010-05-27T13:03:00.010+02:00

This morning Nicholas Kristof writes about the recent and sudden excommuni- cation of a catholic nun in the diocese of Arizona. Why would a nun devoted to caring for others and described by many as "saintly" be excommunicated? It must have been something truly horrid, for, as we know, wayward priests rarely receive this, the ultimate punishment within the church. Priests who fail to keep their vows: not so bad. Priests who question church doctrine: disciplined, but not excommunicated. Pedophile priests: it seems they typically get a job transfer. Those higher ups who tolerate pedophile priests: retirement in Rome. What did the devout nun do? She, as part of a group decision, gave the ok to an abortion that was deemed necessary to save the life of an 11 week-pregnant woman. (The woman is the mother of four children.) Sister Margaret served on the bioethics committee of St. Joseph's hospital in Phoenix and, according to Kristof, the committee's "decision was made after consultation with the patient, her family, her physicians, and in consultation with the Ethics Committee." An abortion is a tragic event, and many believe there are circumstances when it can plainly be viewed as killing an innocent life. But imagine the circumstances faced by the young woman in Phoenix. She is suffering from pulmonary hypertension and her pregnancy may kill her. She can have an abortion and live. Or she can move forward with the pregnancy and risk death, and by extension the death of the fetus her own life is suppossed to be sacrificed for, or, if ( a very big if) the pregnancy is sufficiently advanced and there is lots of luck, perhaps save the life of the fetus, who would then be born orphaned. One can easily see the terrible nature of this ethical dilemma.

If the reporting about this story is accurate, one can safely assume that had St. Joseph's hospital denied the patient abortion services, she would have been quickly transferred to another hospital for the procedure. That's important: once the patient and her physicians had agreed on a course of action, the abortion was going to take place. But in the event, Sister McBride, according to the Arizona Republic, was the Ethics Committee member on call at the time a "last minute, life and death" decision had to be made. She gave the ok to a decision already made by the mother, in consultation with family and physicians. Can anyone possibly blame a woman for wanting to live? A mother of four? Sister Margaret must have understood, must have been thinking about that mother and those children, about life.

When Bishop Thomas Olmsted learned of the case, he immediately excommunicated the nun, "automatically." The automatic nature of this spiritual death is fascinating. (Remember, an excommunicated catholic cannot receive communion and is, thus, to a great degree cut off from God. So, I don't believe calling this a "spiritual death" is overstating the gravity of the punishment.) Most significantly, it suggests that the particular circumstances are irrelevant. That is, even had the doctors been certain that failure to abort would result in the imminent death of mother and fetus, it would still have been cause for excommunication. No discussion, no need for an Ethics Committee. The lack of any openness to nuance, to the particular tragedies of real life are of no interest to the men in black when it comes to core doctrine. And so the church moves boldly backwards, in this case, cutting off a, by all accounts, faithful and "humble servant". Margaret McBride has dedicated her life to serving the sick and poor as a nun of the Sisters of Mercy order. (This is a nineteenth century order founded in Ireland, not to be confused with the Religious Sisters of Mercy, a Vatican II order founded in Alma, Michigan.)

It is astounding. The church hems and haws for years about what to do with the pedophiles among them, knowing that in the meantime these perverts are traumatizing the lives of their victims. Consider the treatment accorded Bernie Law. Awful men getting privilegd treatment by other seemingly awful men. In steps a woman, who, however you feel about abortion, owned up to the circumstances. She acted, according to her own statement to the Bishop, in a good faith effort to follow Catholic doctrine. But no, no discussion: out, out, out. Strange. Where's the solidarity? Why hasn't some priest offered communion to Sister Margaret in defiance of his bishop? Would he too be excommunicated? How many priests would the church be willing to lose over this case? Do they care? Are they willing to put it on the line? That's the question that really interests me: when are the rank and file priests going to put it on the line? They hold the power.

Disenthrall!

2010-05-25T17:11:00.006+02:00

"To free from a controlling force or influence." That sounds to me like something we should all want. It's a definition of the verb "disen- thrall" and I take note of it having just listened to a short talk by Sir Ken Robinson. One of the TED talks. I came across it thanks to the Open Culture website, which I find so enjoyable. In his talk Robinson quotes Abraham Lincoln's second annual message to Congress, in which the sixteenth president (and don't forget, poet!), concludes one of the final paragraphs of the long document in this manner: "We must disenthrall ourselves, and then we shall save our country." To me it's fascinating that Lincoln uses the verb reflexively, without stating from what we must disenthrall. But it is clear that he is referring, generally, to the present circumstances, the usual way of thinking. And the usual thinking in 1862 accepted slavery, and this is what Lincoln is really arguing for, an end to slavery, and he makes this explicit in the next paragraph.

Robinson quotes Lincoln admiringly, and his context is education, and his belief in the need for a revolution in how we educate people. He argues for "personalized learning". The talk is short on details. That's too generous: there are absolutely no details at all; it's a concept, an idea... But in spite of its generalities and clichés it's a very good talk, and exemplifies (I'm thinking of my students) quoting to good effect. Robinson ends by reciting Yeat's famous "Aedh Wishes for the Cloths of Heaven", which ends, "Tread softly because you tread on my dreams". (That's W.B. Yeats in the image, above.) Robinson urges us to tread softly with our children, who everyday put their dreams at our feet. Yes, we should tread softly, but not just any old way. Let's tread imaginatively. The talk can he heard here.

So, let's disenthrall. Assume nothing, restart, recreate. Or, as ol' Abe had it, "The way is plain, peaceful, generous, just..."

Rafael Pérez Estrada

2010-05-23T13:29:00.005+02:00

Rafael. I remember as if it were yesterday: the phone call from Ballesteros, near midnight. That's it. He's gone. We knew it was coming, but it still seemed impossible. Mari Carmen Troyano came over so the girls wouldn't be alone. Asun on the trek to Santiago. The walk over to City Hall where the majestic Salón de los Espejos opened its doors one last time for Málaga's favorite son. But Rafael was now horizontal, in a closed casket. I remember the faces, the profound sense of loss. Pablo, Juvenal, José Ignacio, Berjillos, Ballesteros, Paco, Rafael's brothers... Antonio was here in the US. Ironies. Ten years have passed, and the anniversary was celebrated with the birth of the Rafael Pérez Estrada Foundation. Esteban Pérez Estrada has seen it through.

I find trying to describe Rafael a most difficult challenge. He was quite formal in manner, but at the same time gregarious. His personality was magnetic and listening to him always a privileged lesson. Cosmology. A poetics of life. Humor and an unparalleled imagination central tools of his pedagogy. Wednesdays were sacred. Bilmore our temple. To walk in, see Rafael at the bar and be greeted with an "ah, mi príncipe". From anyonone else it would have been simply ridiculous. From Rafael, very funny. And very special. I'll be a student forever. This morning in Diario Sur, Soler expresses it best: "Bilmore was the name we had for friendship and a weekly miracle, but also, although it wasn't written in any of our irreverent statutes –words to the wind– a way of understanding literature and society, and a way of recovering that atmosphere of vanguard that once identified Malaga." Indeed. In those last months Rafael let it be known, subtly and emphatically, that Bilmore had to continue. We tried. They tried. And it did go on, has gone on, but it's not the same. It can't be. When the center is lost, the periphery doesn't hold.

Ten years. Seems like yesterday. Here is a link to the first texts of his I had published in English.

Lies

2010-05-19T16:01:00.003+02:00

The other day there were two interesting news stories about lying. First, the young man who forged documents and lied about his credentials to get himself into Harvard, then get financial aid and who knows what other benefits. I've always been fascinated by the psychology of pathological lying. I met a pathological lier many, many years ago and it was very strange. Then there was the story about Richard Blumenthal, the Connecticut Attorney General who lied about being a Viet Nam vet. I saw a few minutes of his remarks and it seemed rather pathetic: "I misspoke on a few occasions... I take full responsibility..." Blah, blah, blah. And now we have the cyclist's confession. What's his name, Landis? It gets interesting when we own up, or don't, to our deceptions.

At a different point on this spectrum: why in the world do people engage publicly in what until most recently were very clearly private conversations? I refer, of course, to Facebook. Every time I visit this strange website I am confronted with the private dialogues of others. For the most part completely innocuous stuff, but still, why do they share it?

The Mirror and the Dog

2010-05-18T16:54:00.003+02:00

Some days you get a lot of work done and other days you don't. Nothing new there. This morning as I walked Waldo I was thinking about staying motivated, and about religions, in a comparative sense. And about baseball, caffeine, some poets, parenting, and what it might be like to be a dog. A little scatterbrained. Some days are just like that. Later today I had the very infrequent, and in this case unexpected, opportunity to sit in on one of Daniela's private ballet classes. One on one. Some of the positions she puts her body in just don't seem healthy to me! I worry about her hip socket. After lots of warming up and technical work at the barre, she worked on two solos. Waldo could inspire a ballet. Two recent observations have me convinced this dog is somewhat unusual. Not long ago I spied him in the guest room upstairs, where he usually sleeps on a futon mattress. He was staring at himself in the mirror! This dog is self-conscious! Typically, you put a dog in front of a mirror and they don't get it. Indeed, the famous "mirror test" research performed by Gordon Gallup in 1970 suggests dogs are not self-aware. I beg to differ. Then, the other day Waldo is by the back door. I toss him a treasured treat: a scrap of chicken. He jogs over and is about to grab it, but he stops to look up and listen to a bird that is breaking into song. And he really stops and listens. So not only is this canine self-aware, he's a poet on top of that. I envy Waldo: I doubt very much he ever worries about wasting time.

Harmonies

2010-05-16T16:14:00.014+02:00

"A poetic image of eternity, of order, symmetry, harmony..." I read these words this morning with great interest. Eternity, order, symmetry, and harmony: hey, it's what I'm after! The image referred to is the opening sequence of the famous "Shades" scene from the ballet La Bayadere. I became familiar with this ballet in 2007, when Daniela performed it with CPYB. (In 2008 we saw the complete ballet performed by Angel Corrella's company in their debut at the Royal Theatre in Madrid. The ballet was created by the great choreographer Marius Petipa, based on a score by Ludwig Minkus.) This morning it is the subject of Roslyn Sulcas' reflection in the New York Times. The first time I saw it I was completely enchanted and so now, having seen the ballet twice, I understand Sulcas' affirmation. You can watch the scene here, performed at the Paris Opera Ballet. The movement is slow and repetitive, and may strike some as simplistic, but it is no easy feat and for the dancers it requires tremendous strength, discipline, and pain-staking coordination. I guess what interests me is the group dynamic. Thirty-two dancers! (CPYB and other companies do this scene with twenty-four dancers.) That's harmony. Perfection! (I get a similar feeling with some of Jorge Guillén's poems, especially his décimas.) There is something somewhat otherworldly about this dance. And dreamlike.

Well, that's what I read this morning. Now it's time to get to work. Must prepare an exam. Yesterday too much time was spent cleaning up from Friday's damaging hail storm. Asun worked on the damage done to her vegetable garden, and I tried to repair some of the damage done here at home. This morning we just noticed the broken window panes in one of the carriage house windows. Ugghhh, more chores, more lack of perfection and harmony. The hail storm certainly did not suggest symmetry, but it sure was a poetic image. Perhaps of chaos, of cosmic anger. My head got clobbered! Some of the hailstones were pretty large and there sure were a lot of them! Incredibly, even though it was warm after the storm passed, there was still ice in the garden yesterday afternoon, twenty-four hours after the storm had passed.

¿En español?

2010-05-13T13:19:00.004+02:00

A small village in upstate New York is making headlines thanks to a councilman's fears. It's English Only all over again. How else to explain why in a rural setting with a very small immigrant presence, where English is already the norm, a town council would see fit to proclaim that all official business will be conducted in English? They might as well proclaim that all official business will be conducted by the living. You know, just in case any of the dead start getting ideas. (This morning's coffee conversation: Daniela's health teacher talks in class about his belief in ghosts. And you wonder about our kids' education!) The man behind this local legislation, Roger Meyer, has bigger goals in mind: he wants this to be the start of a grass roots movement to proclaim English the official language all over the country. One can make reasonable arguments for such a policy. (And if the US were to designate English as the official language it would hardly be exceptional; most countries, in fact, do designate a language, and often multiple languages, as "official".) But there should be honesty in the debate regarding motives. The idea that immigrants don't want to learn English or can't learn English is simply false. And in fact, for the most part they do learn English. Language discrimination is rampant and is often linked to xenophobia and racism. No, we are not a country of ignorant bigots. (It just seems that way on occasion.) Most Americans are basically tolerant. Yet, it is also true that many Americans still harbor some fears about change and these fears are often linked to historical and deep-seated prejudices. A rather benign but nonetheless unsettling example: at our local GIANT grocery store they now have hand-held scanners so that you can tally up your bill as you shop. When you are done you simply scan your card and the bill is ready. It's an honor system. Kind of: I have never been audited. Asun is audited every time. Coincidence? Absolutely not. What's up? Asun presses "Spanish" so the machine talks her through the steps en español. The kid at the stand hears this and... audit! (Spanish, ergo, immigrant, ergo, less trustworthy.) A colleague has corroborated this -the same thing happens to him. But Asun doesn't mind, nor does my colleague, because you agree to the quick check, your honesty is confirmed, and you get rewarded with a two dollar coupon.

Language "wars" are fascinating. No one knows for sure what the future holds, but in this country the future for Spanish looks very strong. So strong, in fact, some genius saw fit to proclaim, en español, "Spanish Spoken in Several Languages". (Photo, above.) A flexible language! ¡Qué interesante!

Catching Up with Atahualpa

2010-05-11T20:36:00.004+02:00

Last year I made a reference to pitcher Atahualpa Severino, who at the time was with the AA Senators. I predicted big things for him. Well, so far so good: he's at AAA Syracuse this year and appears to be pitching well: a 1.82 ERA after 14.2 innings pitched. He gave up three runs in a third of an inning in his first outing of the year and since then it's been lights out. That's not many innings, but let's check back in another month or so. I just learned that Atahualpa was not even drafted, signed as a non-draftee in 2004. That's quite a contrast to his new teammate, Stephen Strasburg. This morning over coffee Asun and I were discussing change, the idea that everything is change. But I have my doubts: on a cosmic scale, change is very slow. At least, it seems so to me. The personal and the cosmic. Yesterday I read part of an interview with Woody Allen, published in Commonweal. (I had no idea that journal was still being published, and was very happy to learn that it goes on; it's a fine publication.) Woody admits that he's a whiner. Life is senseless! Our horrible fate! Yes, it seems to make no sense; why all this horrible and pointless suffering? As I sometimes say to my students, "you don't have to answer". Meanwhile, among the many wonderful activities fate (or chance, I'm not picky) has brought my way, is that of casual but passionate baseball observer. Atahualpa. Say that out loud: Atahualpa! (Atahualpa, by the way was the las Incan emperor.)

Cycles

2010-05-09T21:25:00.002+02:00

Another semester of teaching is almost done. Classes have finished. The academic calendar lends a strong cyclical character to my calendar. I guess most of us live with that sense, and maybe a little more so for those who have children in school. I wonder what it's like for childless people living near the equator? No seasons, no school calendars. Perhaps life would be more like a straight line. Then again, the consistency of sun up, sun down, may compensate: it's real cosmic equilibrium when you can count on twelve hours of sunlight day after day. (I'd like to go the equator someday.) I am reminded of Jorge Guillén's great poem, "Las doce en el reloj". Oh, blessed harmony!

Mother's Day. A little heresy: I'm against it! Against all these made up holidays. They're an insult to our imagination and intelligence. We need Hallmark to tell us show a little gratitude? Well, if I were going to be really consistent, maybe I should be against Thanksgiving itself. I'll think about it. The problem is, I love Thanksgiving dinner. It's actually my favorite American holiday and it is an important foundation myth. And speaking of significant days, today is the birthday of Dante Alighieri. Nel mezzo del camin... I fear I am more than half way, but I'm hopeful. Our neighbor lived to 102 and I'd like to go a little further.

Potter's Wheel

2010-05-06T13:15:00.007+02:00

A ceramacist spinning clay on the wheel shapes an object. His/her skill and imagination determines the form. However, the clay imposes its own limits. So there is give and take. This might seem like a metaphor for parenting, but it would be a terrible one. Yes, we shape our children, especially when they are very young, but the whole point of parenting, I believe, is to shape children who can shape themselves. A ceramic vase will not shape itself. (No, we are not going to discuss John Keats today.) Maybe it was the story this morning on NPR about Peter Buffett and his new memoir that got me thinking about this. Warren Buffett did not give his children millions of dollars to lead lives of privilege. Based on the brief interview I heard, it seems like a wise decision: Peter Buffett sounds like a happy man, curious and enthusiastic. For his memoir he chose the not very imaginative title Life is What you Make It. I haven't read the book, but I'm guessing what he means to suggest with this title is not that you can be whatever you want to be, do whatever you want to do. Asun and I have tried to be a little more nuanced than that, and I imagine most parents do the same: you can aspire to anything. Want to be an astronaut? Go for it! But be ready to study really, really hard. You can't decide to be an astronaut (or chef, teacher, banker, ballerina, etc.) and it happens. Bad lesson! It might not happen. (Bill Durden spoke about this recently in a talk on leadership.) But you do get to "make your life" in that you are in control of its narrative. Know thyself? Define thyself? Polonius' advice to his son, to thine own self be true, can be read as sage counsel or a crass invocation of selfishness. Indeterminacy can be troubling. I see a bright side: the son determines meaning.

A Liberal Education

2010-05-04T20:09:00.006+02:00

This morning's reading: "Only Connect... The Goals of a Liberal Education", a short essay by historian William Cronon, originally published in The American Spectator in 1998. (Thank you, Asun!) Very interesting. In 1998 we were in the late stages of our most recent "culture wars". (Bloom's Closing of the American Mind is from 1987; E.D. Hirsch's Cultural Literacy was published in 1988.) Cronon, too, includes a list, but his is of a different sort; not what we should know, but rather what characteristics we should hope to find in a liberally educated person. Cronon summarizes these qualities when he observes the essential common denominator alluded to in his title: "Every one of the qualities I have described here –listening, reading, talking, writing, puzzle solving, truth seeking, seeing through other people's eyes, leading, working in a community– is finally about connecting. A liberal education is about gaining the power and the wisdom, the generosity and the freedom to connect." The article can be found here. (I highly recommend it!) Over a year ago, and unfamiliar with Cronon's perspective, I wrote a little bit about the importance of connectedness in this entry: connectedness. Additionally, Cronon's descriptions can serve as excellent benchmarks: how am I doing in my efforts to become educated? And of course, his reminder that education is not a state we achieve, but rather a manner, a philosophy, if you will, for dealing with our ultimate ignorance, is quite useful, lest we be tempted to forget. (Forgetting: Plato made the connection between memory and knowledge over two thousand years ago.)

On a beautiful spring afternoon it is not difficult to put aside concerns with knowledge. Well, on second thought, maybe it's not easy to put them aside, but we can at least proceed with a less troubled mind. And besides, it's a day of much relief and tranquility for Boston sports fans: Bruins win, Celtics win, Sox win... doubts, if not erased, at least postponed. Hmmm, maybe knowledge is erasure.

Knowing How it Feels

2010-05-02T15:37:00.012+02:00

Yesterday at the Whitaker Center, waiting to see "Cinderella's Ball", I noticed the art exhibit in the lobby area had the curious title: "Art as Emotion". Too obvious? What else can it be? Art as Intelligence, no doubt. Of course, this title presupposes, for me anyway, that by "art" we are referring not to the art object itself, but to the various relationships established between creator, creation, and whoever has a sensorial experience of some sort with the art object: seeing it, hearing it, touching it, etc. That's where the emotion comes in. One of the first works in the exhibition is a photo of a man taking a snapshot of three people standing just a few feet away. A very frequent, almost universally experienced scene: a nearly spontaneous family portrait. The people being photographed are clearly happy, you can just see in their expressions that being together is a good thing, an important time. And the photograph immediately transmitted to me a particular emotion: I could easily identify with the situation and I smiled, happily, grateful for the shared knowledge. Oh yes, I know exactly how that feels.

I don't know exactly what it could feel like to be a ballerina, but believe I possess sufficient imagination to take an educated guess. When a performance is going well, and the audience is clearly enjoying it, it must feel really good. You feel happiness, joy, excitment... It's all in the dance. In any case, we sure did get some powerful emotions during the performances, and one of them, pride, would not typically be present when experiencing art, but our particular circumstances in this case made that emotion inevitable. Daniela gave an inspired performance as Cinderella. I am often at a loss for words when trying to respond to some of the post performance comments. "Thank you"? Well, we'll just keep trying. Looking forward very much to today's final performance.

Pedagogical Experiment

2010-04-28T12:07:00.004+02:00

This morning I will exper- iment with my students. One of their tasks this semester is to learn a sonnet by heart and recite it for the class. It occurred to me yester- day that one way to emphasize how end rhymes can help them "learn" a sonnet is to have them "put together" a previously unseen sonnet. So I'll give them the fourteen lines of a sonnet "cut up" and scrambled and have them work in groups to rebuild the sonnet, putting the verses in order. We'll see how it goes.

Later: it went pretty well. The students were certainly engaged in trying to figure out the correct order of the verses. And they got there after about fifteen minutes.

April 28th and cold! Might get frost tonight. In the image, the manuscript of Baudelaire's famous sonnet "Recuillement". (And I just learned there is a very, very large-breasted woman by the name of Ewa Sonnet: that's what you get when you do an image search of "sonnet". She's a polish model.

Cervantes, Shakespeare, Pacheco, Cilleruelo... Read a Book!

2010-04-25T15:59:00.005+02:00

Friday, April 23rd, was El Día del libro, a significant day in Spain, and especially in Barcelona, where it is also the La Diada de Sant Jordi (St. George's Day), patron saint of Catalonia. In Alcalá de Henares, the beautiful university town outside Madrid, the King and Queen preside the Cervantes Prize ceremony, honoring a Spanish language author for the totality of his or her work. It is often referred to as the "Nobel of Spanish language letters". This year the winner was Mexican poet José Emilio Pacheco. Why April 23rd? On this date, 1616, the world lost two of the most singular creators ever to put pen to paper: William Shakespeare and Miguel de Cervantes. Quite a remarkable coincidence, and a fascinating albeit imperfect one: both Shakespeare and Cervantes died on April 23rd, 1616. But they died ten days apart. Excuse me?, you ask. Yes, in 1616 England was still using the Julian calendar, while Spain had already switched to the Gregorian calendar, initiated by Pope Gregory XIII in 1582. The switch has to do with a slight imperfection (about 11 minutes per year in the Julian calendar), resulting in the Spring equinox coming progressively earlier, and that became a problem for the Church because Easter is a movable feast. Anyway, Pacheco, a poet I've admired for years, was a great choice for this prize. (That's him, above.)

In Barcelona Sant Jordi is somewhat like Valentine's Day: men give their love(s) a rose, and the girls, ever since a bookseller came up with this wonderful marketing scheme in 1923, correspond by giving their guy(s) a book. Las Ramblas is awash in flowers and books! The Catalonians are to be greatly admired: they understand what's important! Barcelona, that's where friend José Angel Cilleruelo is, and he marked April 23rd with a nice little anecdote about Cervantes, presented here as a rushed translation:

José Angel Cilleruelo,

A Man of Action Reading

From the beginning it was believed Quijote was one thing and Cervantes something quite different. There were those who who went to great lengths to demonstrate the obvious, that Cervantes was as singular as his character. On deaf ears. At estate auctions rarely is a Quijote figure missing: framed, wooden, metal, miniature, as a bust... the variety of forms is enormous, as is the variety of gestures and postures. Today I find a surprising one: an armored Quijote, seated, book in hands, reading. There is no greater paradox: if don Quijote sat down to read, he wouldn't be Quijote, he'd be Cervantes.

Thank you, José Angel!

Squid and Earthquakes

2010-04-24T16:10:00.005+02:00

Today it's just reminders for a tired brain: yesterday our department hosted the Dickinson Club's weekly get together. It was nice to have many nice contributions from colleagues. I made some black rice (that is, a squid in its ink paella, basically) and it came out wonderfully, if I do say so myself. It was the first time I had done that dish large scale. Hector's pork in a sweet sauce dish was extraordinary, as was Beatriz's bean dish. It was a beautiful Spring afternoon, a fun event. From there we went over to the CPYB studios to watch an open rehearsal of Cinderella's Ball. Next weekend Daniela will dance the role of Cinderella. Excellent. And this morning it's work, which is going to start momentarily.

When someone says something truly outrageous, a not uncommon response is to suggest that the provocateur should not be dignified with a response. I agree. However, sometimes the outrageous is so wacky, responses, in the form of healthy laughter, can be ventured with no danger of lending any credence whatsoever to the intelligence-challenged blabbermouth. Such is the case with the Iranian cleric who declared that the cause of recent earthquakes is scantily dressed women. And apparently, scantily dressed, large-breasted women! Well, at least this guy is working within the tradition of a rich metaphor, perhaps universal in scope: the erotic impulse as supernatural force, so strong it makes the earth tremble! The rants become tiresome, sometimes they are quite dangerous, and once in a while we can just laugh.

Kownacki Man!

2010-04-22T15:33:00.004+02:00

I thought I was done with baseball for at least a few days, but thanks to the wonders of our information age, I and millions of others have seen the video of Fordham University's Brian Kownacki leaping over the catcher to score! The play of the year? How about the play of the century! See it here. How often are you going to see something like that? Now imagine pre-Internet. It would have been a local legend with no photographic evidence. It almost surely would never have moved beyond a very small circle of local fans.

Maybe this is the Yang to Billy Buckner's Ying. And what I loved about this video is that Kownacki (say that out loud a few times!) was a little nonchalant when he hopped up. Sure, I do this all the time. Most wonderful is that the kid didn't snap his neck: that was a very dangerous jump. These surprises are really wonderful. You can't run through the catcher? Don't like physical contact? Jump over him! This could be great subject matter for a ballet. (That's Kownacki on the left, above.)

The New Season

2010-04-20T17:43:00.007+02:00

There are many things I love about Baseball. One of them is its extraordinary capacity to surprise. Just when you think it's all routine, something seemingly unique will happen. Right at the beginning of the season you had Mark Buerhle's once in a lifetime play to get a runner at first. I just watched the video again and noticed something I hadn't seen before: the first baseman also contributed nicely, making the out possible by extending his right arm and grabbing the toss bare handed. Buerhle's play was unique, but it wasn't a fluke accident. It's quite clear that the southpaw was making a very deliberate effort to make this play, resulting in an extremely rare convergence of instinct, intelligence, and imagination. See the video clip here. Another early season treat was the Mets' twenty inning victory over St. Louis. And not just any 20 inning game, but a game that was 0-0 after 18 innings! (The longest such show of scoring futility since 1989, when the Dodgers beat the Expos 1-0 in 22 innings.) So imagine this: the Mets FINALLY get a run in the 19th and you think, ok, that's it, only to see Frankie Rodriguez give up the tying run in the bottom half of the inning. But they found redemption and pulled it out. Speaking of the Mets, their new kid, Ike Davis, had a very impressive major league debut last night, helping the New Yorkers to a 6-1 win over the Cubbies. And I see that Jason Bay is off to a lousy start. Dilemma: do I escape work tomorrow to go see Stephen Strasburg pitch on City Island in a rare morning ball game?

Dolphins and Dilemmas

2010-04-17T14:18:00.003+02:00

Last night I learned about the annual slaughter of dolphins at Taiji, Japan, as detailed in the documentary The Cove. If you have not seen this film, go see it! This was all new to me. The end of the film, when you actually see the slaughter, so disturbed me I could barely sleep last night. Truly horrific! It also presents me with a real ethical dilemma. Part of what upset me so much about the dolphins is that they are highly intelligent beings and they seem to connect so well with humans. It's easy to love a dolphin, and we've all read stories about how they come to the rescue of people who are drowning. In fact, in the film a surfer relates how a dolphin saved him from a shark attack. It's quite easy for me to feel sadness and outrage, and I'm quite clear about this: I'll NEVER knowingly eat dolphin meat. But what about my steaks? Is it because we generally consider bovines stupid that I think nothing of chowing down on a nice piece of prime rib? And what to say about my love of jamón de Jabugo? Pigs are said to be pretty smart. I've seen Food, Inc. and the film about Temple Granden, but that hasn't stopped me from consuming animals. We'll see. I guess the test will come next time I'm hungry and there's some meat within reach of my fork. Are industrially raised animals less worthy of attention from our moral compass? Because if what we're talking about here is compassion and empathy, a wish to minimize suffering and to respect diverse life forms, where do we draw the line? Are we justified in establishing a compassion pecking order? I'm all for liberating dolphins from Sea World and like prisons. With regard to "farm animals" I'm less clear. For now.

Madlyn Orloski

2010-04-11T14:17:00.005+02:00

Yesterday we said our final farewell to Madlyn. It was a nice service, but I was sorry I couldn't go to the reception afterwards. Madlyn was a fine friend. She was a tough cookie and had little patience for nonsense. I think I'll remember her most for our time together on the Drug and Alcohol commission. She was not a frequent participant in the discussions at the commission meetings, but she did ask pointed questions. I also have very fond memories of those other meetings we'd attend together. Madlyn was wonderful with the way she could reach even the youngest, most reluctant women who would sometimes come in, full of anger, negativity, and feeling defeated, sometimes even worthless. She really wanted to help them, and she was often successful. Madlyn could have a sharp tongue, but her heart was soft and true. Her humor was self-deprecating and she was always toughest on herself. She reminded me sometimes of my aunt Jo, another tough woman with a soft heart. I can hear her voice, and I miss it terribly, "Mark, it's Maaaadlyn..." And those curt answers when she'd call you out on your b.s. "Ya. Un huh." And she'd look right through you. Cosmos, be on alert. Madlyn is here!

It's True: I know a Dog Named Ratzinger

2010-04-10T13:59:00.007+02:00

This morning I begin the day thinking of Yumi in Malaga and her dog, Ratzinger. The truth is, it's a really ugly little thing. A yapper you'd just like to kick. Get it to go away.

The other day I read an opinion piece in our local paper about the church's sexual abuse scandals. The gist of the article was that there is an unfair, anti-catholic media frenzy that is especially unjust with the pope. Wow! Oh yes, such compassion and understanding from Ratzinger! Always ahead of the curve. Some of us have suspicions that the church hierarchy is heavily weighted with out of touch, clueless hypocrites. Today brings more evidence: the NY Times reports that in 1985 Ratzinger resisted defrocking a convicted child molester. Not only that, the reasoning is strictly self-interested: the priest in question, Stephen Biesle (described years later by a lawyer as an "evil, remorseless sociopath") was only 37 years old. You know, not even the perverts were exactly knocking down the walls to become catholic priests. Keep that collar on! Imagine, decades to come of molestation and abuse! But not even the local bishop who was trying to get him defrocked turns out to be a model of compassion: the letters reveal that it's all about avoiding scandal. Every move is calculated according to how the church will be perceived. The victims? They'll get over it. Hypocrisy from the church hierarchy is amazingly transparent. We're not dealing with rocket scientists here. Recently Vatican officials have been whining about how local bishops are the ones in charge and the holier than thou spirits in Rome can't be held accountable for the actions of a few rogue elements out there. It's a big world, blah, blah, blah... Well, the Inquisitor General's letter gives the lie to that nonsense: when the Vatican wants to control, it controls. After all, it's a "universal church". (And certainly Ratzinger had no difficulty with central authority when it came to those wayward liberation theologists. Worrying about the poor, and social justice. The nerve of those guys!)

One of the last times I was at a catholic mass, several years ago, I was on the verge of interrupting the sermon, but held my tongue for not wanting to embarrass the girls. I regret it. It was during the Boston priest scandal and the local priest was acting all indignant, how terrible it was that a priest could do that. Of course, he couldn't imagine any wrong doing in our diocesis, but that if anyone had any knowledge of any bad behavior or had, God forbid, themselves ever been a victim, to come talk to him and he'd take care of it. No!!!! I was about to scream, No, no, no!!! You go right to the police. Better still, call the dog catcher!

Transportation

2010-04-06T15:29:00.004+02:00

Our van died on Sunday. A rubber seal burst, we lost all the transmission fluid, and the transmission is cooked. So now we need to buy a new car, not an easy proposition in our current state. Go super cheap and hope to things get better in a couple of years? Finance something more reasonable and pray that everything falls into place? Of course, what I really want to do is not even think about it. I'm not interested in cars and would prefer to live without one, but that's simply not feasible just yet. And I'm really busy right now and not excited about this process. Oh well, this is one of those problems reserved for the fortunate of the species. Deciding what car to buy! I just need to think for a moment of the hundreds of millions who are trying to figure out real problems: how to eat, how to avoid violence, how to provide for a family.

What impressed me about the breakdown was how relatively non-eventful it was. Easy! It's Easter Sunday and I'm thinking, man, this could be bad. Not at all: we call AAA and a guy comes right away. Pete Ford, you are one of the nicest men I've ever met! Amazing. Pete drove us to the Elmira airport, where Alma had reserved a rental for us. Off we go and that was that. Pete then continued with the van to a car place in Ithaca. All told we were only set back a meager 60 minutes. Pretty impressive. Jay Ohlsten: you are a paellero extraordinaire! Thank you! The day was beautiful and lunch was delicious. All of us together. Magnífico! Ok, it's late, time to go to work, do something productive. Oh, oh, oh, how about that play by Mark Buehrle to open the season! You won't see that again ever, I can assure you. I'll remember that one. (More on that later!)

Botero and Abu Ghraib

2010-03-29T22:22:00.004+02:00

This weekend I listened to an interesting conversation between Fernando Botero and former poet laureate Robert Hass. The occasion was Botero's series on Abu Ghraib, done in 2006. The drawings and paintings have been donated to the UC Berkely Art Museum, after Berkely, in 2007, became the first public institution in the US willing to show the paintings. Botero had previously been turned down by many museums. The paintings are quite powerful, and a powerful reminder of a shameful episode in American history. Some of the paintings can be seen at Slate.com. Why do so many people put blidners on? There is no hope for human dignity when you torture.

Dignity. Yesterday I went to visit a friend, an older woman who is living her last days. A very aggressive lung cancer is fast ravishing her body. She's in an out. But such dignity. Thank you Madelyn, for this beautiful lesson!

Youth, Divine Treasure

2010-03-25T11:13:00.003+01:00

So begins Rubén Darío's wonderful poem, "Song of Spring in Autumn" ("Canción de primavera en otoño", published in 1905 in one of the XX century's greatest volumes of poetry, Cantos de vida y esperanza). But, ah, the second line: "you're already leaving, never to return!" Thankfully, there are always young people around, and that's the great advantage of my work: always being surrounded by youth. Like a bottomless treasure pit.

And it's certainly not just the poets celebrating youth: last night we watched the new film version of Jerome Robbins' 1958 masterpiece, "Export NY: Opus Jazz." The film was a project conceived by young New York City Ballet dancers Ellen Bar and Sean Suozzi, and featured Carlisle-area native and CPYB alum Adam Hendrickson. A great creative triumph for youth! Even the film directors are very young and I thought they did superb work. The film was presented on PBS as part of their Dance in America series. See this film!

So newness is on my mind this early spring morning. Newness and optimism, even as the drumbeat of violence continues unabated: today it's news of children (children!) in Philadelphia assaulting homeless people. The first stanza of Darío's beautiful poem:

¡Juventud, divino tesoro,

ya te vas para no volver!

Cuando quiero llorar, no lloro,

y a veces lloro sin querer...

In the photo, Jerome Robbins, young at heart.

Anne Sexton's Daughters

2010-03-21T15:42:00.007+01:00

This weekend I read Linda Gray Sexton's memoir: Searching For Mercy Street, published in 1996. Linda Gray Sexton is the older daughter of poet Anne Sexton, who committed suicide in 1974. It's a very depressing read, and as I finished the last page I found myself questioning the wisdom of its publication. The story is fascinating, there's no doubt about that. But I can't help thinking that some things that are intensely private should stay private. In at least one sense it's impossible to blame Gray Sexton: her mother wrote extensively about Linda in her poetry. More importantly, Sexton was a thoroughly horrible mother and Linda and younger sister Joy suffered greatly. It's all in the book. It's also true that before publication of this memoir, Gray Sexton had herself already played a major role in expanding the public's knowledge of one family's dysfunction through the publication of the Sexton biography written by Dianne Middlebrook in 1991, and the volume of Sexton's letters published back in 1977. (Gray Sexton is her mother's literary executor and her collaboration with Middlebrook was essential to her biography.) Writing as therapy might be great, though ultimately it didn't help Anne Sexton, but publishing those writings can get very complicated when the subject matter is intensely private. We have choices about what we reveal. Sometimes those choices involve serious ethical considerations.

Close to a year ago, when Nicholas Hughes, Sylvia Plath's son, tragically put an end to his life, Linda Gray Sexton wrote an op-ed piece for the New York Times. She makes connections between her own situation and that of Plath's two children. I read the article and found myself asking: what purpose does this serve? Yes, suicide is a terrible health problem. Our society does not seem to have figured out depression. But the article offers no advice, doesn't suggest what to do, what signals to watch out for. We do learn that Gray Sexton's son also struggles with depression. Was it wise to reveal that detail? Who does it serve? I also learned from the article that Gray Sexton has tried to take her own life three times, all of them after the publication of her memoir. I think I admire more the other sister, Joy, who has published not a line about all of this.