"The greatest pleasure of a dog is that you may make a fool of yourself with him, and not only will he not scold you, but he will make a fool of himself, too."
Samuel Butler
i was driving away this morning, just out for coffee. jack was in the yard. a good feeling standing on the porch and looking down at him. it was sunny. but sometimes, i suddenly remembered, it can be sunny and rain at the same time. we chatted a sec and then i purred out of the driveway. in a long moment, i watched him watch me drive away. in that moment, lots came to the surface.
this time last year, i'd be leaving for the north, hours away. i often thought about it through jack's eyes. he's pretty well read. maybe he fancied himself in the (single-headed) role of fluffy, guarding the philosopher's stone while i was gone. or cerberus, waiting on the shores of the lethe for his dark master's return. i like to think that he dreams expansively. maybe that he is suening, signing legislation into effect with his paw. or riva, leading his human down 71 stories before the tower collapsed. as for me, i suppose that while i toiled away in the quiet kitchen on the pond, i would simply picture jack waiting by the door, like hachiko waited at the train station for his beloved dr. ueno.
at any rate, though i am no byrnes, he is my luath. friday afternoons i'd walk through the door after a long absence. sunday mornings i'd leave. the front door was a kind of portal to, as far as he was concerned, my oblivion. in a way, maybe, there is a kind of truth here. at any rate, if the door was a portal, then jack was the hound that guarded it. constantly.
there's a little social anxiety. there's the idea that things fall apart. shoutout to chinua achebe. this idea runs deep in me. for as long as i could remember, i've thought, 'oh don't give that to me. i will ruin it.' my own neurosis, but ... there are worries, right? all kinds of ways to overthink every bloody thing in one's life. pero, no lo exista con su perro. with your dog, it's only lovelovelove. it's not only that his is unconditional. it' s that sometimes he can channel it to me, help me think of only thoughts that overwhelm the worried thoughts. he's doing it now, slowly scratching his chin with his back paw. it's like some weird cyclical mechanism. i've seen it operate at much greater speeds. what the hell is that doing for him? i guess that's what i mean. it isn't that, upon gazing on him, the dog inspires me with prosac-like thoughts of utopian blissfulness. not some pathetic sitcom drivel. like a good book, he just distracts me from the adultnonsense that pervades life like a curtain of rain. he's like a tiny umbrella, then.
he is my own greyfriars bobby. but it's not that i sit around thinking about john gray's predicament. not so much these days, when i can help it. were i sick and confined to the house, but still able, i would write my own 'to flush, my dog'. in the meantime, these are just some thoughts dedicated to the boy. just thoughts on being home. not so much on what i've left behind, but why it's so important to've come back. in a way, this blog isn't about jack at all.
Sunday, September 11, 2011
Saturday, September 3, 2011
la grande breteche. part one
la grande breteche. pretty good read. by honore de balzac. (1799 -1850) french author most famous for la comedie humaine (the human comedy). realism movement in western literature would've been not quite middle nineteenth century to the end of it, when it gave way to naturalism. whenever you talk about this stuff, the scalpel and gauze exploration of the history of the arts, you run the risk of nova realization, which is where you sit down to watch nova thinking, i'm pretty smart, i'll keep up. then ten minutes later you realize that you're daydreaming about houses communicating late at night.
to speak plainly, there's a lot of big conceptual words to digest. having just waded through a maze of such letters, strung together in myriad intellectual combinations, i feel like george costanza must've felt just after he had sex with the portuguese waitress. what was i saying? i at least had one good thought. about the conversation that g and i have as to the purpose of a blog. bypassing the obvious who cares why, it's a fucking blog, idiot response, i think that for me it keeps the smart wires alive in my head. see how far one idea can stretch, what ideas it calls out to and which call back, and then if you can filter and organize your thoughts with any keenness. writing is a chore; even informal writing. it's good to keep at least butterknife-sharp. style, which the author gots to cull and then develop from the white depths of the blank page, is as important as the idea she is writing about. jesus, all these academic websites have me writing like a jerk.
but maybe that's the hardest part, figuring out who the pieces are for. know the audience, and customize. if you're writing for wall street, write in a bunch of liberal jokes and tuck in an enigmatic remark comparing corporate salary with inflation. the former will let them know that you want to wear their suits. the latter will let them know that you're savvy enough to recognize their stripes. my primary audience, then, is me. like michael stipe said, dummy serve your own needs. life, it's true, is a gift. scowl. it may well be a trojan horse, but still a gift. who knows when we'll suddenly be unable to communicate with either style or even clarity, except that the moment will come. i could rearrange but a dozen letters to spell out several different sorts of calamity. i think that most bloggers must write from a place of security. it's true with me. so each of these entries, even just the titles, recalls writing from such a place. and that makes it worth it. who knows if we might someday find ourselves logging on from an internet cafe, to catch a visage of the good old days. the rest of it might just be jeopardy stuff.
to speak plainly, there's a lot of big conceptual words to digest. having just waded through a maze of such letters, strung together in myriad intellectual combinations, i feel like george costanza must've felt just after he had sex with the portuguese waitress. what was i saying? i at least had one good thought. about the conversation that g and i have as to the purpose of a blog. bypassing the obvious who cares why, it's a fucking blog, idiot response, i think that for me it keeps the smart wires alive in my head. see how far one idea can stretch, what ideas it calls out to and which call back, and then if you can filter and organize your thoughts with any keenness. writing is a chore; even informal writing. it's good to keep at least butterknife-sharp. style, which the author gots to cull and then develop from the white depths of the blank page, is as important as the idea she is writing about. jesus, all these academic websites have me writing like a jerk.
but maybe that's the hardest part, figuring out who the pieces are for. know the audience, and customize. if you're writing for wall street, write in a bunch of liberal jokes and tuck in an enigmatic remark comparing corporate salary with inflation. the former will let them know that you want to wear their suits. the latter will let them know that you're savvy enough to recognize their stripes. my primary audience, then, is me. like michael stipe said, dummy serve your own needs. life, it's true, is a gift. scowl. it may well be a trojan horse, but still a gift. who knows when we'll suddenly be unable to communicate with either style or even clarity, except that the moment will come. i could rearrange but a dozen letters to spell out several different sorts of calamity. i think that most bloggers must write from a place of security. it's true with me. so each of these entries, even just the titles, recalls writing from such a place. and that makes it worth it. who knows if we might someday find ourselves logging on from an internet cafe, to catch a visage of the good old days. the rest of it might just be jeopardy stuff.
Thursday, September 1, 2011
so how many points do you want for it?
this is the question that i'd ask when kids in my class would ask how many points an impromptu assignment was worth. because points are external motivators and if that's your fire, i'll pour gas on it till the room goes up. life is two things. the first is impressing people. the second is bargaining. so ... good question. how many points do you want for it? i don't know ... 100? how about 5? no? okay 15 and i'll build in 65 worth of extra credit. um .... yeah, ok, fine - deal.
i like teaching. i like when people tell me that boringmudaneschoolyear is better when i'm there. who wouldn't? well, here's how we used to learn new vocabulary. 5 new words from the password protected oxford sat examination information electronic vault, of which i bought the encrypted password off of a fearless cyber-catburglar. (misnomer, commandeer, drivel, intrepid, invidious)
here, then, are those words, set like so many jewels in sentences you might find in horrorfantasyromancewestern or action stories. extra points for integrated figures of speech.
the evil custodian's invidious decision was to set fire to every baby's crib and toy in town, then cast blame on the parents, which would cause a baby riot, the power of which he would harness and use to destroy the scotch tape factory, so that nobody would ever again put scotch tape on his fancy walls. :)
in the tiny backwater of newburyport, the cia is actively searching for a brazen catburglar, whose occupational name is not a misnomer, for stealing pajama bottoms, priceless feline of the fritzz family.
cap't barrrrrree, known enemy to all that was civilized, loathed resister of silverware, wiped the greasy remains of the sea-turtle soup from his chin across the sleeve of his filthy frock, and belched out to his surly crew, 'arggg, lads, i've long had me good eye on commandeering this vessel of ol' jack tar, and the last scallywag to board her be a rotten slag - arggg.'
'i can't,' began the student, holding up her most recent essay assignment, 'keep churning out this terrible drivel for you, madame, so i've decided to blow the dust of seven pixie stix into your eyeballs.'
clab wade, intrepid cowboy of the frontier town of bingham, hitched his horse, buttercup, to the post and stared coolly into jimmy's saloon, into which he would shortly stride and deliver a somerset county caliber thrashing to the town's former sheriff, simply known as boss, for the latter's insults to clab's sweetheart, ashley 'lil' junebug' oakley.
well, that's that. five cool fancy silver dollar words that you'll surely never forget. if this were really school we'd vote and there'd be winners and losers, and there'd be different kinds of winning, and different kinds of losing, like in life. so this was a bit of reality and a bit of fantasy.
for all of the drawers full of mismatched socks out there.
i like teaching. i like when people tell me that boringmudaneschoolyear is better when i'm there. who wouldn't? well, here's how we used to learn new vocabulary. 5 new words from the password protected oxford sat examination information electronic vault, of which i bought the encrypted password off of a fearless cyber-catburglar. (misnomer, commandeer, drivel, intrepid, invidious)
here, then, are those words, set like so many jewels in sentences you might find in horrorfantasyromancewestern or action stories. extra points for integrated figures of speech.
the evil custodian's invidious decision was to set fire to every baby's crib and toy in town, then cast blame on the parents, which would cause a baby riot, the power of which he would harness and use to destroy the scotch tape factory, so that nobody would ever again put scotch tape on his fancy walls. :)
in the tiny backwater of newburyport, the cia is actively searching for a brazen catburglar, whose occupational name is not a misnomer, for stealing pajama bottoms, priceless feline of the fritzz family.
cap't barrrrrree, known enemy to all that was civilized, loathed resister of silverware, wiped the greasy remains of the sea-turtle soup from his chin across the sleeve of his filthy frock, and belched out to his surly crew, 'arggg, lads, i've long had me good eye on commandeering this vessel of ol' jack tar, and the last scallywag to board her be a rotten slag - arggg.'
'i can't,' began the student, holding up her most recent essay assignment, 'keep churning out this terrible drivel for you, madame, so i've decided to blow the dust of seven pixie stix into your eyeballs.'
clab wade, intrepid cowboy of the frontier town of bingham, hitched his horse, buttercup, to the post and stared coolly into jimmy's saloon, into which he would shortly stride and deliver a somerset county caliber thrashing to the town's former sheriff, simply known as boss, for the latter's insults to clab's sweetheart, ashley 'lil' junebug' oakley.
well, that's that. five cool fancy silver dollar words that you'll surely never forget. if this were really school we'd vote and there'd be winners and losers, and there'd be different kinds of winning, and different kinds of losing, like in life. so this was a bit of reality and a bit of fantasy.
for all of the drawers full of mismatched socks out there.
Tuesday, August 30, 2011
hurricane of 2011. august memories.
august, or maybe july. it was a long time ago. many moons and pounds ago. i think it was a hurricane. it's nice to remember. i sometimes daydream that heaven is a giant library where you can see your life's span charted by any category you can think of. like nightmares or wet dreams. or hurricanes ...
a few weeks ago fb reminded me of a post from a year ago. i like that. it was like a time dart. brought us right back. very outoftheblue. and when the hurricane hit, i thought about old memories and about how i always forget the weather from previous seasons. ...did it snow last winter? yeah it snowed last winter. it must've... the bee's nests were real high off the ground last summer. ... oh yeah, it did snow a lot - we kept making those admiral peary jokes, remember?
2011 hurricane irene. heads up the east coast causing massive panic and then massive destruction. first time i can remember seeing school cancellations in august. as for maine, we battened down the hatches. boats were coming out early. national weather service declares state of emergency. mannix, who wears some crazy alpha-male goatee these days, discussed astutely the impact of the wind on the trees. all the while curling a 10 pound dumbbell.
we went to bed on the eve of the storm in calm weather, but closed all the windows. quiet night, listening to the wind and reading anatole france. then woke up at 7 in the morn and walked jack. awesome eerie sky, wind that wasn't cool or warm. but blowing pretty well. it was ... nice. so rare and so gentle on the skin, and combined with the absence of anybody else on the streets, lended to the early morning an otherworldly atmosphere. walked right up north street, back down bedford. a fine morning to walk your dog. topically, dozens dead, none in maine. sebastian bach's home' allegedly destroyed. huge power outages. a guy commented that two people in florida were killed in irene related rip currents. scary way to go - to have the sea pull you right into its chaos. probably really loud. the today show broadcast on that sunday morning (aug. 28) day of the new moon. they kept telling us how 30 mile winds at ground level became 50 mile winds at 30 stories up. and how 50 stories up, it rose to 500 mile winds. fuzzy math. al reported from the boardwalk that the ocean has met the bay, which last happened when triceratops strolled the ancient pavilion of triassic forest. back then nyc was just another couple million acres on pangaea.
a light drizzle became a heavy rain about ten minutes after me and jack got home. there was still power and so, coffee. after the today show i'm sure netflix came on. the today show, by the by, ain't the same without meredith. later we lost power for a couple of hours. into the darkness of the evening. checking fb later on, tweedle dee posted something about irene being a bitch. points for personification, i suppose. good show, lad.
the blue angels canceled sunday's show. but maybe they went up anyway. a cool thought, those jets superspeeding through the storm. maybe it's the pilot equivalent of a hedge maze. first one that can figure out how to get into the eye wins. no radar equipment allowed. some of those guys must wear goatees, right? and chew double mint gum? when a pilot is backing out, and he misjudges and bumps another jet, reckon he just slowly rolls away, then guns it into the wild blue yonder?
hurricane bob is the one i remember. 1991. i was 15. august 17 into 18. sunday into monday. i would've been working at the gas station then. those early days up there. i think my parents were away then. nashville? i remember being home, during an especially gray stretch, again as evening descended, with pat. and leigh. i was reading the bachman books. can't remember which story. maybe apt pupil. something intimate about steven king with dusk coming on and no power. and in august. on the heels of lots of free time and just before the cramped boredom of school-life schedule takes effect.
i think it was the smell of the air when i walked jack. it brought me back to the gray afternoon of hurricane bob. i think the memory materialized itself as willow branches swaying in the wind. lots of ticks on those branches. thinking on it, on those scarce details that i can recall, a little more of the younger days come into focus. it's like shining a flashlight into the basement. across the floor and up one of the walls. it comes to rest on the smashing pumpkins poster that you stuck with thumbtacks over billy corgan's eyes because of that one weird night when they followed you across the room again and again, even after the lights were out. and you thought maybe you were crazy then? now you know better.
my family: lots of playing cards around the table. til we hated each other. shoveling for my dad. waiting for the truck to get there to collect us, then out in the storm, then home playing cards or reading. and televisionnnnnnn. look, i've gone and idealized it. pretty cool though. a lot of love. a bit of crazy. that's today and yesterday and about 230 million years ago for ya. maybe heaven is just getting back to sit in on those experiences whenever you like. til you hate each other. maybe it's where hurricanes are created and set loose. maybe you had similar thoughts during the hurricane?
a few weeks ago fb reminded me of a post from a year ago. i like that. it was like a time dart. brought us right back. very outoftheblue. and when the hurricane hit, i thought about old memories and about how i always forget the weather from previous seasons. ...did it snow last winter? yeah it snowed last winter. it must've... the bee's nests were real high off the ground last summer. ... oh yeah, it did snow a lot - we kept making those admiral peary jokes, remember?
2011 hurricane irene. heads up the east coast causing massive panic and then massive destruction. first time i can remember seeing school cancellations in august. as for maine, we battened down the hatches. boats were coming out early. national weather service declares state of emergency. mannix, who wears some crazy alpha-male goatee these days, discussed astutely the impact of the wind on the trees. all the while curling a 10 pound dumbbell.
we went to bed on the eve of the storm in calm weather, but closed all the windows. quiet night, listening to the wind and reading anatole france. then woke up at 7 in the morn and walked jack. awesome eerie sky, wind that wasn't cool or warm. but blowing pretty well. it was ... nice. so rare and so gentle on the skin, and combined with the absence of anybody else on the streets, lended to the early morning an otherworldly atmosphere. walked right up north street, back down bedford. a fine morning to walk your dog. topically, dozens dead, none in maine. sebastian bach's home' allegedly destroyed. huge power outages. a guy commented that two people in florida were killed in irene related rip currents. scary way to go - to have the sea pull you right into its chaos. probably really loud. the today show broadcast on that sunday morning (aug. 28) day of the new moon. they kept telling us how 30 mile winds at ground level became 50 mile winds at 30 stories up. and how 50 stories up, it rose to 500 mile winds. fuzzy math. al reported from the boardwalk that the ocean has met the bay, which last happened when triceratops strolled the ancient pavilion of triassic forest. back then nyc was just another couple million acres on pangaea.
a light drizzle became a heavy rain about ten minutes after me and jack got home. there was still power and so, coffee. after the today show i'm sure netflix came on. the today show, by the by, ain't the same without meredith. later we lost power for a couple of hours. into the darkness of the evening. checking fb later on, tweedle dee posted something about irene being a bitch. points for personification, i suppose. good show, lad.
the blue angels canceled sunday's show. but maybe they went up anyway. a cool thought, those jets superspeeding through the storm. maybe it's the pilot equivalent of a hedge maze. first one that can figure out how to get into the eye wins. no radar equipment allowed. some of those guys must wear goatees, right? and chew double mint gum? when a pilot is backing out, and he misjudges and bumps another jet, reckon he just slowly rolls away, then guns it into the wild blue yonder?
hurricane bob is the one i remember. 1991. i was 15. august 17 into 18. sunday into monday. i would've been working at the gas station then. those early days up there. i think my parents were away then. nashville? i remember being home, during an especially gray stretch, again as evening descended, with pat. and leigh. i was reading the bachman books. can't remember which story. maybe apt pupil. something intimate about steven king with dusk coming on and no power. and in august. on the heels of lots of free time and just before the cramped boredom of school-life schedule takes effect.
i think it was the smell of the air when i walked jack. it brought me back to the gray afternoon of hurricane bob. i think the memory materialized itself as willow branches swaying in the wind. lots of ticks on those branches. thinking on it, on those scarce details that i can recall, a little more of the younger days come into focus. it's like shining a flashlight into the basement. across the floor and up one of the walls. it comes to rest on the smashing pumpkins poster that you stuck with thumbtacks over billy corgan's eyes because of that one weird night when they followed you across the room again and again, even after the lights were out. and you thought maybe you were crazy then? now you know better.
my family: lots of playing cards around the table. til we hated each other. shoveling for my dad. waiting for the truck to get there to collect us, then out in the storm, then home playing cards or reading. and televisionnnnnnn. look, i've gone and idealized it. pretty cool though. a lot of love. a bit of crazy. that's today and yesterday and about 230 million years ago for ya. maybe heaven is just getting back to sit in on those experiences whenever you like. til you hate each other. maybe it's where hurricanes are created and set loose. maybe you had similar thoughts during the hurricane?
Monday, August 29, 2011
introducing the tweedles.
so, i once heard that werner herzog passed on a chance to make a documentary of wwII. if this is true, and not something that i've made up, herzog, fab german film-maker, would go on to say 'why focus on something that's been so scrutinized when there's so much other unknown coolness out there to investigate?' and for me it's like that with facebook. what's there to talk about? it's been done to death. but on the other side, i guess: why not once more then? and anyway, i haven't heard quite this conversation yet.
i surf the web, like you. i'm not quite as savvy as my students, who've grown up connected. but like you, i'm connected now. we go to our favorite spots. we check fb frequently. we waste some time. weren't we just laughing the other day about the way that people sometimes write exactly who they've been spending time with? ...had a great time last night with abc anchor dan harris and fellow colby alum klaus kinski. for whose benefit is this information? it'll probably come to that for me if my memory gets much worse. labeling the people in my life. but no. hopefully not. anyway, funny little things, status updates. soon they'll read ... spent one quarter hour with jenniferlovehewitt (mother's maiden name dreyfuss). repost if your mother has a maiden name.
anywho, i'm in a little pattern right now where i visit two pages every time i log on to fb. it makes me happy, in the most decadently judgmental of ways. i call these two blokes, one of whom i know, the other i do not, tweedle dee and tweedle dum. their status updates ... bring me to a happy place. that's really the best way to put it. like a long-time smoker who's so far away from the law of diminishing returns, i do this now from habit. and like the smoker, i don't expect any more than what i know it can give me. it's no cure-all, but it's very soothing to put myself out of my mind, and so immediately. unlike a book, or even tv, the tweedles feed this urge without really asking for any kind of commitment. in an age of pitch to me quickly because i'm already onto something else, the tweedles treat me well. if they suddenly decide to spurn the web, though, you might find me going cold turkey in my room.
so, these guys: one is always putting up misspelled country song lyrics (no deep cuts, though). the other is just a lost soul at the moment. i see these things and, sigh, i judge. as a very imperfect creature, i judge. it's not that i wish these lovely lads ill will. i feel bad revealing these things to you. but more than that, i wonder if i'm the weirdest fish in a sea of weird fishes. do we all do things like this? don't you have your version of this? your own tweedle dee and tweedle dum, perhaps? or have i strayed too far beyond checking out people's pics and relationship statuses? oh, and i definitely witnessed one of the craziest fb verbal brewhahas to ever grace the book.
i surf the web, like you. i'm not quite as savvy as my students, who've grown up connected. but like you, i'm connected now. we go to our favorite spots. we check fb frequently. we waste some time. weren't we just laughing the other day about the way that people sometimes write exactly who they've been spending time with? ...had a great time last night with abc anchor dan harris and fellow colby alum klaus kinski. for whose benefit is this information? it'll probably come to that for me if my memory gets much worse. labeling the people in my life. but no. hopefully not. anyway, funny little things, status updates. soon they'll read ... spent one quarter hour with jenniferlovehewitt (mother's maiden name dreyfuss). repost if your mother has a maiden name.
anywho, i'm in a little pattern right now where i visit two pages every time i log on to fb. it makes me happy, in the most decadently judgmental of ways. i call these two blokes, one of whom i know, the other i do not, tweedle dee and tweedle dum. their status updates ... bring me to a happy place. that's really the best way to put it. like a long-time smoker who's so far away from the law of diminishing returns, i do this now from habit. and like the smoker, i don't expect any more than what i know it can give me. it's no cure-all, but it's very soothing to put myself out of my mind, and so immediately. unlike a book, or even tv, the tweedles feed this urge without really asking for any kind of commitment. in an age of pitch to me quickly because i'm already onto something else, the tweedles treat me well. if they suddenly decide to spurn the web, though, you might find me going cold turkey in my room.
so, these guys: one is always putting up misspelled country song lyrics (no deep cuts, though). the other is just a lost soul at the moment. i see these things and, sigh, i judge. as a very imperfect creature, i judge. it's not that i wish these lovely lads ill will. i feel bad revealing these things to you. but more than that, i wonder if i'm the weirdest fish in a sea of weird fishes. do we all do things like this? don't you have your version of this? your own tweedle dee and tweedle dum, perhaps? or have i strayed too far beyond checking out people's pics and relationship statuses? oh, and i definitely witnessed one of the craziest fb verbal brewhahas to ever grace the book.
Sunday, August 28, 2011
the procurator of judaea
another short by anatole france. certainly different than crainquebille in many ways. but still ironic. not as sad, but in a way, still kinda sad.
even the man who pilate, did you be sure to always
presided over the sad put down the son of god but try to see the world from the
death of christ forgets. didn't really want to? perspective of them.
i tagged this one as religion, and it is, i guess. it deals, in a roundabout way, with the crucifixion of christ. (a note to about proper nouns - gotta just get over it...) but, in its ... smallness - it's more or less just two guys who meet up on the road and chat for awhile - this is a story about seeing things from other people's points of view. i tagged it with the word perspective. this is a very human look at the apparatus known as crucifixion. and a slice of life in the roman empire circa 50 ad.
to my little note (forgive the indulgence), this little story might actually be a little inkblot. i mean that the same person who offers to correct another person, say, for writing the word god sin capital G, is, i will now deduce, the same person who isn't interested in considering pilate's point of view. or only insofar as it fits into his own philosophical scheme. and insodoing, he becomes the pilate of this story. i should be careful here. this isn't a complaint. i'm not trying to overtly rail 'gainst the true believers out there. it's just an thought, is all. or more like a guess. from the teachings i received it's like...pilate was a tool by which the mechanism of the lord's will was carried out. pilate is like everybody in joseph's life, including pharaoh.' this is a christian interpretation. you aren't advised to read these stories critically. it's true. or, it used to be true. and that means that it's still kind of true. were it not for men like martin luther, william tyndale, john colet, the christian church wouldn't have even have let you hear the text in english, let alone read it. the printing press made us all salivate so much that the church had no choice but to lose an enormous amount of power. because words are power. or maybe the church would've naturally gradually loosened its hold on the uber-precious raw materials of its faith. but maybe it was more about authenticity. one of steinbeck's finest ideas is that of lee, and the chinese scholars from east of eden. these men doubt the translation of the cain and abel story. they have no faith in it. they think critically about it. so they find a text written in hebrew and translate it themselves. they determine that the word timshel (defined as thou mayest) is an important concept in the moral of cain and abel. the power, always, to choose. same for cain, same for jesus, same for pilate. an inkblot for all of us maybe.
so in this story, set in about 50 or so ad, l. aelius lamia, a man of questionable character, if not moral character (not enough info? ours? theirs?) who, after all, defines morals? at any rate, this man, who'd lived more according to the logic provided by his id than with the roman mores, resulting in his expulsion from the eternal city, is out for a walk along the summit trail in baiea...to his left, livid and bare, the phlegraean plain stretched out towards the ruins of cumae. on his right, cape misenum plunged its abrupt spur beneath the tyrrhenian sea. this, pilate alleges, is where tiberius caesar died. lamia is there trying to recover from illness. another traveler is there for much the same reason. kind of funny that the story landscape features these two men on the trail, of life, as it were, both trying to recover their spirits. as they're both advanced in age, this is unlikely. it is evening. even the fact that lamia gazes out on the vesuvius that won't erupt for a few decades promotes the pervasive grimness of the story. at any rate, from the adversity born of his exile, lamia became wise. as france writes at the end of the first paragraph, adversity had taught him wisdom. in fact, lamia's defining characteristic is the ability to coolly take somebody's perspective and gently challenge it, in a way that comes off more like a whispered suggestion to that somebody. in this case, the former procurator of judaea, authorizer of the crucifixion, (choice maker), pontius pilate.
they meet in this lovely roman beach resort town, known for its healing waters. they recognize each other from years before, when they shared time in syria, caesarea, and then at jerusalem. lamia was on extended house guest status with pilate. pilate stood up for lamia upon caesar's death, aiding with the end to his long exile. in a noble gesture, lamia later sent pilate some money as a form of repayment. kind of a dose of the deeds of the past coming 'round to revisit you in a story about one of the great villains in the new testament.
pilate was there acting as the roman liaison to the local ethnic contingent, which was a powerful lobby. it is important to note that as pilate tells it, he often wanted mercy on behalf of those would be criminals that the jews brought before him for prosecution. he represented rome's interest in the local government of a subjugated people. rome offered the respect of the locals to allow them to effectively keep their own council and hold their own trials when their religious affairs are trifled with. or rome feared uprising so appeased the them by sending an official to simply act as a figurehead, a rubber stamper, for their affairs. at any rate, pilate tells lamia that intrigue and calumnies cut short my career in its prime ... though he seems to be pretty well off, pilate carries with him the bitterness that must go with such calumnies.
pilate, long retired of this post, fat and rich, is off to the phlegraean plains, where physicians assure him that the sulfurous flaming heat will help to ease his chronic gout. christian irony, no? but then christ would've forgiven him from his sins the moment (it was perceived) that he made them. so, no hell in pilate's future, right? or past, at this point? no just dessert for putting down the son of god? maybe it's not ironic. or double ironic.
here is a story that transcends the supernatural details of the crucifixion by discussing the very mortal issues of the times, then and now. the unchanging nature of the human condition. like pilate, and perhaps unlike vitallius, i will use the word jew for anyone in empire who wasn't roman. the jews haul somebody that they've considered has broken their sacred rules before a judge, who's decision is then brought to the procurator (governor) in the interest of roman oversight. this is the deal that the jews have hammererd out with the romans. the details that the procurator gives us are indicative that it was a pretty rough gig. the jews are remembered by him has a cantankerous people, ...haughty and at the same time base, combining an invincible obstinacy with a displicably mean spirit... indeed, pilate refers to jews as ...enemies of the human race. pilate sits with lamia on the hill, under a terebinth, and relates his version of the samaritan insurrection.
the principle details of the insurrection are these: upon hearing reports that a man claiming to be a prophet is going to hold a meeting on the apron of mt. gerizim, where he'll reveal secrets of moses before the samaritans, pilate has sent the roman infantry to observe. to keep the samaritans calm. with the ever looming threat of force. the rebellion is easily put down. pilate determines to execute only a few of its leaders, ... in order to give a forcible example with as few victims as possible. at this, the samaritans complain to pilate's higher up in the political heirarchy, vitellius. they give an alternate story in which they are victims, indeed, but not rebels. pilate is ordered to justify his decisions before the emperor. an upsetting big deal, this bump in the professional road, same today is 2000 years ago.
continuing pilate's story, events occur. tiberius caesar dies, leaving caius, who, receiving council from the jew agrippa, friend of the samaritan cause, sends pilate into early retirement. he adopts a life of seclusion, growing grain on his estates in sicily with his daughter. and hating jews.
lamia, meanwhile, speaks reasonably about the jews, revealing pilate's small worldview as he recalls the more noble characteristics of the jewish people. he describes them as members of his society, their women intoxicating. whereas pilate describes the jews more like well-developed animals, made just housebroken by roman rule. pilate's refusal, moreover, to hear lamia's favorable remarks about the jews, verbalized as such (although you have lived among them, i see that you ill understand those...) is the foil to the latter's open-minded worldview. (...the jews are profoundly attached to their ancient customs. they suspected you, i admit, of a desire to abolish their laws and change their usages.) lamia, though not a jew, speaks of them as an epicurean might; that is, with an open mind.
that's the point of the story, to me, right now. one must be tolerant. while pilate refuses to understand a race of people who might spurn roman values, that he perceives has screwed him over, lamia not only jokes that the god of these jews is just as likely to be recruited into the roman pantheon but gently scolds pilate for ruling over them with too iron a fist. pilate is fanatical. fanatical people suffer a skewed sense of objectivity. i know fanatics, and i see them on television sometimes. dangerous people to themselves and to the rest of us. maybe no more so that the sociopoliticians. on the other hand, maybe i'll reread this later on as some kind of born again and curse my own words. but dear god let's hope not.
favorite line:
beware, pontius, lest the invisible jupiter of the jews disembark some day on the quay at ostia.
to understand this line, i think, is to take substantial meaning from the story.
so that's pretty much the story. the men discuss their lives, the revolt that disrupted pilate's career, and finally, and very much as an afterthought, brought to mind when lamia is recalling fondly his days with a jewish woman of great beauty, jesus is mentioned. she'd become a follower. did pilate make his own choice? was it god's will? as a reader of the book of john, would you bother to reflect on pilate awhile? to listen to a non-believer's thoughts? if so, you're my kind of christian.
odds and ends:
it's a neat detail that lamias is reading the teachings of epicureanism before he meets pilate. this is a philosophy that deals with the rejecting of the supernatural and divine intervention, in which one's purpose is to achieve pleasure, which occurs when one lives modestly and with a critical eye on the ways of the world. a practicing epicurean would strive to know the limits of his desires. intriguing thought.
i think that the remark about giving up the taste of greek wine must be a metaphor for religion. and for transition, which maybe happens even for deities.
i'm sure there's lots over my head. this'll be a cool document, though, when i study france and/or samaritan/roman relations circa the turn of the ad dial later on.
even the man who pilate, did you be sure to always
presided over the sad put down the son of god but try to see the world from the
death of christ forgets. didn't really want to? perspective of them.
i tagged this one as religion, and it is, i guess. it deals, in a roundabout way, with the crucifixion of christ. (a note to about proper nouns - gotta just get over it...) but, in its ... smallness - it's more or less just two guys who meet up on the road and chat for awhile - this is a story about seeing things from other people's points of view. i tagged it with the word perspective. this is a very human look at the apparatus known as crucifixion. and a slice of life in the roman empire circa 50 ad.
to my little note (forgive the indulgence), this little story might actually be a little inkblot. i mean that the same person who offers to correct another person, say, for writing the word god sin capital G, is, i will now deduce, the same person who isn't interested in considering pilate's point of view. or only insofar as it fits into his own philosophical scheme. and insodoing, he becomes the pilate of this story. i should be careful here. this isn't a complaint. i'm not trying to overtly rail 'gainst the true believers out there. it's just an thought, is all. or more like a guess. from the teachings i received it's like...pilate was a tool by which the mechanism of the lord's will was carried out. pilate is like everybody in joseph's life, including pharaoh.' this is a christian interpretation. you aren't advised to read these stories critically. it's true. or, it used to be true. and that means that it's still kind of true. were it not for men like martin luther, william tyndale, john colet, the christian church wouldn't have even have let you hear the text in english, let alone read it. the printing press made us all salivate so much that the church had no choice but to lose an enormous amount of power. because words are power. or maybe the church would've naturally gradually loosened its hold on the uber-precious raw materials of its faith. but maybe it was more about authenticity. one of steinbeck's finest ideas is that of lee, and the chinese scholars from east of eden. these men doubt the translation of the cain and abel story. they have no faith in it. they think critically about it. so they find a text written in hebrew and translate it themselves. they determine that the word timshel (defined as thou mayest) is an important concept in the moral of cain and abel. the power, always, to choose. same for cain, same for jesus, same for pilate. an inkblot for all of us maybe.
so in this story, set in about 50 or so ad, l. aelius lamia, a man of questionable character, if not moral character (not enough info? ours? theirs?) who, after all, defines morals? at any rate, this man, who'd lived more according to the logic provided by his id than with the roman mores, resulting in his expulsion from the eternal city, is out for a walk along the summit trail in baiea...to his left, livid and bare, the phlegraean plain stretched out towards the ruins of cumae. on his right, cape misenum plunged its abrupt spur beneath the tyrrhenian sea. this, pilate alleges, is where tiberius caesar died. lamia is there trying to recover from illness. another traveler is there for much the same reason. kind of funny that the story landscape features these two men on the trail, of life, as it were, both trying to recover their spirits. as they're both advanced in age, this is unlikely. it is evening. even the fact that lamia gazes out on the vesuvius that won't erupt for a few decades promotes the pervasive grimness of the story. at any rate, from the adversity born of his exile, lamia became wise. as france writes at the end of the first paragraph, adversity had taught him wisdom. in fact, lamia's defining characteristic is the ability to coolly take somebody's perspective and gently challenge it, in a way that comes off more like a whispered suggestion to that somebody. in this case, the former procurator of judaea, authorizer of the crucifixion, (choice maker), pontius pilate.
they meet in this lovely roman beach resort town, known for its healing waters. they recognize each other from years before, when they shared time in syria, caesarea, and then at jerusalem. lamia was on extended house guest status with pilate. pilate stood up for lamia upon caesar's death, aiding with the end to his long exile. in a noble gesture, lamia later sent pilate some money as a form of repayment. kind of a dose of the deeds of the past coming 'round to revisit you in a story about one of the great villains in the new testament.
pilate was there acting as the roman liaison to the local ethnic contingent, which was a powerful lobby. it is important to note that as pilate tells it, he often wanted mercy on behalf of those would be criminals that the jews brought before him for prosecution. he represented rome's interest in the local government of a subjugated people. rome offered the respect of the locals to allow them to effectively keep their own council and hold their own trials when their religious affairs are trifled with. or rome feared uprising so appeased the them by sending an official to simply act as a figurehead, a rubber stamper, for their affairs. at any rate, pilate tells lamia that intrigue and calumnies cut short my career in its prime ... though he seems to be pretty well off, pilate carries with him the bitterness that must go with such calumnies.
pilate, long retired of this post, fat and rich, is off to the phlegraean plains, where physicians assure him that the sulfurous flaming heat will help to ease his chronic gout. christian irony, no? but then christ would've forgiven him from his sins the moment (it was perceived) that he made them. so, no hell in pilate's future, right? or past, at this point? no just dessert for putting down the son of god? maybe it's not ironic. or double ironic.
here is a story that transcends the supernatural details of the crucifixion by discussing the very mortal issues of the times, then and now. the unchanging nature of the human condition. like pilate, and perhaps unlike vitallius, i will use the word jew for anyone in empire who wasn't roman. the jews haul somebody that they've considered has broken their sacred rules before a judge, who's decision is then brought to the procurator (governor) in the interest of roman oversight. this is the deal that the jews have hammererd out with the romans. the details that the procurator gives us are indicative that it was a pretty rough gig. the jews are remembered by him has a cantankerous people, ...haughty and at the same time base, combining an invincible obstinacy with a displicably mean spirit... indeed, pilate refers to jews as ...enemies of the human race. pilate sits with lamia on the hill, under a terebinth, and relates his version of the samaritan insurrection.
the principle details of the insurrection are these: upon hearing reports that a man claiming to be a prophet is going to hold a meeting on the apron of mt. gerizim, where he'll reveal secrets of moses before the samaritans, pilate has sent the roman infantry to observe. to keep the samaritans calm. with the ever looming threat of force. the rebellion is easily put down. pilate determines to execute only a few of its leaders, ... in order to give a forcible example with as few victims as possible. at this, the samaritans complain to pilate's higher up in the political heirarchy, vitellius. they give an alternate story in which they are victims, indeed, but not rebels. pilate is ordered to justify his decisions before the emperor. an upsetting big deal, this bump in the professional road, same today is 2000 years ago.
continuing pilate's story, events occur. tiberius caesar dies, leaving caius, who, receiving council from the jew agrippa, friend of the samaritan cause, sends pilate into early retirement. he adopts a life of seclusion, growing grain on his estates in sicily with his daughter. and hating jews.
lamia, meanwhile, speaks reasonably about the jews, revealing pilate's small worldview as he recalls the more noble characteristics of the jewish people. he describes them as members of his society, their women intoxicating. whereas pilate describes the jews more like well-developed animals, made just housebroken by roman rule. pilate's refusal, moreover, to hear lamia's favorable remarks about the jews, verbalized as such (although you have lived among them, i see that you ill understand those...) is the foil to the latter's open-minded worldview. (...the jews are profoundly attached to their ancient customs. they suspected you, i admit, of a desire to abolish their laws and change their usages.) lamia, though not a jew, speaks of them as an epicurean might; that is, with an open mind.
that's the point of the story, to me, right now. one must be tolerant. while pilate refuses to understand a race of people who might spurn roman values, that he perceives has screwed him over, lamia not only jokes that the god of these jews is just as likely to be recruited into the roman pantheon but gently scolds pilate for ruling over them with too iron a fist. pilate is fanatical. fanatical people suffer a skewed sense of objectivity. i know fanatics, and i see them on television sometimes. dangerous people to themselves and to the rest of us. maybe no more so that the sociopoliticians. on the other hand, maybe i'll reread this later on as some kind of born again and curse my own words. but dear god let's hope not.
favorite line:
beware, pontius, lest the invisible jupiter of the jews disembark some day on the quay at ostia.
to understand this line, i think, is to take substantial meaning from the story.
so that's pretty much the story. the men discuss their lives, the revolt that disrupted pilate's career, and finally, and very much as an afterthought, brought to mind when lamia is recalling fondly his days with a jewish woman of great beauty, jesus is mentioned. she'd become a follower. did pilate make his own choice? was it god's will? as a reader of the book of john, would you bother to reflect on pilate awhile? to listen to a non-believer's thoughts? if so, you're my kind of christian.
odds and ends:
it's a neat detail that lamias is reading the teachings of epicureanism before he meets pilate. this is a philosophy that deals with the rejecting of the supernatural and divine intervention, in which one's purpose is to achieve pleasure, which occurs when one lives modestly and with a critical eye on the ways of the world. a practicing epicurean would strive to know the limits of his desires. intriguing thought.
i think that the remark about giving up the taste of greek wine must be a metaphor for religion. and for transition, which maybe happens even for deities.
i'm sure there's lots over my head. this'll be a cool document, though, when i study france and/or samaritan/roman relations circa the turn of the ad dial later on.
Friday, August 26, 2011
crainquebille
an episode of
life in which a poor man is
abused and dismissed.
crainquebille (ginny says it's pronounced crank-bee - but all french-like, see?) is a short story by anatole france (1844-1924). he was a french writer who won the nobel prize in 1921, and lots of other stuff. these are first blush thoughts on the story. it's in a collection i picked up called the bedside book of famous french stories. published 1945. great book.
the protagonist, the eponymous crainquebille, is a man who seems to endure a job-like experience when the system of government, the ... way of life ... under which he's lived peacefully for some 60 years snares him in a trap constructed of arrogance, apathy and blind justice. there is irony. the phrase that he utters to the policeman which precipitates his troubles (which was never actually said) is the very same that doesn't even get him arrested when he feels he really needs to be incarcerated (to fulfill his most basic needs).
crainquebille haiku:
crainquebille couldn't catch here is a man who the joke is that he,
a break. truly a victim allows himself to be talked to the letter, obeyed the
of cruel poverty. into jail time. law. which then screwed him.
crainquebille is a poor produce vender. he has spent his life loading the cart in the morning and walking through his city (paris) selling his stock to the bourgeois of the city. he is lowly, but happy. or at least, untroubled. he drinks. he was ... not gifted with a philosophical mind. trouble comes to our man when constable 64 singles him out on the busy street, instructing him to move along with his cart. the constable repeats his order thrice, and is unwilling to hear crainquebille's reply, which is a strong reply, in that he is waiting for payment from the wife of a shopkeeper. a full on traffic jam ensues, wherein constable 64 accuses crainquebille of harassment. our man did only repeat the phrase mort aux vaches (mort o' vash) after the constable uttered it, and disbelievingly - for crainquebille had been in no way aggressive or argumentative toward the copper. he ...uttered words rather of despair than of rebellion.
mort aux vaches means, according to crainquebelle's lawyer, down to those who sell themselves to the police as spies. the textual notes indicate that the phrase is ...impossible to translate, and offers: down with spies, the word spies used to indicate the police. the story offers that this is a trusty insult to any copper you might find. and constable 64, in fact, morphs crainquebille's rather benign statements into this menacing phrase. a google search reveals that the expression death to cows / death to pigs originated in the franco-prussian war, the perfect pithy little saying to let everybody know just how much the french loathed the german soldiers.
so crainquebille is arrested and imprisoned for a fortnight. that's about two weeks. the reader understands that he has done nothing wrong. france reveals to us that the judge renders his verdict on the would-be infallible evidence of the policeman. the judge must assume the infallibility of anybody who is part of the state. and does so, finding crainquebille guilty even though a prominent doctor who witnessed the affair and interjected on crainquebille's behalf, testifies that our man did not say any such thing to the constable. still, the judge finds the lowly produce vendor guilty. he must so, in the interest of justice. this is ironic, of course, because we know that justice can be affected by myriad factors. here, justice ruins this man's life. when he gets back to his cart, his former customers, so upset that he's been to prison, shun him, and so ruin the fragile mental balance that has kept this poor man pushing his little cart, existing pretty close to the bottom, for all those years. the story ends with crainquebille, cold, wet and hungry, shuffling off into the cold darkness upon the celebrated remark's failure to get him arrested. again.
there's lots more to say. in the end, it's a heartbreaker; very cynical. france infuses ironic humor when he explains the logic of the law and the players that enforce it. maybe i missed something important. maybe i'm wrong. chat me up about it, i guess. better yet, (re) read the story and choose your own key line(s). here's mine:
crainquebille is the natural child of costermonger, depraved by years of drinking and other evil courses. crainquebille was born alcoholic. you behold him brutalized by sixty years of poverty. gentlemen you must conclude that he is irresponsible.' p. 255
these are the remarks of the solicitor. cool lines. he pretty much talks our man into considering himself guilty. shame. another character in the story who forces his own worldview onto crainquebille. i think maybe that's the point of it. this poor man is forced, because of lack of intelligence and lack of options, to accede to everybody else's realities. included is madame bayard, the shoe-maker's wife, who stiffs him sevenpence for leeks (the asparagus of the poor) when she witnesses him amidst his little legal turmoil. important to notice that she doesn't bother to speak up for him. before today, she, representative, perhaps of the bourgeois denizens of rue montmartre, would simply insult his produce and talk his prices down. for the money, he was accepting. after this experience, even the money didn't much matter to crainquebille. he became a heavier drinker. the story is like job, i guess, but without a happy ending. now that might be ironic ...
life in which a poor man is
abused and dismissed.
crainquebille (ginny says it's pronounced crank-bee - but all french-like, see?) is a short story by anatole france (1844-1924). he was a french writer who won the nobel prize in 1921, and lots of other stuff. these are first blush thoughts on the story. it's in a collection i picked up called the bedside book of famous french stories. published 1945. great book.
the protagonist, the eponymous crainquebille, is a man who seems to endure a job-like experience when the system of government, the ... way of life ... under which he's lived peacefully for some 60 years snares him in a trap constructed of arrogance, apathy and blind justice. there is irony. the phrase that he utters to the policeman which precipitates his troubles (which was never actually said) is the very same that doesn't even get him arrested when he feels he really needs to be incarcerated (to fulfill his most basic needs).
crainquebille haiku:
crainquebille couldn't catch here is a man who the joke is that he,
a break. truly a victim allows himself to be talked to the letter, obeyed the
of cruel poverty. into jail time. law. which then screwed him.
crainquebille is a poor produce vender. he has spent his life loading the cart in the morning and walking through his city (paris) selling his stock to the bourgeois of the city. he is lowly, but happy. or at least, untroubled. he drinks. he was ... not gifted with a philosophical mind. trouble comes to our man when constable 64 singles him out on the busy street, instructing him to move along with his cart. the constable repeats his order thrice, and is unwilling to hear crainquebille's reply, which is a strong reply, in that he is waiting for payment from the wife of a shopkeeper. a full on traffic jam ensues, wherein constable 64 accuses crainquebille of harassment. our man did only repeat the phrase mort aux vaches (mort o' vash) after the constable uttered it, and disbelievingly - for crainquebille had been in no way aggressive or argumentative toward the copper. he ...uttered words rather of despair than of rebellion.
mort aux vaches means, according to crainquebelle's lawyer, down to those who sell themselves to the police as spies. the textual notes indicate that the phrase is ...impossible to translate, and offers: down with spies, the word spies used to indicate the police. the story offers that this is a trusty insult to any copper you might find. and constable 64, in fact, morphs crainquebille's rather benign statements into this menacing phrase. a google search reveals that the expression death to cows / death to pigs originated in the franco-prussian war, the perfect pithy little saying to let everybody know just how much the french loathed the german soldiers.
so crainquebille is arrested and imprisoned for a fortnight. that's about two weeks. the reader understands that he has done nothing wrong. france reveals to us that the judge renders his verdict on the would-be infallible evidence of the policeman. the judge must assume the infallibility of anybody who is part of the state. and does so, finding crainquebille guilty even though a prominent doctor who witnessed the affair and interjected on crainquebille's behalf, testifies that our man did not say any such thing to the constable. still, the judge finds the lowly produce vendor guilty. he must so, in the interest of justice. this is ironic, of course, because we know that justice can be affected by myriad factors. here, justice ruins this man's life. when he gets back to his cart, his former customers, so upset that he's been to prison, shun him, and so ruin the fragile mental balance that has kept this poor man pushing his little cart, existing pretty close to the bottom, for all those years. the story ends with crainquebille, cold, wet and hungry, shuffling off into the cold darkness upon the celebrated remark's failure to get him arrested. again.
there's lots more to say. in the end, it's a heartbreaker; very cynical. france infuses ironic humor when he explains the logic of the law and the players that enforce it. maybe i missed something important. maybe i'm wrong. chat me up about it, i guess. better yet, (re) read the story and choose your own key line(s). here's mine:
crainquebille is the natural child of costermonger, depraved by years of drinking and other evil courses. crainquebille was born alcoholic. you behold him brutalized by sixty years of poverty. gentlemen you must conclude that he is irresponsible.' p. 255
these are the remarks of the solicitor. cool lines. he pretty much talks our man into considering himself guilty. shame. another character in the story who forces his own worldview onto crainquebille. i think maybe that's the point of it. this poor man is forced, because of lack of intelligence and lack of options, to accede to everybody else's realities. included is madame bayard, the shoe-maker's wife, who stiffs him sevenpence for leeks (the asparagus of the poor) when she witnesses him amidst his little legal turmoil. important to notice that she doesn't bother to speak up for him. before today, she, representative, perhaps of the bourgeois denizens of rue montmartre, would simply insult his produce and talk his prices down. for the money, he was accepting. after this experience, even the money didn't much matter to crainquebille. he became a heavier drinker. the story is like job, i guess, but without a happy ending. now that might be ironic ...
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