tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-70397074570109390972024-03-06T02:51:24.111-06:00BitterGrace NotesBitterGracehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18262639525430954930noreply@blogger.comBlogger1337125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7039707457010939097.post-51680422408965320082023-06-16T21:38:00.000-05:002023-06-16T21:38:04.720-05:00"We make our meek adjustments"<p> CHAPLINESQUE</p><p>by Hart Crane</p><p><br /></p><p>We make our meek adjustments,</p><p>Contented with such random consolations</p><p>As the wind deposits</p><p>In slithered and too ample pockets.</p><p><br /></p><p>For we can still love the world, who find</p><p>A famished kitten on the step, and know</p><p>Recesses for it from the fury of the street,</p><p>Or warm torn elbow coverts.</p><p><br /></p><p>We will sidestep, and to the final smirk</p><p>Dally the doom of that inevitable thumb</p><p>That slowly chafes its puckered index toward us,</p><p>Facing the dull squint with what innocence</p><p>And what surprise!</p><p><br /></p><p>And yet these fine collapses are not lies</p><p>More than the pirouettes of any pliant cane;</p><p>Our obsequies are, in a way, no enterprise.</p><p>We can evade you, and all else but the heart:</p><p>What blame to us if the heart live on.</p><p><br /></p><p>The game enforces smirks; but we have seen</p><p>The moon in lonely alleys make</p><p>A grail of laughter of an empty ash can,</p><p>And through all sound of gaiety and quest</p><p>Have heard a kitten in the wilderness.</p>BitterGracehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18262639525430954930noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7039707457010939097.post-2968356772188465122021-02-17T20:54:00.000-06:002021-02-17T20:54:03.529-06:00"the oblivion born before the flames have died"<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2qwEYmtHBffDICvad0uZlA-NB-yQ39fqqJCnKjxQvxdvVm62K9bEDp1D9dHOLEeaP0OOyss1lc32QwLK5pDJpTef3nS9rzvHZVMnpfBgxOLb9se5Hx27jvRMjQR9vuFWdBZkCv1UNT-8/s925/Fidus_-_Giordano_Bruno%252C_Aquarell_1900.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="925" data-original-width="771" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2qwEYmtHBffDICvad0uZlA-NB-yQ39fqqJCnKjxQvxdvVm62K9bEDp1D9dHOLEeaP0OOyss1lc32QwLK5pDJpTef3nS9rzvHZVMnpfBgxOLb9se5Hx27jvRMjQR9vuFWdBZkCv1UNT-8/w334-h400/Fidus_-_Giordano_Bruno%252C_Aquarell_1900.jpg" width="334" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Giordano Bruno</i> by <a href="https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/Category:Fidus" target="_blank">Fidus</a>, 1900</div><p></p><p><br /></p><div style="background-color: white; border: 0px; font-family: adobe-garamond-pro; font-size: 20px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 0px 1em; text-indent: -1em; vertical-align: baseline;">Someone will read as moral<br /></div><div style="background-color: white; border: 0px; font-family: adobe-garamond-pro; font-size: 20px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 0px 1em; text-indent: -1em; vertical-align: baseline;">that the people of Rome or Warsaw<br /></div><div style="background-color: white; border: 0px; font-family: adobe-garamond-pro; font-size: 20px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 0px 1em; text-indent: -1em; vertical-align: baseline;">haggle, laugh, make love<br /></div><div style="background-color: white; border: 0px; font-family: adobe-garamond-pro; font-size: 20px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 0px 1em; text-indent: -1em; vertical-align: baseline;">as they pass by the martyrs' pyres.<br /></div><div style="background-color: white; border: 0px; font-family: adobe-garamond-pro; font-size: 20px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 0px 1em; text-indent: -1em; vertical-align: baseline;">Someone else will read<br /></div><div style="background-color: white; border: 0px; font-family: adobe-garamond-pro; font-size: 20px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 0px 1em; text-indent: -1em; vertical-align: baseline;">of the passing of things human,<br /></div><div style="background-color: white; border: 0px; font-family: adobe-garamond-pro; font-size: 20px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 0px 1em; text-indent: -1em; vertical-align: baseline;">of the oblivion<br /></div><div style="background-color: white; border: 0px; font-family: adobe-garamond-pro; font-size: 20px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 0px 1em; text-indent: -1em; vertical-align: baseline;">born before the flames have died.<br /></div><div style="background-color: white; border: 0px; font-family: adobe-garamond-pro; font-size: 20px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 0px 1em; text-indent: -1em; vertical-align: baseline;"><br /></div><div style="background-color: white; border: 0px; font-family: adobe-garamond-pro; font-size: 20px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 0px 1em; text-indent: -1em; vertical-align: baseline;">But that day I thought only<br /></div><div style="background-color: white; border: 0px; font-family: adobe-garamond-pro; font-size: 20px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 0px 1em; text-indent: -1em; vertical-align: baseline;">of the loneliness of the dying,<br /></div><div style="background-color: white; border: 0px; font-family: adobe-garamond-pro; font-size: 20px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 0px 1em; text-indent: -1em; vertical-align: baseline;">of how, when Giordano<br /></div><div style="background-color: white; border: 0px; font-family: adobe-garamond-pro; font-size: 20px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 0px 1em; text-indent: -1em; vertical-align: baseline;">climbed to his burning<br /></div><div style="background-color: white; border: 0px; font-family: adobe-garamond-pro; font-size: 20px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 0px 1em; text-indent: -1em; vertical-align: baseline;">he could not find<br /></div><div style="background-color: white; border: 0px; font-family: adobe-garamond-pro; font-size: 20px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 0px 1em; text-indent: -1em; vertical-align: baseline;">in any human tongue<br /></div><div style="background-color: white; border: 0px; font-family: adobe-garamond-pro; font-size: 20px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 0px 1em; text-indent: -1em; vertical-align: baseline;">words for mankind,<br /></div><div style="background-color: white; border: 0px; font-family: adobe-garamond-pro; font-size: 20px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 0px 1em; text-indent: -1em; vertical-align: baseline;">mankind who live on.</div><div style="background-color: white; border: 0px; font-family: adobe-garamond-pro; font-size: 20px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 0px 1em; text-indent: -1em; vertical-align: baseline;"><br /></div><div style="background-color: white; border: 0px; font-family: adobe-garamond-pro; font-size: 20px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 0px 1em; text-indent: -1em; vertical-align: baseline;">~from <a href="https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/49751/campo-dei-fiori" target="_blank">"<span style="text-indent: -1em;">Campo dei Fiori" by</span><span style="text-indent: -1em;"> Czeslaw Milosz</span></a></div><div style="background-color: white; border: 0px; font-family: adobe-garamond-pro; font-size: 20px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 0px 1em; text-indent: -1em; vertical-align: baseline;"><br /></div><div style="background-color: white; border: 0px; font-family: adobe-garamond-pro; font-size: 20px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 0px 1em; text-indent: -1em; vertical-align: baseline;"><br /></div><a href="https://plato.stanford.edu/entries/bruno/#Life" target="_blank">Giordano Bruno</a> was condemned for heresy and burned at the stake in Rome on February 17, 1600. The precise nature of his heresy is <a href="https://blogs.scientificamerican.com/observations/was-giordano-bruno-burned-at-the-stake-for-believing-in-exoplanets/" target="_blank">a matter of dispute</a>. In any case, his executioners feared his words enough that they clamped his tongue before burning him alive. <div><br /></div><div>*An interview with Czeslaw Milosz that includes discussion of "Campo dei Fiori" is <a href="https://www.nobelprize.org/prizes/literature/1980/milosz/interview/" target="_blank">here</a>. </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>BitterGracehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18262639525430954930noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7039707457010939097.post-22241385640423818682021-02-09T21:20:00.006-06:002021-02-09T21:33:34.714-06:00New to Me<p style="text-align: center;"> <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1QvJLs6mJHAWVxvjyV3vO2IiF2W4fm430Rk1Fa1wZoLsOWMtpovFXfvnBZp4nEg2IUG7Epn2W0KAelQmgZzeZnWGviKf5C0yJKP25g0zF7GtfsUAYl3fRKpGpp1mzKkHlaFjdHwAd_5g/s600/flamenco-singer-1.jpg%2521Large.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="413" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1QvJLs6mJHAWVxvjyV3vO2IiF2W4fm430Rk1Fa1wZoLsOWMtpovFXfvnBZp4nEg2IUG7Epn2W0KAelQmgZzeZnWGviKf5C0yJKP25g0zF7GtfsUAYl3fRKpGpp1mzKkHlaFjdHwAd_5g/w275-h400/flamenco-singer-1.jpg%2521Large.jpg" width="275" /></a></p><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>Flamenco singers</i>, <a href="https://www.wikiart.org/en/sonia-delaunay" target="_blank">Sonia Delaunay</a>, 1916</span></div><div><br /></div><div>Conventional wisdom says that people past their first youth stop listening to new music, and there's <a href="https://www.wnycstudios.org/podcasts/takeaway/segments/music-discovery-stops-age-33-says-study" target="_blank">some research</a> to back that up. I have to admit my experience bears this out. I'm far more likely to revisit <a href="https://youtu.be/YZH2sybhOiM" target="_blank">50-year-old pop songs</a> or <a href="https://youtu.be/b3oyHXt6YQY" target="_blank">country classics</a> or beloved<a href="https://youtu.be/iQGm0H9l9I4" target="_blank"> Beethoven symphonies</a> than go hunting for anything unfamiliar. I probably can't name more than a dozen artists who've come on the scene in the past 5-10 years, and most of the ones I do know are mega-celebrities. I don't think I deserve any culture points for having a favorite track by <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NqjPqsry7no" target="_blank">Lizzo</a>.</div><div><br /></div><div>That said, I'm not completely stuck in the distant past. <a href="https://www.delilablack.com/">Delila Black</a>, for instance, first came on my radar about 10 years ago, and I've been following her ever since. Lately she's been getting some great attention from the music press here (like <a href="https://www.nashvillescene.com/music/features/article/21144558/meet-the-black-female-artists-reshaping-country-music" target="_blank">this</a> and <a href="https://countryqueer.com/stories/list/cowboy-hats-pickup-trucks-and-a-spot-of-tea-uk-queer-country/" target="_blank">this</a>), and I'm like, where y'all been? Her work has evolved over the years and I love it all, but I'm particularly fond of <a href="https://youtu.be/8622xE1llfo" target="_blank">this track</a>. On the other hand, there's no resisting this lockdown masterpiece:</div><div><div><br /></div></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/TRdRR0K4PE8" width="320" youtube-src-id="TRdRR0K4PE8"></iframe></div><br /><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>I like to think I was a little ahead of the curve on Delila Black's music, but I'm way behind the curve in discovering <a href="https://estrella-morente.es/" target="_blank">Estrella Morente</a>. She's long been a big star in the flamenco world. Her father, Enrique Morente, was a famous <i>cantaor </i>and Estrella began performing very young, releasing her first record in 2001, when she was 21. I first became aware of her about two weeks ago. I don't know anything about flamenco, but even a naive listener can hear the beauty and passion in her singing:</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/U9iw1gMVoO0" width="320" youtube-src-id="U9iw1gMVoO0"></iframe></div><br /><div><br /></div><div>And while we're on the flamenco theme, here's a lovely performance I happened to come across thanks to the Youtube algorithm:</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/aI4lxdexYEM" width="320" youtube-src-id="aI4lxdexYEM"></iframe></div><br /><div><br /></div><div>I think I might make these new (to me) music posts a regular thing. It'll give me a nudge to get out of my comfort zone a little more often — though that is, of course, a <a href="https://youtu.be/bJZwcaWResA" target="_blank">fine place to be</a>. </div>BitterGracehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18262639525430954930noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7039707457010939097.post-53187777546762757792021-02-04T20:54:00.000-06:002021-02-04T20:54:22.209-06:00Pandemic dogs and an author interview<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEht9sJpLSgBJYqsd4qtZBUeZ7bSLvkBNu2JY0hYRGJK-wAhZP2WZlU8kozxaqZSThQskkUC8pOYkpVIbRmYN-zR8R7opZ2fL-ayGC9HDnD5NCCj3wKKkfra1kvIfh29naY7WR7it-dQGTs/s1024/service-pnp-ppmsc-02400-02480v.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="643" data-original-width="1024" height="251" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEht9sJpLSgBJYqsd4qtZBUeZ7bSLvkBNu2JY0hYRGJK-wAhZP2WZlU8kozxaqZSThQskkUC8pOYkpVIbRmYN-zR8R7opZ2fL-ayGC9HDnD5NCCj3wKKkfra1kvIfh29naY7WR7it-dQGTs/w400-h251/service-pnp-ppmsc-02400-02480v.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />I've spent the pandemic year locked down with my 3 dogs, and let's just say it's been a mixed experience. I love my dogs, there's no doubt. It's hard to imagine life without them and even harder to imagine surviving this lonely year in dogless house. But having three hyper canines underfoot all day every day turns out to be ... a bit much. <p></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvoQ3hkbE_F0_wx54JHD1tFJ1frymUKUlWQopezQ9qRS7DL9IAgb7y_KU298fHaxcGEKJAKnRp1xLGdcg9CpHygXtokV76czVjHFNJfV9ayHSGOQB8j8tjWd5EkE41ITnaVSx590C2WWo/s1548/3+dogs.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1161" data-original-width="1548" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvoQ3hkbE_F0_wx54JHD1tFJ1frymUKUlWQopezQ9qRS7DL9IAgb7y_KU298fHaxcGEKJAKnRp1xLGdcg9CpHygXtokV76czVjHFNJfV9ayHSGOQB8j8tjWd5EkE41ITnaVSx590C2WWo/w200-h150/3+dogs.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>I thought my being here all the time might soften Dudley and Katie's velcro tendencies. Surely a human you have access to 24/7 loses some of her novelty, right? But it turns out, no — a round-the-clock human is <i>endlessly</i> fascinating. Even little Pixie, who's always been by far the least people-focused of the three, has decided that she needs to monitor my every move. I can't pour a cup of coffee or empty the dryer or take out the trash without the entire pack's supervision and assistance. Just getting out of bed in the morning spurs a wild doggy orgy of celebration — barking, leaping, dancing. <i>She is risen</i>.<p></p><p>I'm sure this is mostly my fault for handing out too many treats, rewarding their constant attention with attention of my own. Did I mention that it's been a lonely year? And the good news is that for all their overwrought attachment, none shows any sign of developing separation anxiety. On the rare occasions when I leave the house, they just go to their beds and sleep — storing up energy for my return. The welcoming festivities are, needless to say, intense. At least I never feel forgotten.</p><p>This year of effectively sharing a cage with dogs has me pondering the human-animal relationship even more than I usually do, so I was eager to dive into Colin Dayan's new book, <i><a href="https://larbbooks.org/product/animal-quintet/" target="_blank">Animal Quintet</a></i>, and to ask her a few questions for <a href="https://chapter16.org/violence-love-and-animals/" target="_blank">today's Q&A at <i>Chapter 16</i></a>. Relationships — mother/child, human/animal, black/white, living/dead — are at the core of all the pieces in the collection, and Colin Dayan is always unsparing in her depiction of the harm we inflict on the Other. But the stories she tells are also driven by a passion for understanding the wild beauty of experience. (You can read my review of her 2016 book <i>With Dogs at the Edge of Life</i> <a href="https://chapter16.org/through-the-eyes-of-dogs/" target="_blank">here</a>.)</p><p style="text-align: center;">***</p><p>*1912 photo from the Library of Congress. From <a href="https://www.loc.gov/pictures/item/99614998/" target="_blank">the record</a>: <i>Photo shows Walter W. Johnson, a mining engineer and designer of gold and tin dredges, who traveled around the Seward Peninsula on the family "pupmobile" and on horseback. Johnson wrote on the back of his copy of the photo, "When it was time to coast, the dogs would jump aboard without command."</i></p><p>**Dudley and Katie displaying their constant faith that if you sit, a treat will come. Pixie's more of a skeptic.</p><p><br /></p>BitterGracehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18262639525430954930noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7039707457010939097.post-41185000480870434742021-02-03T19:43:00.001-06:002021-02-03T19:43:16.831-06:00"All who have travelled this perishing life..."<div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: inherit; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0ZPsahLg82_7fEq3mp8gQvgn5aeE-tNkMJ4l6oK1kZTXDn6FPpO7NE0jZuz2x7nKM3hC5MgISJq_NDO0M-NZVyBuUXHt1JflVAUo9MXPR1vEdhxKXNdod9zXyUFVEl9VJbM6VdjePuL4/s2048/Rembrandt_Harmensz._van_Rijn_157.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1656" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0ZPsahLg82_7fEq3mp8gQvgn5aeE-tNkMJ4l6oK1kZTXDn6FPpO7NE0jZuz2x7nKM3hC5MgISJq_NDO0M-NZVyBuUXHt1JflVAUo9MXPR1vEdhxKXNdod9zXyUFVEl9VJbM6VdjePuL4/w324-h400/Rembrandt_Harmensz._van_Rijn_157.jpg" width="324" /></a></div><br /><span style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: inherit; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: inherit; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: inherit; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: inherit; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: inherit; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: inherit; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: inherit; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: inherit; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: inherit; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: inherit; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: inherit; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: inherit; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: inherit; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: inherit; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: inherit; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: inherit; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: inherit; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: inherit; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: inherit; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: inherit; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: inherit; white-space: pre-wrap;">All who have travelled this perishing life,</span></span></div><div class="kvgmc6g5 cxmmr5t8 oygrvhab hcukyx3x c1et5uql ii04i59q" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: system-ui, -apple-system, system-ui, ".SFNSText-Regular", sans-serif; font-size: 15px; margin: 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; white-space: pre-wrap;"><div dir="auto" style="font-family: inherit;">Let us gather and wait for our healing.</div><div dir="auto" style="font-family: inherit;">But time is no healer,</div><div dir="auto" style="font-family: inherit;">And time too will die in the vanishing stars.</div></div><div class="o9v6fnle cxmmr5t8 oygrvhab hcukyx3x c1et5uql ii04i59q" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: system-ui, -apple-system, system-ui, ".SFNSText-Regular", sans-serif; font-size: 15px; margin: 0.5em 0px 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; white-space: pre-wrap;"><div dir="auto" style="font-family: inherit;">Great Rembrandt, the master of light and of shadow,</div><div dir="auto" style="font-family: inherit;">Of tortuous path, ambiguity,</div><div dir="auto" style="font-family: inherit;">Come paint our faces,</div><div dir="auto" style="font-family: inherit;">The dazed lakes of eyes wishing for some</div><div dir="auto" style="font-family: inherit;">Other life, jowls full with unfinished living,</div><div dir="auto" style="font-family: inherit;">And brows soft with unceasing hope —</div></div><div class="o9v6fnle cxmmr5t8 oygrvhab hcukyx3x c1et5uql ii04i59q" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: system-ui, -apple-system, system-ui, ".SFNSText-Regular", sans-serif; font-size: 15px; margin: 0.5em 0px 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; white-space: pre-wrap;"><div dir="auto" style="font-family: inherit;">Come paint our faces, the cradles</div><div dir="auto" style="font-family: inherit;">Of sun through white shutters,</div><div dir="auto" style="font-family: inherit;">The graveyards of dark afternoons,</div><div dir="auto" style="font-family: inherit;">Stirrings of tea in a lifetime of mornings,</div><div dir="auto" style="font-family: inherit;">The touch of the lips kissing skin —</div><div dir="auto" style="font-family: inherit;">Yes we remember —</div><div dir="auto" style="font-family: inherit;">The plantings of seed pods that may never bloom,</div><div dir="auto" style="font-family: inherit;">Visits of uncles, the births of our children:</div><div dir="auto" style="font-family: inherit;">We've witnessed it all, without knowing why.</div></div><div class="o9v6fnle cxmmr5t8 oygrvhab hcukyx3x c1et5uql ii04i59q" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: system-ui, -apple-system, system-ui, ".SFNSText-Regular", sans-serif; font-size: 15px; margin: 0.5em 0px 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; white-space: pre-wrap;"><div dir="auto" style="font-family: inherit;">Come paint our faces,</div><div dir="auto" style="font-family: inherit;">The lights and the shadows,</div><div dir="auto" style="font-family: inherit;">The ends and beginnings,</div><div dir="auto" style="font-family: inherit;">All lost in the sea of uncertainties.</div></div><div class="o9v6fnle cxmmr5t8 oygrvhab hcukyx3x c1et5uql ii04i59q" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: system-ui, -apple-system, system-ui, ".SFNSText-Regular", sans-serif; font-size: 15px; margin: 0.5em 0px 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; white-space: pre-wrap;"><div dir="auto" style="font-family: inherit;">~ Alan Lightman, from <i><a href="https://www.brainpickings.org/2017/02/10/song-of-two-worlds-alan-lightman-derek-dominic-dsouza/" target="_blank">Song of Two Worlds</a></i></div><div dir="auto" style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></div><div dir="auto" style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></div><div dir="auto" style="font-family: inherit;">*<i>Two African Men</i>, Rembrandt van Rijn, 1661. Read observations about this painting <a href="https://innovativeresearchmethods.org/rembrandt-two-african-men-and-reflections-on-representation-and-colonial-legacy/" target="_blank">here</a>, <a href="https://www.nytimes.com/2020/03/13/arts/design/black-portraits-dutch-golden-age.html" target="_blank">here</a>, and <a href="https://www.lrb.co.uk/the-paper/v43/n01/esther-chadwick/a-platter-of-turnips" target="_blank">here</a>.</div></div>BitterGracehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18262639525430954930noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7039707457010939097.post-44034913055924343852021-02-01T20:08:00.003-06:002021-02-01T20:10:03.274-06:00"You will call this mountain home..."<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijaAnIWmAaX52mF_VTTp7_a6bRH7SWvUFin_ytZBwp3ZZlnwedTIQm5P2mIn8i0g2tXq7fkqSaGw8-ft6Kx4yojkhyphenhyphen4vHGrtdSdAlgIlENCVnQTJHnJ9H_WCNo51yDHg5QMt0U_nsDYvA/s714/Knud_Baade_-_Kystlandskap_i_ma%25CC%258Aneskinn_-_NG.M.04440_-_National_Museum_of_Art%252C_Architecture_and_Design.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="714" data-original-width="652" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijaAnIWmAaX52mF_VTTp7_a6bRH7SWvUFin_ytZBwp3ZZlnwedTIQm5P2mIn8i0g2tXq7fkqSaGw8-ft6Kx4yojkhyphenhyphen4vHGrtdSdAlgIlENCVnQTJHnJ9H_WCNo51yDHg5QMt0U_nsDYvA/w365-h400/Knud_Baade_-_Kystlandskap_i_ma%25CC%258Aneskinn_-_NG.M.04440_-_National_Museum_of_Art%252C_Architecture_and_Design.jpg" width="365" /></a></div> <p></p><div style="background-color: white; border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 0px 1em; text-indent: -1em; vertical-align: baseline;"><div style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 0px 1em; text-indent: -1em; vertical-align: baseline;"><div style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 0px 1em; text-align: center; text-indent: -1em; vertical-align: baseline;"><div style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 0px 1em; text-indent: -1em; vertical-align: baseline;"><br /></div><div style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 0px 1em; text-indent: -1em; vertical-align: baseline;"><br /></div><div style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 0px 1em; text-indent: -1em; vertical-align: baseline;"><br /></div><div style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 0px 1em; text-indent: -1em; vertical-align: baseline;"><br /></div><div style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 0px 1em; text-indent: -1em; vertical-align: baseline;"><br /></div><div style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 0px 1em; text-indent: -1em; vertical-align: baseline;"><br /></div><div style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 0px 1em; text-indent: -1em; vertical-align: baseline;"><br /></div><div style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 0px 1em; text-indent: -1em; vertical-align: baseline;"><br /></div><div style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 0px 1em; text-indent: -1em; vertical-align: baseline;"><br /></div><div style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 0px 1em; text-indent: -1em; vertical-align: baseline;"><br /></div><div style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 0px 1em; text-indent: -1em; vertical-align: baseline;"><br /></div><div style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 0px 1em; text-indent: -1em; vertical-align: baseline;"><br /></div><div style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 0px 1em; text-indent: -1em; vertical-align: baseline;"><br /></div><div style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 0px 1em; text-indent: -1em; vertical-align: baseline;"><br /></div><div style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 0px 1em; text-indent: -1em; vertical-align: baseline;"><br /></div><div style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 0px 1em; text-indent: -1em; vertical-align: baseline;"><br /></div><div style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 0px 1em; text-indent: -1em; vertical-align: baseline;"><br /></div><div style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 0px 1em; text-indent: -1em; vertical-align: baseline;"><br /></div><div style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 0px 1em; text-indent: -1em; vertical-align: baseline;"><br /></div><div style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 0px 1em; text-indent: -1em; vertical-align: baseline;"><br /></div><div style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 0px 1em; text-indent: -1em; vertical-align: baseline;"><br /></div><div style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 0px 1em; text-indent: -1em; vertical-align: baseline;"><br /></div><div style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 0px 1em; text-align: left; text-indent: -1em; vertical-align: baseline;">When my sister died, from the head of my visio came offspring</div><div style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 0px 1em; text-align: left; text-indent: -1em; vertical-align: baseline;">in the thousands, armed to the teeth, each its own vessel.</div><div style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 0px 1em; text-align: left; text-indent: -1em; vertical-align: baseline;">My first, their mother, lived on. For itself and its hoard</div><div style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 0px 1em; text-align: left; text-indent: -1em; vertical-align: baseline;">it found a permanent home in a cave at the bottom of a lake.</div><div style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 0px 1em; text-align: left; text-indent: -1em; vertical-align: baseline;">And it waited until I was standing on a mountain to sing to me:</div><div style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 0px 1em; text-align: left; text-indent: -1em; vertical-align: baseline;">You will call this mountain home until I tell you to move again.</div><div style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 0px 1em; text-align: left; text-indent: -1em; vertical-align: baseline;">There will always be more of it underground than you</div><div style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 0px 1em; text-align: left; text-indent: -1em; vertical-align: baseline;">will ever see with your eye. And so it turned out to be true.</div><div style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 0px 1em; text-align: left; text-indent: -1em; vertical-align: baseline;">And so when I stood on the mountain that became my home,</div><div style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 0px 1em; text-align: left; text-indent: -1em; vertical-align: baseline;">I beheld a dirt sea, and saw our moon, which has two faces.</div><div style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 0px 1em; text-align: left; text-indent: -1em; vertical-align: baseline;">I learned that one face of our moon is dappled with maria,</div><div style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 0px 1em; text-align: left; text-indent: -1em; vertical-align: baseline;">and that the sunbeams here are newborns that lie</div><div style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 0px 1em; text-align: left; text-indent: -1em; vertical-align: baseline;">on each other, purpling into the fog and outstretched pines.</div><div style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 0px 1em; text-align: left; text-indent: -1em; vertical-align: baseline;"><br /></div><div style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 0px 1em; text-align: left; text-indent: -1em; vertical-align: baseline;">~from <a href="https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poetrymagazine/poems/92681/dear-beloved" target="_blank">"Dear, beloved" by Sumita Chakraborty</a></div><div style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 0px 1em; text-align: left; text-indent: -1em; vertical-align: baseline;"><br /></div><div style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 0px 1em; text-align: left; text-indent: -1em; vertical-align: baseline;">*<i>Kystlandskap i måneskinn</i> ("Coastal Landscape in Moonlight"), Knud Baade, 1808-1879</div></div></div></div>BitterGracehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18262639525430954930noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7039707457010939097.post-34537717276230914312021-01-31T22:24:00.005-06:002021-02-04T21:07:13.341-06:00Random thoughts inspired by the Capitol riot, pt. 2<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_uHMWVvppz4Z7XjVAKC7EY4REhiP7BgTswCIysPKuTrV3fwYz2nVzQAbH95h5fl_1Okb8W5eRu_wZnYZNMB5yIXxg4Rt0y1J99cK-4CZdQchYr2sZtRShfhMpH4Vc1Nn5eFGqLwfDPDQ/s1024/Marianne_von_Werefkin_-_Homecoming.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="756" data-original-width="1024" height="295" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_uHMWVvppz4Z7XjVAKC7EY4REhiP7BgTswCIysPKuTrV3fwYz2nVzQAbH95h5fl_1Okb8W5eRu_wZnYZNMB5yIXxg4Rt0y1J99cK-4CZdQchYr2sZtRShfhMpH4Vc1Nn5eFGqLwfDPDQ/w400-h295/Marianne_von_Werefkin_-_Homecoming.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>The Homecoming</i>, Marianne von Werefkin (1860-1938)</span></div><p><br /></p><p>First of all, if you are not up for political discussion, I totally understand. It won't hurt my feelings a bit if you just go check out <a href="https://youtu.be/HyyeXOW5xPk" target="_blank">these fabulous avian guitarists</a> and skip the unpleasantness below. (H/T to my old friend <a href="https://www.blogger.com/profile/12264276265890227820" target="_blank">ScentScelf</a> for the video.) </p><p style="text-align: center;">***</p><p>I thought about never coming back* to comment further on the insurrection. We’re all sick to death of thinking about it, aren't we? When someone like Anne Applebaum suggests that maybe the best course of action would be to <a href="https://www.theatlantic.com/ideas/archive/2021/01/seditionists-need-path-back-society/617746/" target="_blank">change the subject</a>, that's an option worth considering. (I don't share Applebaum's rightwing political bent, but her book <i><a href="https://www.penguinrandomhouse.com/books/621076/twilight-of-democracy-by-anne-applebaum/" target="_blank">Twilight of Democracy</a></i> is an interesting and insightful — if depressing — read.)</p><p>Looking through some old posts on this blog, though, especially from 2008 and 2012, I was struck by the strong continuity between then and now. I was wrong about a lot of things back then. (Me on the Tea Party in 2009: <a href="https://bittergracenotes.blogspot.com/2009/09/i-have-confession-to-make-i-really-dont.html" target="_blank">"I think our side should calm down a little and stop worrying that they're going to stage a coup or something.”</a>) But the elements that created January 6 were all in place years ago. And they were not hidden, though most of us couldn't see them with any clarity. This makes me think it’s worth setting down my thoughts now, however incoherent they may be, if only for the sake of revisiting them somewhere down the road, when who knows where we'll have wound up.</p><p style="text-align: center;">***</p><p>In the weeks since the Capitol riot, it's become clear that there were several distinct factions involved: some who <a href="https://www.nytimes.com/2021/01/19/us/politics/oath-keepers-capitol-riot.html" target="_blank">showed up with a plan</a>, some who seemed to be there mostly <a href="https://www.nbcnews.com/news/us-news/texas-realtor-capitol-riot-i-m-glad-i-was-there-n1254563" target="_blank">to party</a>, and a large segment of folks who, like <a href="https://www.npr.org/sections/thetwo-way/2017/06/22/533941689/pizzagate-gunman-sentenced-to-4-years-in-prison" target="_blank">Comet Ping Pong dude</a> before them, apparently believed something heinous was going on and they better put a stop to it. And have fun breaking windows and knocking heads in the process, of course. </p><p>It's that third group that interests me because I can most clearly see my own folks in them. Not that I share their delusions or their ideology, but they're the ones who seem the most like the people I grew up around, the people I see around me today. All those aging white men with beards, wearing Walmart jeans and jackets from the army surplus store, with the Confederate flag, <a href="https://www.smithsonianmag.com/history/how-the-flag-came-to-be-called-old-glory-18396/?all" target="_blank">Old Glory</a>, and MAGA/Trump gear easily blending as cultural identifiers. They are so familiar. That guy <a href="https://www.washingtonpost.com/video/national/video-shows-police-officer-dragged-down-capitol-steps-violently-beat-by-mob/2021/01/11/cc59a0e4-9214-4075-b8ac-f58fd9eee600_video.html" target="_blank">beating the cop with the flagpole</a> — he looks exactly like one of the characters who used to hang out in my dad's favorite tavern. I feel like I know him. I feel like, had my life taken just a slightly different turn early on, I might have wound up married to him.</p><p>This feeling of embarrassed kinship with the rioters is something that anywhere-left-of-center white people, especially the ones with rural roots, do not seem to be talking about very much. (I'd like to digress briefly here to say that I will never get used to the way mainstream liberal Democrats are now routinely labeled "the left" by almost everyone, including themselves. Joe Biden, tool of the left. Good lord.) I know for sure I'm not the only one who feels the kinship, thanks to the popularity of the <a href="https://twitter.com/CoreyRForrester/status/1347336476451872769" target="_blank">wild rant Corey Forrester tweeted</a> on January 7. Granted, Forrester is a comedian and this kind of thing is his business, but he wouldn't have said it if he wasn't pretty sure there'd be an audience for it, and a lot of that audience is people like me, who watched the riot with a sense of cringing shame, as well as outrage: <i>Oh my god — it's us</i>. (For more from Forrester on the shame of our kind, watch <a href="https://twitter.com/CoreyRForrester/status/1355191252082454528" target="_blank">this</a>.) </p><p>I can't decide whether my inability — or unwillingness — to see myself as culturally Other to the insurrectionists is a good thing or a bad thing. It reminds me a lot of the way I felt about my paternal grandmother, who was a second mother to me and my brothers, a good and loving person in many ways, but who was also a confirmed segregationist. However outwardly friendly and kind she was willing to be toward Black people (and she was, in my memory, unfailingly so), she could not/would not let go of the deeply racist, white supremacist view of the world she was raised with. </p><p>I could never disown my grandmother. It would be dishonest. She helped make me who I am, without a doubt. I hate many of the things she believed, but I know there's not a bright line between the parts of our shared culture I love and the parts I hate. And I don't see any reason to believe that I'm a better human than she was. That's the sticky, troubling truth I have lived with forever, and the insanity at the Capitol is a powerful reminder. I honestly don't know what to do with it.</p><p>For another lens on this same territory, read <a href="https://www.nytimes.com/2021/01/30/opinion/hillbilly-redneck-progressivism.html" target="_blank">Abby Lee Hood's recent piece</a> in the NYT. And for a thought-provoking take on the enduring role of shame in white Southern culture and how it operates among the Trumpian evangelicals, read David French's thoughts at <a href="https://frenchpress.thedispatch.com/p/where-does-the-south-end-and-christianity" target="_blank">The Dispatch</a>. (French sees the political landscape very differently than I do, and some of the positions he takes — like his signing of the <a href="https://cbmw.org/nashville-statement" target="_blank">Nashville Statement</a> — are, in my view, deeply destructive, to put it mildly. But he understands the rising Christian nationalism as well as anyone out there, and he unfailingly writes from a thoughtful place, trying to grapple with the larger moral implications of the moment.)</p><p style="text-align: center;">***</p><p style="text-align: left;">And speaking of nationalism, this weekend I watched Daniel Lombroso's <i><a href="https://www.theatlantic.com/white-noise-movie/" target="_blank">White Noise</a></i>, a documentary presented by <i>The Atlantic,</i> that follows Lauren Southern, Richard Spencer, and Mike Cernovich as they do their alt-right, white nationalist thing in the period leading up to and after Charlottesville. It's a compelling piece of filmmaking, well worth watching, but I'm still not sure what I think about it. </p><p style="text-align: left;">The film presents the three main subjects as narcissistic, damaged people, equal parts insufferable and pitiable — a take that is definitely not surprising to anyone who's ever known <a href="https://bittergracenotes.blogspot.com/2016/12/once-i-knew-white-supremacist.html" target="_blank">one of this tribe</a>. But I came away feeling like the film did not go deep enough, that it spent too much time deconstructing the personalities, and none at all deconstructing the ideology. The evil of white nationalism is simply taken as a given, and at no point does anybody actually challenge the substance of what Southern, Spencer, and Cernovich are peddling. They are never asked to defend what they're doing in any meaningful way. I suspect that was a strategic choice on the part of the filmmakers, a way of earning trust by avoiding conflict. And it paid off in terms of letting us see the humans behind the rhetoric, but it fell short in furthering our understanding of the movement they speak to. You can see the trailer at the link above and on <a href="https://youtu.be/HncFO8Sujvk" target="_blank">Youtube</a>. You can read a profile Lombroso wrote about Southern <a href="https://www.theatlantic.com/politics/archive/2020/10/alt-right-star-racist-propagandist-has-no-regrets/616725/" target="_blank">here</a>. </p><p style="text-align: left;"><br /></p><p style="text-align: left;">*Part 1 of this post is <a href="https://bittergracenotes.blogspot.com/2021/01/random-thoughts-inspired-by-capitol.html" target="_blank">here</a>. </p><p><br /></p>BitterGracehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18262639525430954930noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7039707457010939097.post-52862579468542841202021-01-25T21:39:00.001-06:002021-01-25T21:41:27.406-06:00"The sky is a black sudden cloud ..."<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghOG_lvcR04vR-SB8ZKjZ7AZ71AeQv69SoFnEXb1QH8kGKBiw-YYKGKwykgLoPhfzYGFeymmjEYAtTyFFFEO2USIb1x-1xdKy7YLzQv4UyqA2iJaTDCg3h8F5rezL5C5dIcKkH2tPDU_A/s400/Ismael_Nery_-_Eternidade.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="400" data-original-width="333" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghOG_lvcR04vR-SB8ZKjZ7AZ71AeQv69SoFnEXb1QH8kGKBiw-YYKGKwykgLoPhfzYGFeymmjEYAtTyFFFEO2USIb1x-1xdKy7YLzQv4UyqA2iJaTDCg3h8F5rezL5C5dIcKkH2tPDU_A/w333-h400/Ismael_Nery_-_Eternidade.jpg" width="333" /></a></div><br /> <div><span style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px;"><br /></span></div><div><br /></div><div><span style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: Helvetica;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: Helvetica;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: Helvetica;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: Helvetica;">The Shame</span><p class="p2" style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><br /></p><p class="p1" style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">What will</p><p class="p1" style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">the shame be,</p><p class="p1" style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">what</p><p class="p1" style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">cost to pay.</p><p class="p2" style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><br /></p><p class="p1" style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">We are walking</p><p class="p1" style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">in a wood,</p><p class="p1" style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">wood of stones,</p><p class="p1" style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">boulders for trees.</p><p class="p2" style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><br /></p><p class="p1" style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">The sky</p><p class="p1" style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">is a black</p><p class="p1" style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">sudden cloud,</p><p class="p1" style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">a sun.</p><p class="p2" style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><br /></p><p class="p1" style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">Speak</p><p class="p1" style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">to me, say</p><p class="p1" style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">what things</p><p class="p1" style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">were forgotten.</p><p class="p1" style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><br /></p><p class="p1" style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><br /></p><p class="p1" style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">~Robert Creeley</p><p class="p1" style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><i><a href="https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poetrymagazine/browse?volume=107&issue=5&page=39" target="_blank">Poetry</a></i>, February 1966</p><p class="p1" style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><br /></p><p class="p1" style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><br /></p><p class="p1" style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><br /></p><p class="p1" style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">*I read a wonderful essay today in which shame plays a role, "Parricide Blues" by Aaron Gwyn. You can read it <a href="https://crazyhorse.cofc.edu/featured/parricide-blues/" target="_blank">here</a>.</p><p class="p1" style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><br /></p><p class="p1" style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">**The painting is "Eternidade" by Ismael Nery, circa 1931. (There's more Nery on the blog <a href="https://bittergracenotes.blogspot.com/2016/02/in-spirit-of-day.html" target="_blank">here</a>.)</p><p class="p1" style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><br /></p><p class="p1" style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><br /></p></div>BitterGracehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18262639525430954930noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7039707457010939097.post-9479640562648342021-01-24T21:47:00.002-06:002021-01-24T21:54:06.434-06:00"One grief there is ..."<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZDiCqhU2Hzt_Fx1HzDOI8qOkFLAIT94nH1Euse93_cdKivaFGH81xcjIvybSje7zB3527AiQ7BG3OcSWfvRHRj3v7ozpc__IXZQzLcFvq3eKooEHIJylAGE68_iQ24Uj_T1S8XPI1Dq8/s750/reflection.jpg%2521Large.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="582" data-original-width="750" height="310" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZDiCqhU2Hzt_Fx1HzDOI8qOkFLAIT94nH1Euse93_cdKivaFGH81xcjIvybSje7zB3527AiQ7BG3OcSWfvRHRj3v7ozpc__IXZQzLcFvq3eKooEHIJylAGE68_iQ24Uj_T1S8XPI1Dq8/w400-h310/reflection.jpg%2521Large.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><br /><div><b><br /></b></div><div><b>The One Grief</b><p></p><p>One grief there is, the helpmeet of my heart,</p><p>That shall not from me till my days be sped,</p><p>That walks beside me in sunshine and in shade,</p><p>And hath in all my fortunes equal part.</p><p>At first I feared it, and would often start</p><p>Aghast to find it bending o'er my bed,</p><p>Till usage slowly dulled the edge of dread,</p><p>And one cold night I cried: <i>How warm thou art!</i></p><p><br /></p><p>Since then we two have travelled hand in hand,</p><p>And, lo, my grief has been interpreter</p><p>For me in many a fierce and alien land</p><p>Whose speech young Joy had failed to understand,</p><p>Plucking me tribute of red gold and myrrh</p><p>From desolate whirlings of the desert sand.</p><p><br /></p><p>~by <a href="https://www.edithwharton.org/discover/edith-wharton/" target="_blank">Edith Wharton</a>, born January 24, 1862</p><p>From <i><a href="http://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/9283" target="_blank">Artemis to Actaeon and Other Verses</a></i></p><p><br /></p><p>* "Reflection" by <a href="http://www.artnet.com/artists/odilon-redon/" target="_blank">Odilon Redon</a>, circa 1900</p><p><br /></p><p>Postscript: After I hit "publish" on this post I got to wondering whether I'd ever noted Wharton's birthday in the past. I haven't, but boy, there's quite a bit of Wharton-related musing on this blog. If you're interested, you can find a roundup <a href="https://bittergracenotes.blogspot.com/search?q=Wharton" target="_blank">here</a>. </p></div>BitterGracehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18262639525430954930noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7039707457010939097.post-79525052714184933782021-01-18T20:51:00.001-06:002021-01-18T20:53:18.693-06:00 Random thoughts inspired by the Capitol riot, pt.1<p style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5PTiH-GYgrsjQIK1OskewMk0MfqCcp8aL4avmI6SWuCzDRJhKkvft3jRhhwrKw1vmKTdW_ewlqW7oKYnqBR8-xgIgQpylXP9QecByXRVQGiNonw9Tt-3iT8ZPqk9_B5OJ2CzZMGQzoqA/s1084/1084px-2009_inauguration_Capitol_preparations.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="720" data-original-width="1084" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5PTiH-GYgrsjQIK1OskewMk0MfqCcp8aL4avmI6SWuCzDRJhKkvft3jRhhwrKw1vmKTdW_ewlqW7oKYnqBR8-xgIgQpylXP9QecByXRVQGiNonw9Tt-3iT8ZPqk9_B5OJ2CzZMGQzoqA/w400-h266/1084px-2009_inauguration_Capitol_preparations.jpg" width="400" /></a></p><p>According to the listing at Wikimedia Commons, the photo above was made the night before Obama's swearing in on January 20, 2009. Since the riot, one thing I can't stop thinking about is the outpouring of joy 12 years ago — a degree of celebration I had never seen in my lifetime and frankly don't expect to see again. I annoyed a lot of people in my circle back then by not being as happy as they were about Obama's win. I <i>was</i> happy about it, make no mistake — just not ready to jump up and down with joy and let go of my rage at all we'd seen in the decade prior. </p><p>And yes, I'm a little sorry now that I didn't let myself partake of that joy more fully. But I was afraid of our complacency, afraid that we were congratulating ourselves too much and would give Obama a pass on too many things. We did give him a pass on things we shouldn't have, not so much out of smugness as from a sense of being embattled once the rightwing backlash took hold. Now here we are, feeling far more embattled than we could have imagined in 2010 or 2012, and I can't help noticing that one of the effects of our anxiety is intolerance for any criticism of the incoming administration. I have found myself increasingly turning away from dissenting voices on our side, few as they are — not because I disagree with them, usually, but because <i>now is not the time</i>. But when will be the the time? </p><p style="text-align: center;">***</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhb65mqp9vhr436OS9Lb4rToSgpAEjQpjLf2nYwiq-x7JkIkLxCJgIEMXivkUnuf8CHz4Kb8bskIlxT2C-jOvhjYytPzD1s-j5oE11t0Lu4ENkOW78z3l9kc884zPLOWPi12J7CwtpvLp4/s550/Noe%25CC%2588l_Halle%25CC%2581_-_the_education_of_the_rich_people.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="436" data-original-width="550" height="318" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhb65mqp9vhr436OS9Lb4rToSgpAEjQpjLf2nYwiq-x7JkIkLxCJgIEMXivkUnuf8CHz4Kb8bskIlxT2C-jOvhjYytPzD1s-j5oE11t0Lu4ENkOW78z3l9kc884zPLOWPi12J7CwtpvLp4/w400-h318/Noe%25CC%2588l_Halle%25CC%2581_-_the_education_of_the_rich_people.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>"Therefore, however much you exceed in wealth, so much so do you fall short in love." ~ Basil of Caesarea*</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><div>I’ve been thinking a lot about the Capitol attackers who shouted, <a href="https://youtu.be/270F8s5TEKY" target="_blank">“Whose house? Our house!"</a> They didn’t invent that chant or just borrow it from <a href="https://youtu.be/fO5hThJ3-9E" target="_blank">a football team</a>. It was used not so long ago by people with a very <a href="https://youtu.be/lOnxh-7QfM4" target="_blank">different political agenda</a>.** </div><div><br /></div><div>It echoes the civics lessons we all got as kids — “the people’s house," etc. But that notion of a common stake in democratic government is not what the rioters meant. They weren't saying, "This is our government, too." They were saying, "This government is OURS." That is to say, theirs alone — as white people***, as Christians, as so-called "real Americans."</div><div><br /></div><div>I think this is a nuance that too often gets missed when we talk about white supremacy and nationalism. The ideology of white supremacy isn't fundamentally a belief in racial superiority, although that belief may be present. It's not, at its core, about hatred, although there is plenty of hatred attached to it. White nationalism is really a deep belief in ownership — of the culture and the country.</div><div><br /></div><div>Whenever I've sparred with hardcore Trump cultists online, I've always been struck by the proprietary way they talk about America and how obsessed they are with rights of ownership. The concept of property is sacred to them. I remember an exchange I had last summer, when stores were being looted, with someone who took real offense at my statement that no decent human being would shoot a person for stealing a TV. It seems self-evident to me that any human life has more value than a material possession, but the cultist felt otherwise: Thieves — at least, some thieves — deserve death. </div><div><br /></div><div>The "Stop the Steal" slogan isn't really about the election. It's about what the cult sees as the theft of their country by people who have no rightful claim to it. For several generations now, we've preached to white American children about racial tolerance and equality. We've shamed them for racist language and told them racist is the worst thing they can be. But white folks have had very little to say about this poisonous, anti-democratic ideology of entitlement buried deep in white identity. </div><div><br /></div><div>We throw around the word “entitled” as an insult, and if we’re good liberals, we recognize our “privilege,” but we always avoid articulating exactly what that privilege rests on. It is, in fact, this culturally enforced sense of ownership, so ingrained in us that we are — mostly — not even conscious of it. Like <a href="https://en.wikisource.org/wiki/The_Republic_(Gutenberg_edition)/Book_VII" target="_blank">the prisoners in the cave</a> or <a href="https://youtu.be/8CrOL-ydFMI" target="_blank">David Foster Wallace's famous fish</a>, we're blind to the full truth of our condition. It's a condition we share with the cult, and I think our reluctance to accept that fact is one reason it's so hard for <i>us</i> to understand what the hell is wrong with <i>them</i>. </div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">***</div><div><br /></div><div>*From <a href="https://bekkos.wordpress.com/st-basils-sermon-to-the-rich/" target="_blank">St. Basil's Sermon to the Rich</a> </div><div><br /></div><div>**In case it's not clear, the song refers to the <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/2011_Wisconsin_protests" target="_blank">2011 protests in Madison, Wisconsin</a>. Video of the demonstration itself <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5uPrOcRVFdc" target="_blank">here</a>. </div><div><br /></div><div>*** Yeah, I know there were a few people in that mob who weren't white. That's a discussion for another day. And no, I don't think racism is by any means the sole motivating factor for the cult. I'm not even sure it's the primary factor. But if you're thinking the racist aspect of the riot wasn't obvious, this might not be the blog for you.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>Images: DoD photo of the Capitol on the eve of Obama's inauguration by <a href="https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:2009_inauguration_Capitol_preparations.jpg" target="_blank">Specialist 1st Class Daniel J. Calderon, U.S. Navy</a></div><div><br /></div><div>"The Education of the Rich" by <a href="https://www.nationalgalleries.org/art-and-artists/artists/no%C3%ABl-hall%C3%A9" target="_blank">Noël Hallé</a></div><div><br /></div></div><p style="text-align: center;"><br /></p><p><br /></p>BitterGracehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18262639525430954930noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7039707457010939097.post-47234159537031529772021-01-17T20:31:00.003-06:002021-01-17T20:35:18.191-06:00Revisiting a Relic<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOB271UiUzGOmW-FbfLmy8S07JO3Y3h1J7Vc54w5vuCF7GpRHhbCvBF9K19uokIgR0wozFStxssSFQqLL40Yktc37ytJkC-ApdS4f8izhZZex85_fWsnf2ZoQLR202SFNfT6xMe9RPuxw/s1872/ruined+motel+in+camden.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1401" data-original-width="1872" height="299" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOB271UiUzGOmW-FbfLmy8S07JO3Y3h1J7Vc54w5vuCF7GpRHhbCvBF9K19uokIgR0wozFStxssSFQqLL40Yktc37ytJkC-ApdS4f8izhZZex85_fWsnf2ZoQLR202SFNfT6xMe9RPuxw/w400-h299/ruined+motel+in+camden.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p>For a long time I've thought of this blog as an artifact of a former life that I had a hard time letting go until my new life finally pushed me to abandon it. Over the past couple of years I've considered wiping it out or at least taking it offline, but I could never quite bring myself to follow through. Recent events suddenly have me wanting to return to it. My head is filled with thoughts I'd like to share but have zero interest in trying to publish anywhere, and my tolerance for the scrum of social media is dwindling by the day. So the plan is to rattle on a bit here and see how that goes. Perhaps this relic is beyond reviving. But maybe not...</p><p>* I spent part of today wandering and looking and taking pictures. The world seems full of ruins just now. I wish I knew the story behind this one. Click on the image for a closer look. You can find a fuller tour <a href="https://youtu.be/B6SjPqq-rEM" target="_blank">here</a>. I might have ventured closer myself, but a dog I couldn't see barked steadily, warning me away. </p>BitterGracehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18262639525430954930noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7039707457010939097.post-62866957227528461472018-01-05T20:20:00.000-06:002018-01-05T20:20:09.537-06:00Addendum<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqJk7PlT4vye70C0dQ5DKI4gXqSr5x-9lxaQk7TFj-n5ndmqLdrdjk5rLXE7ZGI21b-x1RQA2t1aZ3-Xd2p3pcUaQlN5KZz4O40yCjt9ZEiC_aO9dIpLt3WKE9H0S667xzoClHiysUITE/s1600/A%25CC%2581mos_-_The_good_and_the_evil.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="532" data-original-width="540" height="393" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqJk7PlT4vye70C0dQ5DKI4gXqSr5x-9lxaQk7TFj-n5ndmqLdrdjk5rLXE7ZGI21b-x1RQA2t1aZ3-Xd2p3pcUaQlN5KZz4O40yCjt9ZEiC_aO9dIpLt3WKE9H0S667xzoClHiysUITE/s400/A%25CC%2581mos_-_The_good_and_the_evil.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>The Good and the Evil</i>, Imre Ámos, 1938</span></div>
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I woke up this morning with the flu, so I’m even more muzzy-headed than usual. The thermostat is turned up to an environmentally irresponsible 72 degrees, and I’m clutching a heating pad against my belly, trying to quiet the chills. I probably shouldn’t be writing anything, not even a blog post. But I can’t seem to resist the urge. Chalk it up to fever-diminished impulse control. So here goes—<br />
<br />
Back at Thanksgiving, I wrote up a longish Facebook post about spending the holiday with my mother and her partner, deep in rural Trumpland. <i>Chapter 16</i> was kind enough to publish a slightly modified version of it this week, which you can read <a href="http://chapter16.org/around-the-table/" target="_blank">here</a>.<br />
<br />
Writers make a nervous bargain with their readers. We get the gratification of sharing our work, and in return we accept that people are 100% entitled to take from it what they will. Once something’s out of our hands, it has a life of its own, and we don’t get to run around trying to referee its relationship with the world.<br />
<br />
This deal has its down side. There are people who seem to read with hostile intent, determined to find a reflection of their own bad faith in someone else’s words. But those people are, thankfully, very few. Most readers meet your work with generosity and intelligence, and sometimes they find things that you could never have hidden there yourself. They find the beauty of their own souls—their own sorrow or joy or love.<br />
<br />
Judging by comments on Facebook and a few private messages, it seems like most people read my Thanksgiving essay as a commentary on the way love and shared ritual help us transcend the things that divide us. I think that’s a lovely way to receive it. I’m happy to know that people are so ready—eager, even—to find possibilities for redemption. Part of me wants to believe in redemption.<br />
<br />
If you asked me, though, what I was trying to get at in that essay, I’d have to say that it has little to do with redemption or transcendence. (I know, I know — I just said I don’t get to referee how my words are read. Think of this as an addendum.) What fascinated me about that day was the way beauty and ugliness existed in such close proximity, distinct but thoroughly entwined.<br />
<br />
In response to one of the private messages I received, I wrote, “One of the saddest things to me about our current predicament is the way no one seems willing to accept the contradictions of the human soul. Acceptance = cowardice to a lot of my friends. Cowardice, or appeasement, or...something. Anyway, I think you have to take people whole and as you find them—or try to, at least.”<br />
<br />
<br />
I think that whether we try to deny the humanity of people who have evil ideas or minimize the powerful reality of those ideas, we’re making the same mistake. We're turning away from the capacity for evil that lurks within <i>us</i>. It's a dangerous arrogance. My grandmother used to say that you’re never more in danger of hell than when you’re congratulating yourself for being a good person, and all these years later—having abandoned the notion of hell altogether—I still think often about those words. The challenge of being human is seeing yourself in what you abhor. There are no monsters. We are all monsters.BitterGracehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18262639525430954930noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7039707457010939097.post-81320321849783851692017-12-10T20:15:00.003-06:002017-12-10T20:22:11.093-06:00Saturday with Mom<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjk-PTl7MMDcroWSXMPsukSo-hcxmnUBzxts4RebqZYBbHeyLninI1lI5i_4MNddqtrlfoKOuUkzhZ8fJUebkyerQ7K4HOpHbpcSIk6B9cgeopnOfEDTf72JhQDyBJhi-MqcAFmV9W1Nxk/s1600/decaying+rose.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjk-PTl7MMDcroWSXMPsukSo-hcxmnUBzxts4RebqZYBbHeyLninI1lI5i_4MNddqtrlfoKOuUkzhZ8fJUebkyerQ7K4HOpHbpcSIk6B9cgeopnOfEDTf72JhQDyBJhi-MqcAFmV9W1Nxk/s400/decaying+rose.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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I travel to my mother’s house on a curving country road, past well-tended farms with driveway signs that quote the Old Testament.<br />
<br />
<i>Create in me a clean heart, O God</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>Sin is a reproach to any people</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>A soft answer turneth away wrath</i><br />
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Early morning light graces the trees and pastures, and I think, as always, of stopping to use the camera I’ve brought along. But I don’t stop today. I hardly ever stop. Mom is waiting.<br />
<br />
When I get to her house, she’s all dressed in her purple outfit, a strand of costume pearls around her neck today instead of the rose quartz necklace she’s been wearing lately.<br />
<br />
I have a tiny plush dog with oversized, sparkly blue eyes to give her. Its fur is gray with white markings, and I hope it will remind her of her long-dead Malamute named Bear. She's delighted with the toy. “Oh, how cute!”<br />
<br />
“I think it looks like Bear,” I say. “Do you remember Bear?”<br />
<br />
“Of course,” she says, caressing her new baby. It’s impossible to know whether she really remembers Bear, and I have no idea why I still feel the need to invoke the past with her.<br />
<br />
Mom’s current dog comes up to say hello. Katie, a fluffy black mutt with spotted feet, is so fat she breathes heavily and waddles when she walks. Mom will not be discouraged from constantly giving her “treats” — whole slices of cheese and ham, sweet rolls, leftovers of all kinds. Sometimes I can convince her to refrain while I'm present, but I know she'll forget as soon as I'm gone. In her mind, Katie seems to represent every dog and child she ever cared for. She often talks as if she has a whole houseful of creatures to look after. I hate to see what's happening to Katie, but the only remedy would be to take her away from Mom. None of us is prepared to be that cruel. So I just pet the dog and feel guilty.<br />
<br />
Mom’s partner helps her get her jacket on, and she and I head out to Southernaire, <a href="http://www.theleafchronicle.com/story/news/local/clarksville/2017/05/08/southernaire-motel-and-restaurant-celebrate-25th-anniversary/101253412/" target="_blank">a restaurant near Kentucky Lake.</a> Our family’s been eating there for years, and my eldest brother and I take Mom there most Saturdays for breakfast. His absence today makes Mom anxious.<br />
<br />
"Is somebody coming with us?"<br />
<br />
"No, Jeff can't come today. He's tied up with work. He's gonna come next week."<br />
<br />
"Oh." A long pause. "He seems like a really good guy."<br />
<br />
"He <i>is</i> a really good guy."<br />
<br />
We repeat this exchange at least four times in the 15 minutes it takes to drive to the restaurant. It's not entirely clear whether she knows we're talking about her son. She seems to understand who I am, but I know that when I'm not around she refers to me as "my friend."<br />
<br />
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***</div>
<br />
Southernaire is homey and charming and odd. The lobby features a big screen TV, video games, and a taxidermied beaver sporting seasonal headgear. The dining room, by contrast, is like a genteel tea room, all lace curtains and aquamarine walls.<br />
<br />
While Mom slowly works on her heaped-up plate of eggs and bacon, the usual cast of characters cycles through —local families, couples, a pair of 60+ pilots who've just flown in on the air strip across the road. Three huge young men lumber in and take up a table. They look like brothers, or maybe cousins. They strike me as farm boys, though I can't quite put my finger on why. Two of them are decked out in <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tennessee_Volunteers_football#Orange_and_white" target="_blank">Vol orange</a>. I half expect the room to list in their direction, they're so big. "You got a pork chop back there?" one of them asks the waitress. "Fry me up a pork chop."<br />
<br />
While I'm studying the farm boys, Mom is fixated on a little blond girl at the next table. She keeps trying, without success, to get the child to smile back at her. Mom has always loved kids, and whenever we're out in public she invariably zeros in on young children, especially girls. It's sweet to see, but it's also a little intense. She looks at them the way a 4-year-old looks at a puppy — fascinated, delighted, covetous. She'll often speak to the parents if she gets a chance, usually saying something admiring and innocuous like “That's a beautiful child.” Out here in the country, people always respond in a friendly way, and I'm grateful for that. I've often wondered whether an elderly man with a similar fixation on kids would be treated so tolerantly.<br />
<br />
We box up Mom's leftovers to take home, where she'll likely feed them to Katie. I've only had to stop her a couple of times today from putting salt in her coffee or sugar on her eggs, and she was easily persuaded to leave the little tubs of half & half on the table. She offers to pay, pulling bills out of her purse and trying to hand them to me. We never let her pay, but I don't think she'll ever stop trying. She grew up poor and has a deeply ingrained sense of the importance of money.<br />
<br />
Out in the parking lot, there's a <a href="http://www.kumberamotors.com/vehicles/listing/1972-el-camino-california-restored-customized-show-car-383-v8/" target="_blank">vintage El Camino</a>, fire engine red, with an unopened sack of something — maybe horse feed — lying in the middle of the pristine bed. I like to think it belongs to the large young men, though the cab looks like a tight fit for even one of them.<br />
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***</div>
<br />
On the way home, we stop at a dollar store to look at the Christmas stuff. Mom has no Christmas decorations of any kind at her house, and she doesn't really understand the holiday anymore. She wouldn't refuse a present, and she thinks the lights are pretty, but it's not at all clear that she registers what any of it means. Nevertheless, I'm suddenly determined that she'll have something<i> </i>in her house to mark the season. As with the little plush dog, this is more about my needs than hers, and as we paw through the snow globes and reindeer ornaments, I'm painfully aware of the source of all these cheap gewgaws.<br />
<br />
I find a little aluminum tabletop tree covered in gold glitter. $3.00. “This is pretty, Mom, don't you think?”<br />
<br />
“Oh, it is pretty. And just $3.00.”<br />
<br />
I get the feeling she's humoring me, but it's hard to tell. She might actually like it. And she regards all gifts as expressions of love, always has.<br />
<br />
When I pay, the young woman behind the counter hands me a slip of paper along with my receipt. It's a note, handwritten on a piece of register tape. It says, “God Bless + Merry Christmas,” with a little 😊<br />
<br />
A blast of cold wind hits us as we head to the car. Mom clutches her jacket and grimaces. She seems so frail, as brittle as the brown leaves blowing across the asphalt. While I drive, she lifts the little tree out of the plastic bag and admires it. “This is something I can treasure forever,” she says, and repeats it a few more times before we turn down the dirt road to her house.<br />
<br />
<br />
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*Photo by BitterGraceBitterGracehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18262639525430954930noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7039707457010939097.post-19241601372683945202017-11-28T18:42:00.000-06:002017-11-28T18:42:47.463-06:00Already?<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-kpFCg6w7aBQTwkWpe2mU0-8bVnTUwDkWtnlD8IF7b5LWGE1SVSvAJaXs2bPRILnmuLxzN7wFcYj-8Xqhg2Cw2HfvjC1Oc-RVqiuj_UZiT5oiwfhX4X_FxdhwE6dpc4rICz1qJ4k5GcA/s1600/Olhando_o_mar_-_Veloso_Salgado.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1000" data-original-width="747" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-kpFCg6w7aBQTwkWpe2mU0-8bVnTUwDkWtnlD8IF7b5LWGE1SVSvAJaXs2bPRILnmuLxzN7wFcYj-8Xqhg2Cw2HfvjC1Oc-RVqiuj_UZiT5oiwfhX4X_FxdhwE6dpc4rICz1qJ4k5GcA/s640/Olhando_o_mar_-_Veloso_Salgado.png" width="478" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>Looking at the sea</i>, Veloso Salgado (1864-1945)</span></div>
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My birthday is here. Again. I've reached the age when it seems to roll around with startling frequency. This doesn't particularly distress me, but I'm amazed every day by the way life just keeps hurtling on toward its conclusion without consulting my preferences or accommodating my uncertainties. I'm kinda glad it does. If I were actually allowed to be in charge of things, my existence would be one long, dull wait for perfect conditions and my own sense of readiness. Instead, shit just happens and I struggle to keep up. That's way more interesting than living life according to plan, though it's not always 100% fun. Most of the time, I feel like that lady up there at the top of the post—looking toward the horizon with a shifting mixture of curiosity, bewilderment, hope, and dread, wondering what's to come.</div>
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The world has had an <a href="https://www.theguardian.com/world/natural-disasters" target="_blank">eventful year</a>, as usual. So much sadness, so much suffering. And don't even get me started on <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Donald_Trump" target="_blank">human villainy</a>. My tiny corner of the planet, however, has been blessedly steady. Almost everything that was true <a href="https://bittergracenotes.blogspot.com/2016/11/happy-birthday-really.html" target="_blank">on my last birthday</a> is still true. I still have that awesome dog the stupid people threw away, and now I have a second, equally awesome dog. Her old humans didn't want her either. SMDH, as the kids say. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfTd2VxE4JSDgjoUJWcUlcg4Jfxi1X2vRYO-REqeIxgWpcJUApvupnHas3_OcURAEz9HNU1wn4XxAJ7aQzQ2Y3ofJGqcpqI1B6jLMG6sSiURZerx-VAL3DD-r9oSTbCNykb11SemJfTKQ/s1600/pixie+10+30+17.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1201" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfTd2VxE4JSDgjoUJWcUlcg4Jfxi1X2vRYO-REqeIxgWpcJUApvupnHas3_OcURAEz9HNU1wn4XxAJ7aQzQ2Y3ofJGqcpqI1B6jLMG6sSiURZerx-VAL3DD-r9oSTbCNykb11SemJfTKQ/s320/pixie+10+30+17.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
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Miraculously, everything that was good is still good. There have been losses and <a href="https://www.guernicamag.com/doll-in-shadow/" target="_blank">continuing sorrows</a>, and I'll confess to wasting some time mourning wasted time. But for the most part I have enjoyed twelve solid months of luck, love, generosity, and beauty. Abundant beauty.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZ-tl7v1EjU3-Ua2J1K1rDOVXP2iytWHy78VtP7tbvRIc9HtP-zHVmZzT8TyMhQDdwrhWZCikeNU7qSKvuail6bCJQ7uhWK2MeJtWHi9E-uVqlS9dT5TlsdSW8RJPE6qVz4ypp9RMAUAg/s1600/tree+at+dusk+11+27+17.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZ-tl7v1EjU3-Ua2J1K1rDOVXP2iytWHy78VtP7tbvRIc9HtP-zHVmZzT8TyMhQDdwrhWZCikeNU7qSKvuail6bCJQ7uhWK2MeJtWHi9E-uVqlS9dT5TlsdSW8RJPE6qVz4ypp9RMAUAg/s400/tree+at+dusk+11+27+17.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">Photo by BitterGrace</span></div>
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To feel and speak the astonishing beauty of things—earth,<br />
stone and water,<br />
Beast, man and woman, sun, moon and stars—<br />
The blood-shot beauty of human nature, its thoughts,<br />
frenzies and passions,<br />
And unhuman nature its towering reality—<br />
For man’s half dream; man, you might say, is nature<br />
dreaming, but rock<br />
And water and sky are constant—to feel<br />
Greatly, and understand greatly, and express greatly, the<br />
natural<br />
Beauty, is the sole business of poetry.<br />
The rest’s diversion: those holy or noble sentiments, the<br />
intricate ideas,<br />
The love, lust, longing: reasons, but not the reason.<br />
<br />
~ Robinson Jeffers, <a href="https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poetrymagazine/browse?contentId=25638" target="_blank">"The Beauty of Things"</a><br />
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<br />BitterGracehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18262639525430954930noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7039707457010939097.post-44699778498624450652017-11-25T11:44:00.002-06:002017-11-25T11:47:28.064-06:00Purely sentimental<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Maybe it's age catching up with me, but I'm feeling tender and nostalgic as the holidays approach. I was lucky enough to <a href="http://chapter16.org/oysters-and-pop-tarts/" target="_blank">enjoy some wonderful Christmases</a> when I was a kid, and even though I haven't done much celebrating in recent years, there's still a soft spot in my heart for memory-stirring art and kitsch. Here's a little collection of seasonal images that make me smile. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1BgtrOa77XpuOdA-zwgJWCYv1gICfdZOe663uS-toUmuGgYCCb9kWIR3LF9X2_Fex3ltfo7V7R-jl4U_bGhzLcYxAAaHsI6ucN7JF8tyi0WSIvhLC3xtE3VGS8A06m_I38v0pqHOKniw/s1600/1623d7051f14b7855aaf72dc8ba9585f--vintage-pink-christmas-pink-christmas-tree.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="720" data-original-width="595" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1BgtrOa77XpuOdA-zwgJWCYv1gICfdZOe663uS-toUmuGgYCCb9kWIR3LF9X2_Fex3ltfo7V7R-jl4U_bGhzLcYxAAaHsI6ucN7JF8tyi0WSIvhLC3xtE3VGS8A06m_I38v0pqHOKniw/s400/1623d7051f14b7855aaf72dc8ba9585f--vintage-pink-christmas-pink-christmas-tree.jpg" width="330" /></a></div>
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<span style="text-align: center;">Christmas card of unknown vintage</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4k5173C3Dn7aJBN0fh5dwaLNulPcqdIti_7htMZNEwkb9D2KYhomblBbQJAZkaMs1PyfSGxc9qfIFesJYT-3V0xv1ifq8z-BHGFMAdT0wnrqFfqTbkogJ__Ij0l-2d2f-ZlFKjgAIHCw/s1600/il_570xN.579872103_2c34.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="784" data-original-width="570" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4k5173C3Dn7aJBN0fh5dwaLNulPcqdIti_7htMZNEwkb9D2KYhomblBbQJAZkaMs1PyfSGxc9qfIFesJYT-3V0xv1ifq8z-BHGFMAdT0wnrqFfqTbkogJ__Ij0l-2d2f-ZlFKjgAIHCw/s400/il_570xN.579872103_2c34.jpg" width="290" /></a></div>
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Vogue cover, 1921</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4r9TEmke6-0ZgA9kFa47UFkbFzdCCWcFch0dftAj__ZHx0CLd0q0X7rvWiG3yncC4JGuVgV5PKYIgruFH6EjjY7azyRBK5o8MuJik1HOO20BP4iRjM0fZgl0AmRZCs6awnLzAssqhyphenhyphenhY/s1600/russian+christmas+foxes.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1027" data-original-width="1600" height="256" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4r9TEmke6-0ZgA9kFa47UFkbFzdCCWcFch0dftAj__ZHx0CLd0q0X7rvWiG3yncC4JGuVgV5PKYIgruFH6EjjY7azyRBK5o8MuJik1HOO20BP4iRjM0fZgl0AmRZCs6awnLzAssqhyphenhyphenhY/s400/russian+christmas+foxes.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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Russian postcard c. 1914-1917<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihJp2pzygWlr1RYy6gRVee4T-ieoXX9jHM6DYqXLINZwu5wXX_gcukcvJ8iKXK59-3-g6DPsZDFY9uTwdAFx7eplsXNv5IPWaztJHo9Eg4hlRoa9IRNPJJamviOlpQ4OtJnpB-LdpDm40/s1600/christmas-mela-koehler-mfa-3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="982" data-original-width="633" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihJp2pzygWlr1RYy6gRVee4T-ieoXX9jHM6DYqXLINZwu5wXX_gcukcvJ8iKXK59-3-g6DPsZDFY9uTwdAFx7eplsXNv5IPWaztJHo9Eg4hlRoa9IRNPJJamviOlpQ4OtJnpB-LdpDm40/s400/christmas-mela-koehler-mfa-3.jpg" width="257" /></a></div>
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Mela Koehler (1885-1960)</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmzixBIMEBqEk8_Q1P-k-XxfrSJ8UnjyUsMUbxxgj5hyphenhyphen2ngF3XgSO5AgpQjoxAjxTpvzzvdaErWJgSnnBdMOi8-jm2jTJXf-_kozhGG79KYFZNANr-4ZvPVuilgJ5WQQMMG_0LoEZktcs/s1600/Christmas+Eve%252C+1959.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="291" data-original-width="400" height="290" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmzixBIMEBqEk8_Q1P-k-XxfrSJ8UnjyUsMUbxxgj5hyphenhyphen2ngF3XgSO5AgpQjoxAjxTpvzzvdaErWJgSnnBdMOi8-jm2jTJXf-_kozhGG79KYFZNANr-4ZvPVuilgJ5WQQMMG_0LoEZktcs/s400/Christmas+Eve%252C+1959.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<i>Christmas Eve, 1959</i>, <a href="http://www.artistsandart.org/2010/01/winter-painting-by-guy-wiggins-american.html" target="_blank">Guy Wiggins (1883-1962)</a><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1E9P_krxSJa-bQHWAofwFlZaO36OrjgIbGqgT4CFsZxC_1FCidzg9XuVMkcOlp5YJlsY7upajbTVysW2aHKpe3o3yJ9ket7iostpc0I2sHe2g1HYPwA1NpAwbYWoyaVHxzNF4ZWj4_6A/s1600/8c4f7527de28d1bc0c32d175e8064535.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="538" data-original-width="236" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1E9P_krxSJa-bQHWAofwFlZaO36OrjgIbGqgT4CFsZxC_1FCidzg9XuVMkcOlp5YJlsY7upajbTVysW2aHKpe3o3yJ9ket7iostpc0I2sHe2g1HYPwA1NpAwbYWoyaVHxzNF4ZWj4_6A/s400/8c4f7527de28d1bc0c32d175e8064535.jpg" width="175" /></a></div>
Christmas card of unknown vintage<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXIlo4UEeKNIwpGgw2FcpkFyyaqL3ZxbVSaViYWcIT58WwifNuIxs80XfMRdejtAkajxI1nWzJ0hPDtraYLLkbSiwPndAiqerF-ZUIpAB4Kqu34vMlcNHyXNHw3u0s-VxbBTD8ltoEYfE/s1600/488556-7.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1013" data-original-width="770" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXIlo4UEeKNIwpGgw2FcpkFyyaqL3ZxbVSaViYWcIT58WwifNuIxs80XfMRdejtAkajxI1nWzJ0hPDtraYLLkbSiwPndAiqerF-ZUIpAB4Kqu34vMlcNHyXNHw3u0s-VxbBTD8ltoEYfE/s400/488556-7.jpg" width="303" /></a></div>
<a href="https://www.saatchiart.com/art/Painting-Ressurection-of-the-Magi/14054/766062/view" target="_blank">Resurrection of the Magi</a>, David Derr (born 1954)<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHiZAlo2R9QHCNShhkOtfy9XXHkzfD-QjeHCBtV3rbGN6n4Hh8G88n6cgBCNtCUETNyBi7Sdu_b3E_cgoVhWqKkQ3iR3yNMJ2ExkTDQSoXm4SVEqHSLuZmridy6J2zfS-ZNyDvwIs0yoA/s1600/street-scene-christmas-morning-childe-hassam-wikiartorg-1432508034_b.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="703" data-original-width="500" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHiZAlo2R9QHCNShhkOtfy9XXHkzfD-QjeHCBtV3rbGN6n4Hh8G88n6cgBCNtCUETNyBi7Sdu_b3E_cgoVhWqKkQ3iR3yNMJ2ExkTDQSoXm4SVEqHSLuZmridy6J2zfS-ZNyDvwIs0yoA/s400/street-scene-christmas-morning-childe-hassam-wikiartorg-1432508034_b.jpg" width="283" /></a></div>
<i>Street Scene, Christmas Morning</i>, Childe Hassam, 1892<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjg4q8J7XYPkvhJpbz4R3FDBxk1MOdUexLfxD8OAX0ALulttWBf2EJSJVxFHMXGuLej0-9sRWsQlMStItitmVtUQOMS1mZLhh2SBEUPju7TEYU_VtBHK7tnNwvRmOad0ibIO2JyDZo6hfA/s1600/bd6a70091f7108b29315e16f34501599.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="300" data-original-width="300" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjg4q8J7XYPkvhJpbz4R3FDBxk1MOdUexLfxD8OAX0ALulttWBf2EJSJVxFHMXGuLej0-9sRWsQlMStItitmVtUQOMS1mZLhh2SBEUPju7TEYU_VtBHK7tnNwvRmOad0ibIO2JyDZo6hfA/s400/bd6a70091f7108b29315e16f34501599.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
One of literary critic <a href="http://www.nytimes.com/1987/05/17/obituaries/fanny-butcher-dead-literary-critic-was-99.html" target="_blank">Fanny Butcher</a>'s Christmas cards<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcvNRrT6Fpv71qopugm-6QBQEWp49DTcmXphg2YIJf2pLZR3qUAcKK2v7sd01LZxLeSicBPKxzjSi3Me4VyZPVPMYafrx5B8GlxCCzj8OPFUTdu3RQrjKu-EA7psgaZNZF79wwWrI1x2M/s1600/p275-biho-bird-on-a-snowy-branch-4821.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="550" data-original-width="490" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcvNRrT6Fpv71qopugm-6QBQEWp49DTcmXphg2YIJf2pLZR3qUAcKK2v7sd01LZxLeSicBPKxzjSi3Me4VyZPVPMYafrx5B8GlxCCzj8OPFUTdu3RQrjKu-EA7psgaZNZF79wwWrI1x2M/s400/p275-biho-bird-on-a-snowy-branch-4821.jpg" width="356" /></a></div>
Bird on Snow Covered Berry Branch, Takahashi Biho (1873-?)<br />
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BitterGracehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18262639525430954930noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7039707457010939097.post-91138655924617954482017-11-23T09:46:00.000-06:002017-11-23T09:46:50.433-06:00"...the lewd perfume that laughs along innocent limbs"<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijCsGsf6Tm7Y4Z2w_lHbO9vGFEN8bdEk9K8B6bjkEztInx8MmXfCBWbYDPKmUrfdYhgBaYssrmxRrK4IsPgnH7-CCERWgKPoOA72gwT0HY04kXFJEglaRerGBgeFE2vaaLx4RMCIRKVb4/s1600/Etty_%25E2%2580%2593_The_Dawn_of_Love.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="662" data-original-width="800" height="330" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijCsGsf6Tm7Y4Z2w_lHbO9vGFEN8bdEk9K8B6bjkEztInx8MmXfCBWbYDPKmUrfdYhgBaYssrmxRrK4IsPgnH7-CCERWgKPoOA72gwT0HY04kXFJEglaRerGBgeFE2vaaLx4RMCIRKVb4/s400/Etty_%25E2%2580%2593_The_Dawn_of_Love.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>The Dawn of Love</i>, William Etty, 1828</span></div>
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O maternal love,<br />
heartbreaking for the gold<br />
of bodies suffused<br />
with the secret of wombs.<br />
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And beloved unconscious<br />
attitudes of the lewd<br />
perfume that laughs<br />
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along innocent limbs.<br />
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~ Pier Paolo Pasolini, from <a href="https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poetrymagazine/browse?contentId=37628" target="_blank">"Flesh and Sky"</a><br />
translated by David Stivender and J.D. McClatchy<br />
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<br />BitterGracehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18262639525430954930noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7039707457010939097.post-75505492941403829202017-11-22T19:13:00.000-06:002017-11-22T19:15:33.046-06:00"...teach him to study the trees"<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNEyN9KQaHqKnYpCfDwA0C8CGMQVjWIyBmZd9VSmwSGm3ILotJsIzvjTn519h9nUphosjq6Q03KZSnqm8MD9IYp6TguAXyKP49SR6rQwf1cjfAylcAcPR-In8Nhyphenhyphen4-u3S3w2fG1EzpQ9Y/s1600/%2527Olive_Trees_against_a_Mountainous_Background%2527_by_Edgar_Degas.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="559" data-original-width="800" height="277" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNEyN9KQaHqKnYpCfDwA0C8CGMQVjWIyBmZd9VSmwSGm3ILotJsIzvjTn519h9nUphosjq6Q03KZSnqm8MD9IYp6TguAXyKP49SR6rQwf1cjfAylcAcPR-In8Nhyphenhyphen4-u3S3w2fG1EzpQ9Y/s400/%2527Olive_Trees_against_a_Mountainous_Background%2527_by_Edgar_Degas.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>Olive Trees against a Mountainous Background</i>, Edgar Degas, c. 1890-92</span></div>
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<i>Astyanax</i><br />
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Now that you are leaving, take the boy with you as well,<br />
the boy who saw the light under the plane tree,<br />
one day when trumpets resounded and weapons shone<br />
and the sweating horses<br />
bent to the trough to touch with wet nostrils<br />
the green surface of the water.<br />
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The olive trees with the wrinkles of our fathers<br />
the rocks with the wisdom of our fathers<br />
and our brother’s blood alive on the earth<br />
were a vital joy, a rich pattern<br />
for the souls who knew their prayer.<br />
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Now that you are leaving, now that the day of payment<br />
dawns, now that no one knows<br />
whom he will kill and how he will die,<br />
take with you the boy who saw the light<br />
under the leaves of that plane tree<br />
and teach him to study the trees.<br />
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~ George Seferis, from <a href="https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/51457/mythistorema" target="_blank">"Mythistorema"</a><br />
translated by Edmund Keeley<br />
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<b>Listen to David Haskell read a wonderful passage from his book, <i>The Songs of Trees</i>, at <a href="https://soundcloud.com/user-208880548/olive-tree-in-the-old-city-of-jerusalem-excerpt-from-the-songs-of-trees?utm_source=soundcloud&utm_campaign=share&utm_medium=facebook" target="_blank">Soundcloud</a></b><br />
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<a href="https://dghaskell.com/" target="_blank">Haskell's website</a><br />
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<a href="https://www.theparisreview.org/interviews/4112/george-seferis-the-art-of-poetry-no-13-george-seferis" target="_blank">Seferis interviewed by Keeley for the <i>Paris Review</i></a><br />
<br />BitterGracehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18262639525430954930noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7039707457010939097.post-63005403866700046942017-11-21T20:05:00.001-06:002017-11-21T20:06:05.438-06:00A thought for Thanksgiving<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbcc54clii4CuUhX68QLLJ-JTHU_uimhV86sVuio4pZ8bWsr7R3y8TE9TCx4g1wv_PjeYjMwt2CZLVh1lxRPqESZ-edkDa7A98cgWrZpFdvs3HgaEV-6w3F8CWhhY6ejlQUD20c9P4s7g/s1600/bubley-8d41305u.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="443" data-original-width="700" height="252" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbcc54clii4CuUhX68QLLJ-JTHU_uimhV86sVuio4pZ8bWsr7R3y8TE9TCx4g1wv_PjeYjMwt2CZLVh1lxRPqESZ-edkDa7A98cgWrZpFdvs3HgaEV-6w3F8CWhhY6ejlQUD20c9P4s7g/s400/bubley-8d41305u.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">Small boys watching the Woodrow Wilson high school cadets, 1943*</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">Photo by <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Esther_Bubley" target="_blank">Esther Bubley</a></span></div>
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"Perhaps the community you have in view is dysfunctional, broken, embarrassing. Perhaps you have a proposal for it? A word of criticism? Come forth with your critique, but you should know, you can't fix what you won't join. There's no healing a community of which you in no way see yourself a part. Maybe criticism and hospitality can be joined at the hip. Maybe they have to be for a conversation to occur. There are so many ways to weave a common life, to hold together that which is in danger of being <i>dis</i>membered. To <i>re</i>member, in this sense, is to no longer stand alone and to aid others in no longer doing so. A critique can be a gift, but it need never be confused for a call to abandon the human circle. Are you bewildered? Others have been here before. And at the heart of bewilderment there can be a seed of compassion." </div>
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~ David Dark, from <a href="https://www.ivpress.com/life-s-too-short-to-pretend-you-re-not-religious" target="_blank"><i>Life's Too Short to Pretend You're Not Religious</i></a></div>
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*Image found at <a href="https://thegreatdepressionphotos.wordpress.com/photographers-2/esther-bubley/bubley-8d41305u/" target="_blank">Photos of The Great Depression blog</a></div>
BitterGracehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18262639525430954930noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7039707457010939097.post-16495762835525365402017-11-20T15:02:00.000-06:002017-11-20T15:02:24.259-06:00Lizard<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWFrZu_nfMq05ozg1I9QOPGHIM74EjD0OCeYbG-qnEspthbdKqUM3asj5I588FpCAZTLtMHBpi3Ko19oqx5COZAizyJ4qRPXU_vcnUQDV1kS3TQugaRUhTObJIi22WO62viD_4X4Tf7dU/s1600/Gustave_Jean_Jacquet_-_Jeune_fille_au_le%25CC%2581zard.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="762" data-original-width="549" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWFrZu_nfMq05ozg1I9QOPGHIM74EjD0OCeYbG-qnEspthbdKqUM3asj5I588FpCAZTLtMHBpi3Ko19oqx5COZAizyJ4qRPXU_vcnUQDV1kS3TQugaRUhTObJIi22WO62viD_4X4Tf7dU/s640/Gustave_Jean_Jacquet_-_Jeune_fille_au_le%25CC%2581zard.jpg" width="459" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>Girl with a lizard</i>, Gustave Jacquet (1846-1909)</span></div>
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<span style="color: #4c1130;">A lizard does not make a sound,</span></div>
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<span style="color: #4c1130;">it has no song,</span></div>
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<span style="color: #4c1130;">it does not share my love affairs</span></div>
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<span style="color: #4c1130;">with flannel sheets,</span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="color: #4c1130;">bearded men, interlocking</span></div>
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<span style="color: #4c1130;">silver rings, the moon, </span></div>
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<span style="color: #4c1130;">the sea, or ink.</span></div>
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<i><br /></i></div>
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~ from <a href="https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poetrymagazine/poems/56016/a-lizard-in-spanish-valley" target="_blank">"A Lizard in Spanish Valley" by Wendy Videlock</a> </div>
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<a href="http://nutshell-wendy.blogspot.com/" target="_blank">Wendy Videlock's blog</a></div>
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BitterGracehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18262639525430954930noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7039707457010939097.post-37467124407257254262017-11-19T18:42:00.000-06:002017-11-19T18:42:41.416-06:00Unbearable<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKggrehPdq1Ev68lNh8F9vSG5MyN5u3IHyMIMgQ9CABkC89sU_Uix798ufRXQLPyv55S4KSjmG5v2bpe3e29XPIpDYtsYv55NW08AKIVgHWS4sKUUekhMHNrt64CBAlFPeM23W3YnbgBk/s1600/Rabindranath_Tagore_Brooding.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1368" data-original-width="800" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKggrehPdq1Ev68lNh8F9vSG5MyN5u3IHyMIMgQ9CABkC89sU_Uix798ufRXQLPyv55S4KSjmG5v2bpe3e29XPIpDYtsYv55NW08AKIVgHWS4sKUUekhMHNrt64CBAlFPeM23W3YnbgBk/s400/Rabindranath_Tagore_Brooding.jpg" width="233" /></a></div>
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>Brooding</i>, Rabindranath Tagore (1861-1941)</span></div>
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Prompted by a mention of it in a <a href="https://www.indiebound.org/book/9781492645207" target="_blank">very fine memoir</a>, I tried twice in the past few days to watch Hitchcock's <i>Frenzy</i> (1972), but I just couldn't do it. I could not force myself to keep watching past the first few minutes of that awful scene with Rusk and Brenda Blaney. The moment when she reaches for the phone and he stops her made me feel physically ill, and I had to abandon the film both times. This squeamishness is new. I sat through <i>Frenzy</i> years ago, and while I remember thinking the movie was misogynistic trash, I don't recall being particularly disturbed by it. Now it's suddenly unbearable. Why?</div>
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I'm sure it's partly to do with the incessant post-Weinstein conversation about sexual harassment and assault. I've <a href="https://www.nashvillescene.com/arts-culture/vodka-yonic/article/20981942/girl-alone" target="_blank">contributed to that chatter</a> myself, and I think the discussion is important, but there's no question that it has stirred up a lot of buried rage and fear for many of us. I've relived experiences over the past few weeks that I would have gladly forgotten forever. Is this healing? I can't say. All I know is it's painful and maddening.<br />
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I really think it's part of a much larger sorrow, though. I feel like I'm grieving for the world these days, trying to reconcile myself to my <a href="https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/54897/the-layers" target="_blank">"feast of losses"</a> and not succeeding. Not sure anyone does. What surprises me is that age seems to heighten the capacity to grieve, not lessen it. I feel it all more deeply now than I once did—more deeply than I could have imagined when I was young. Probably because I understand now that none of it is fixable.<br />
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You can see the book trailer for Kelly Grey Carlisle's memoir, <i>We Are All Shipwrecks,</i> <a href="https://youtu.be/5EIwgKcSvA4" target="_blank">here.</a><br />
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If you have the stomach for <i>Frenzy</i>, the full movie is currently up on <a href="https://youtu.be/5ACQ4ppTUpg" target="_blank">Youtube.</a><br />
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BitterGracehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18262639525430954930noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7039707457010939097.post-90972082496439616782017-10-09T21:33:00.000-05:002017-10-09T21:33:50.348-05:00Nurture<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKX5T2bZbM-SFuGb005_7UmncCSJXuMTCuwV_z073U3SaBLDaxo-n_mwuiSD18W25oDbvPGrROxlX5hurPWr7MqnO6rouqrqLagJapD3CGv102XJJEcCQq1_YOaXxZdZTZOJeSSA_6c6Y/s1600/IMG_4840.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKX5T2bZbM-SFuGb005_7UmncCSJXuMTCuwV_z073U3SaBLDaxo-n_mwuiSD18W25oDbvPGrROxlX5hurPWr7MqnO6rouqrqLagJapD3CGv102XJJEcCQq1_YOaXxZdZTZOJeSSA_6c6Y/s400/IMG_4840.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">Photo by BitterGrace, taken in October 2016</span></div>
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I looked out my kitchen window today and smiled as I watched a tiny bird hover uncertainly below a bottle of sugar water. There is reliable, instant joy in seeing a migrating hummingbird discover a feeder and commence feasting. It's a sacred moment.<br />
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An <a href="https://byrslf.co/thoughts-on-the-vegas-shooting-14af397cee2c">article</a> is making the rounds right now about how the lack of childhood play and friendship helps create the angry, alienated men who commit mass killings. I have no doubt that the writer's theory is true. It feels true. Loneliness is everywhere.<br />
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But I also wonder whether kids get enough opportunity to nurture, and specifically to nurture the earth—to feed and protect living things that won't repay them in any way except through the miracle of their continued existence. How many children, especially boys, never get to know that pure pleasure of the spirit?<br />
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I keep thinking about what we know of the Las Vegas killer—his empty existence, drinking and popping Valium and spending countless hours in the heartless and utterly unnatural environment of casinos. It sounds like an excellent way to stifle a human soul. How many decades ago did that man last feel anything resembling joy? <br />
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There's joy in nurturing wild things, and there's humility, too—true humility, which has nothing to do with shame or thinking poorly of oneself. You feel like a tiny, essential part of a great whole, which of course you are. And you know your fundamental powerlessness.<br />
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All these feelings work against the isolation and shame and twisted grandiosity that make violence look like release.<br />
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I don't mean to be facile. There's no simple answer, and it doesn't escape me that the impulse to kill is itself a part of the natural order. We are predators, and we've always killed our own kind. But we're also natural caregivers, hardwired to nurture and to take joy in beauty as well. We should foster those gifts in our children.<br />
<br />BitterGracehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18262639525430954930noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7039707457010939097.post-60909970116859336342017-09-18T22:53:00.000-05:002017-09-18T22:56:51.442-05:00Books, Art, etc.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
I long ago fell out of the habit of posting my book reviews here, but I just took a notion to link to some recent ones and accompany them with a little vaguely related art I like. (You'll find some links amongst the images, too.) Cheers.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgd1yQF3BiTqCAo0-oyTFhAnCViw_C5gLA05IR1OOUfnpFAjS_C1IUS43T9lTsxRh0o5maoKd2kxNkqZTNBaj55_yV9M0nFUBw2jQM2s9MJvQ6810TJChxqHngSPJEWPlM1GzaaEtq-Pq8/s1600/FM2501-1000x1000.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1000" data-original-width="833" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgd1yQF3BiTqCAo0-oyTFhAnCViw_C5gLA05IR1OOUfnpFAjS_C1IUS43T9lTsxRh0o5maoKd2kxNkqZTNBaj55_yV9M0nFUBw2jQM2s9MJvQ6810TJChxqHngSPJEWPlM1GzaaEtq-Pq8/s400/FM2501-1000x1000.jpg" width="332" /></a></div>
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<a href="http://www.theartstory.org/artist-marc-franz.htm" target="_blank">Franz Marc</a>, <i>The Fox</i> 1913</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaAg4oVi0kkOaiz38EcHT_xc1RgaAcorAXT885Zv6_AtxhG8LS4mROnOPPHCchhnNyalNexAboQW-HfnKf7ixhE5X9dMzfWeCGPAI_-omWd7s0G6YnurXkjZVVkJsGSiHBKG87cA_q8Pk/s1600/Bruno_Liljefors_-_Fox_and_Black_Grouse.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1114" data-original-width="1600" height="277" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaAg4oVi0kkOaiz38EcHT_xc1RgaAcorAXT885Zv6_AtxhG8LS4mROnOPPHCchhnNyalNexAboQW-HfnKf7ixhE5X9dMzfWeCGPAI_-omWd7s0G6YnurXkjZVVkJsGSiHBKG87cA_q8Pk/s400/Bruno_Liljefors_-_Fox_and_Black_Grouse.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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Bruno Liljefors (1860-1939), <i>Fox and Black Grouse</i></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHvlHkJX52oJ3KTn13sMSTs3umJxpLUh1BxCrY-YNZFp7s2E38yB0KcsT9dOPfZxJLXck3XQ4Jc2pub9KjHfX4QUYozwl6RFEpofsuw-VaDtLsYgMXcGZwWALb227PsmBunhulp8fRHsQ/s1600/Brehm%2527s_Life_of_animals_%2528Page_233%2529_%25286220162149%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1074" data-original-width="1600" height="267" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHvlHkJX52oJ3KTn13sMSTs3umJxpLUh1BxCrY-YNZFp7s2E38yB0KcsT9dOPfZxJLXck3XQ4Jc2pub9KjHfX4QUYozwl6RFEpofsuw-VaDtLsYgMXcGZwWALb227PsmBunhulp8fRHsQ/s400/Brehm%2527s_Life_of_animals_%2528Page_233%2529_%25286220162149%2529.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://archive.org/details/brehmslifeofanim00breh" target="_blank">Illustration from <i>Brehm's Life of Animals</i>, 1895</a></div>
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<a href="http://chapter16.org/building-a-dog/" target="_blank"><b><span style="color: #cc0000;">My review of Lee Dugatkin's <i>How to Tame a Fox (and Build a Dog)</i></span></b></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjroYiiHCoIoFs_qn703-f0NcVV8gd89vR7W4trhTDgjbjoarf91E4NnWsL-8yDDKyupy90s4pbmtiwSUbDYktglXU6fvlyb4B8NAHXGLRjr3j3jMhGdfN3eHhfAU_Kz_i-3aPwlRu4b-I/s1600/biggers+mural.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="869" data-original-width="1400" height="247" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjroYiiHCoIoFs_qn703-f0NcVV8gd89vR7W4trhTDgjbjoarf91E4NnWsL-8yDDKyupy90s4pbmtiwSUbDYktglXU6fvlyb4B8NAHXGLRjr3j3jMhGdfN3eHhfAU_Kz_i-3aPwlRu4b-I/s400/biggers+mural.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://youtu.be/wmZ21Jev1CM" target="_blank">John Biggers</a>, <i>Shotgun, Third Ward #1</i>, 1966</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpfKrlv6bs-ddcmJqX_jjDI-tTTpNYP9SSM2zCfAKWkhaAfZFrRRkjNYz3ETx37kA9UqRmeqrvFKN2sD7v-Sy83ftw_Rc1_LmZI4WWhzCDw_ZhfM7nwPqGJwZrC1RwPvNz7HFZKj_3Z7o/s1600/GreatGatsby-Cover1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="864" data-original-width="576" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpfKrlv6bs-ddcmJqX_jjDI-tTTpNYP9SSM2zCfAKWkhaAfZFrRRkjNYz3ETx37kA9UqRmeqrvFKN2sD7v-Sy83ftw_Rc1_LmZI4WWhzCDw_ZhfM7nwPqGJwZrC1RwPvNz7HFZKj_3Z7o/s400/GreatGatsby-Cover1.jpg" width="266" /></a></div>
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<a href="http://yoheyhorishita.com/portfolio/the-great-gatsby/" target="_blank">Yoshey Horishito</a>, cover art for <i>The Great Gatsby</i>, 2014</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheM5gG3R2d4ckx-ed9qMw9e5qwyiozyrUem1EKfTrGXsbJTqg-zh7EMYfmPGjLUQau3gxH19023TZ_Z6OCESxMGdxFV7XfPMsJeRgGcEHgcR9C6bQPhVxrCMsdb9Bw8PpIk1TzHUJEXDQ/s1600/laura+wheeler+waring.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="989" data-original-width="736" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheM5gG3R2d4ckx-ed9qMw9e5qwyiozyrUem1EKfTrGXsbJTqg-zh7EMYfmPGjLUQau3gxH19023TZ_Z6OCESxMGdxFV7XfPMsJeRgGcEHgcR9C6bQPhVxrCMsdb9Bw8PpIk1TzHUJEXDQ/s400/laura+wheeler+waring.jpg" width="297" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://www.britannica.com/biography/Laura-Wheeler-Waring" target="_blank">Laura Wheeler Waring (1887-1948)</a> *</div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">*I found this painting by LWW posted all over the web, but the only title I found attributed to it was "self portrait," and that strikes me as doubtful. If anyone knows the subject of the painting, please tell me.</span></div>
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<a href="http://chapter16.org/dreams-of-happiness/" target="_blank"><b><span style="color: #cc0000;">My review of <i>No One Is Coming to Save Us</i> by Stephanie Powell Watts</span></b></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEik1zmei4WgVicAYK7RdiIsqLUzvtkkSLxpyTIfowprQbk93yaxjpxo4u2yz2A8RmsugqIzez4oBM3ZkSdwB-0rGCz68CpdEFZkzuxKJEEbuo2bmoS7NHytRRFbTwQ7FSLL00rO5QFdluU/s1600/virgils-tomb-by-moonlight-with-silius-italicus-declaiming-joseph-wright-of-derby.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="717" data-original-width="900" height="317" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEik1zmei4WgVicAYK7RdiIsqLUzvtkkSLxpyTIfowprQbk93yaxjpxo4u2yz2A8RmsugqIzez4oBM3ZkSdwB-0rGCz68CpdEFZkzuxKJEEbuo2bmoS7NHytRRFbTwQ7FSLL00rO5QFdluU/s400/virgils-tomb-by-moonlight-with-silius-italicus-declaiming-joseph-wright-of-derby.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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Joseph Wright of Derby, <i>Virgil's Tomb by Moonlight with Silius Italicus Declaiming</i>, 1779</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQb_eWxkpOXXZ0WfhS5dBWEATcxDUjSzyghh9Jstc9fdNqX2pjAzdGwNJzT2t1LEVAmWmE7JGcircbXOERZFa5A_gOW9PUtZF0AcQ9-QUZARAmZ8Uw9G6cXcK7qsFQ4wFxzXOdQarF788/s1600/Badlands%252C_South_Dakota_LCCN2010630333.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="553" data-original-width="737" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQb_eWxkpOXXZ0WfhS5dBWEATcxDUjSzyghh9Jstc9fdNqX2pjAzdGwNJzT2t1LEVAmWmE7JGcircbXOERZFa5A_gOW9PUtZF0AcQ9-QUZARAmZ8Uw9G6cXcK7qsFQ4wFxzXOdQarF788/s400/Badlands%252C_South_Dakota_LCCN2010630333.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<a href="http://carolhighsmithamerica.com/" target="_blank">Carol Highsmith</a>, <i>Badlands, South Dakota</i>, 2005<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiziMs6iRSqugOFGgdm6Ta69zlR5nDl9qKWh_Lg7PgUR15L1rxCzVq_A0wvwF5pv5AjC1Oo-E3118iCIx9MCdKCscP6VMgUrlUEUbzVM6raoxZEdYOiW5fOhSsErKaV8m7YKds9rTRpoE/s1600/Ancient-Art-MJ12-Bill-Goehring-6.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="841" data-original-width="1440" height="232" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiziMs6iRSqugOFGgdm6Ta69zlR5nDl9qKWh_Lg7PgUR15L1rxCzVq_A0wvwF5pv5AjC1Oo-E3118iCIx9MCdKCscP6VMgUrlUEUbzVM6raoxZEdYOiW5fOhSsErKaV8m7YKds9rTRpoE/s400/Ancient-Art-MJ12-Bill-Goehring-6.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://www.travelsouthdakota.com/explore-with-us/spotlights/ancient-art" target="_blank">Bill Goehring, <i>Petroglyph, Black Hills, South Dakota,</i> 2012</a><br />
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<b><span style="color: #cc0000;"><a href="http://chapter16.org/consciousness-and-chaos/" target="_blank"><span style="color: #cc0000;">My review of <i>Behind the Moon</i> by Madison Smartt Bell</span></a> </span></b><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYTW8cOPUcTA1znXlj8X6TDY5Dr-rnd0MxgGeJZPBz2MqErY-kMW42DsvsUqJlW3N6Y9ZPAqjOSMl_s1GPByzhG-EQuEKFPDmIZaZ_DMKhTfpx5B6qcqc-nzFnPFmEt3ID7-d5oK3CNf4/s1600/187616d9e845414bf46c36d8c4bc9813--oil-companies-girl-paintings.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="926" data-original-width="736" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYTW8cOPUcTA1znXlj8X6TDY5Dr-rnd0MxgGeJZPBz2MqErY-kMW42DsvsUqJlW3N6Y9ZPAqjOSMl_s1GPByzhG-EQuEKFPDmIZaZ_DMKhTfpx5B6qcqc-nzFnPFmEt3ID7-d5oK3CNf4/s400/187616d9e845414bf46c36d8c4bc9813--oil-companies-girl-paintings.jpg" width="317" /></a></div>
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<b><span style="color: #cc0000;"><a href="http://michaelmaczuga.com/works/1441703/the-look" target="_blank">Michael Maczuga, The Look</a></span></b><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzb5WdvLeWCJ2nIKzZIKjc8NFfobThmil6u7NBsKTWDDyV6Or5LrvyoJLzEgTEoH8EquuBirN-A4zH4_alRPUVARiEIlulUO9radKcEVc2V7S8LNizAfG3f8dNctzJDwmRraWg0BStGf4/s1600/Strasbourg_Goltzius_Eve_1613.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="800" data-original-width="693" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzb5WdvLeWCJ2nIKzZIKjc8NFfobThmil6u7NBsKTWDDyV6Or5LrvyoJLzEgTEoH8EquuBirN-A4zH4_alRPUVARiEIlulUO9radKcEVc2V7S8LNizAfG3f8dNctzJDwmRraWg0BStGf4/s400/Strasbourg_Goltzius_Eve_1613.jpg" width="346" /></a></div>
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Hendrik Goltzius, Eve, 1613</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjppYsZaw_zAx052LNTyf-OPekz_giTM10Gwt61ouPmvdfRzc7JMH7olX6jrAHcyLCPhhrneOw4-08LgAyYIzD4KXJszg6eNQSs8YOu13At3isSXXvR1tfUJOXl-OJ_ttoNn2TlfN9yGa0/s1600/leonard-nimoy-matisse-dancers.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="384" data-original-width="480" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjppYsZaw_zAx052LNTyf-OPekz_giTM10Gwt61ouPmvdfRzc7JMH7olX6jrAHcyLCPhhrneOw4-08LgAyYIzD4KXJszg6eNQSs8YOu13At3isSXXvR1tfUJOXl-OJ_ttoNn2TlfN9yGa0/s400/leonard-nimoy-matisse-dancers.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://www.theguardian.com/artanddesign/gallery/2015/mar/03/the-full-body-project-by-leonard-nimoy-in-pictures" target="_blank">Leonard Nimoy, Matisse Dancers, 2005</a></div>
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<a href="http://chapter16.org/before-and-after/" target="_blank"><b><span style="color: #cc0000;">My review of <i>Hunger</i> by Roxane Gay</span></b></a></div>
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BitterGracehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18262639525430954930noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7039707457010939097.post-61984919318884521732017-09-01T21:16:00.000-05:002017-09-01T21:16:23.180-05:00"We are solitary"<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgb-HWt3TVpBYAq7ZOIMabiQs49G6ot3t6vMWX_foGm6hqg_lk4qCjDWf5f-YYhYS0iv4z0Jv13-ttMIsbUi8bOUIJtyvbTE6ag4yyCJa61-fRoN50Bcd5Mb5Vr7lX_SJQylAMoGZ6rl_U/s1600/d3053838d5f2a6bd41443e9205dced54.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1077" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgb-HWt3TVpBYAq7ZOIMabiQs49G6ot3t6vMWX_foGm6hqg_lk4qCjDWf5f-YYhYS0iv4z0Jv13-ttMIsbUi8bOUIJtyvbTE6ag4yyCJa61-fRoN50Bcd5Mb5Vr7lX_SJQylAMoGZ6rl_U/s400/d3053838d5f2a6bd41443e9205dced54.jpg" width="268" /></a></div>
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<i>We are solitary. We can delude ourselves about this and act as if it were not true. That is all. But how much better it is to recognize that we are alone; yes, even to begin from this realization. It will, of course, make us dizzy; for all points that our eyes used to rest on are taken away from us, there is no longer anything near us, and everything far away is infinitely far. A man taken out of his room and, almost without preparation or transition, placed on the heights of a great mountain range, would feel something like that: an unequalled insecurity, an abandonment to the nameless, would almost annihilate him. He would feel he was falling or think he was being catapulted out into space or exploded into a thousand pieces: what a colossal lie his brain would have to invent in order to catch up with and explain the situation of his senses. That is how all distances, all measures, change for the person who becomes solitary; many of these changes occur suddenly and then, as with the man on the mountaintop, unusual fantasies and strange feelings arise, which seem to grow out beyond all that is bearable. But it is necessary for us to experience that too. We must accept our reality as vastly as we possibly can; everything, even the unprecedented, must be possible within it. This is in the end the only kind of courage that is required of us: the courage to face the strangest, most unusual, most inexplicable experiences that can meet us. </i><br />
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~ Rainer Maria Rilke, from <i><a href="http://www.carrothers.com/rilke8.htm" target="_blank">Letters to a Young Poet</a> </i><br />
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<i>Nu, </i>Jean Metzinger, 1911BitterGracehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18262639525430954930noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7039707457010939097.post-37999324074728648822017-05-31T19:33:00.001-05:002017-05-31T19:33:28.446-05:00Judith and Holofernes<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfzRHiwnbo8IFp8B0hPZeKZPgS-jJZOBNfPcdXNuiHI6fH9uF_zK8JpiUgFUjK2nWfsfJfEUhmSrLTG8_3_t7IMJ0XhhG50ctYDt5Z0CiuWqqWOMHaRduN3cmUB4Pg4-IKcsQ8hPNnieA/s1600/Franz_von_Stuck_-_Judith.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="618" data-original-width="320" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfzRHiwnbo8IFp8B0hPZeKZPgS-jJZOBNfPcdXNuiHI6fH9uF_zK8JpiUgFUjK2nWfsfJfEUhmSrLTG8_3_t7IMJ0XhhG50ctYDt5Z0CiuWqqWOMHaRduN3cmUB4Pg4-IKcsQ8hPNnieA/s640/Franz_von_Stuck_-_Judith.jpg" width="329" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>Judith</i> by Franz Stuck (1928)</span></div>
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<br />
Then, the barons quickly brought her to his bed,<br />
that wise maiden. The stouthearted warriors went<br />
to tell their high lord that the holy lady<br />
was brought to his pavilion. The famous prince<br />
became blissful then; he thought of the bright maid,<br />
to defile with impurity and disgrace.<br />
<br />
The Almighty Lord God would not allow that,<br />
and so, the Ruler of Heaven restrained him.<br />
Then that fiercest warrior, wanton and fiendish,<br />
left to go to lie where he would lose his life,<br />
with a crowd of men, where he'd meet his cruel end,<br />
an end as he had always striven after,<br />
that dire prince of men, while he dwelled in this world<br />
’neath roof of clouds. There that ruler fell so drunk<br />
onto his mattress, that he might know nothing.<br />
<br />
His warriors, sated with sweet wine, went from there,<br />
out of that tall tent, quickly turning away,<br />
the troop of men, who had led the troth-breaker,<br />
that hostile persecutor, that earthly prince,<br />
to his large bed for the last time. The lady,<br />
the strong servant of the Savior, was mindful<br />
of how she most easily might make attempt<br />
to take old age from that most terrible one,<br />
to deprive him, that dark lord, of a long life,<br />
ere that wicked man awoke.<br />
<br />
Then the wise maid, with silken hair,<br />
sought a sharp sword from its sheath<br />
to hew hard blows, and drew it with her right hand.<br />
Then she called on the Creator of Heaven,<br />
Savior of all Earth-dwellers, and said these words:<br />
"I do pray to you, Lord Prince of Creation,<br />
Holy Son of Heaven and Spirit of Hope,<br />
for mercy, Mighty Majesty, in my need.<br />
<br />
Truly, I am greatly troubled with sorrows,<br />
my soul is now inflamed and my mind made sad.<br />
Great Guardian of the Heavens, give to me<br />
triumph and true faith, so I might take this sword<br />
and deal death to this dispenser of murder.<br />
<br />
Grant to me my welfare, Great Father of Men.<br />
I never have had more need of your mercy.<br />
Avenge me, Almighty Lord, give me anger<br />
in my heart, heat in my mind." Then the High Judge<br />
filled her completely with courage, as he does<br />
for all who look for his loving help with faith.<br />
<br />
Her heart was unbound, trust in Holy God reborn.<br />
Then she grabbed that heathen man hard by his hair,<br />
dragged him toward her with her hands, drew him nearer,<br />
took him shamefully, and placed that sinful man<br />
so she easily had control over him.<br />
<br />
Then, she struck her enemy with shining sword,<br />
swung that sharp blade straight down upon his stiff neck,<br />
his trusted weapon falling toward his bare throat,<br />
so that she notched halfway through his naked neck;<br />
he lie there in a swoon, still breathing softly,<br />
drunk and sorely wounded. He was not yet dead,<br />
completely lifeless. Then courageous lady<br />
earnestly struck that heathen hound one more time<br />
so that his head rolled forth to the floor below.<br />
<br />
The body stayed behind, as his baleful soul<br />
wandered under the wide abyss, wrapped with pain.<br />
The spirit now roamed elsewhere and it survived<br />
and there below was bound tight with base torments,<br />
surrounded by serpents, sought out for tortures,<br />
damned and detained in hell-fire after death.<br />
<br />
He need not hope, enveloped in that hot night,<br />
that he might go forth from the burning furnace,<br />
from that serpents’ hall, but he should stay trapped there,<br />
always remain, forever and evermore,<br />
in that dreary homestead, with deepest despair.<br />
<br />
Then Judith, wise maid, did win worldwide renown<br />
in battle, as granted by Bountiful God,<br />
the Sovereign of Heaven, who gave her success.<br />
That holy widow put the dead warrior’s head,<br />
so bloody, into the bag in which her maid,<br />
a lady with light skin, well-mannered servant,<br />
had brought thither some baked bread for them both,<br />
tightly wrapped up the trophy inside the pouch;<br />
then, Judith gave it, so gory, to the girl,<br />
back again to the same young, thoughtful servant<br />
to bear it home.<br />
<br />
Then both ladies hurried forth,<br />
went directly from that place, bold and daring,<br />
until the triumphant, brave maids traveled<br />
away from the army’s camp, so they clearly<br />
could see Bethulia’s brightly shining walls.<br />
Then, radiant, adorned with rings, they hurried<br />
and continued forth on the familiar course<br />
away from the sleeping Assyrian force<br />
until the rampart gate they joyfully gained.*<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhc6lt1jz5anZe74hzT9xZ9VCfuzkgt9SUcbTxgdNcnTnq9puOOXOusTAUCIUml3iuwOwXACcBGrI5Cy09EiGcUvA2XAOnDOBqG_6gjnctRsNRu49wXWot0CGG4eXNCRQOKP2zQyxSeqJ8/s1600/498px-Judith_with_the_Head_of_Holofernes_by_Cristofano_Allori.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="498" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhc6lt1jz5anZe74hzT9xZ9VCfuzkgt9SUcbTxgdNcnTnq9puOOXOusTAUCIUml3iuwOwXACcBGrI5Cy09EiGcUvA2XAOnDOBqG_6gjnctRsNRu49wXWot0CGG4eXNCRQOKP2zQyxSeqJ8/s320/498px-Judith_with_the_Head_of_Holofernes_by_Cristofano_Allori.jpg" width="265" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>Judith with the Head of Holofernes</i> by Cristofano Allori (1613)</span></div>
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*From <a href="https://web.archive.org/web/20011212223349/http://www.dnaco.net:80/~sirbill/Judith.htm" target="_blank">Mary Savelli's translation</a> of <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Judith_(poem)" target="_blank"><i>Judith</i></a>, the Old English poem (with apologies for reformatting).</div>
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You can read another translation of <i>Judith</i> <a href="https://anglosaxonpoetry.camden.rutgers.edu/judith/" target="_blank">here.</a> To read various versions of The Book of Judith, go <a href="https://en.wikisource.org/wiki/Judith_(Bible)" target="_blank">here.</a> Another dozen or so depictions of Judith and Holofernes can be found <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Judith_beheading_Holofernes" target="_blank">here.</a> </div>
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BitterGracehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18262639525430954930noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7039707457010939097.post-66451030222892982642017-05-02T18:46:00.001-05:002017-05-02T18:49:02.954-05:00Myth<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsup79wcmwSW8KqOlY_vBie17-STH7bzrRSSezaz8cqJaAaoIVbyn8Gp6TEPha2HSwgZB60b_nHIIJAxHDCqUbjbrAj6rg_njQJCgxT7mZKcTUBfDMAt0tsIyQmDwzkU-oLeyXMcLOMWw/s1600/487px-Private_Edwin_Francis_Jemison.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsup79wcmwSW8KqOlY_vBie17-STH7bzrRSSezaz8cqJaAaoIVbyn8Gp6TEPha2HSwgZB60b_nHIIJAxHDCqUbjbrAj6rg_njQJCgxT7mZKcTUBfDMAt0tsIyQmDwzkU-oLeyXMcLOMWw/s400/487px-Private_Edwin_Francis_Jemison.jpg" width="325" /></a></div>
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As all good con artists know, a compelling lie is a powerful and resilient beast. My great-great grandfather’s obituary noted his “splendid soldier record” in service to the Confederacy, even though he died almost 60 years after the war, in 1924. Forty years after that, when I was a little girl, play Confederate money was still a prize in gumball machines, and I had a grade school teacher who talked of kind slave owners and the cruelty of emancipation. I like to think of myself as a fairly smart and empathetic person, but without some excellent high school and college history teachers, I might still be attached to some vaguely romantic notion of the Lost Cause. I know plenty of people who are. Humans are hungry for myth—we <i>need</i> myth—and once we latch onto a gratifying story, we don't readily let go of it, no matter how empty or false or toxic it may be. It seems like a terrible weakness of the species. And yet...how would we survive without our gift for stories that nourish and sustain, stories that reconcile us to life and each other?</div>
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<b>Myth</b><br />
by Muriel Rukeyser<br />
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Long afterward, Oedipus, old and blinded, walked the Roads.<br />
He smelled a familiar smell.<br />
It was the Sphinx<br />
Oedipus said, "I want to ask one question.<br />
Why didn't I recognize my mother?"<br />
"You gave the wrong answer," said the Sphinx.<br />
"But that was what made everything possible," said Oedipus.<br />
"No," she said. When I asked, what walks on four legs in the morning,<br />
Two at noon and three in the evening, you answered,<br />
Man.<br />
You didn't say anything about woman."<br />
"When you say Man," said Oedipus,<br />
"You include women too.<br />
Everyone knows that."<br />
She said, "That's what you think."<br />
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*See the poem in its proper form <a href="http://murielrukeyser.emuenglish.org/writing/myth/" target="_blank">here.</a><br />
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1. Portrait of Pvt. Edwin Francis Jemison, 2nd Louisiana Infantry Regiment. He served in the Peninsula campaign under General J.B. Magruder and was killed in the battle of Malvern Hill, July, 1862. From <a href="https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Private_Edwin_Francis_Jemison.jpg" target="_blank">Wikimedia Commons.</a><br />
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2. A former slave of U.S. President Andrew Jackson (probably Betty Jackson) and two of her great-grandchildren, 1867. From <a href="https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Betty-jackson-by-giers.jpg" target="_blank">Wikimedia Commons.</a><br />
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BitterGracehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18262639525430954930noreply@blogger.com1