In reading Neil Gaiman's weblog I learned this week an interesting thing about the Rapunzel story. 'Punzel says a really stupid thing to the witch after she's been visited in the tower by the prince a few times: "You're heavier on my hair than that prince who comes by to see me." Why would she give away her secret like that? Gaiman says the original form of the story has Rapunzel asking the witch instead: "Why is it getting harder and harder to lace up my dresses over my stomach?" Since this implied something that later fairy tale compilers didn't want to imply, it was rewritten.
What's your favorite fairy tale? Why? Mine's one where a girl who does nice things for someone, and because of that every time she speaks, gold coins and jewels would fall from her mouth every time she talked. I used to daydream about how useful a talent that would be. Also I wondered what would happen if I'd get laryngitis.
Well, there was this movie I seen one time,
About a man riding 'cross the desert and it starred Gregory Peck.
He was shot down by a hungry kid trying to make a name for himself.
The townspeople wanted to crush that kid down and string him up by the neck.
Well, the marshal, now he beat that kid to a bloody pulp
as the dying gunfighter lay in the sun and gasped for his last breath.
Turn him loose, let him go, let him say he outdrew me fair and square,
I want him to feel what it's like to every moment face his death.
Well, I keep seeing this stuff and it just comes a-rolling in
And you know it blows right through me like a ball and chain.
You know I can't believe we've lived so long and are still so far apart.
The memory of you keeps callin' after me like a rollin' train.
I can still see the day that you came to me on the painted desert
In your busted down Ford and your platform heels
I could never figure out why you chose that particular place to meet
Ah, but you were right. It was perfect as I got in behind the wheel.
Well, we drove that car all night into San Anton'
And we slept near the Alamo, your skin was so tender and soft.
Way down in Mexico you went out to find a doctor and you never came back.
I would have gone on after you but I didn't feel like letting my head get blown off.
Well, we're drivin' this car and the sun is comin' up over the Rockies,
Now I know she ain't you but she's here and she's got that dark rhythm in her soul.
But I'm too over the edge and I ain't in the mood anymore to remember the times when I was your only man
And she don't want to remind me. She knows this car would go out of control.
Brownsville girl with your Brownsville curls, teeth like pearls shining like the moon above
Brownsville girl, show me all around the world, Brownsville girl, you're my honey love.
Well, we crossed the panhandle and then we headed towards Amarillo
We pulled up where Henry Porter used to live. He owned a wreckin' lot outside of town about a mile.
Ruby was in the backyard hanging clothes, she had her red hair tied back. She saw us come rolling up in a trail of dust.
She said, "Henry ain't here but you can come on in, he'll be back in a little while."
Then she told us how times were tough and about how she was thinkin' of bummin' a ride back to where she started.
But ya know, she changed the subject every time money came up.
She said, "Welcome to the land of the living dead." You could tell she was so broken-hearted.
She said, "Even the swap meets around here are getting pretty corrupt."
"How far are y'all going?" Ruby asked us with a sigh.
"We're going all the way 'til the wheels fall off and burn,
'Til the sun peels the paint and the seat covers fade and the water moccasin dies."
Ruby just smiled and said, "Ah, you know some babies never learn."
Something about that movie though, well I just can't get it out of my head
But I can't remember why I was in it or what part I was supposed to play.
All I remember about it was Gregory Peck and the way people moved
And a lot of them seemed to be lookin' my way.
Brownsville girl...
Well, they were looking for somebody with a pompadour.
I was crossin' the street when shots rang out.
I didn't know whether to duck or to run, so I ran.
"We got him cornered in the churchyard," I heard somebody shout.
Well, you saw my picture in the Corpus Christi Tribune. Underneath it, it said, "A man with no alibi."
You went out on a limb to testify for me, you said I was with you.
Then when I saw you break down in front of the judge and cry real tears,
It was the best acting I saw anybody do.
Now I've always been the kind of person that doesn't like to trespass but sometimes you just find yourself over the line.
Oh if there's an original thought out there, I could use it right now.
You know, I feel pretty good, but that ain't sayin' much. I could feel a whole lot better,
If you were just here by my side to show me how.
Well, I'm standin' in line in the rain to see a movie starring Gregory Peck,
Yeah, but you know it's not the one that I had in mind.
He's got a new one out now, I don't even know what it's about
But I'll see him in anything so I'll stand in line.
Brownsville girl...
You know, it's funny how things never turn out the way you had 'em planned.
The only thing we knew for sure about Henry Porter is that his name wasn't Henry Porter.
And you know there was somethin' about you baby that I liked that was always too good for this world
Just like you always said there was something about me you liked that I left behind in the French Quarter.
Strange how people who suffer together have stronger connections than people who are most content.
I don't have any regrets, they can talk about me plenty when I'm gone.
You always said people don't do what they believe in, they just do what's most convenient, then they repent.
And I always said, "Hang on to me, baby, and let's hope that the roof stays on."
There was a movie I seen one time, I think I sat through it twice.
I don't remember who I was or where I was bound.
All I remember about it was it starred Gregory Peck, he wore a gun and he was shot in the back.
Seems like a long time ago, long before the stars were torn down.
--Bob Dylan (and Sam Shepard), "Brownsville Girl"
I had this dream wherein I was a ghost could only enter a house if there was a candle inside. So I started writing it as a story. Never finished it.
First he floated all around the home to get his bearings. Then he came closer to focus on the rough stone and brick. The stones were dark grey, harsh, but they would have had to be to have withstood so many years. He floated higher to peer into a window, resolving to peer into each window of the house's three stories until he found the one promising him access. What he saw within the first so surprised him that he did not immediately enter, as he could have; was it really to be this easy? He nudged himself higher. Next window up--a landing of a staircase. They were here too, masses of them. Next window--a dining room, and here the candles didn't seem as out of place. There were two long, white tapers on either side of the table centerpiece. No others to be seen, but he needed only one to do the job.
He concentrated his gaze on the flame, letting the other taper and the table and the rest of the room blur into unimportance. As he did so, the pane of glass that separated him from the room blurred too, and he stepped inside. The whole operation took less than a minute--as if time touched him now any more than the window did.
In the dining room he found more fire--an English butler type was walking into the room smoking a cigarette. The ghost noted how dark the room was, lit only by streetlights from outside and the twin candles on the table. The lit end of the cigarette glowed orange flecked with grey. He found the beacon irresistible. He followed it and the butler out of the dining room.
The butler topped suddenly in the hallway and turned, staring at the spot where his companion hovered. The butler can't be seeing me, the ghost thought, then found another curiosity overtaking him. If candles allow entrance to houses, what can cigarettes do? He directed himself to pass straight through the man's shoulder. He couldn't even feel the body as he pushed himself through it. The bulter, for his part, registered no surprise, gave no indication he had experience anything unexpected; he just turned and continued down the hall. The ghost was ashamed of himself and what he had just done. He let the butler put some distance between them before he pursued the tiny orange beacon down the hall.
Esteemed webmaster John has reintroduced us to the art of headline writing in his weblog. I submit that some of the best descriptive writing can be found in the subject lines of spam email. So what's your favorite? Mine is "Guaranteed to enlarge your penis 150%!" I mean, in my case it was a completely safe claim to make...
King shall hold kingdom. A castle is seen from afar,
Artful work of giants yet on earth
Wonderful wall-stone work. Wind is swiftest is sky,
Thunder betimes most loud. Many are Christís powers.
Wyrd is strongest. Winter is coldest,
Lent frostiest and longest cold,
Summer sun-brightest, when sky is hottest,
And autumn most glorious, giving to men
The yearís fruits which God sends.
Truth is clearest, treasure dearest,
Gold to each man. The greyhair is wisest,
Ancient in years, who has much endured.
Grief clings; clouds glide.
Young chief shall encourage good companions
In grim war and ring-giving.
Courage shall be in eorl, edge shall in battle
Meet helm. Hawk shall on glove
Stay wild. Wolf shall on hill
Be lone.
--From a preface to the Anglo-Saxon Chronicle, I don't know whose translation
Thanks to John for teaching me how to clean up this formatting.
The king holds the kingdom. Here find
Black stones marking graves, light-clutching fog
And the gods of strange doorways. The year slips from our hands.
Days dissolve. The river swallows
The salt of the sea and is no longer itself.
The bones of bodies, buildings and nations
Will fall to dust, with none but a gleaming few
Flickering in memory. While we walk earth,
The soft lips of women haunt, the troubled eyes of men tempt.
* * *
The wicked rule this world.
The good must cling
Te every advance.
Yet in death I will miss
The good, the beautiful, the true;
But also the smooth savagery
Of tongues.
I have reason to suspect my current workload is having a negative impact on my health. Since I can't change the hours I work for pay, I'm gonna cut down on the hours of work I don't get paid for--i.e. those used updating this site. So instead of entries nearly every day, expect them twice or so during the week. On weekends I will continue to post the quote of the day and games.
Thanks to V. for suggesting this week's game.
A genie pops out of your IBC root beer bottle when you open it. He says, "I don't grant wishes exactly; I'm the Genie of Success. Pick one thing that you would like to do and when you do it, I will guarantee that you will not fail in your attempt."
So if even the possibility of fear of failure is taken away, what would you do?
Why do we care about singers? Wherein lies the power of songs? Maybe it derives from the sheer strangeness of there being singing in the world. The note, the scale, the chord; melodies, harmonies, arrangements; symphonies, ragas, Chinese operas, jazz, the blues: that such things should exist, that we should have discovered the magical intervals and distances that yield the poor cluster of notes, all within the span of a human hand, from which we can build our cathedrals of sound, is as alchemical a mystery as mathematics, or wine, or love. Maybe the birds taught us. Maybe not. Maybe we are just creatures in search of exaltation. We don't have much of it. Our lives are not what we deserve; they are, let us agree, in many painful ways deficient. Song turns them into something else. Song shows us a world that is worthy of our yearning, it shows us our selves as they might be, if we were worthy of the world.
--Salman Rushdie, The Ground Beneath Her Feet
10. Negativland, "U2" ("I Still Haven't Found What I'm Looking For")
Album: Released as a single which may not be legally for sale anywhere anymore
I had to fit this one in here. It is infamous, yes; it has a tenuous relationship to the original song, and it may be just an excuse to listen to naughty Casey Kasem outtakes. (For the uninitiated: there are actually two different versions of Negativland's "U2." One has lots of profanity and sampled Casey Kasem over a kazoo-like rendition of the song. The other mixes in bits of the original, a smarmy recitation of the lyrics over a hummed melody, and samples of U2 interviews.) On the plus side, no other U2 cover will teach you so much about international copyright law and the doctrine of fair use.
see the rest at [a href="http://www.atu2.com/news/article.src?ID=2539"]atu2.com.[/a]
I didnít spend the day with the radio or the TV on. I saw the TV images that morning, I had public radio on for the few minutes it took to drive from work to my internship. At the internship I had no radio, no TV, no Internet. And that was fine. I figured it would mostly be misinformation anyway and the same images over and over. Even in the brief time I watched in the morning the TV people were repeating themselves. No one had anything new to say. Was there anything to say?
On the drive home I flipped on NPR again. I listened to the stream of commentary for a few minutes but finally had to turn it off. It was sending me out of my head. I tuned in to KDHX. On Tuesdays they play a Louisiana music show, ìHowzit Bayou?î They were right in the middle of an a cappella gospel number. The stratchy, burnt voices of old black men dug in below the angel swoop of Aaron Nevilleís falsetto. They sang:
No, never alone
No, never alone.
He promised never to leave me
Never to leave me alone.
I gulped it in like water.
At home I sat in front of the computer playing Solitaire. It would be several days before I could listen to any other music, despite what Iíd gotten out of ìNever Aloneî and the songs the DJ played by Sweet Honey in the Rock. (ìTrying Timesî was one. The title was wailed like a siren. The other said ìThis is a mean world/To try to live in/To try to stay in/Until you die.î) It would be several days before I called anyone. (The first call I made was to a young friend who had had a baby a few months back. Her voice sounded like a new lifeóall joy and fresh promise. I gulped that in like water too.)
The phone rang. It was my friend Diane. ìThereís a prayer service at St. Francis Xavier tonight.î
I had already set my mind on an evening burrowed inside my coccoon house. I couldnít draw on the mental energy required to get in a car and drive someplace. I mumbled an excuse.
Diane very calmly explained that it would be a good idea to go and that sheíd be down to pick me up in a few minutes.
She came with her friend Will and her two boys Erich and Billy. On the way to church we talked scraps of civics and foreign policy and watched lines forming at gas stations.
St. Francis Xavier is St. Louis Universityís ìcollege church.î It glows stark white at night and is a marvel of Gothic beauty, provided you can stand the Jesuit propaganda of its stained glass windows. We managed to score a pew in the very back; not long after our arrival, the place was filled to capacity, like it was Christmas or Easter. Everyone around us looked impossibly young.
There were songs, there were readings, there was a homily, there was a girl who ran sobbing to the back. And then we stood and held hands for the Our Father. It was like holdingóno, beingóa live wire. I remember thinking, ìSo this is what prayer feels like.î This was what itís like to say words and mean them, knowing everyone in the chain of held hands means them too, or at least feels the current and passes it on. This was sincerity, which I never knew much about. I bowed my head to it.
We had candles which were lit and held for prayers at the end. We sang a final song. Thenónothing happened. Nothing continued to happen for several minutes. Everyone was quiet, and everyone stayed standing in the pews, and the candles flickered. Perhaps we were all so well trained that we didnít know what to do in church if no one said ìThe Mass is ended, go in peace.î As it wasnít a Mass, we were waiting for a signal that never came. Or perhaps we simply didnít want to move. It was dark out there, and at least in here we had candles.
I just bought a copy of ìThe Adventures of Robin Hood.î I bought it because Iíve been feeling swashbuckly of late. I tried renting it first. I called Blockbuster and asked, ìDo you have a copy of ëThe Adventures of Robin Hoodí with Errol Flynn?î
The young man who answered the phone said, ìHarold Flynn?î
ìErrol,î I answered through gritted teeth. I put a bit more emphasis on each letter than necessary: ìE-R-R-O-L.î
Needless to say, they didnít have it. Nor did any Blockbuster within a ten-mile radius of my house.
ìWe do have the Kevin Costner version,î one video store clerk offered, trying to be helpful.
That movie tried so hard to get the costumes right, the battle scenes right, to make everything plausible and realistic, and was so incredibly dull. In ìThe Adventures of Robin Hood,î thereís never a drop of blood in any of the fights; even the sound effects in the big battle scene are wimpy. Instead of a good, healthy ìCLANG!î as the swords collide, they go ìclink.î Yet it was a total thrill to watch. Maybe realismís not the best indicator of quality.
Weíre short on swashbucklers these days. I consider it an indictment against our culture. Realismís the thing, especially on TV. I donít watch any of the ìrealityî shows. I canít decide if Iím fighting a moral war against this tide of entertainment or an aesthetic one. I think they are bound together. The main reason I donít watch is that they donít entertain meóan odd thing to say as Iíve never seen any of it. Iíve not sat through a single ìAmericaís Funniest Home Videos,î ìCops,î ìSurvivor,î or ìAmerican Idol.î How do I know that I wouldnít be entertained? Thatís where I fall back on the moral argument. I say, in reference to ìSurvivor,î I will not commit my eyeballs to the glorification of scheming. I can find moral grounds for rejecting the whole lot of them.
Having just watched ìRobin Hoodî and rejoiced in its oh-so-unrealistic battle scenes, I have refined my sense of what is appalling about the relentless pursuit of the real: itís so belittling. My biggest fear is that no one notices. Weíve kicked out the counterpoint of the realistic, which is the fantastic. Thereís precious little contact with the stuff that elevates our vision: magic (not card tricks), romance (not cyberporn), ritual (not Monday Night Football), heroism (not giving blood every couple of years). The quest for ìrealismî gives us very small things. Realism is the opposite of ambition and idealism. It is only interested in how things are and never the wide, dizzying expanse of what they might be.
"I always wondered who would show up to hear a lecture about my favorite rock and roll band," Nathan Tiemeyer told the people gathered to hear him speak at a Borders Bookstore in St. Louis. "Now I've finally got my answer."
The crowd (Tiemeyer later estimated there were fifty to seventy in attendance) was at the bookstore on a mid-July evening to hear the Covenant Theological Seminary student expound on the topic "When I Look at the World: Reality and Longing in the Music of U2." It was, he confessed early in the talk, the fulfillment of a long-standing dream. Years ago, Tiemeyer and some other U2 fan friends had considered creating their own lecture series on the topic they all felt was their area of expertise. "We even decided to give it that university feel by christening it 'The Prestigious Hewson Lectures,'" he told his audience that night, "which was an in-house nod to Bono's real name and a more than slightly ridiculous attempt to be clever."
Read the rest at atu2.com.
These are some of the ones I remember. Do you know variations on these? Do you know others? Put them up here and include a note about where on the globe you spent your childhood so we can get a sense of regional variations.
Choosing who is "It" in Tag--each person is pointed to in turn and the one pointed to at the end of the rhyme is eliminated:
My mother told me to pick the very best one and you are not it.
Horses in the stable, one jumped out.
Bubblegum, bubblegum in a dish, how many pieces do you wish? (Person who is being pointed to at "wish" gives a number of pieces, say "3") one two three and you are not it.
My mother and your mother were hanging up clothes. My mother punched your mother right in the nose. What color was the blood? (same process as above, example: "red") R-E-D spells red and you are not it.
Eeny meeny miny mo, catch a tiger by his toe, if he hollers let him go, eeny meeny miny mo.
Eeny meeny miny mo, catch a tiger by his toe, if he hollers make him pay fifty dollars every day.
It's coming through a hole in the air, from those nights in Tianamen Square.
It's coming from the feel that this ain't exactly real,
or it's real, but it ain't exactly there.
From the war against disorder, from the sirens night and day,
from the fires of the homeless, from the ashes of the gay:
Democracy is coming to the USA.
It's coming through a crack in the wall; on a visionary flood of alcohol;
from the staggering account of the Sermon on the Mount
which I don't pretend to understand at all.
It's coming from the silence on the dock of the bay,
from the brave, the bold, the battered heart of Chevrolet:
Democracy is coming to the USA.
It's coming from the sorrow on the street, the holy places where the races meet;
from the homicidal bitchin' that goes down in every kitchen
to determine who will serve and who will eat.
From the wells of disappointment where the women kneel to pray
for the grace of G-d in the desert here and the desert far away:
Democracy is coming to the USA.
Sail on, sail on O mighty Ship of State!
To the Shores of Need
Past the Reefs of Greed
Through the Squalls of Hate
Sail on, sail on, sail on...
It's coming to America first, the cradle of the best and of the worst.
It's here they got the range and the machinery for change
and it's here they got the spiritual thirst.
It's here the family's broken and it's here the lonely say
that the heart has got to open in a fundamental way:
Democracy is coming to the USA.
It's coming from the women and the men. O baby, we'll be making love again.
We'll be going down so deep the river's going to weep,
and the mountain's going to shout Amen!
It's coming like the tidal flood beneath the lunar sway,
Imperial, mysterious, in amorous array:
Democracy is coming to the USA.
Sail on, sail on, sail on...
I'm sentimental, if you know what I mean.
I love the country but I can't stand the scene.
And I'm neither left or right, I'm just staying home tonight,
getting lost in that hopeless little screen.
But I'm stubborn as those garbage bags that Time cannot decay,
I'm junk but I'm still holding up this little wild bouquet:
Democracy is coming to the USA.
--Leonard Cohen, "Democracy" (written in 1992--still comin'...)
Eric Pierce and I go way back. I "met" him in a music chatroom in 1995. His screen name was "poser" and he was asking people to send him tapes of music they had recorded. He gave his real postal address and promised a tape in return. Intrigued, I copied the address down and wrote to him. We've been exchanging letters, original songs, and mix tapes ever since. Oddly, though we met on the Internet, we've never really done much e-mail corresponding; snail mail has always been our medium.
He sent me a CD of seven new original songs back in April. As soon as I opened the package, I knew I'd want to review it on this weblog. As a result, I didn't actually play the CD until this week. (There's nothing like a homework assignment to inspire procrastination.) As I finally did play it, I sat there murmuring "This is so cool!" happily to myself and occasionally bouncing in my chair.
Sometimes people just surprise you. I knew Eric was a good musician. I have had the rare privilege of watching his talent develop over the years. I have debated with him the merits of formal training vs. the creative benefits of remaining self-taught (an unwinnable argument I've dubbed "Steve Vai vs. the Residents"). I've told him what I've liked and disliked about any number of songs, song fragments and experiments he's sent me. All this has not prepared me for the experience of hearing his latest work.
A song is not a person, but when it's a good song, it's an individual. I've written songs, but they are highly derivative things--I didn't stick to the discipline of the craft long enough to develop a style of my own. What you get from constant practice, writing songs and refining them, is a deep understanding of structure--how to create something with a beginning, middle and end. I remember liking early creations of Eric's but not thinking of them as songs; they lacked this feeling of movement from one place to another. They imparted an interesting mood but they didn't take you anywhere. Now, though, all the pieces are in place. He has his individual voice--I recognize it from all that has come before. He has his song structure--I am particularly enthralled by the endings of these songs, how they wrap up so cleanly and elegantly. He is exploring dynamics, shifts in mood, the tension of delayed reward. In short, he has taken a quantum leap. He has created songs that are--I don't want to say "beyond what I thought he was capable of," because I didn't conceive of any limits for him. Let me suppose instead that these songs may be beyond what Eric thought he was capable of; he is now at a level of expertise where what he creates will take on a life of its own.
He made these songs with computer programs. They sound a bit like the backgrounds for video games--more mechanical than organic, more metallic than earthy. That is not a value judgement; Eric being the child of the computer age that he is, folk songs on vintage guitars would ring false coming from him.
I am not saying that listening to this CD made me feel like I was on a digital landscape. Some people think "electronic music" and think "harsh, uninviting, soulless." Some electronic is that way, it's true, but Eric has not restricted himself to those colors. The first cut, "Penumbravado," marches its theme in deep organ tones. The third, "Erraticat," has a pastoral lightness. (Have I mentioned how much I dig the names of the tracks? There's also "Acclivividity" and "Mellifluid.")
I do have a few quibbles. The drum tracks can sound cheesy, which may be unavoidable in the electronic realm; it's just that there's such an astonishing array of timbres in the melodies and countermelodies that the standard synth disco beat sounds out of place. There may also be less originality than I can tell, since I am not a student of electronic music. I do find the fourth track, "Chimerrant," strangely reminiscent of David Bowie's "I'm Afraid of Americans." Also, I had Pearl Jam's "WMA" stuck in my head after the first couple of listens all the way through. I can't pinpoint which track may have conjured it.
The CD says these are "Works in Progress." They certainly are. They are tracing the path of a remarkable progression upward, and I hope the next songs are flung even higher.
The most interesting thing about this bit of nonsense is that I lifted it nearly whole from a dream. Every verse was (save a word here and there) what I was singing in the dream. That's why it makes absolutely no sense.
Restless weather is upon me
Nothing but shadows on the run
Ever slowly, meek and lowly
Iím coming down the sun
Starboy pick my pocket
Have you got a dime?
I canít say how I need you now
I know you lassoed the shine
Un-sun, marry me, un-sun carry me
Carry to take my place
Itís a wondrous thing, gorgeous new machine
This President of the United States
Rotten weather is upon me
Nothing but losing now, on the run
I canít say how itís got me now
Iím coming down the sun
The car belongs to me now but back when I wrote a song to celebrate it, it didn't. It's still a great car. Corvettes and T-Birds have cool songs, why not Geo Metros?
Little Blue Metro
Little Blue Metro gets miles to the gallon
Better than anyone else I know
I call her Good Queen Bess, my constant companion
Tooliní around ëcause she owns these roads
I donít stray off the known ways
At least not that often in my Little Blue Metro
If I donít know my way home
I pick a direction, subject to correction
Sooner or later we may hit Grand Boulevard
Little Blue Metroís my mamaís possession
But she never names the cars she drives
ìGood Queen Bessîóthatís my own invention
Inanimate objects lead their own kind of lives
If you stray off the known ways
You may find your destinationís not where you left it
I donít know my way home
So pick a direction, Iím open to suggestion
When díyou suppose we may hit Grand Boulevard?
Iím so glad she gets those miles to the gallon
Better than anyone else I know
Good Queen Bess is my sky-blue royal
But would she turn heads at an auto show?
I want to stray off the known ways!
Itís hard to resist in a car cute as this
Donít wanna know my way home!
I take delight in driving all night
But where the hell did they put Grand Boulevard?
Who are you?
Where do you come from?
How do you find me so quickly, and
why do I interest you so much?
All I wanted was to watch the sun go down.
I put something on
that I hoped would dissuade you.
You hover anyway.
You like my black jeans.
You keep settling on them.
Why?
You can't possibly reach through the fabric.
What makes you think skin
is on the other side?
What makes you think?
You are all thin:
legs, wings, nose/mouth/tongue.
I can hardly see you;
you are a hazy smudge,
a smoke-mote.
If you were not in motion,
you'd be easy to kill.
You're never not in motion.
I crash my hand against
where I think you are.
I pull my stinging hand away,
my unsmudged hand away.
I can't see you--
I hate you more unseen.
The basement saga continues. Today I was finding old stories and essays from grade school. One was written on little scraps of paper and there were obviously scraps missing. A pity, too, as the main character was named Eshtine. It appeared to be the beginning of a spy novel: "Code Name: Cheetah." (!)
I must have begun this other story when I was about ten, as I had called it "Ladyhawk" after the movie. The bit I found was only a hundred or so words long, but as an independent piece it made me laugh. (It'll have to stay an independent piece; I don't remember now the story I was trying to write.) The setup: two girls are walking to school. They are approached by an old man who tells them, "Give me a dime and good shall come to you."
The skeptical girls ask "What kind of good?"
The old man says he'll tell them, walks a bit away, the girls follow. Before they know it they are in an unfamiliar park. One of them cries in alarm, "Where are we?"
The vagabond answers, "YOU didn't give me a dime," and leaves.
I also found this essay I had written for a contest about family stories. Again, judging from the handwriting (much, much better than my current cursive) I'd say I was ten or so when I wrote it. It's based on an interview with my grandfather, conducted by my brother, transcribed by my sister.
My grandfatherís father took nine trips across the ocean. His name was Francesco Pancella. While Francesco was traipsing back and forth from Italy to America to find a better life for his family and himself, my grandfather, Vincent, was at home helping his mother, Rosa.
Home was a small village named Rapino in the mountains on the eastern side of Italy. Vincentís house had four rooms, a basement, a garden, and the only oven in town. People often came with bread for Rosa to bake. Part of the pay for doing this was some of the bread. If the bread was too much to eat, Rosa sold it in her store.
Even though Francesco sent back a little money, it was necessary for the family to find new was of getting more money. One way was raising silkworms. When the mulberry leaves were growing on the nearby mulberry trees, a man came with some tiny silkworms. They put the silkworms on shelves and gathered mulberry leaves. The silkworms ate by day and by night until they were about seventy times their starting size. In the four or five week period, the worms shed their skins four times. While the worms were growing bigger, the children spread them farther apart from each other. When the silkworms were about three inches long, the children gathered branches. The worms climbed them and wound themselves into their cocoons. Then they took the cocoons to the silk factory and sold them.
Another way they supported themselves was by Mother Rosaís Cantina. When there was a feast day of the Church, like St. Lawrence, the patron saint of the town, they had processions with visiting musicians. Afterwards Rosa would bring up wine from her basement and everyone would buy food and drink and have a big party. The boys and girls would help by gathering firewood and making frequent trips to the town pump for water. The trip took about ten minutes each way.
Rosa had five children. Their names were Theresa, Vincent, Anthony, Elsie and Adela. When they were six years old, they went to the town school. Vincent left school when he was eleven years old. His father, who was a tailor, arranged for Vincent to be apprenticed to a tailor. For two years the boy worked with the tailor learning the trade. He learned to cut material, sew pants or jackets, make button holes, and other things a tailor should know how to do.
The mountainous eastern side of Italy was very subject to earthquakes. One thing that Vincent remembers in his life in Italy was an earthquake that totally destroyed another town. Everyone in Rapino had felt the shock, but luckily there was no damage except for the town of Alzano. People talked about this disaster for many weeks.
The other event that Vincent remembers was the day that they turned on electrical lights in Rapino. First, the people in charge wired up houses and put up poles. Then, with a flick of a switch, they turned on the lights in the small town. The old people thought to themselves, ìWhat sort of foolishness is this? We donít need this crazy invention when we have our kerosene lamps!î But very quickly they got used to turning the lights on with a simple push of a button, and then they were happy.
In 1918, Francesco took his last trips across the ocean with his oldest daughter Teresa. He had an apartment and a job waiting for her. Two years later, after World War I, he sent for Rosa and the rest of the family. They packed up everything they could carry and went by bus to the nearest railroad station. The train took them across the mountains to the port city of Naples. There they boarded the ship Canopy. The trip to America took fifteen days, including a stop at Gibraltar. On March 4, 1920, the Canopy landed in Boston. From there, the family traveled to Brooklyn, New York, and lived with Teresa and Francesco. It was the end of an old life and the beginning of a new for my grandfather, Vincent Pancella.
An easy one this week, in honor of it being a holiday weekend, at least here in the States. I worked again on my basement yesterday and discovered the following items were in my possession:
--a toy cruise ship I had once found behind a wall in my closet
--a subway token
--Valentines I had gotten from grade school classmates
--the eye of a frog I dissected in high school.
So what's tucked away in the hidden storage areas of your living quarters?