Look out Utah. We're on our way.
Saturday, June 20, 2009
Friday, June 12, 2009
Waltham Art Windows June 12 & 13
Check out Waltham Art Windows at this year's Riverfest this weekend. This picture by Clare Asch. I have to admit I like this reproduction better than the original, but see what you think.
http://www.walthamriverfest.org/artwindows.html
And at Lincoln Studios, 289 Moody Street,
June 6 through 29
Monday, May 18, 2009
Wednesday, May 6, 2009
From Out of Nowhere
The brightness of her cheek would shame those stars,
As daylight doth a lamp; her eyes in heaven
Would through the airy region stream so bright
That birds would sing and think it were not night."
Mine That Bird’s victory at the Kentucky Derby on Saturday last was so improbable that veteran race caller, Tom Durkin, mentioned his name only when he was last in the pack, but otherwise didn’t seem to even realize that he was running until the race was over.
“In a stunning upset Mine That Bird at 50 to 1 stood the racing world on its ear … in winning the 135th Kentucky Derby by a widening six and three quarters lengths.
The little know Birdstone gelding who cost $ 9,500 as a yearling and who came 1800 miles in a one horse trailer from New Mexico, negotiated the sloppy Churchill Downs racetrack under a deft rail skimming ride by jockey Calvin Borrel. Left in his wake were multimillion dollar priced horses owned by sheiks, captains of industry, large breeding operations,and their high profile Eclipse Award winning trainers. Trained by former rodeo performer Chip Wooley Jr. who hobbled into the winners circle on crutches because of a motorcycle wreck two months earlier,and who was widely criticized by the elite horsemen because it was inferred his little gelding did'n't belong in the race, Mine That Bird registered the second highest payoff in the history of the Kentucky Derby with his stunning $ 103.20 mutuel. …
… the self appointed royal poobahs in Kentucky frowned upon the little known cowboy trainer and his bargain basement gelding, but getting the last laugh and all the money, all the glory, the trophy, and a place in the Kentucky Derby record book, was that very same cowboy and his gutsy little horse, thanks to a sparkling ride by a true race tracker and mudbug, jockey Calvin Borrel…”
by Mark O'Leary
Bodog
“The vast majority of experts and racing fans were astounded, aghast, and amazed at Mine That Bird’s otherworldly performance in the Kentucky …
It was unlike anything seen before in the Run for the Roses, or anywhere for that matter. Where it came from, no one knows. But you can bet all eyes will be glued to Mine That Bird in the Preakness [May 16th] to see if he can do it again. This will either prove to be one of the biggest fluke performances of all time or one of the most remarkable rebirths ever witnessed in the career of a Thoroughbred racehorse.
Mine That Bird turned speed figures and other handicapping tools into a pile of useless numbers and equations that had no bearing on the 135th Kentucky Derby.
… Although it wasn’t exactly Darwin’s Journey of Discovery,..[trainer Bennie “Chip” Woolley and groom and exercise rider Charlie Figueroa’s 40-hour journey to Churchill Downs drawing a Turnbow box stall trailer] proved to be one of the great odysseys in the annals of the Triple Crown, as Mine That Bird shocked the world by coming from last in the 19-horse field, more than 20 lengths off the pace, to win by 6 3/4 lengths under Calvin Borel, paying $103.20, the second-highest payoff in Derby history.
Woolley, a native of Raton, N.M. and a former rodeo bareback rider, had been on crutches since early March when he was thrown from his Big Dog chopper, suffering 12 fractures from his knee down to his ankle, including a broken tibia and fibia, the latter requiring a dozen screws to be inserted….
[He] had no aspirations of winning the Kentucky Derby after Mine That Bird had been defeated twice at Sunland Park – a second-place finish in the Borderland Derby and a fourth in the $900,000 Sunland Park Derby. But he was hoping that with a change of tactics – taking back some eight to 10 lengths and making one run – the horse could close well enough to finish respectably and earn a trip to New York for the Belmont Stakes.
Before starting out, they converted the four stalls on the van into two in order to make Mine That Bird more comfortable. Although he had Figueroa with him, Woolley drove the whole way himself, despite his inability to use his right foot.
“Chip likes to be hands on whatever he can do and as much as he can do, said Woolley’s girlfriend Kim Carr. “He normally gallops his own horses, and it was very hard for him not to be on the horse and feeling him every day. He doesn’t want to trust anyone when it comes to this horse. He wants to see every oat he eats. But he and Charlie got along great.”
They left Sunland Park on Monday, Apr. 20 at 6:30 a.m., arriving at Lone Star Park in Grand Prairie, Texas at about 10 o’clock that night. The following morning, Mine That Bird was checked out by a veterinarian, after which Figueroa took the horse out for a jog. They then loaded him back on the van and continued on their journey, pulling into the Churchill Downs stable gate at 10:30 Tuesday night following 21 hours of driving, plus the overnight stay at Lone Star.
During the trip, Figueroa, who had never laid eyes on Mine That Bird before, was briefed by Woolley on the horse’s habits and how he wanted things done.
Each day, Figueroa watched the Derby horses gallop a mile and three-eighths or a mile and a half and they were coming back blowing. He and Mine That Bird were going two miles every day at a pretty good lick on every kind of track and not once did the horse come back blowing. The day Borel worked him (April 27) he brought him back in the barn and the horse almost unseated the jockey in the shedrow. Figueroa knew he was ready....
“He thrived, and his muscles were in excellent shape,” said Johnson, who trained five-time Breeders’ Cup Classic starter Perfect Drift.
While at Churchill, Mine That Bird went virtually unnoticed as he quietly went about his business, residing at the far end of Barn 42. His gallops became stronger and it was obvious he was relishing the track….
Woolley’s misadventures were far from over. At the media/VIP party two days before the Derby, he tripped and fell, and X-rays taken by the vet the following morning revealed he had re-fractured one of his bones.
[Co-owner Mark] Allen had a minor incident himself, as he was delayed getting to Louisville when his pickup truck broke down in Sweetwater, Texas….
Derby Day brought mornings rains, which ended by about 9 o’clock. Woolley was unable to make the entire walk from the barn area to the paddock, but he wasn’t about to miss the experience of a lifetime. He went to the track through the paddock and walked some 300 yards toward the clubhouse turn, where he waited for his horse. He then walked the rest of the way with the horse, soaking up all the electricity.
“I was pretty worn out and shaky-legged, but I wanted to be part of the Derby walk,” he said. “That’s one of the biggest things about coming to the Derby. When you look up and see all those people, that really meant something to me and I wasn’t going to miss all of it.”
Figueroa couldn’t believe it when he heard people shouting Mine That Bird’s name. “Maybe it was because of Calvin or maybe it was just for the horse, but they were going crazy,” he said.
By now, everyone knows what happened. On the far turn, Mine That Bird in the blink of an eye took off from well in the back of the pack as if someone had given him a hotfoot. He could be seen flying past horses on the inside as if moving in a different time frame than the others.
Turning into the stretch after a mile in 1:37 2/5, Pioneerof the Nile took over the lead followed in hot pursuit by Papa Clem and Musket Man. The rest were going nowhere on the sticky track…except one. Yes, it was [jockey Calvin] Borel, or Bo-rail, as he’s known, again making a frenzied dash along the inside. He moved outside a tiring Atomic Rain and then darted back to the rail, squeezing through a narrow opening inside Join in the Dance. Before anyone realized what was happening, Mine That Bird and Borel flew past Pioneerof the Nile as if he and Papa Clem and Musket Man were mired in quicksand. He opened up, not by a length at a time, but seemingly by two and three lengths at a time. Just like that he was five in front, then six, then nearly seven at the wire, coming home his final half in an astounding :47 1/5 and final quarter in a Secretariat-like :23 1/5 to complete the 1 1/4 miles in 2:02 3/5.
Race caller Tom Durkin summed up the shocking result by calling it “an impossible result.”
…Later that night, Mine That Bird was getting antsy for his dinner. He was showing no signs that the race took anything out of him, as he ripped into his hay rack and attempted to nail anyone who came close to his stall without a feed tub. Woolley and Figueroa finally returned from the Derby museum party at around 10:15. Figueroa brought the feed tub over and Mine That Bird promptly buried his head in it.
So ended one of the wildest Kentucky Derbys in memory….”
By Steve Haskin
Blood-Horse magazine
“Mine That Bird turned a sloppy Churchill Downs track into his personal playground by winning the 135th Kentucky Derby Saturday in the second-biggest upset in America's most celebrated race.
Calvin Borel guided the 50-1 outsider along the rail in a dramatic stretch run to win the $2 million race by six-and-three-quarter lengths over Pioneerof the Nile.
Borel flew past 12 horses by using a move similar to the one he applied aboard Street Sense to win the 2007 Derby.
He said: "I learnt by Street Sense, being so patient with these three-year-olds. They can only go so fast and so far. So I sat back and had a good trip and when I hollered at him he just went on."…
"The horse had never been in the mud at all until he got here," said Mine That Bird trainer Chip Woolley, sporting a black cowboy hat and dark sunglasses while using crutches because of a motorcycle accident. "When you watched the horse train over this track, it was like he was born to run here, when it was dry. And when it was wet, he even looked better. The horse really stepped over the top of it. You could see horses struggling out there and he never took a step that it looked like a struggle to him."”
By Steve Ginsburg
Reuters
"The morning after the stunning victory in the $2,177,200 Kentucky Derby …by Mine That Bird was a busy one for his owners and trainer – and for the 3-year-old gelding....
Visitors to trainer Chip Woolley and owners Mark Allen of Double Eagle Ranch and Dr. Leonard Blach of Bueno Suerte Equine included three-time Kentucky Derby winner Bob Baffert, trainer of Derby 135 runner-up Pioneerof the Nile; winning jockey Calvin Borel; and Tom McCarthy, the owner-trainer of General Quarters the winner of the Toyota Blue Grass Stakes (GI) and 10th to Mine That Bird in Saturday’s race.
There was also a live appearance by Woolley, Borel, Allen and Blach on NBC’s “Sunday Today” that included an appearance by the Kentucky Derby winner, as the horse stood behind the winning connections grazed in front of Barn 42 while wearing the winner’s saddle towel that bore the official Kentucky Derby 135 logo and the images of roses in the area that covered Mine That Bird’s withers.
Woolley, whose stable is based at New Mexico’s Sunland Park, said Mine That Bird was doing well after the race, and the gelding validated that assessment as he nibbled at the Churchill Downs grass and never turned a hair as a sizable crowd of reporters, videographers and well-wishers looked on.
“It’s an unbelievable feeling,” said Woolley. “It’s actually a little bit hard to get your arms around right at the moment. It’s hard to believe that you actually came in here and won this thing.”
The 45-year-old Woolley admitted to getting little more than an hour of sleep after the biggest win of his training career. Allen, when asked about how the night of celebration had gone, said “It’s still going,” and drew a hearty laugh from media members present on the morning after America’s greatest race.
…“The one-run was definitely the plan and we had talked about being eight-to-10 (lengths) from the lead,” Woolley said. “I had felt all along that’s where the horse needed to be, but we had just never gotten that trip. When he got annihilated leaving there – this is a little horse, he’s not very big – and when he got banged around leaving there, we were really concerned right away about that. I had told the press before that he couldn’t take a bunch of beating, so when he got shuffled that far back, I actually wasn’t too high on my chances when he came by me at the grandstand way last. But the horse responded and Calvin done a super job of riding the horse. So we’re just lucky to have been there.”
“It’s truly an honor to be a part of it, but I’m telling you guys that this horse never got nearly enough credit for his ability. You earned your way here. It’s not like we just paid him in here and brought him. The horse earned his way here and he deserved a chance to run in the Derby. He was doing super, the horse was training good and we just felt like he had earned his spot here and we had to come and take ‘em on. He anted up, I’m telling you. He’ll leave it on the track every time.”
by Churchill Downs Notes Team
“Despite speculation that Mine That Bird would skip the May 16 Preakness, trainer Bennie (Chip) Wolley Jr. announced Monday that the 3-year-old will be in Baltimore for the second jewel of the Triple Crown and a chance at history.
"It is good for the sport," Woolley said at Churchill Downs. "You cannot have a Triple Crown winner without having the Derby winner in the Preakness. That played into our decision, but the horse looks super. I have never been to Baltimore, but it looks like I won't be able to say that in a few days."
Mine That Bird will van to Baltimore in the same vehicle that carried him from New Mexico to his Derby upset. He's expected to arrive at Pimlico next Monday or Tuesday.
The Derby winner jogged a mile over Churchill's sloppy strip Monday under exercise rider Charlie Figueroa.
"He was just bucking and playing out there," Figueroa said. "The outriders were surprised to see that yellow (Derby) saddle towel jogging by."”
By Jerry Bossert
NY Daily News
As daylight doth a lamp; her eyes in heaven
Would through the airy region stream so bright
That birds would sing and think it were not night."
— Romeo & Juliet, Act II, Scene II
Mine That Bird’s victory at the Kentucky Derby on Saturday last was so improbable that veteran race caller, Tom Durkin, mentioned his name only when he was last in the pack, but otherwise didn’t seem to even realize that he was running until the race was over.
“In a stunning upset Mine That Bird at 50 to 1 stood the racing world on its ear … in winning the 135th Kentucky Derby by a widening six and three quarters lengths.
The little know Birdstone gelding who cost $ 9,500 as a yearling and who came 1800 miles in a one horse trailer from New Mexico, negotiated the sloppy Churchill Downs racetrack under a deft rail skimming ride by jockey Calvin Borrel. Left in his wake were multimillion dollar priced horses owned by sheiks, captains of industry, large breeding operations,and their high profile Eclipse Award winning trainers. Trained by former rodeo performer Chip Wooley Jr. who hobbled into the winners circle on crutches because of a motorcycle wreck two months earlier,and who was widely criticized by the elite horsemen because it was inferred his little gelding did'n't belong in the race, Mine That Bird registered the second highest payoff in the history of the Kentucky Derby with his stunning $ 103.20 mutuel. …
… the self appointed royal poobahs in Kentucky frowned upon the little known cowboy trainer and his bargain basement gelding, but getting the last laugh and all the money, all the glory, the trophy, and a place in the Kentucky Derby record book, was that very same cowboy and his gutsy little horse, thanks to a sparkling ride by a true race tracker and mudbug, jockey Calvin Borrel…”
by Mark O'Leary
Bodog
“The vast majority of experts and racing fans were astounded, aghast, and amazed at Mine That Bird’s otherworldly performance in the Kentucky …It was unlike anything seen before in the Run for the Roses, or anywhere for that matter. Where it came from, no one knows. But you can bet all eyes will be glued to Mine That Bird in the Preakness [May 16th] to see if he can do it again. This will either prove to be one of the biggest fluke performances of all time or one of the most remarkable rebirths ever witnessed in the career of a Thoroughbred racehorse.
Mine That Bird turned speed figures and other handicapping tools into a pile of useless numbers and equations that had no bearing on the 135th Kentucky Derby.
… Although it wasn’t exactly Darwin’s Journey of Discovery,..[trainer Bennie “Chip” Woolley and groom and exercise rider Charlie Figueroa’s 40-hour journey to Churchill Downs drawing a Turnbow box stall trailer] proved to be one of the great odysseys in the annals of the Triple Crown, as Mine That Bird shocked the world by coming from last in the 19-horse field, more than 20 lengths off the pace, to win by 6 3/4 lengths under Calvin Borel, paying $103.20, the second-highest payoff in Derby history.
Woolley, a native of Raton, N.M. and a former rodeo bareback rider, had been on crutches since early March when he was thrown from his Big Dog chopper, suffering 12 fractures from his knee down to his ankle, including a broken tibia and fibia, the latter requiring a dozen screws to be inserted….
[He] had no aspirations of winning the Kentucky Derby after Mine That Bird had been defeated twice at Sunland Park – a second-place finish in the Borderland Derby and a fourth in the $900,000 Sunland Park Derby. But he was hoping that with a change of tactics – taking back some eight to 10 lengths and making one run – the horse could close well enough to finish respectably and earn a trip to New York for the Belmont Stakes.
Before starting out, they converted the four stalls on the van into two in order to make Mine That Bird more comfortable. Although he had Figueroa with him, Woolley drove the whole way himself, despite his inability to use his right foot.
“Chip likes to be hands on whatever he can do and as much as he can do, said Woolley’s girlfriend Kim Carr. “He normally gallops his own horses, and it was very hard for him not to be on the horse and feeling him every day. He doesn’t want to trust anyone when it comes to this horse. He wants to see every oat he eats. But he and Charlie got along great.”
They left Sunland Park on Monday, Apr. 20 at 6:30 a.m., arriving at Lone Star Park in Grand Prairie, Texas at about 10 o’clock that night. The following morning, Mine That Bird was checked out by a veterinarian, after which Figueroa took the horse out for a jog. They then loaded him back on the van and continued on their journey, pulling into the Churchill Downs stable gate at 10:30 Tuesday night following 21 hours of driving, plus the overnight stay at Lone Star.
During the trip, Figueroa, who had never laid eyes on Mine That Bird before, was briefed by Woolley on the horse’s habits and how he wanted things done.
Each day, Figueroa watched the Derby horses gallop a mile and three-eighths or a mile and a half and they were coming back blowing. He and Mine That Bird were going two miles every day at a pretty good lick on every kind of track and not once did the horse come back blowing. The day Borel worked him (April 27) he brought him back in the barn and the horse almost unseated the jockey in the shedrow. Figueroa knew he was ready....
“He thrived, and his muscles were in excellent shape,” said Johnson, who trained five-time Breeders’ Cup Classic starter Perfect Drift.
While at Churchill, Mine That Bird went virtually unnoticed as he quietly went about his business, residing at the far end of Barn 42. His gallops became stronger and it was obvious he was relishing the track….
Woolley’s misadventures were far from over. At the media/VIP party two days before the Derby, he tripped and fell, and X-rays taken by the vet the following morning revealed he had re-fractured one of his bones.
[Co-owner Mark] Allen had a minor incident himself, as he was delayed getting to Louisville when his pickup truck broke down in Sweetwater, Texas….
Derby Day brought mornings rains, which ended by about 9 o’clock. Woolley was unable to make the entire walk from the barn area to the paddock, but he wasn’t about to miss the experience of a lifetime. He went to the track through the paddock and walked some 300 yards toward the clubhouse turn, where he waited for his horse. He then walked the rest of the way with the horse, soaking up all the electricity.
“I was pretty worn out and shaky-legged, but I wanted to be part of the Derby walk,” he said. “That’s one of the biggest things about coming to the Derby. When you look up and see all those people, that really meant something to me and I wasn’t going to miss all of it.”
Figueroa couldn’t believe it when he heard people shouting Mine That Bird’s name. “Maybe it was because of Calvin or maybe it was just for the horse, but they were going crazy,” he said.
By now, everyone knows what happened. On the far turn, Mine That Bird in the blink of an eye took off from well in the back of the pack as if someone had given him a hotfoot. He could be seen flying past horses on the inside as if moving in a different time frame than the others.
Turning into the stretch after a mile in 1:37 2/5, Pioneerof the Nile took over the lead followed in hot pursuit by Papa Clem and Musket Man. The rest were going nowhere on the sticky track…except one. Yes, it was [jockey Calvin] Borel, or Bo-rail, as he’s known, again making a frenzied dash along the inside. He moved outside a tiring Atomic Rain and then darted back to the rail, squeezing through a narrow opening inside Join in the Dance. Before anyone realized what was happening, Mine That Bird and Borel flew past Pioneerof the Nile as if he and Papa Clem and Musket Man were mired in quicksand. He opened up, not by a length at a time, but seemingly by two and three lengths at a time. Just like that he was five in front, then six, then nearly seven at the wire, coming home his final half in an astounding :47 1/5 and final quarter in a Secretariat-like :23 1/5 to complete the 1 1/4 miles in 2:02 3/5.
Race caller Tom Durkin summed up the shocking result by calling it “an impossible result.”
…Later that night, Mine That Bird was getting antsy for his dinner. He was showing no signs that the race took anything out of him, as he ripped into his hay rack and attempted to nail anyone who came close to his stall without a feed tub. Woolley and Figueroa finally returned from the Derby museum party at around 10:15. Figueroa brought the feed tub over and Mine That Bird promptly buried his head in it.
So ended one of the wildest Kentucky Derbys in memory….”
By Steve Haskin
Blood-Horse magazine
“Mine That Bird turned a sloppy Churchill Downs track into his personal playground by winning the 135th Kentucky Derby Saturday in the second-biggest upset in America's most celebrated race.Calvin Borel guided the 50-1 outsider along the rail in a dramatic stretch run to win the $2 million race by six-and-three-quarter lengths over Pioneerof the Nile.
Borel flew past 12 horses by using a move similar to the one he applied aboard Street Sense to win the 2007 Derby.
He said: "I learnt by Street Sense, being so patient with these three-year-olds. They can only go so fast and so far. So I sat back and had a good trip and when I hollered at him he just went on."…
"The horse had never been in the mud at all until he got here," said Mine That Bird trainer Chip Woolley, sporting a black cowboy hat and dark sunglasses while using crutches because of a motorcycle accident. "When you watched the horse train over this track, it was like he was born to run here, when it was dry. And when it was wet, he even looked better. The horse really stepped over the top of it. You could see horses struggling out there and he never took a step that it looked like a struggle to him."”
By Steve Ginsburg
Reuters
"The morning after the stunning victory in the $2,177,200 Kentucky Derby …by Mine That Bird was a busy one for his owners and trainer – and for the 3-year-old gelding....Visitors to trainer Chip Woolley and owners Mark Allen of Double Eagle Ranch and Dr. Leonard Blach of Bueno Suerte Equine included three-time Kentucky Derby winner Bob Baffert, trainer of Derby 135 runner-up Pioneerof the Nile; winning jockey Calvin Borel; and Tom McCarthy, the owner-trainer of General Quarters the winner of the Toyota Blue Grass Stakes (GI) and 10th to Mine That Bird in Saturday’s race.
There was also a live appearance by Woolley, Borel, Allen and Blach on NBC’s “Sunday Today” that included an appearance by the Kentucky Derby winner, as the horse stood behind the winning connections grazed in front of Barn 42 while wearing the winner’s saddle towel that bore the official Kentucky Derby 135 logo and the images of roses in the area that covered Mine That Bird’s withers.
Woolley, whose stable is based at New Mexico’s Sunland Park, said Mine That Bird was doing well after the race, and the gelding validated that assessment as he nibbled at the Churchill Downs grass and never turned a hair as a sizable crowd of reporters, videographers and well-wishers looked on.
“It’s an unbelievable feeling,” said Woolley. “It’s actually a little bit hard to get your arms around right at the moment. It’s hard to believe that you actually came in here and won this thing.”
The 45-year-old Woolley admitted to getting little more than an hour of sleep after the biggest win of his training career. Allen, when asked about how the night of celebration had gone, said “It’s still going,” and drew a hearty laugh from media members present on the morning after America’s greatest race.
…“The one-run was definitely the plan and we had talked about being eight-to-10 (lengths) from the lead,” Woolley said. “I had felt all along that’s where the horse needed to be, but we had just never gotten that trip. When he got annihilated leaving there – this is a little horse, he’s not very big – and when he got banged around leaving there, we were really concerned right away about that. I had told the press before that he couldn’t take a bunch of beating, so when he got shuffled that far back, I actually wasn’t too high on my chances when he came by me at the grandstand way last. But the horse responded and Calvin done a super job of riding the horse. So we’re just lucky to have been there.”
“It’s truly an honor to be a part of it, but I’m telling you guys that this horse never got nearly enough credit for his ability. You earned your way here. It’s not like we just paid him in here and brought him. The horse earned his way here and he deserved a chance to run in the Derby. He was doing super, the horse was training good and we just felt like he had earned his spot here and we had to come and take ‘em on. He anted up, I’m telling you. He’ll leave it on the track every time.”
by Churchill Downs Notes Team
“Despite speculation that Mine That Bird would skip the May 16 Preakness, trainer Bennie (Chip) Wolley Jr. announced Monday that the 3-year-old will be in Baltimore for the second jewel of the Triple Crown and a chance at history.
"It is good for the sport," Woolley said at Churchill Downs. "You cannot have a Triple Crown winner without having the Derby winner in the Preakness. That played into our decision, but the horse looks super. I have never been to Baltimore, but it looks like I won't be able to say that in a few days."
Mine That Bird will van to Baltimore in the same vehicle that carried him from New Mexico to his Derby upset. He's expected to arrive at Pimlico next Monday or Tuesday.
The Derby winner jogged a mile over Churchill's sloppy strip Monday under exercise rider Charlie Figueroa.
"He was just bucking and playing out there," Figueroa said. "The outriders were surprised to see that yellow (Derby) saddle towel jogging by."”
By Jerry Bossert
NY Daily News
Wednesday, April 29, 2009
Wednesday, April 8, 2009
Sunday, April 5, 2009
Friday, March 27, 2009
Pictures at an Exhibition
(Russian: Картинки с выставки – Воспоминание о Викторе Гартмане, Kartinki s vystavki – Vospominaniye o Viktore Gartmane)
"Pictures at an Exhibition – A Remembrance of Viktor Hartmann"
A suite of ten piano pieces composed by Modest Mussorgsky in 1874.
Modest Mussorgsky was a member of 'The Five' (or 'The Mighty Handful'), a 19th-century group of Russian composers including Borodin, Rimsky-Korsakov, Balakirev, and Cui. Together, The Five created the so-called Nationalist school of Russian music. Mussorgsky's 'Pictures at an Exhibition' was inspired by an exhibition of paintings by his deceased friend Viktor Hartmann and is a particularly striking example of The Five's efforts to create a distinctively Russian version of European style classical music. It was originally written for solo piano (the version played with much grace and power by Naoko Sugiyama on a Sunday afternoon at The First Parish in Waltham). It has inspired orchestration by Rimsky-Korsakov and, most famously, by Ravel. But the raw power of live solo piano is the way to hear it. Mussorgsky supplies the Might; the pianist has got her hands full.
The Pictures
No. 1 "Gnomus" (Latin: The Gnome)
Vladimir Stasov: "A sketch depicting a little gnome, clumsily running with crooked legs." Hartmann's sketch, now lost, is thought to represent a toy nutcracker.
This picture shows one of Hartmann's costume designs for a revival of Mikhail Glinka's opera Ruslan i Lyudmila. The evil wizard Chernomor wears a turban crowned by a bat, and bears a staff with an owl perched upon it. The opera was performed with Hartmann's designs in 1871 by the Bolshoi Theatre.
No. 2 "Il vecchio castello" (Italian: The Old Castle)
Stasov: "A medieval castle before which a troubador sings a song." This movement is thought to be based on a watercolor depiction of an Italian castle. Hartman often placed appropriate human figures in his architectural renderings to suggest scale.
No. 3 "Tuileries" (Dispute d'enfants après jeux) French: Tuileries (Dispute between Children at Play)
Stasov: "An avenue in the garden of the Tuileries, with a swarm of children and nurses." Hartmann's picture of the Jardin des Tuileries near the Louvre in Paris (France) is now lost. Figures of children quarrelling and playing in the garden were likely added by the artist (see note on No. 2 above).
No. 4 "Bydło" (Polish: Cattle)
Stasov: "A Polish cart on enormous wheels, drawn by oxen."
No. 5 "Балет невылупившихся птенцов" [Balet nevylupivshikhsya ptentsov] (Russian: Ballet of the Unhatched Chicks)
Stasov: "Hartmann's design for the décor of a picturesque scene in the ballet Trilby."
Gerald Abraham: "Trilby or The Demon of the Heath, a ballet with choreography by Petipa, music by Julius Gerber, and décor by Hartmann... produced in 1870. The fledglings were canary chicks."
No. 6 "Samuel Goldenberg und Schmuÿle" (Yiddish)
Stasov: "Two Jews: Rich and Poor"
No. 7 "Limoges, le marché" (La grande nouvelle) (French: The Market at Limoges (The Great News))
Stasov: "French women quarreling violently in the market." Limoges is a city in central France.
No. 8 "Catacombae" (Sepulcrum romanum) (Latin: The Catacombs (Roman sepulcher))
Stasov: "Hartmann represented himself examining the Paris catacombs by the light of a lantern."
No. 9 "Избушка на курьих ножках" (Баба-Яга) [Izbushka na kur'ikh nozhkakh (Baba-Yaga)] (Russian: The Hut on Hen's Legs (Baba-Yaga)
Stasov: "Hartmann's drawing depicted a clock in the form of Baba-Yaga's hut on fowl's legs. Mussorgsky added the witch's flight in a mortar."
No. 10 "Богатырские ворота" (В стольном городе во Киеве) [Bogatïrskie vorota (v stol'nom gorode vo Kieve)] (Russian: The Bogatyr Gates (in the Capital in Kiev) Commonly translated as "The Great Gate of Kiev." Bogatyrs are heroes that appear in Russian epics called bylinas. The title is also sometimes rendered "The Heroes' Gate at Kiev."
Stasov: "Hartmann's sketch was his design for city gates at Kiev in the ancient Russian massive style with a cupola shaped like a slavonic helmet." Hartmann made a sketch for a planned (but never built) monumental gate for Tsar Alexander II. This gate was to have commemorated the Tsar's narrow escape from an assassination attempt on April 4, 1866. Hartmann's design for the gate caused a sensation, and the architect himself felt it was the finest work he had yet done.
"Pictures at an Exhibition – A Remembrance of Viktor Hartmann"
A suite of ten piano pieces composed by Modest Mussorgsky in 1874.
Modest Mussorgsky was a member of 'The Five' (or 'The Mighty Handful'), a 19th-century group of Russian composers including Borodin, Rimsky-Korsakov, Balakirev, and Cui. Together, The Five created the so-called Nationalist school of Russian music. Mussorgsky's 'Pictures at an Exhibition' was inspired by an exhibition of paintings by his deceased friend Viktor Hartmann and is a particularly striking example of The Five's efforts to create a distinctively Russian version of European style classical music. It was originally written for solo piano (the version played with much grace and power by Naoko Sugiyama on a Sunday afternoon at The First Parish in Waltham). It has inspired orchestration by Rimsky-Korsakov and, most famously, by Ravel. But the raw power of live solo piano is the way to hear it. Mussorgsky supplies the Might; the pianist has got her hands full.
The Pictures
No. 1 "Gnomus" (Latin: The Gnome)
Vladimir Stasov: "A sketch depicting a little gnome, clumsily running with crooked legs." Hartmann's sketch, now lost, is thought to represent a toy nutcracker.
This picture shows one of Hartmann's costume designs for a revival of Mikhail Glinka's opera Ruslan i Lyudmila. The evil wizard Chernomor wears a turban crowned by a bat, and bears a staff with an owl perched upon it. The opera was performed with Hartmann's designs in 1871 by the Bolshoi Theatre.
No. 2 "Il vecchio castello" (Italian: The Old Castle)
Stasov: "A medieval castle before which a troubador sings a song." This movement is thought to be based on a watercolor depiction of an Italian castle. Hartman often placed appropriate human figures in his architectural renderings to suggest scale.
No. 3 "Tuileries" (Dispute d'enfants après jeux) French: Tuileries (Dispute between Children at Play)
Stasov: "An avenue in the garden of the Tuileries, with a swarm of children and nurses." Hartmann's picture of the Jardin des Tuileries near the Louvre in Paris (France) is now lost. Figures of children quarrelling and playing in the garden were likely added by the artist (see note on No. 2 above).
No. 4 "Bydło" (Polish: Cattle)
Stasov: "A Polish cart on enormous wheels, drawn by oxen."
No. 5 "Балет невылупившихся птенцов" [Balet nevylupivshikhsya ptentsov] (Russian: Ballet of the Unhatched Chicks)
Stasov: "Hartmann's design for the décor of a picturesque scene in the ballet Trilby."
Gerald Abraham: "Trilby or The Demon of the Heath, a ballet with choreography by Petipa, music by Julius Gerber, and décor by Hartmann... produced in 1870. The fledglings were canary chicks."
No. 6 "Samuel Goldenberg und Schmuÿle" (Yiddish)
Stasov: "Two Jews: Rich and Poor"
No. 7 "Limoges, le marché" (La grande nouvelle) (French: The Market at Limoges (The Great News))
Stasov: "French women quarreling violently in the market." Limoges is a city in central France.
No. 8 "Catacombae" (Sepulcrum romanum) (Latin: The Catacombs (Roman sepulcher))
Stasov: "Hartmann represented himself examining the Paris catacombs by the light of a lantern."
No. 9 "Избушка на курьих ножках" (Баба-Яга) [Izbushka na kur'ikh nozhkakh (Baba-Yaga)] (Russian: The Hut on Hen's Legs (Baba-Yaga)
Stasov: "Hartmann's drawing depicted a clock in the form of Baba-Yaga's hut on fowl's legs. Mussorgsky added the witch's flight in a mortar."
No. 10 "Богатырские ворота" (В стольном городе во Киеве) [Bogatïrskie vorota (v stol'nom gorode vo Kieve)] (Russian: The Bogatyr Gates (in the Capital in Kiev) Commonly translated as "The Great Gate of Kiev." Bogatyrs are heroes that appear in Russian epics called bylinas. The title is also sometimes rendered "The Heroes' Gate at Kiev."
Stasov: "Hartmann's sketch was his design for city gates at Kiev in the ancient Russian massive style with a cupola shaped like a slavonic helmet." Hartmann made a sketch for a planned (but never built) monumental gate for Tsar Alexander II. This gate was to have commemorated the Tsar's narrow escape from an assassination attempt on April 4, 1866. Hartmann's design for the gate caused a sensation, and the architect himself felt it was the finest work he had yet done.
Tuesday, February 17, 2009
Felix Mendelssohn Bicentennial
Luzern, Schweiz; watercolor by Felix Mendelssohn Bartholdy, July 1847
Sunday, February 1, 2009
Peter Adams Trio at the Downbeat 1/30
Peter Adams [keys], Billy Mohler [acoustic bass], and Aaron Sterling [drums] having way too much fun Friday night at the Downbeat Cafe in LA's Echo Park playing music from Peter's new release, Spotlight, Floodlight.
Tuesday, January 20, 2009
I saw my people
"In so many ways, the father of us all."
— Mary Travers
Lowery is former pastor of the Warren Street United Methodist Church, in Mobile, Alabama and co-founder with Martin Luther King, Jr. of the Southern Christian Leadership Conference. His benediction was filled with references well-known in the black community but maybe not so well-known in the white world.
“God of our weary years, God of our silent tears,
thou, who has brought us thus far along the way,
thou, who has by thy might led us into the light,
keep us forever in the path we pray,
lest our feet stray from the places, our God, where we met thee,
lest our hearts drunk with the wine of the world, we forget thee.
Shadowed beneath thy hand, may we forever stand
true to thee, oh God, and true to our native land.”
These are the closing lines from “Lift every voice and sing” otherwise known as the Black National Anthem. It’s writer? James Weldon Johnson, of course. [His brother, Rosamond, wrote the music.] It's #149 in the Unitarian Universalist hymnal.
“Lord, in the memory of all the saints who from their labors rest, and in the joy of a new beginning, we ask you to help us work for that day when black will not be asked to get in back, when brown can stick around ... when yellow will be mellow ... when the red man can get ahead, man; and when white will embrace what is right. Let all those who do justice and love mercy say Amen.”
The reference here is to Big Bill Broonzy’s “Black, Brown and White” blues, also known as “The Get Back Blues”.
"If you're white, you're all right.
If you're brown, stick around.
But if you're black, oh, brother --
Get back! Get Back! Get back!"
Broonzy became an influencial performer, especially prior to World War II, coming out of the Chicago blues scene. After the war, according to the blogger who introduced him to me, “he was accused of being a Communist and blacklisted, and, apart from appearing with his fellow blacklister, Pete Seeger (who performed for Obama on Sunday), did little for the rest of his life.”
Monday, January 19, 2009
Friday, January 16, 2009
A Voice in the Wilderness
Somewhere a voice calls out
Just beyond hearing.
Birds twitter and rise from their roosts.
Leaves of grass flutter and flatten under foot,
As residents rush to below ground homes.
I see it all as I run, holding the pain in my side.
Too late.
Here. Is this the Holy Land where the voice was heard?
Was it a cry or was it a murmur?
Only air in motion or filling all with meaning?
I wait, sitting here beneith the tree whose leaves have heard,
Pressed against the bark, listening with ears and fingers.
Did I hear? Was it a voice of love or hope?
Why?
In the city are many sounds at all the hours.
The silence in spaces beacons loudly.
I lie in an empty moment holding tight to the memory
Of when the voice was nearer — ah, youth.
Babies cry, engines roar, lovers whisper in the dark
Just beyond hearing, but the echo lingers.
Listen.
Here is how it is expressed in Psalm 50:1-5:
The Mighty One, G_d the Lord,
speaks and summons the earth.
From the rising of the sun to its setting
Out of Zion, the perfection of beauty,
G_d shines forth.
Out G_d comes, he does not keep silence.
Before him is a devouring fire
round about him a mighty tempest.
He calls to the heavens above
and to the earth ...
"Gather to me my faithful ones...."
Just beyond hearing.
Birds twitter and rise from their roosts.
Leaves of grass flutter and flatten under foot,
As residents rush to below ground homes.
I see it all as I run, holding the pain in my side.
Too late.
Here. Is this the Holy Land where the voice was heard?
Was it a cry or was it a murmur?
Only air in motion or filling all with meaning?
I wait, sitting here beneith the tree whose leaves have heard,
Pressed against the bark, listening with ears and fingers.
Did I hear? Was it a voice of love or hope?
Why?
In the city are many sounds at all the hours.
The silence in spaces beacons loudly.
I lie in an empty moment holding tight to the memory
Of when the voice was nearer — ah, youth.
Babies cry, engines roar, lovers whisper in the dark
Just beyond hearing, but the echo lingers.
Listen.
— Oscar Handler, “A Bevy of Lies”, 1938
Here is how it is expressed in Psalm 50:1-5:
The Mighty One, G_d the Lord,
speaks and summons the earth.
From the rising of the sun to its setting
Out of Zion, the perfection of beauty,
G_d shines forth.
Out G_d comes, he does not keep silence.
Before him is a devouring fire
round about him a mighty tempest.
He calls to the heavens above
and to the earth ...
"Gather to me my faithful ones...."
Thursday, January 15, 2009
Ideal Community
By the time I entered sixth grade my father had begun to come into his own in the business world, and our family came to summer on some of the small lakes in Western Massachusetts near our home.
The first year we tented by one of these nearby lakes, perhaps with the thought that we could actually live there all summer long and my father commute to work. But the land was flat, and the development was new, and my father sold this land after the first year. And we began to rent a cottage well up in the Berkshire hills at a place called Big Pond.
There the woods were old and it was four miles by winding, climbing dirt road from the main highway to the northern shore of Big Pond where we stayed in a cottage owned by Orin Handler. The Handler’s and the Grimes’ were the only houses you could reach by road in this part of the lake. There had never been anyone but Handler’s and Grimes’ on this road since it was cut, but Harold Grimes was planning to sell some of his shorefront property, and we were there to consider adding our name to theirs on the small sign that marked the road.
Any old New Englander would be familiar with the cottage we stayed in there — the big porches extending off living room and dining room through creaking French doors that were usually open to the breeze off the lake, but were often closed at night as the temperature fell even in June and July.
Then, the smell of oil fired stove would permeate the air and nestle around us as close as the heat itself, and we children would be hustled off upstairs to a loft looking down on the living room fireplace, the wicker furniture, the wooden rocker you could get on and ride like some wild stallion galloping across the plains until your mother cried out in fear that you would tip over.
Overhead was nothing but painted roof. The walls were wood paneling. The windows were hinged like cabinet doors and you looked out on the long slope of front porch roof and the lake’s waters beyond.
When the thunder storms came, as they frequently did during our days on Big Pond, the rain would come in a rush across the waters at the edge of the wind that drove it to engulf our cottage and thunder down on the shingles only inches above our heads. From the second floor you could see out over the whole lake as the lightning flashed its eerie white light and its tentacles snatched at the houses out on the island in the center of the pond.
My father and I built what was called a surfboard in those days — a vague cousin to what you would see at the seashore today. For me it was a pretty much unsinkable craft that I paddled by hand and by foot along all the shoreline and eventually around the shore of that island at the center of Big Pond.
The actual building of the eight or ten houses out there was a source of considerable fascination until the transporting properties of ice debunked the fantasies. The one house which most drew my explorer’s eye stood alone on a small peninsula of rock dropped by glaciers in retreat up past Hudson’s Bay long before my time. Isolated even from other islanders, I wondered at what sort of folk might suddenly emerge from within to challenge my small intrusion into their secret lives.
Orin Handler and Harold Grimes were a kind of old time Yankee you can still find in upstate Vermont or perhaps in other recesses of the country from which they have failed to vacate. They were men my father felt at home with and in this case admired, for they were country men but of class and culture.
There were not many such men, I suspect, in my father’s world and there were certainly no others like them in mine. Their families were long off the farm — perhaps merchants or seamen from Boston or New Haven who first came here for the cool of summer and, then, stayed on in Springfield or Northampton.
I found their books shelved on the long wall by the fireplace and stacks of “Boy’s Life” magazines up under the eaves. And an image of the life they led there burnt itself in my small, growing soul. I peered through their windows and poked about in their boathouses, for they rarely actually lived there any more, and in later years I longed for their life — for the ease of their manner, the ready chair by the fire where no person was truly a stranger.
At first my wish was just to be there, to experience again a way of living they provided and which I, too, could admire and rejoice in. But, then, ambition, greed for a life I could only experience but not myself provide, took over and consumed me. And it is here in this reduced and ruined form that I now find myself, and you experience me, grappling with the spirit that seemed to direct their course, and enveloping myself in every mud puddle, sinking slowly down into the earth from which I came and which so clearly shaped their lives.
The land is neither hostile nor welcoming in and of itself. But it does seem to contain within it something of who we are at our deepest core — a connection to the spirit of the life that animates everything — not as some detached, external mechanism, but in some extremely personal, intimate form in which I recognize what I want to be — not merely who I am but the special form only we humans can attain but which requires so much of us, so much effort to draw it out and is yet so easy and common when it comes.
I speak here of soul, not as of some alien being hidden within our decaying bodies, yearning for release to another land, to a better place beyond this life. No, this is the soul of who and what we are here and now, the bath of water and blood from which we were born and which now courses through our bodies, an oddly unfamiliar presence from which so many around us are actually fleeing. It repulses their nostrils; it is too coarse a salt to set at their table. And yet to separate from it is to abandon life itself.
I speak of the soul as of something warm and wet — the wet behind the ears that experience brings — experiences of love and welcome that form the bonds between us, bonds formed not by some exterior coating, but by some inexorable fluid oozing from within each of us like sweat or mingled blood, like the warmth that comes from within the fire.
I saw this life coming across the lake in the fire of stars and moon. I felt it shimmering on the surface of rocks beneath the surface of the water. It welled up around my toes when they dug down into the sand at the water’s edge. It slipped across my palm on the bodies of escaping fishes.
And I experienced its remains in the Handler cottage and in the gnarled arthritic fingers of my father’s hand clutching at tools they could no longer grasp. And it came to me in recent years in the flashing old blind eyes of my wife’s Aunt Charlotte as she searched out the form of her visitors, not by sight of course, but by a feeling that reaches out and holds you.
In those summers by the water my eyes, too, stretched out to embrace the life around me and I was in no way alone, though I may have seen no single person up close in a day or a week of exploring. Through all the angst and anguish of my worst teenage years I experienced there the same at-homeness in my element that my father and I understood in the presence of the Grimes and Handler men.
Not when skulking down paths after dark through woods where only the infinitesimal difference between trodden grasses and wild reveals direction; not even in the company of the most alien of god’s creatures (teenage girl) did I loose that sense of oneness of self and land — an experience never known down in my flat-land school or home, and that was to desert me so completely in the years of work and suburban life to follow, until I came here to live on my island in the Charles where the abandoned rocks, small birds, and marshes surround me as they did in the Berkshire hills, and the surface of still waters mirrors the golden trees of fall and me.
The first year we tented by one of these nearby lakes, perhaps with the thought that we could actually live there all summer long and my father commute to work. But the land was flat, and the development was new, and my father sold this land after the first year. And we began to rent a cottage well up in the Berkshire hills at a place called Big Pond.
There the woods were old and it was four miles by winding, climbing dirt road from the main highway to the northern shore of Big Pond where we stayed in a cottage owned by Orin Handler. The Handler’s and the Grimes’ were the only houses you could reach by road in this part of the lake. There had never been anyone but Handler’s and Grimes’ on this road since it was cut, but Harold Grimes was planning to sell some of his shorefront property, and we were there to consider adding our name to theirs on the small sign that marked the road.
Any old New Englander would be familiar with the cottage we stayed in there — the big porches extending off living room and dining room through creaking French doors that were usually open to the breeze off the lake, but were often closed at night as the temperature fell even in June and July.
Then, the smell of oil fired stove would permeate the air and nestle around us as close as the heat itself, and we children would be hustled off upstairs to a loft looking down on the living room fireplace, the wicker furniture, the wooden rocker you could get on and ride like some wild stallion galloping across the plains until your mother cried out in fear that you would tip over.
Overhead was nothing but painted roof. The walls were wood paneling. The windows were hinged like cabinet doors and you looked out on the long slope of front porch roof and the lake’s waters beyond.
When the thunder storms came, as they frequently did during our days on Big Pond, the rain would come in a rush across the waters at the edge of the wind that drove it to engulf our cottage and thunder down on the shingles only inches above our heads. From the second floor you could see out over the whole lake as the lightning flashed its eerie white light and its tentacles snatched at the houses out on the island in the center of the pond.
My father and I built what was called a surfboard in those days — a vague cousin to what you would see at the seashore today. For me it was a pretty much unsinkable craft that I paddled by hand and by foot along all the shoreline and eventually around the shore of that island at the center of Big Pond.
The actual building of the eight or ten houses out there was a source of considerable fascination until the transporting properties of ice debunked the fantasies. The one house which most drew my explorer’s eye stood alone on a small peninsula of rock dropped by glaciers in retreat up past Hudson’s Bay long before my time. Isolated even from other islanders, I wondered at what sort of folk might suddenly emerge from within to challenge my small intrusion into their secret lives.
Orin Handler and Harold Grimes were a kind of old time Yankee you can still find in upstate Vermont or perhaps in other recesses of the country from which they have failed to vacate. They were men my father felt at home with and in this case admired, for they were country men but of class and culture.
There were not many such men, I suspect, in my father’s world and there were certainly no others like them in mine. Their families were long off the farm — perhaps merchants or seamen from Boston or New Haven who first came here for the cool of summer and, then, stayed on in Springfield or Northampton.
I found their books shelved on the long wall by the fireplace and stacks of “Boy’s Life” magazines up under the eaves. And an image of the life they led there burnt itself in my small, growing soul. I peered through their windows and poked about in their boathouses, for they rarely actually lived there any more, and in later years I longed for their life — for the ease of their manner, the ready chair by the fire where no person was truly a stranger.
At first my wish was just to be there, to experience again a way of living they provided and which I, too, could admire and rejoice in. But, then, ambition, greed for a life I could only experience but not myself provide, took over and consumed me. And it is here in this reduced and ruined form that I now find myself, and you experience me, grappling with the spirit that seemed to direct their course, and enveloping myself in every mud puddle, sinking slowly down into the earth from which I came and which so clearly shaped their lives.
The land is neither hostile nor welcoming in and of itself. But it does seem to contain within it something of who we are at our deepest core — a connection to the spirit of the life that animates everything — not as some detached, external mechanism, but in some extremely personal, intimate form in which I recognize what I want to be — not merely who I am but the special form only we humans can attain but which requires so much of us, so much effort to draw it out and is yet so easy and common when it comes.
I speak here of soul, not as of some alien being hidden within our decaying bodies, yearning for release to another land, to a better place beyond this life. No, this is the soul of who and what we are here and now, the bath of water and blood from which we were born and which now courses through our bodies, an oddly unfamiliar presence from which so many around us are actually fleeing. It repulses their nostrils; it is too coarse a salt to set at their table. And yet to separate from it is to abandon life itself.
I speak of the soul as of something warm and wet — the wet behind the ears that experience brings — experiences of love and welcome that form the bonds between us, bonds formed not by some exterior coating, but by some inexorable fluid oozing from within each of us like sweat or mingled blood, like the warmth that comes from within the fire.
I saw this life coming across the lake in the fire of stars and moon. I felt it shimmering on the surface of rocks beneath the surface of the water. It welled up around my toes when they dug down into the sand at the water’s edge. It slipped across my palm on the bodies of escaping fishes.
And I experienced its remains in the Handler cottage and in the gnarled arthritic fingers of my father’s hand clutching at tools they could no longer grasp. And it came to me in recent years in the flashing old blind eyes of my wife’s Aunt Charlotte as she searched out the form of her visitors, not by sight of course, but by a feeling that reaches out and holds you.
In those summers by the water my eyes, too, stretched out to embrace the life around me and I was in no way alone, though I may have seen no single person up close in a day or a week of exploring. Through all the angst and anguish of my worst teenage years I experienced there the same at-homeness in my element that my father and I understood in the presence of the Grimes and Handler men.
Not when skulking down paths after dark through woods where only the infinitesimal difference between trodden grasses and wild reveals direction; not even in the company of the most alien of god’s creatures (teenage girl) did I loose that sense of oneness of self and land — an experience never known down in my flat-land school or home, and that was to desert me so completely in the years of work and suburban life to follow, until I came here to live on my island in the Charles where the abandoned rocks, small birds, and marshes surround me as they did in the Berkshire hills, and the surface of still waters mirrors the golden trees of fall and me.
Sunday, January 4, 2009
The Glory of the Day
It is a beautiful poem, but it is sad. It may be frightening. Worse yet, it is idealistic ... even naive ... romantic. It knows nothing of scarce resources which must be guarded… or pillaged when they belong to others. It is generous. The poet’s heart is not mired in discontent. He is not at odds, does not feel displaced from his rightful spot. He is not ashamed that he loves.
His name is James Weldon Johnson — the author of “Lift Every Voice and Sing”. He is Black. I was surprised to discover that. So, apparently, was he. His voice is possessed of such a special intelligence, his mind so focused in a place I could only identify as my own, that it seems incredible that this mind should be that of a man of a different race. And, yet, of course, he is a very Black writer. His themes, the occasions for many of his works, come directly from the Black community. They are expressed in plainly human terms. His heart and words are plainly human —
The glory of the day was in her face,
The beauty of the night was in her eyes.
And over all her loveliness, the grace
Of morning blushing in the early skies.
She is, of course, his much beloved wife. “When I met her, “ he says in his Autobiography of an Ex-colored Man, “When I met her, the surprise which I had felt at the first sound of her voice was heightened; she was almost tall and quite slender, with lustrous yellow hair and eyes so blue as to appear almost black. She was as white as a lily, and she was dressed in white.” And for the first time he had to face squarely the fact that he, on the other hand, was not. He says, “ ...I became again the bashful boy of fourteen, and my courage failed me. ...I don’t know what she said to me or what I said to her. I can remember that I tried to be clever, and experienced a growing conviction that I was making myself appear more and more idiotic. I am certain, too, that in spite of my ... complexion, I was red as a beet.”
The glory of the day was in her face,
The beauty of the night was in her eyes.
And over all her loveliness, the grace
Of morning blushing in the early skies.
And in her voice, the calling of the dove;
Like music of a sweet melodious part.
And in her smile, the breaking light of love;
And all the gentle virtues in her heart.
This is just so romantic. I was going to say, ‘it is just so male.’ I have never heard a woman speak this way. (Perhaps I just haven’t read enough in the Romance Novels vineyard.) I know there are women who feel that they have suffered from this seeming excessive identification of Virtue with Womanhood and, yet, its absence can be the cause of a desperate suffering.
“Gentle virtues ... sweet melodious part … calling … smiling ... in her heart.” Am I just old, just out of touch, that I weep for the absence of such tenderness in this life? Must we all be athletic go-getters, quick to fight, quick to scorn? Some kind of Super Adults who never need, never long — always the Meeters capable to the demands of the day? — always the Providers to others’ needs?
Here is the whole poem as Johnson wrote it. I’ll read it once and then I’m gone —
The glory of the day was in her face,
The beauty of the night was in her eyes.
And over all her loveliness, the grace
Of morning blushing in the early skies.
And in her voice, the calling of the dove;
Like music of a sweet melodious part.
And in her smile, the breaking light of love;
And all the gentle virtues in her heart.
And now the glorious day, the beauteous night,
The birds that signal to their mates at dawn,
To my dull ears, to my tear-blinded sight
Are one with all the dead, since she is gone.
His name is James Weldon Johnson — the author of “Lift Every Voice and Sing”. He is Black. I was surprised to discover that. So, apparently, was he. His voice is possessed of such a special intelligence, his mind so focused in a place I could only identify as my own, that it seems incredible that this mind should be that of a man of a different race. And, yet, of course, he is a very Black writer. His themes, the occasions for many of his works, come directly from the Black community. They are expressed in plainly human terms. His heart and words are plainly human —
The glory of the day was in her face,
The beauty of the night was in her eyes.
And over all her loveliness, the grace
Of morning blushing in the early skies.
She is, of course, his much beloved wife. “When I met her, “ he says in his Autobiography of an Ex-colored Man, “When I met her, the surprise which I had felt at the first sound of her voice was heightened; she was almost tall and quite slender, with lustrous yellow hair and eyes so blue as to appear almost black. She was as white as a lily, and she was dressed in white.” And for the first time he had to face squarely the fact that he, on the other hand, was not. He says, “ ...I became again the bashful boy of fourteen, and my courage failed me. ...I don’t know what she said to me or what I said to her. I can remember that I tried to be clever, and experienced a growing conviction that I was making myself appear more and more idiotic. I am certain, too, that in spite of my ... complexion, I was red as a beet.”
The glory of the day was in her face,
The beauty of the night was in her eyes.
And over all her loveliness, the grace
Of morning blushing in the early skies.
And in her voice, the calling of the dove;
Like music of a sweet melodious part.
And in her smile, the breaking light of love;
And all the gentle virtues in her heart.
This is just so romantic. I was going to say, ‘it is just so male.’ I have never heard a woman speak this way. (Perhaps I just haven’t read enough in the Romance Novels vineyard.) I know there are women who feel that they have suffered from this seeming excessive identification of Virtue with Womanhood and, yet, its absence can be the cause of a desperate suffering.
“Gentle virtues ... sweet melodious part … calling … smiling ... in her heart.” Am I just old, just out of touch, that I weep for the absence of such tenderness in this life? Must we all be athletic go-getters, quick to fight, quick to scorn? Some kind of Super Adults who never need, never long — always the Meeters capable to the demands of the day? — always the Providers to others’ needs?
Here is the whole poem as Johnson wrote it. I’ll read it once and then I’m gone —
The glory of the day was in her face,
The beauty of the night was in her eyes.
And over all her loveliness, the grace
Of morning blushing in the early skies.
And in her voice, the calling of the dove;
Like music of a sweet melodious part.
And in her smile, the breaking light of love;
And all the gentle virtues in her heart.
And now the glorious day, the beauteous night,
The birds that signal to their mates at dawn,
To my dull ears, to my tear-blinded sight
Are one with all the dead, since she is gone.
Saturday, January 3, 2009
Big Pond
It is about 9 am and I am setting out on what has become a daily trip around the shore of what is known as Big Pond in the town of Otis, somewhere deep in the Berkshire hills of Western Massachusetts. My mother knows only that I go out exploring on the surfboard that my father and I built . (Well, let’s be honest here. I picked out the design; he built it, with me standing along side fetching tools as needed. As an adult, I actually built another one of these surfboards in the same basement of our family home, but without my father’s supervision. He was much too capable a craftsman to be able to tolerate my amateur fumbling efforts. Let it be noted that my board floated as well as his and was never known to crack-up on a rocky shore.)
This was a rather large and cumbersome 1940’s style board; nothing like the sleek designs of the ‘80’s. But I could lie across it, and, with wetted goggles securely in place, view the rocky bottom of Big Pond in immense detail, square foot by square foot.
I began these artistic inquiries around the beachfront near the summer cottage that my father also built, but each day I move further and further afield, slowly circumnavigating The Known World. I say these ware “artistic explorations” because all I really care about are color and shape and what the academically trained painter calls architecture. Truly, I knew nothing of minerals or of the slippage of tectonic plates or of glaciers creeping back and forth.
I move out past the Spencer’s house on the point, a wonderful old musky, dark abode of the elderly, and, thence, into the uncharted territory beyond, paddling eventually to the largest spring source of this incredibly cold and deep summer home I love. And, then, I press on further still, working my way around the blockade of rocks rising up, suddenly, to just beneath the surface of the water — a death trap for motorboats. This is totally forbidden territory. And, then, in a surprising turn of bravery, I head straight out toward the center of the pond, where an island of perhaps a dozen houses beacons.
Roaring deathtraps drawing skiers or bearing fishermen cross my path; an occasional sunfish, too, sails swiftly past before disembarking its young passenger in a burst of unbidden energy. (I will not speak of this adventure in my home, now or in the future.)
I peer into the boathouses and the front yards of the island people, and note the manufacturers and horsepower of their docked motorcraft. I view the faded green and white stripes of their wooden lawn chairs, and wonder at how they mow their lawns so neatly. It seems odd to my gentle mind that in this idyllic playground, so far from city formalities, mown lawns yet exert their tyranny.
Some of the inhabitants are curious about my origins and I am drawn inevitably into fraternization with them. I continue on even to the dark back side of the island, and, then, to a littler isle just off its coast, where there is evidence of wood fire and beer drinking.
Back home my mother has not really noticed my absence. She and my younger sister are busy with the things domestic women seem to find endlessly fascinating — sewing and cleaning and discoursing on the minutia of their lives. They might smile condescendingly but without comprehension at the magnitude of my adventures. They might be alarmed.
This was a rather large and cumbersome 1940’s style board; nothing like the sleek designs of the ‘80’s. But I could lie across it, and, with wetted goggles securely in place, view the rocky bottom of Big Pond in immense detail, square foot by square foot.
I began these artistic inquiries around the beachfront near the summer cottage that my father also built, but each day I move further and further afield, slowly circumnavigating The Known World. I say these ware “artistic explorations” because all I really care about are color and shape and what the academically trained painter calls architecture. Truly, I knew nothing of minerals or of the slippage of tectonic plates or of glaciers creeping back and forth.
I move out past the Spencer’s house on the point, a wonderful old musky, dark abode of the elderly, and, thence, into the uncharted territory beyond, paddling eventually to the largest spring source of this incredibly cold and deep summer home I love. And, then, I press on further still, working my way around the blockade of rocks rising up, suddenly, to just beneath the surface of the water — a death trap for motorboats. This is totally forbidden territory. And, then, in a surprising turn of bravery, I head straight out toward the center of the pond, where an island of perhaps a dozen houses beacons.
Roaring deathtraps drawing skiers or bearing fishermen cross my path; an occasional sunfish, too, sails swiftly past before disembarking its young passenger in a burst of unbidden energy. (I will not speak of this adventure in my home, now or in the future.)
I peer into the boathouses and the front yards of the island people, and note the manufacturers and horsepower of their docked motorcraft. I view the faded green and white stripes of their wooden lawn chairs, and wonder at how they mow their lawns so neatly. It seems odd to my gentle mind that in this idyllic playground, so far from city formalities, mown lawns yet exert their tyranny.
Some of the inhabitants are curious about my origins and I am drawn inevitably into fraternization with them. I continue on even to the dark back side of the island, and, then, to a littler isle just off its coast, where there is evidence of wood fire and beer drinking.
Back home my mother has not really noticed my absence. She and my younger sister are busy with the things domestic women seem to find endlessly fascinating — sewing and cleaning and discoursing on the minutia of their lives. They might smile condescendingly but without comprehension at the magnitude of my adventures. They might be alarmed.
Wednesday, December 3, 2008
The Hunt for Jack Rabbit
This is a story of great excitement, with joy and power thrown in for good measure. But it is also a story of death and fear. So that, almost inevitably, you must know that this is a story of the Divine. My world feels full of such sacredness, and I have had no experience more full of the divine presence than that of which this story speaks.
When I stood by the bed where my father lay, his body ravaged by the cancer that killed him many years ago, we spoke of the giant tree outside his window and of the divine power it seemed to embody looking over him, embracing him in his final hours. This is our experience of the woods.
The Hunt (for jack rabbits)
When I was twelve, my father took me hunting. Two of his buddies from work came with us. And, of course, there were the dogs — three dogs, three men, three shotguns, and me (out from behind my books).
I was familiar with the innards of the 30/06. My fathered cared for his religiously and I had often seen it on the kitchen table spread out in pieces, moist with oil. I knew also how, no matter how gently you might squeeze its trigger, it would still try to knock you to the ground with one giant kick in the shoulder. But my father’s men were big men and their guns obeyed them.
Their dogs were more precious than new born children. Harley Pentford Wellington III, commonly know as ‘Flash’, was a Beagle, and his line was the best of hunters. He was owned by my father, but he lived with me.
Always after supper we lay sprawled out on the diningroom floor in the embrace of the cool hard oak. Flash, the trained hunter, dreaming of the hunt, back there, lying between my legs. But he was not the best hunting dog we ever had. That honor belonged to Peanuts, who was dead — hit by a car, when I was six. Flash knew he was The Best in my heart, though I did love Peanuts, a lot. And I know my father missed him.
It was August and I was covered in bug spray and sweat and the dogs were jumping at their leashes. The men were full of stories, shotguns cradled in the crooks of their arms, cigarettes dangling from their lips. There were two fried egg sandwiches in my pockets — by six in the morning you are already hungry in the woods.
The trees, if they may be called that, were scrub oak; the brush was nearly as high. The burnt edges of scattered limbs testified to the fire that had downed them in days gone by. We grew silent amongst them; dog noses searched the ground. An unheard order required their release, and they charged off before us, racing down trails to destinies we could not follow. Old holes sprang up to view around us where fox or gopher once had lived. The sandy earth crunched beneath us. Leaves rattled in the breeze, when it came, bringing life from distant elsewheres and, then, moving on.
When the dogs began their frantic ritual of yips and darting here and there, they spoke a language no one could mistake. And hunter eyes scanned the brush for other signs of the life we knew, now, must linger here. The men were as keenly into the habits of our prey as were the dogs, and they worked as a single team in harness.
The oldest among the dogs took charge — shaking off the lesser scents, turning away from false trails now grown cold. This was no junior high lark. Matters of life and death were in our hands and in our senses.
And, then, suddenly, they were off! Tiny yips became great howls of excitement. Dogs tore madly through the underbrush, falling over their short legs, leaping more than running, crashing down long hillsides on their bellies. And we, tall monsters, thundered after them, though every step found us falling farther and farther behind until their cries were but a distant map of progress in the chase.
After some time the trail they ran moved off to our left. “They’ve turned him,” the men agreed. We were moving in a tight little circle that emulating the larger one that rabbits run in, when they fear for their lives. Dog voices had grown faint, but, now, suddenly, they grew louder. “They’re heading back!”
The men broke for a clearing directly in the path the fleeing rabbit must surely run. This time there was no time. No Time. There would be no chance for little rabbit tricks, no doubling back, no running in purposeless circles, no distracting our trained hunters from their deadly errand.
We stood silent at the clearing’s edge. The dogs’ cries were frantic, and coming closer. “Arw, arw,... arw, awr!” They were running straight toward us! The gun leapt into my father’s hands. Someone shouted. “Blam!”
I don’t know who fired. Men were running. The jack was down. Dogs were everywhere. A hunting knife flashed in the light. A head flew into a pile of leaping dogs. They were ferocious; their ecstasy almost too great to bear.
Eventually, the day drew gray, the first rain drops rustled the leaves, and we men headed for the cars. But the dogs were still off — too far away. Owners whistled and shouted out names. But only two came back. Our Flash was still on the trail.
The other men drove off after a long embarrassed wait. Rain rattled hard on our car’s hood, but we sat in silence peering out past the rivers of water now running down our windshield. My father got out every once in awhile and whistled and shouted, but Flash never came back. “Damn. He‘s got a deer.”
And in the end we had to go home without him. “We’ll come back in the morning.” And in the morning light Flash was there, bedraggled and exhausted, lying by the roadside where we had parked. My father wrapped him roughly in a blanket and he slept in my lap all the long journey home. “You were a naughty boy,” I whispered, but he paid no mind. Instinct guided him as it guided me, and I huddled over his frail figure with my back as a shield against the fire in my father’s eyes.
When I stood by the bed where my father lay, his body ravaged by the cancer that killed him many years ago, we spoke of the giant tree outside his window and of the divine power it seemed to embody looking over him, embracing him in his final hours. This is our experience of the woods.
The Hunt (for jack rabbits)
When I was twelve, my father took me hunting. Two of his buddies from work came with us. And, of course, there were the dogs — three dogs, three men, three shotguns, and me (out from behind my books).
I was familiar with the innards of the 30/06. My fathered cared for his religiously and I had often seen it on the kitchen table spread out in pieces, moist with oil. I knew also how, no matter how gently you might squeeze its trigger, it would still try to knock you to the ground with one giant kick in the shoulder. But my father’s men were big men and their guns obeyed them.
Their dogs were more precious than new born children. Harley Pentford Wellington III, commonly know as ‘Flash’, was a Beagle, and his line was the best of hunters. He was owned by my father, but he lived with me.
Always after supper we lay sprawled out on the diningroom floor in the embrace of the cool hard oak. Flash, the trained hunter, dreaming of the hunt, back there, lying between my legs. But he was not the best hunting dog we ever had. That honor belonged to Peanuts, who was dead — hit by a car, when I was six. Flash knew he was The Best in my heart, though I did love Peanuts, a lot. And I know my father missed him.
It was August and I was covered in bug spray and sweat and the dogs were jumping at their leashes. The men were full of stories, shotguns cradled in the crooks of their arms, cigarettes dangling from their lips. There were two fried egg sandwiches in my pockets — by six in the morning you are already hungry in the woods.
The trees, if they may be called that, were scrub oak; the brush was nearly as high. The burnt edges of scattered limbs testified to the fire that had downed them in days gone by. We grew silent amongst them; dog noses searched the ground. An unheard order required their release, and they charged off before us, racing down trails to destinies we could not follow. Old holes sprang up to view around us where fox or gopher once had lived. The sandy earth crunched beneath us. Leaves rattled in the breeze, when it came, bringing life from distant elsewheres and, then, moving on.
When the dogs began their frantic ritual of yips and darting here and there, they spoke a language no one could mistake. And hunter eyes scanned the brush for other signs of the life we knew, now, must linger here. The men were as keenly into the habits of our prey as were the dogs, and they worked as a single team in harness.
The oldest among the dogs took charge — shaking off the lesser scents, turning away from false trails now grown cold. This was no junior high lark. Matters of life and death were in our hands and in our senses.
And, then, suddenly, they were off! Tiny yips became great howls of excitement. Dogs tore madly through the underbrush, falling over their short legs, leaping more than running, crashing down long hillsides on their bellies. And we, tall monsters, thundered after them, though every step found us falling farther and farther behind until their cries were but a distant map of progress in the chase.
After some time the trail they ran moved off to our left. “They’ve turned him,” the men agreed. We were moving in a tight little circle that emulating the larger one that rabbits run in, when they fear for their lives. Dog voices had grown faint, but, now, suddenly, they grew louder. “They’re heading back!”
The men broke for a clearing directly in the path the fleeing rabbit must surely run. This time there was no time. No Time. There would be no chance for little rabbit tricks, no doubling back, no running in purposeless circles, no distracting our trained hunters from their deadly errand.
We stood silent at the clearing’s edge. The dogs’ cries were frantic, and coming closer. “Arw, arw,... arw, awr!” They were running straight toward us! The gun leapt into my father’s hands. Someone shouted. “Blam!”
I don’t know who fired. Men were running. The jack was down. Dogs were everywhere. A hunting knife flashed in the light. A head flew into a pile of leaping dogs. They were ferocious; their ecstasy almost too great to bear.
Eventually, the day drew gray, the first rain drops rustled the leaves, and we men headed for the cars. But the dogs were still off — too far away. Owners whistled and shouted out names. But only two came back. Our Flash was still on the trail.
The other men drove off after a long embarrassed wait. Rain rattled hard on our car’s hood, but we sat in silence peering out past the rivers of water now running down our windshield. My father got out every once in awhile and whistled and shouted, but Flash never came back. “Damn. He‘s got a deer.”
And in the end we had to go home without him. “We’ll come back in the morning.” And in the morning light Flash was there, bedraggled and exhausted, lying by the roadside where we had parked. My father wrapped him roughly in a blanket and he slept in my lap all the long journey home. “You were a naughty boy,” I whispered, but he paid no mind. Instinct guided him as it guided me, and I huddled over his frail figure with my back as a shield against the fire in my father’s eyes.
Wednesday, November 5, 2008
Friday, October 24, 2008
Thursday, September 4, 2008
Green Man Walking
Come, sit here awhile
In the soft cushion by my heart.
Here find home, not rooms for fear.
Here end the flight
That drags your heart from death to death.
Here, halt in moonlight's glow
Where even heartless android workmen feel again love flow
Through ancient corridors to places long forgotten —
This is the destiny for which you have fought and sought.
I, this motherland feeding your dream;
I, this dying god hauling your relentless burden upstream,
By your scars I know you! Through your failures I claim
Your heart.... I have waited so long. Come. Do not fail me.
----
In the garden of my soul where green pastures spread fragrant delights
And lazy horses nibble in the shade of old apple trees
A thin stream glistens in afternoon's slanted rays,
A warm summer sun shimmers in its own milky blue reflections.
In cool shadows down by water's edge,
Where even the smallest pebbles are cleaned and polished,
Glacier rubbed boulders form flat sitting spots for two gangly boys
Groping with sticks in cold depths beyond their minds to grasp.
While young horses munch down rotting apple droppings
To spice their green fodder with stolen sweets,
Flat saucer stones walk the water’s surface
In quick steps propelled by expert snaps.
Their watery graves, unmarked,
Are forgotten
Before their souls may gurgle free
Or their final 'plops' be heard.
On a far sunny knoll two black hounds lounge unnoticed,
Dreaming minds lost in former hunting glories,
Rerunning chases of great merit
Without present effort or apparent future purpose.
Here fearful minds behold Lord Chaos reigning.
No intentions guide toward long-term goals.
No affirmations of gainful purpose
Beguile serious strivers into mighty efforts.
For in this soul garden romantic histories
Still command respect and gallant heroes wrestle
Their foes to submission without loosing hearts to anger
Or minds to fears they cannot master by a simple cry to god.
Lionhearts beat strong in bony breasts;
Tired hooves stumble to late life victories;
Keen senses still find home through miles of haze;
And our Good King honors loyal knights as friends.
---
"Take care", she whispers, her lips burrowed in yellow cornsilk hair. "In such depths lie great treasures, hid for good reason from prying eyes that have no care for living."
---
A row boat is an unwieldy thing especially when powered
By independent oarsmen. They struggled with the logistics of backward travel.
They practiced poling off undetected rocks masked by reflection's glare.
A map of underwater dangers unfolded slowly in their minds.
From the haven of their wide-bottomed craft they surveyed their dominion
And their hair grew whiter still as their skin grew dark as night.
And in that darkest hour when the sun's warmth has faded farthest from our earth
They woke together as though hearing the same voice calling.
By their rainbow pond they stood transfixed, bare toes gripping icy sand,
And they climbed into their dingy quiet as the air in breathing.
Their oars they moved in union; their strokes were strong; their aim was sure;
And they plunged beneath the surface as a single splash, now swallowed, now unnoticed.
They were absent still from their beds when she called to wake them
For their chores. Blankets and clothes were scattered about on bare wooden floor.
From the high tower window she could see the dingy floating empty
In the center of the pond and a rainbow was sucking at the water, hard.
She spread her arms to greet it and urge it to its lonely task -
To turn these waters back to heaven; to lift their burden from the earth.
But her boys sat huddled, shaking on the farthest shore.
Four black hounds paced around them. All arms and legs gripped others.
When she stood beside them, they huddled lower. With care she stooped
And encircled them with a deep velvet cloak - a cloak she had never worn herself
But saved secure in a chest long locked in a chamber beneath the tower.
For Lionhearts beat still in bony breasts and friendship is treasure beyond any price.
---
The Green Man poked in the rubble of the rainbow pond departed.
His staff was a sapling trunk - no mere branch held he in weathered hand.
Great boulders toppled to their sides; wet underbellies he lay exposed,
And he glowered down through green flashing eyes beneath great rusty eyebrows.
He cried out, "Ho!", at each new discovery. Boys crouched and watched wide eyed.
They were not afraid. At least so they said as they boldly ventured
In the giant's parting wake. He strode through the pond with majestic step
And they marched in his footsteps with their own staffs tapping.
They had seen him first at the twilight hour, surveying the muck and ruin
Of the summer pond that had been their joy and was still their hunting ground.
They peered hard into places he uncovered. They touched and smelled
The muddy bowels of the ancient creature we now call Earth.
He seemed unaware of their prying presence. Though he sometimes smiled
To an inner joke when they could not see his visage.
A great round hat shaded his ruddy features and wild red hair
Poked out beneath it like raspberry bushes from the roadside.
The excitement of their discoveries emboldened the boys each day.
They rose with the sun and roamed into the night obsessed with their new science.
She stood in the saddle and watched from the hill and waited in stony silence.
For she knew this man and she knew his plan and she sent her dogs to track him.
They crept in a crouch that only old dogs know,
And they hunted him down to his lair in a cave in the rock -
Moss covered and water dripping - back deep in the dark,
Where she now stood and glowered; hands thrust on her hips; breasts heaving.
"These boys," she hissed, "are not treasures to keep.
They live in the sunlight. They dance in the meadow.
Free they are. Free they shall remain so long as Lionhearts are still beating."
And she drew her sword as the lightning flashes.
His foot stomped ground. Rocks trembled and fell.
"Mine!", he roared, like dark wind howling, and his staff he raised
As though to strike her numb. But she stood still on silent ground.
Green eyes stared into his green orbs, and he knew her then for what she was.
His staff he lay on the ground between them and he sank to a rock
To wait. Her breathing slowed and she sheathed her sword.
Her hounds gathered behind her feet. Their teeth were bared,
But they held their ground and slowly sank to the rock to wait.
"I mean no harm." He spoke with a soft, rough sound,
Like a man who has rarely spoken and must search in his throat
For muscles forgotten to clear out a path for his words to follow.
"I love them. My sons. True sons. Not right to stop me."
His voice seared great streaks in her breast and belly
And she thought such wounds must pour out her life on this man.
Her hounds whimpered - her distress was theirs,
And they rose, all crouched to spring to their deaths if need be.
But the man made no move. Kept his hands on his knees
And leaned forward as though the better to see her. He wanted to rise
And his heart felt her pain, but he dared not reach out to touch her.
"Ah," he signed. "I have no match for such anger."
The tears in her eyes shamed her hot warrior heart
And she turned from his gaze to shield them.
He rose, now, without word and strode through the dogs
Who stepped aside as though for their master.
They walked to the pond. He stood apart in the shadows.
Yes, two boys still searched there for meaning. "My boys," he murmured,
And he turned to her eyes: "Treasures they are, but not treasures to keep."
His words burned her soul but she nodded.
---
In the soft cushion by my heart.
Here find home, not rooms for fear.
Here end the flight
That drags your heart from death to death.
Here, halt in moonlight's glow
Where even heartless android workmen feel again love flow
Through ancient corridors to places long forgotten —
This is the destiny for which you have fought and sought.
I, this motherland feeding your dream;
I, this dying god hauling your relentless burden upstream,
By your scars I know you! Through your failures I claim
Your heart.... I have waited so long. Come. Do not fail me.
----
In the garden of my soul where green pastures spread fragrant delights
And lazy horses nibble in the shade of old apple trees
A thin stream glistens in afternoon's slanted rays,
A warm summer sun shimmers in its own milky blue reflections.
In cool shadows down by water's edge,
Where even the smallest pebbles are cleaned and polished,
Glacier rubbed boulders form flat sitting spots for two gangly boys
Groping with sticks in cold depths beyond their minds to grasp.
While young horses munch down rotting apple droppings
To spice their green fodder with stolen sweets,
Flat saucer stones walk the water’s surface
In quick steps propelled by expert snaps.
Their watery graves, unmarked,
Are forgotten
Before their souls may gurgle free
Or their final 'plops' be heard.
On a far sunny knoll two black hounds lounge unnoticed,
Dreaming minds lost in former hunting glories,
Rerunning chases of great merit
Without present effort or apparent future purpose.
Here fearful minds behold Lord Chaos reigning.
No intentions guide toward long-term goals.
No affirmations of gainful purpose
Beguile serious strivers into mighty efforts.
For in this soul garden romantic histories
Still command respect and gallant heroes wrestle
Their foes to submission without loosing hearts to anger
Or minds to fears they cannot master by a simple cry to god.
Lionhearts beat strong in bony breasts;
Tired hooves stumble to late life victories;
Keen senses still find home through miles of haze;
And our Good King honors loyal knights as friends.
---
A rainbow melted from the sky one day and formed a pond where two small explorers now poke their heads beneath the water’s surface along the shallow shore, and scout out small curious stones while nosy passing bluegills nibble at their toes.
In deeper waters where boys do not go except by accident or by dare, the darkness sits - it's hungry belly primed for feasting; it's shadowed claws flexed and open wide in waiting. Here divers close their eyes lest fright devour their fight to surface.
"Such a pond is no plaything for disrespectful travelers", their mother's soft voice warns them, as she rides out from stables atop flashing hooves with snorts like fire crashing through sharp underbrush to fly across meadows in a sea of hair.
In deeper waters where boys do not go except by accident or by dare, the darkness sits - it's hungry belly primed for feasting; it's shadowed claws flexed and open wide in waiting. Here divers close their eyes lest fright devour their fight to surface.
"Such a pond is no plaything for disrespectful travelers", their mother's soft voice warns them, as she rides out from stables atop flashing hooves with snorts like fire crashing through sharp underbrush to fly across meadows in a sea of hair.
"Take care", she whispers, her lips burrowed in yellow cornsilk hair. "In such depths lie great treasures, hid for good reason from prying eyes that have no care for living."
---
A row boat is an unwieldy thing especially when powered
By independent oarsmen. They struggled with the logistics of backward travel.
They practiced poling off undetected rocks masked by reflection's glare.
A map of underwater dangers unfolded slowly in their minds.
From the haven of their wide-bottomed craft they surveyed their dominion
And their hair grew whiter still as their skin grew dark as night.
And in that darkest hour when the sun's warmth has faded farthest from our earth
They woke together as though hearing the same voice calling.
By their rainbow pond they stood transfixed, bare toes gripping icy sand,
And they climbed into their dingy quiet as the air in breathing.
Their oars they moved in union; their strokes were strong; their aim was sure;
And they plunged beneath the surface as a single splash, now swallowed, now unnoticed.
They were absent still from their beds when she called to wake them
For their chores. Blankets and clothes were scattered about on bare wooden floor.
From the high tower window she could see the dingy floating empty
In the center of the pond and a rainbow was sucking at the water, hard.
She spread her arms to greet it and urge it to its lonely task -
To turn these waters back to heaven; to lift their burden from the earth.
But her boys sat huddled, shaking on the farthest shore.
Four black hounds paced around them. All arms and legs gripped others.
When she stood beside them, they huddled lower. With care she stooped
And encircled them with a deep velvet cloak - a cloak she had never worn herself
But saved secure in a chest long locked in a chamber beneath the tower.
For Lionhearts beat still in bony breasts and friendship is treasure beyond any price.
---
The Green Man poked in the rubble of the rainbow pond departed.
His staff was a sapling trunk - no mere branch held he in weathered hand.
Great boulders toppled to their sides; wet underbellies he lay exposed,
And he glowered down through green flashing eyes beneath great rusty eyebrows.
He cried out, "Ho!", at each new discovery. Boys crouched and watched wide eyed.
They were not afraid. At least so they said as they boldly ventured
In the giant's parting wake. He strode through the pond with majestic step
And they marched in his footsteps with their own staffs tapping.
They had seen him first at the twilight hour, surveying the muck and ruin
Of the summer pond that had been their joy and was still their hunting ground.
They peered hard into places he uncovered. They touched and smelled
The muddy bowels of the ancient creature we now call Earth.
He seemed unaware of their prying presence. Though he sometimes smiled
To an inner joke when they could not see his visage.
A great round hat shaded his ruddy features and wild red hair
Poked out beneath it like raspberry bushes from the roadside.
The excitement of their discoveries emboldened the boys each day.
They rose with the sun and roamed into the night obsessed with their new science.
She stood in the saddle and watched from the hill and waited in stony silence.
For she knew this man and she knew his plan and she sent her dogs to track him.
They crept in a crouch that only old dogs know,
And they hunted him down to his lair in a cave in the rock -
Moss covered and water dripping - back deep in the dark,
Where she now stood and glowered; hands thrust on her hips; breasts heaving.
"These boys," she hissed, "are not treasures to keep.
They live in the sunlight. They dance in the meadow.
Free they are. Free they shall remain so long as Lionhearts are still beating."
And she drew her sword as the lightning flashes.
His foot stomped ground. Rocks trembled and fell.
"Mine!", he roared, like dark wind howling, and his staff he raised
As though to strike her numb. But she stood still on silent ground.
Green eyes stared into his green orbs, and he knew her then for what she was.
His staff he lay on the ground between them and he sank to a rock
To wait. Her breathing slowed and she sheathed her sword.
Her hounds gathered behind her feet. Their teeth were bared,
But they held their ground and slowly sank to the rock to wait.
"I mean no harm." He spoke with a soft, rough sound,
Like a man who has rarely spoken and must search in his throat
For muscles forgotten to clear out a path for his words to follow.
"I love them. My sons. True sons. Not right to stop me."
His voice seared great streaks in her breast and belly
And she thought such wounds must pour out her life on this man.
Her hounds whimpered - her distress was theirs,
And they rose, all crouched to spring to their deaths if need be.
But the man made no move. Kept his hands on his knees
And leaned forward as though the better to see her. He wanted to rise
And his heart felt her pain, but he dared not reach out to touch her.
"Ah," he signed. "I have no match for such anger."
The tears in her eyes shamed her hot warrior heart
And she turned from his gaze to shield them.
He rose, now, without word and strode through the dogs
Who stepped aside as though for their master.
They walked to the pond. He stood apart in the shadows.
Yes, two boys still searched there for meaning. "My boys," he murmured,
And he turned to her eyes: "Treasures they are, but not treasures to keep."
His words burned her soul but she nodded.
---
Tuesday, September 2, 2008
A hole in the universe
Wood engraving from 'L'atmosphere: meteorologie populaire', 1888, by French astronomer, Camille Flammarion.
Tuesday, August 26, 2008
Wednesday, July 30, 2008
The shootings in Knoxville
The shooting death of two members during a worship service at the Unitarian Universalist church in Knoxville, Tennessee has resulted in an outpouring of prayers and messages of support from around the country. Waltham Unitarian Universalists, like myself, grieve for our brothers and sisters in Knoxville.
As spiritual seekers who have taken a hard look at human social life, we can begin to understand the depth of feeling that can drive an abusive man with a history of contempt for gays and liberals, as this shooter appears to have been.
But it is still shocking to see such hatred acted out and to recognize ourselves as its victims. Our Waltham church has been plagued by only minor vandalism due to our support of gay and lesbian marriage rights. And, thankfully, here in our city we are not alone in that social stand as Unitarian Universalist churches in other parts of the country often are. It is good to feel surrounded by friends in such emotion filled circumstance.
Most news reports focus on the shotgun-wielding intruder, but I find the churchmen who confronted him more worthy of contemplation — John Bohstedt, Terry Uselton, Jamie Parkey, and, especially, Greg McKendry (deceased) who was the quickest to action.
It is certainly true, as the Knoxville News Sentinel observed, “that no place is immune to such violence”, but the heroes of compassion and bravery, like these who rise to the community's need, are the ones who will see us through to a more just and caring day.
I am told that at the public vigil held on Tuesday in support of our Knoxville parishioners the final song was so emotion packed that the crowd erupted in shouts and cheers for the young singers, applause and tears of gratitude for the community’s concern, as well as grief for the victims of such an outrage. Amen to that.
As spiritual seekers who have taken a hard look at human social life, we can begin to understand the depth of feeling that can drive an abusive man with a history of contempt for gays and liberals, as this shooter appears to have been.
But it is still shocking to see such hatred acted out and to recognize ourselves as its victims. Our Waltham church has been plagued by only minor vandalism due to our support of gay and lesbian marriage rights. And, thankfully, here in our city we are not alone in that social stand as Unitarian Universalist churches in other parts of the country often are. It is good to feel surrounded by friends in such emotion filled circumstance.
Most news reports focus on the shotgun-wielding intruder, but I find the churchmen who confronted him more worthy of contemplation — John Bohstedt, Terry Uselton, Jamie Parkey, and, especially, Greg McKendry (deceased) who was the quickest to action.
It is certainly true, as the Knoxville News Sentinel observed, “that no place is immune to such violence”, but the heroes of compassion and bravery, like these who rise to the community's need, are the ones who will see us through to a more just and caring day.I am told that at the public vigil held on Tuesday in support of our Knoxville parishioners the final song was so emotion packed that the crowd erupted in shouts and cheers for the young singers, applause and tears of gratitude for the community’s concern, as well as grief for the victims of such an outrage. Amen to that.
Monday, July 7, 2008
"The Visitor"
I read one blogger who (with outrage eyes) saw Tom McCarthy’s film, The Visitor, as liberal propaganda about post-9/11 US mistreatment of Muslims. It would help this interpretation of the film if the words ’Muslim’ or ‘Islam’ were anywhere part of the soundtrack or if all Syrians or Senegalese could be reliably depicted as at least non-Christian.
There can be no doubt that the film’s immigrants are illegal and callously treated for no particular reason, but some presumably honest individual finding such a strong religious twist to the film ought to make us wonder about what we actually experience when we go to the movies or even when we walk outside afterwards. How much of our experience is actually happening? Is so much of what we experience being shaped by our expectations that we can never know what is real?
When I watched The Visitor at my local Landmark Theatre, I saw a story about Walter, a college professor who has lost his way, but now begins to discover in drumming new possibility for meaning in his life. This drumming is introduced to him through Tarek, the illegal Syrian immigrant he finds living in his long-abandoned NYC apartment.
Maybe we should compromise between these extreme interpretations and say that “the film’s title refers to [Walter] — a transient presence in his own life —as much as it does to Tarek, who seems at home wherever he is.” *
Walter is no where at home when the story begins. He tries to connect with the life he shared with his dead wife through learning to play the piano, as she did. But that is no more successful than finding meaning in his teaching or in writing another book. By ‘accident’ he is forced to return to the apartment he shared with her many years ago and there he finds through his visitor, Tarek, the musical connection to the feeling life that he seeks.
The Visitor storyline is far simpler than its emotional impact. Political activists will be driven toward righting our panicked Ship of State. Introspectives may be drawn to Walter’s life predicament and the powerful personal connection he finds through the music that embraces his foreign soul.
Go see this movie. I’m afraid that its impact may be lessened by seeing it alone on your little TV screen. For me the film is still about being at home — at home in your own skin; at home in the society where you live; an awkward, sometimes angry visitor.
****
We didn't talk about Tarek's mother, but we should have — a real traditionalist we think she is. The modernist, Tarek, strives to keep her in the dark about his Senegalese girlfriend. [One blogger actually refers to Tarek's girlfriend as "his wife", but nothing could be farther from what we see happening on the screen.] Fortunately, this mother is one traditionalist for whom love trumps all.
Not surprisingly we can feel Walter falling in love with this woman's solid ways. We, too, admire her as she rises above stereotype and accepts Tarek's loving embrace of "ethnic diversity".
Her name in Mouna [The Mouna Diamond weighs 112.53 carats and is of even greater color and weight than the Tiffany Diamond.] and at first it seems like this will be Red State Mouna vs. Blue State Walter. But in the end they are unified in their inability to deal with the monstrosity that our government has become.
The Visitor may be the story of Walter Vale's quest for a truly living identity, but his story takes place in the wasteland that our weak-kneed politicians seem hell-bent on creating.
* A. O. SCOTT in The New York Times film review, April 11, 2008.
There can be no doubt that the film’s immigrants are illegal and callously treated for no particular reason, but some presumably honest individual finding such a strong religious twist to the film ought to make us wonder about what we actually experience when we go to the movies or even when we walk outside afterwards. How much of our experience is actually happening? Is so much of what we experience being shaped by our expectations that we can never know what is real?
When I watched The Visitor at my local Landmark Theatre, I saw a story about Walter, a college professor who has lost his way, but now begins to discover in drumming new possibility for meaning in his life. This drumming is introduced to him through Tarek, the illegal Syrian immigrant he finds living in his long-abandoned NYC apartment.
Maybe we should compromise between these extreme interpretations and say that “the film’s title refers to [Walter] — a transient presence in his own life —as much as it does to Tarek, who seems at home wherever he is.” *
Walter is no where at home when the story begins. He tries to connect with the life he shared with his dead wife through learning to play the piano, as she did. But that is no more successful than finding meaning in his teaching or in writing another book. By ‘accident’ he is forced to return to the apartment he shared with her many years ago and there he finds through his visitor, Tarek, the musical connection to the feeling life that he seeks.
The Visitor storyline is far simpler than its emotional impact. Political activists will be driven toward righting our panicked Ship of State. Introspectives may be drawn to Walter’s life predicament and the powerful personal connection he finds through the music that embraces his foreign soul.
Go see this movie. I’m afraid that its impact may be lessened by seeing it alone on your little TV screen. For me the film is still about being at home — at home in your own skin; at home in the society where you live; an awkward, sometimes angry visitor.
****
We didn't talk about Tarek's mother, but we should have — a real traditionalist we think she is. The modernist, Tarek, strives to keep her in the dark about his Senegalese girlfriend. [One blogger actually refers to Tarek's girlfriend as "his wife", but nothing could be farther from what we see happening on the screen.] Fortunately, this mother is one traditionalist for whom love trumps all.
Not surprisingly we can feel Walter falling in love with this woman's solid ways. We, too, admire her as she rises above stereotype and accepts Tarek's loving embrace of "ethnic diversity".
Her name in Mouna [The Mouna Diamond weighs 112.53 carats and is of even greater color and weight than the Tiffany Diamond.] and at first it seems like this will be Red State Mouna vs. Blue State Walter. But in the end they are unified in their inability to deal with the monstrosity that our government has become.
The Visitor may be the story of Walter Vale's quest for a truly living identity, but his story takes place in the wasteland that our weak-kneed politicians seem hell-bent on creating.
* A. O. SCOTT in The New York Times film review, April 11, 2008.
Saturday, June 21, 2008
Yes, We Can.
Three words that will ring from coast to coast.Three words that will place a giant period at the end
of eight years of small minded decision-making,
corrupt war-making,
& plain old incompetence.
of eight years of small minded decision-making,
corrupt war-making,
& plain old incompetence.
Friday, June 13, 2008
At the Largo with Justin Currie (6/11)
The new Largo is quite up-scale, but, as you fans know, Justin and Peter are very well dressed, so he fit in as well as any f---ing Scotsman could expect to. It’s a big room (280 seats) and the acoustics are great, so I was very pleased — you can both hear every word and not be jammed into your neighbor’s elbow.
Flanagan seems to have spent willingly on the new place and was eager to show everyone around. Couldn’t have been more different from The Viper Room, which is way too small and way too loud as far as I am concerned. Not a place Justin would want to play in this new solo career, though perfect for the old days, I guess.
Certainly The Viper was the right place for a rock star like Rob Dickinson [The Man from Catherine Wheel] — I don't mean to put the place down. We had a great time there squeezing into the telephone booth they call a green room and the band was great [not just because Peter was in it]. There was Peter's old friend from the Boston days, Michael Eisenstein [USA Mike of Letters to Cleo fame], on guitar — that was a very pleasant surprise. Then, there was Rob's friend, Tim Friese-Greene, on keyboards — even more of an eyebrow raiser; an awesome shocker even, since Peter and I grew-up together musically listening to Talk Talk and similar British pop bands from back in The Day.
But I digress more than usual—
For Justin's Largo show I brought along an extra handkerchief just in case it got to be too much — his songs are so heart wrenching I can barely stand to listen sometimes. Happy to say I managed to survive even though they ended the show with two incredible Del Amitri B-side classics: ‘Driving with The Brakes On’ and ‘Sleep Instead of Teardrops’.
Imagine this! After an hour and a half of the slick-tongued Scotsman plucking your heart strings, you get [back to back] a guy being driven into the long night by the girl he loves toward some place so desolate that no one where they come from would ever go there, followed immediately by this shot to the now unguarded solar plexus—
Cry, cry out your eyes forever
It won’t go away
I, I’m just a dumb observer
It’s so stupid what I say
Like everyone else will do I’m gonna lie to you
Tell you that life is cruel but someday you’re gonna wake up
With sleep instead of teardrops in your eyes
And so, nobody lives forever
The crassest of clichés
Like time, time is the greatest healer
But it’s a murderer today
Like everyone else will do I’m gonna lie to you
Tell you that life is cruel but someday you’re gonna wake up
With sleep instead of teardrops in your eyes
You know my holding you won't change anything
I can’t stop this whole charade continuing
As each consoling kiss remains on your face like a stain
So cry, cry out those tears
And let them succumb to gravity
And try, try as I might
I’ll never fill that vacancy
Like everyone else will do I’m gonna lie to you
Tell you that life is cruel but someday you’re gonna wake up
With sleep instead of teardrops in your eyes
Someday you’re gonna wake up
With sleep instead of teardrops in your eyes
By now Justin is safely at home in Glasgow. Peter is probably down on Sunset enjoying The Submarines' show at The Echo. And I am left here to reassure you that someday you're gonna wake up with sleep instead of teardrops in your eyes.
Justin Currie & Peter Adams at Joe's Pub, NYC
Flanagan seems to have spent willingly on the new place and was eager to show everyone around. Couldn’t have been more different from The Viper Room, which is way too small and way too loud as far as I am concerned. Not a place Justin would want to play in this new solo career, though perfect for the old days, I guess.
Certainly The Viper was the right place for a rock star like Rob Dickinson [The Man from Catherine Wheel] — I don't mean to put the place down. We had a great time there squeezing into the telephone booth they call a green room and the band was great [not just because Peter was in it]. There was Peter's old friend from the Boston days, Michael Eisenstein [USA Mike of Letters to Cleo fame], on guitar — that was a very pleasant surprise. Then, there was Rob's friend, Tim Friese-Greene, on keyboards — even more of an eyebrow raiser; an awesome shocker even, since Peter and I grew-up together musically listening to Talk Talk and similar British pop bands from back in The Day.
But I digress more than usual—For Justin's Largo show I brought along an extra handkerchief just in case it got to be too much — his songs are so heart wrenching I can barely stand to listen sometimes. Happy to say I managed to survive even though they ended the show with two incredible Del Amitri B-side classics: ‘Driving with The Brakes On’ and ‘Sleep Instead of Teardrops’.
Imagine this! After an hour and a half of the slick-tongued Scotsman plucking your heart strings, you get [back to back] a guy being driven into the long night by the girl he loves toward some place so desolate that no one where they come from would ever go there, followed immediately by this shot to the now unguarded solar plexus—
Cry, cry out your eyes forever
It won’t go away
I, I’m just a dumb observer
It’s so stupid what I say
Like everyone else will do I’m gonna lie to you
Tell you that life is cruel but someday you’re gonna wake up
With sleep instead of teardrops in your eyes
And so, nobody lives forever
The crassest of clichés
Like time, time is the greatest healer
But it’s a murderer today
Like everyone else will do I’m gonna lie to you
Tell you that life is cruel but someday you’re gonna wake up
With sleep instead of teardrops in your eyes
You know my holding you won't change anything
I can’t stop this whole charade continuing
As each consoling kiss remains on your face like a stain
So cry, cry out those tears
And let them succumb to gravity
And try, try as I might
I’ll never fill that vacancy
Like everyone else will do I’m gonna lie to you
Tell you that life is cruel but someday you’re gonna wake up
With sleep instead of teardrops in your eyes
Someday you’re gonna wake up
With sleep instead of teardrops in your eyes
By now Justin is safely at home in Glasgow. Peter is probably down on Sunset enjoying The Submarines' show at The Echo. And I am left here to reassure you that someday you're gonna wake up with sleep instead of teardrops in your eyes.
Justin Currie & Peter Adams at Joe's Pub, NYC
Thursday, June 5, 2008
Justin Currie PLUS Rob Dickinson — Wow!
I descend upon Los Angeles this Saturday just in time to hear [get this] Rob Dickinson [June 10 at The Viper Room] followed by Justin Currie [June 11 at Largo]! I expect Peter to be singing with both guys, but I'm really there for the duo with Justin. [If you're in LA you can always join us, you know.]
On top of this huge musical treat Peter says I'll probably have to take in a rehearsal earlier in the week because a couple of friends [Butch Norton & David Sutton] will be joining Justin and him for part of the show at Largo. Tsk. Tsk. Sure hope I can endure it.
Part of the fun will be checking out the clubs.
As we pass under the purple awning at The Viper will the ghost of River Phoenix rise from the sidewalk where he died [Halloween,1993]? How about the steam of Mick Jagger and Uma Thurman locked in embrace or the smoke from Ellen DeGeneres and Anne Heche lighting up? Oh, the nostalgia.... Maybe Bugsy Siegel will still be waving his rod around in the cloud of imagination gone wild. (Note to self: bring ear plugs...leave fantasy visions at home.)
Looking for Larry David at Club Largo will surely "Curb [my] Enthusiasm" — yeh, the club is billed as a comedy as well as music stop. But the music is really serious here (the words matter). Michael Penn, Rufus Wainwright, Jon Brion — now that's a musical tradition to live up to, isn't it? It's going to be tough leaving this place.
On top of this huge musical treat Peter says I'll probably have to take in a rehearsal earlier in the week because a couple of friends [Butch Norton & David Sutton] will be joining Justin and him for part of the show at Largo. Tsk. Tsk. Sure hope I can endure it.
Part of the fun will be checking out the clubs.As we pass under the purple awning at The Viper will the ghost of River Phoenix rise from the sidewalk where he died [Halloween,1993]? How about the steam of Mick Jagger and Uma Thurman locked in embrace or the smoke from Ellen DeGeneres and Anne Heche lighting up? Oh, the nostalgia.... Maybe Bugsy Siegel will still be waving his rod around in the cloud of imagination gone wild. (Note to self: bring ear plugs...leave fantasy visions at home.)
Looking for Larry David at Club Largo will surely "Curb [my] Enthusiasm" — yeh, the club is billed as a comedy as well as music stop. But the music is really serious here (the words matter). Michael Penn, Rufus Wainwright, Jon Brion — now that's a musical tradition to live up to, isn't it? It's going to be tough leaving this place.
Sunday, May 18, 2008
Race Based Politics in America
A few days ago I heard an extensive up-to-date report on conditions in Kenya. Remember the rampages of destruction after the recent elections that threw-out the current government which refused to disclose the vote and so its own defeat?
Charlie Clements* spoke to us of the terror engendered by the attacks of one tribal group upon another in the weeks that followed. Kenyans who had been living together in peace for all the years of their independence, intermarrying, doing business with one another were suddenly forcibly splitting families apart, destroying one another’s homes and businesses. Hidden tribal grievances suddenly broke into the open and the true nature of peaceful, reasonable Kenya , the democratic beacon of African hope, was called into question.
Or was it? Last night a young man connected to the Kenyan girls schools that my church supports reported to us that all is well back home. The girls are in no danger. Peace prevails. All is normal. ...Oh, yes, food is now very expensive. And, yes, the high school senior we were going to send to university is no longer planning to go to a Kenyan school. She will [suddenly] be going to Uganda ... ‘because the schools are better there.’
The discussion of Race in America led by ministers of the United Church of Christ and Unitarian Universalists this Sunday morning suddenly seems, to my mind, illumined by the Kenyan experience.
Undiscussed, unaddressed racial issues suddenly erupted in our homeland, too, thanks to 24 hour TV news shows’ blatant abuse of the Rev. Jeremiah Wright and the Right Wing attempt to smear Barack Obama’s quest for the presidency.
Leave aside for the moment the dirty Rovean politics and the unprincipled, incompetent so-called news people blathering on our TV screens. Consider, instead, how race divides us. Still divides us — despite all the earnest effort of the last 40 years.
Like our young Kenyan friend, we long to believe in Peaceful America, the America we love, where ethnic differences do not divide — “Give us your tired, your poor, your huddled masses.” [No, no, ‘Illegal Immigration’ is not about race.] And in our longing for the America of our dreams we conspire with ourselves to not notice the police profiling and racial fear that fills our mammoth prison system with young black men. [Just to name aloud one small affront to decency.] And, now, along comes disgraceful politics in our homeland, too, and what just cannot be is exposed for all to see.
See all those happy white and black faces cheering the hopeful change Obama embodies! That is our America! That is who we truly are. The hundreds of hours spent by political operatives pouring through Jeremiah Wright’s 30-plus year sermonic history just cannot represent who we are as a nation. It’s just too evil... too anti-American in values. It just cannot represent the America, blessed by G_d, and beloved in song at baseball parks all across the nation. Can it?
*Dr. Charlie Clements, head of the Unitarian Universalist Service Committee, speaking at Andover Newton Theological School, upon his return from a fact-finding mission to Kenya, where he met with local, non-governmental groups in Nairobi and elsewhere.
Charlie Clements* spoke to us of the terror engendered by the attacks of one tribal group upon another in the weeks that followed. Kenyans who had been living together in peace for all the years of their independence, intermarrying, doing business with one another were suddenly forcibly splitting families apart, destroying one another’s homes and businesses. Hidden tribal grievances suddenly broke into the open and the true nature of peaceful, reasonable Kenya , the democratic beacon of African hope, was called into question.
Or was it? Last night a young man connected to the Kenyan girls schools that my church supports reported to us that all is well back home. The girls are in no danger. Peace prevails. All is normal. ...Oh, yes, food is now very expensive. And, yes, the high school senior we were going to send to university is no longer planning to go to a Kenyan school. She will [suddenly] be going to Uganda ... ‘because the schools are better there.’
The discussion of Race in America led by ministers of the United Church of Christ and Unitarian Universalists this Sunday morning suddenly seems, to my mind, illumined by the Kenyan experience.
Undiscussed, unaddressed racial issues suddenly erupted in our homeland, too, thanks to 24 hour TV news shows’ blatant abuse of the Rev. Jeremiah Wright and the Right Wing attempt to smear Barack Obama’s quest for the presidency.
Leave aside for the moment the dirty Rovean politics and the unprincipled, incompetent so-called news people blathering on our TV screens. Consider, instead, how race divides us. Still divides us — despite all the earnest effort of the last 40 years.
Like our young Kenyan friend, we long to believe in Peaceful America, the America we love, where ethnic differences do not divide — “Give us your tired, your poor, your huddled masses.” [No, no, ‘Illegal Immigration’ is not about race.] And in our longing for the America of our dreams we conspire with ourselves to not notice the police profiling and racial fear that fills our mammoth prison system with young black men. [Just to name aloud one small affront to decency.] And, now, along comes disgraceful politics in our homeland, too, and what just cannot be is exposed for all to see.
See all those happy white and black faces cheering the hopeful change Obama embodies! That is our America! That is who we truly are. The hundreds of hours spent by political operatives pouring through Jeremiah Wright’s 30-plus year sermonic history just cannot represent who we are as a nation. It’s just too evil... too anti-American in values. It just cannot represent the America, blessed by G_d, and beloved in song at baseball parks all across the nation. Can it?
*Dr. Charlie Clements, head of the Unitarian Universalist Service Committee, speaking at Andover Newton Theological School, upon his return from a fact-finding mission to Kenya, where he met with local, non-governmental groups in Nairobi and elsewhere.
Thursday, May 8, 2008
If I Ever Loved You — Justin Currie
As you can see, Peter and Justin had a great time on their tour across the country and northern Europe, but now its just about over — for awhile anyway. Hopefully they'll play around LA while they rest up. Peter has a film score to get back to, but I'm sure that won't keep him in the house if Justin wants to play. Will he be just 'too busy' when it comes time to jet off to record at London's Abbey Road Studios? [What do you think?]I hear the title track on Justin's new release, "What is love for?", playing on my supermarket's speakers. It feels really weird trying to take in such heart felt thoughts while shopping for peanut butter and crackers.
My own fave is "If I ever loved you". I guess I could image writing something like this in response to my own sometimes strange apprehensions of life:
I try to figure what has gone
I seem to look the same
Maybe there's a tightness around my eyes
Sometimes the evening comes
I think I miss someone
And then I realise
That, if I ever loved you, shouldn't I be crying?
Shouldn't I be cracking up
And drinking all the time?
Yeah, if I ever loved you, how come I feel alright?
How come the nights are so easy
And the mornings look so bright?
When I hear Justin sing this, I don't hear him questioning his love for 'her'. He believes that he did love her. His question is about his own reactions: "Why am I not crying? Why am I not cracking up? I'm taking this loss in stride — what is going on in me?" The singer is discovering something about himself that he didn't know before the break-up and is confused about who he really is as a result. He accuses himself of not being conventional in his emotions.
No wonder the song is interesting; not just your usual pop fare.
Sunday, May 4, 2008
Can the conflict in Israel/Palestine really be transformed?
Today started at 9am with a discussion of the Israeli/Palestinian situation led by our friend, Rachel, who is just back from a two week visit to the area as part of an Interfaith Peace-Builders delegation.This is not an easy way to begin the day. It’s not just that The Wall is such a reminder of Berlin and of our own Mexican paranoia. It’s that the situation looks so hopeless.
According to our news media and the implications of the Israeli wall, there appear to be two countries at war — Israel and Palestine. But, when you look at a map showing Palestinian and Israeli settlements, you are confronted by a mammoth intermixing of communities that defies boundaries — Israeli enclaves have been constructed seemingly everywhere. The Wall looks more like a resource protector than an actual political boundary — more like a dam preventing Columbia River water from ever being shared with Mexico.
I’m sure there are many explanations for how this disaster came to be. But, just this brief look, that Rachel provided us, into how people are actually living, was enough to break the heart. “What hope can there possibly be for transforming this conflict that is not just a bloodbath?”
I have been reading, rather naively, John Lederach’s The Little Book of Conflict Transformation, hoping to expand my own theories of conflict transformation based on experience dealing with what turnout to be comparatively petty church conflicts. Vicious as church politics can become we ain’t no Somalia or Ireland or South Africa. I am not a little humbled just meditating for a Sunday hour on the quest for peace in Israel/Palestine.
The fact that, even with his international experiences, Lederach can continue to hope and argue for the possibility of transformation — not merely resolution or management — of conflict like this lifts me a little out of the feeling of hopelessness I carried away from Rachel’s descriptions of life on the ground in Palestine.
Monday, April 14, 2008
Quote of the week
"JOYFUL VOICES OF INSPIRATION is an enthusiastic community of singers who [sic] celebrates and shares the joy, power and message of gospel music. The group rejoices in the diversity of its membership and encourages singers of all ages, cultures and religious affiliations. The singers and the director [James Early] strive to create a family-like environment in which they support and mentor each other.
"The choir seeks to promote appreciation of gospel music as both an inspirational medium and important musical art form. Members believe that by singing together in energetic, spirited performances they can bring joy and inspiration to all present. The group strives to support and participate in charitable events through their concerts and performances."
Friday, March 28, 2008
The Attack on Jeremiah Wright & Trinity UCC
All the controversy surrounding the Rev. Jeremiah Wright, senior minister at Trinity UCC in Chicago, where Barack Obama worships, got me to wondering how leaders of the United Church of Christ were dealing with this all-out media attack on the pastor of the denomination's largest congregation.
In a quick survey I find that the Rev. John Thomas, president of the United Church of Christ, offered high praise for Dr. Wright at his retirement ceremony about a month ago when right-wing critics were shouting relentlessly from the tube. And the Rev. Jane Fisler Hoffman, the northern Illinois district minister of the United Church of Christ, who also attends Trinity church, spoke out in January in strong support of the church’s ministry. I would love to find that Unitarian Universalist leaders are speaking up, but I do recognize that at stake here are deep philosophical and social issues which challenge all thoughtful Americans.
It turns out the assault on Dr. Wright and Trinity church has been going on a lot longer than you or I may have realized. The Christian Century in a substantial article profiled Trinity UCC back in May, 2007 as a church already under attack by “right-wing bloggers and TV pundits” intent on swiftboating Obama.
I listened to all of Dr. Wright’s rousing 40 minute sermon from April 2003, “Confusing God and Government”, now circulating in a seemingly endless two minute loop on YouTube. The full sermon was quite an experience for this liberal not-Christian, but, apparently, it is an apoplexy inducement for evangelicals who equate G_d and country. This seems to be exactly as it should be given the sermon’s challenge to such beliefs. Elsewhere, Dr. Wright challenges those evangelicals who equate G_d and money-making, but you’ll have to do your own research on that one — at least for now.
Jeremiah Wright is an unabashed student and follower of the black liberation theologian, Dr. James Cone. Barack Obama is not. Obama says he has heard Dr. Wright make statements with which he ‘absolutely’ does not agree. You will understand immediately what he may mean after you hear “Confusing God and Government”; their differences in attitude toward race are passionate. I’m with Obama, but I had great sympathy for Wright’s angry views. I am thrilled to see the United Church of Christ try to embrace such dramatic differences and saddened to recognize the difficultes our own denomination faces along this complex racial fault-line.
In a quick survey I find that the Rev. John Thomas, president of the United Church of Christ, offered high praise for Dr. Wright at his retirement ceremony about a month ago when right-wing critics were shouting relentlessly from the tube. And the Rev. Jane Fisler Hoffman, the northern Illinois district minister of the United Church of Christ, who also attends Trinity church, spoke out in January in strong support of the church’s ministry. I would love to find that Unitarian Universalist leaders are speaking up, but I do recognize that at stake here are deep philosophical and social issues which challenge all thoughtful Americans.
It turns out the assault on Dr. Wright and Trinity church has been going on a lot longer than you or I may have realized. The Christian Century in a substantial article profiled Trinity UCC back in May, 2007 as a church already under attack by “right-wing bloggers and TV pundits” intent on swiftboating Obama.
I listened to all of Dr. Wright’s rousing 40 minute sermon from April 2003, “Confusing God and Government”, now circulating in a seemingly endless two minute loop on YouTube. The full sermon was quite an experience for this liberal not-Christian, but, apparently, it is an apoplexy inducement for evangelicals who equate G_d and country. This seems to be exactly as it should be given the sermon’s challenge to such beliefs. Elsewhere, Dr. Wright challenges those evangelicals who equate G_d and money-making, but you’ll have to do your own research on that one — at least for now.
Jeremiah Wright is an unabashed student and follower of the black liberation theologian, Dr. James Cone. Barack Obama is not. Obama says he has heard Dr. Wright make statements with which he ‘absolutely’ does not agree. You will understand immediately what he may mean after you hear “Confusing God and Government”; their differences in attitude toward race are passionate. I’m with Obama, but I had great sympathy for Wright’s angry views. I am thrilled to see the United Church of Christ try to embrace such dramatic differences and saddened to recognize the difficultes our own denomination faces along this complex racial fault-line.
Thursday, March 20, 2008
A More Perfect Union — Obama Speech
Read the whole speech at The Christian Science Monitor site. Is this the "I Have a Dream" speech of our time?
When Politicians Express Concern for the Environment Mixed with Love for Ronald Reagan
You’ve heard them; don’t claim you never watch Fox ‘News’. Reagan is the last anointed prophet of American conservatives. Presidential candidates have proclaimed his virtues for months. Some paused for a moment at the grave of William F. Buckley, but that moment has past.
Here in The Mail* I find Steve Nelson recalling some of that sobering stuff we like to call history: “To reduce our dependence on imported oil, in 1977 a national goal was set (with bipartisan support) to derive twenty per cent of our energy from renewable sources and conservation by the year 2000. Toward that end the Solar Energy Research Institute was established, in Colorado, along with four regional centers ... to help foster commercialization and adoption of alternative technologies and practices. When Ronald Reagan took office, he slashed the institute’s budget, ordered the four centers shut (on Christmas Eve), allowed tax incentives for renewables to lapse, and, for good measure, removed the solar panels that Carter had installed on the roof of the White House.”
How does being conservative lead to the fervent embrace of Oil at the expense of all other energy sources? Are there really any actual conservatives left in American politics?
*The New Yorker, Mar.24,2008, p. 5. Yes, the print magazine.
Here in The Mail* I find Steve Nelson recalling some of that sobering stuff we like to call history: “To reduce our dependence on imported oil, in 1977 a national goal was set (with bipartisan support) to derive twenty per cent of our energy from renewable sources and conservation by the year 2000. Toward that end the Solar Energy Research Institute was established, in Colorado, along with four regional centers ... to help foster commercialization and adoption of alternative technologies and practices. When Ronald Reagan took office, he slashed the institute’s budget, ordered the four centers shut (on Christmas Eve), allowed tax incentives for renewables to lapse, and, for good measure, removed the solar panels that Carter had installed on the roof of the White House.”
How does being conservative lead to the fervent embrace of Oil at the expense of all other energy sources? Are there really any actual conservatives left in American politics?
*The New Yorker, Mar.24,2008, p. 5. Yes, the print magazine.
A Stroke of Insight
This is such a remarkable talk! I hope you will take the time away from the demands of career and plans and fears acquired to listen to Jill for just a few moments. This recording is, of course, widely available on the Web, but, perhaps, finding it here will prove useful. Perhaps, even inspirational.
Wednesday, March 19, 2008
"A Date which Will Live in Infamy"
Yes, March 19th is the day that our armed forces “suddenly and deliberately attacked” a nation with which we were “at peace and still in conversation” (the two things FDR — in his famous speech condemning the attack— found most revolting about the Japanese government’s behavior at Pearl Harbor).This evening marks the beginning of Norooz, the Persian New Year. May we all begin sweeping out the old year’s mess along with the everyday folks in Iran, and hope that by morning the world will seem a little brighter despite the dark cloud emanating from the backsides of our leaders. We breath a little easier knowing that, at least on this fateful day, the Lord Cheney has not been pressing to expand this outrageous war across the river into Iran.
Ordinarily, I leave the recognition of anniversaries and such to Monkey Mind, but today he is preoccupied with much brighter news* of his own. So today let us mark the anniversary of The Three Trillion Dollar War, but let us also rejoice in the smaller, hopefully less nefarious events that enrich our personal lives.
*Congratulations Mr. Ford!
Tuesday, March 18, 2008
Leonard Cohen World Tour
This summer's Leonard Cohen tour, which I was so excited about, never stops in the USA. Yes, I suppose, I could make the journey to Toronto or Montreal, but that don't seem likely, do it. [That's 200$ Canadian for seats at the Place des Arts!]Perhaps the stock market will make a miraculous recovery and the value of our horded greenbacks will soar! Ha! Perhaps my father’s investment in Florida’s panhandle will suddenly become beachfront property thanks to melting icecaps and rising seas. More likely.
Most likely, I will hunker down in a dark room this summer with my Austin City Limits DVD of Cohen’s October 1988 concert and revel in the way things used to be. "Take this waltz, take its broken waist in your hand."
Monday, March 17, 2008
Getting Perspective
"When people tell you to get your life into perspective, they usually seem to mean that there is one rational, objective way in which to view what you are doing. This will enable you to see things, they say, as they 'really are'.
But I say, 'See things in different ways. At the same time, preferably.' You need to see life at least three different ways to know where you are. Use just one and you're completely lost."
Thursday, March 13, 2008
Bread & Roses
The power of beauty for people in desperate circumstance was very much on Bill Schulz’s* mind when we heard him speak Thursday afternoon at Andover Newton Theological School. Recalling one of his trips to a refuge camp in Darfur he told us of a woman, living in the horror of this displacement from human circumstance, who none the less wore a treasured turquoise colored glass necklace which she referred to as herself — not simply something valuable to her, but her very self (the self still in existence despite the degradation of camp life).
Pierre-Auguste Renoir, the French impressionist painter, cautioned art purchasers to choose with care what they hung on their walls for the power of the paintings they chose would influence them each time they viewed them.
This same power of the beautiful was recognized by the 20,000 striking women textile workers during their famous 1912 confrontation with mill owners in Lawrence, Massachusetts.
The legendary banner the women carried, as part of one of their demonstrations, called for Bread & Roses, just as garment workers had in 1908 when demonstrators marched after the death of 128 women in a New York garment factory fire.
The banner and the courage of the strikers so inspired James Oppenheim, an Industrial Workers of the World union organizer at the time, that he wrote this commemorative poem, later set to music as it appears in our Unitarian Universalist hymnal:
“As we come marching, marching, in the beauty of the day,
A million darkened kitchens, a thousand mill lofts gray,
Are touched with all the radiance that a sudden sun discloses,
For the people hear us singing: Bread and Roses! Bread and Roses!”
*Dr. William F. Schulz, a past president of the Unitarian Universalist Association and former executive director of Amnesty International USA.
Pierre-Auguste Renoir, the French impressionist painter, cautioned art purchasers to choose with care what they hung on their walls for the power of the paintings they chose would influence them each time they viewed them.
This same power of the beautiful was recognized by the 20,000 striking women textile workers during their famous 1912 confrontation with mill owners in Lawrence, Massachusetts.
The legendary banner the women carried, as part of one of their demonstrations, called for Bread & Roses, just as garment workers had in 1908 when demonstrators marched after the death of 128 women in a New York garment factory fire.
The banner and the courage of the strikers so inspired James Oppenheim, an Industrial Workers of the World union organizer at the time, that he wrote this commemorative poem, later set to music as it appears in our Unitarian Universalist hymnal:
“As we come marching, marching, in the beauty of the day,
A million darkened kitchens, a thousand mill lofts gray,
Are touched with all the radiance that a sudden sun discloses,
For the people hear us singing: Bread and Roses! Bread and Roses!”
*Dr. William F. Schulz, a past president of the Unitarian Universalist Association and former executive director of Amnesty International USA.
Monday, March 10, 2008
What Can We UUs Offer to Those Who Hunger & Thirst for G_d?
Those who hunger and thirst after G_d should not allow themselves to be deflected from their yearning by our or any other church. It is G_d who answers our prayers, not an institution, not religion.
So the first thing I think we can say out of our UU experience is: “You are on the right path. It is your hunger that will feed you. Hold it close and do not let it go.”
Unitarian Universalists begin with the individual. The ultimate basis of our thought is personal experience. We start in our awareness of life — not in holy books or creeds or traditions. This is not to say that there is no help in these resources, but this is not where it begins. It begins in the heart, in the striving, in the quest, in the transcendent mystery that moves us to renewal of the spirit.
The heart is the seat of knowledge. Our science teaches us that we think with our whole bodies, not merely with our brains. Those who hunger and thirst in their pursuit of true knowledge are already on the path to G_d. We do not urge them to leave that path in order to take our predetermined, one-size-fits-all way.
We can teach that wisdom gathered from many of the world’s religious resources will lead such seekers to recognize that true knowledge does not lie in the content of what we have learned alone, but in the insights we have accumulated through experience of our actions and awareness of our personal characteristics.
For the great Muslim philosopher al-Ghazzali:
“Such knowledge is a ‘disposition deeply rooted in the soul from which actions flow naturally and easily without means of reflection or judgment.’ Such knowledge is not only what we know but what we feel. It is knowledge that is not only known but meant. The fusion of knowing, feeling, and doing integrates the outer and the inner man.” *
In the process of such integration the individual may best hope to find G_d. Unitarian Universalism does not need to invent a separate unique path to G_d. We need to actively point to the many paths already available. In doing so we may reveal the power of the diversity we embrace and provide the open path particularly suited to post-modern times.
The second thing I think we can say out of our experience is: “You are on the right path. It is your hunger that will feed you. Hold it close and do not let it go.”
In your hunger you will digest your experience, becoming one with it. In your thirst you will taste, not merely consume what life brings to you. This path of integration is the path of G_d.
The respect, that you will gain as you experience the interconnectedness of all existence, will draw you more and more deeply into what Christians sometimes call the kingdom of G_d — this place where we belong; this place where your heart’s hunger can find satisfaction; this mystery where you recognize the living G_d that exists beside and within you.
*Revivification of the Religious Sciences as quoted in Ira Lapidus, A History of Islamic Societies, p. 165.
So the first thing I think we can say out of our UU experience is: “You are on the right path. It is your hunger that will feed you. Hold it close and do not let it go.”
Unitarian Universalists begin with the individual. The ultimate basis of our thought is personal experience. We start in our awareness of life — not in holy books or creeds or traditions. This is not to say that there is no help in these resources, but this is not where it begins. It begins in the heart, in the striving, in the quest, in the transcendent mystery that moves us to renewal of the spirit.
The heart is the seat of knowledge. Our science teaches us that we think with our whole bodies, not merely with our brains. Those who hunger and thirst in their pursuit of true knowledge are already on the path to G_d. We do not urge them to leave that path in order to take our predetermined, one-size-fits-all way.
We can teach that wisdom gathered from many of the world’s religious resources will lead such seekers to recognize that true knowledge does not lie in the content of what we have learned alone, but in the insights we have accumulated through experience of our actions and awareness of our personal characteristics.
For the great Muslim philosopher al-Ghazzali:
“Such knowledge is a ‘disposition deeply rooted in the soul from which actions flow naturally and easily without means of reflection or judgment.’ Such knowledge is not only what we know but what we feel. It is knowledge that is not only known but meant. The fusion of knowing, feeling, and doing integrates the outer and the inner man.” *
In the process of such integration the individual may best hope to find G_d. Unitarian Universalism does not need to invent a separate unique path to G_d. We need to actively point to the many paths already available. In doing so we may reveal the power of the diversity we embrace and provide the open path particularly suited to post-modern times.
The second thing I think we can say out of our experience is: “You are on the right path. It is your hunger that will feed you. Hold it close and do not let it go.”
In your hunger you will digest your experience, becoming one with it. In your thirst you will taste, not merely consume what life brings to you. This path of integration is the path of G_d.
The respect, that you will gain as you experience the interconnectedness of all existence, will draw you more and more deeply into what Christians sometimes call the kingdom of G_d — this place where we belong; this place where your heart’s hunger can find satisfaction; this mystery where you recognize the living G_d that exists beside and within you.
*Revivification of the Religious Sciences as quoted in Ira Lapidus, A History of Islamic Societies, p. 165.
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