Wednesday, November 7, 2007

171. HYMNS FOR THE SORTA-COMMITTED, OR, ONWARD CHRISTIAN RESERVISTS

From the Archives

(November 2005) And now is the time to post Muhammed Ali’s famous quote outlining why he refused to serve in Vietnam:
Why should they ask me to put on a uniform and go 10,000 miles from home and drop bombs and bullets on brown people in Vietnam while so-called Negro people in Louisville are treated like dogs and denied simple human rights? No, I'm not going 10,000 miles from home to help murder and burn another poor nation simply to continue the domination of white slave masters of the darker people the world over. This is the day when such evils must come to an end.

I have been warned that to take such a stand would cost me millions of dollars. But I have said it once and I will say it again. The real enemy of my people is here. I will not disgrace my religion, my people or myself by becoming a tool to enslave those who are fighting for their own justice, freedom and equality.... If I thought the war was going to bring freedom and equality to 22 million of my people, they wouldn't have to draft me, I'd join tomorrow. I have nothing to lose by standing up for my beliefs. So I'll go to jail, so what? We've been in jail for 400 years.

Seeing a picture of a New Orleans resident of African descent holding up an anti-war protest sign that read No Iraqi ever left me to die on a roof. (which references Ali’s No Vietnamese ever called me “nigger") is a good reminder of why this sentiment is still relevant.

So, turns out John Edwards focused on an issue that could actually weaken the Republican Party, especially because he was fortunate enough (well) to have a hurricane showcase his cause. Our TV screens have been filled with evidence of just how the 37 million impoverished Americans live while our president gives tax cuts to the super rich, and let’s hope that shows up at the polls.

Americans are suddenly aware of poverty again and embarrassed by the fact that our government can’t (or won't) take care of its own struggling citizens

(Well, actually, it’s more accurate to say that our government stalks the poor in order to reward the wealthy in a kind of reverse Robin Hoodism.)

Meanwhile, I’ve had Baptist hymns whispering in my skull all day after attending a co-worker’s mother’s funeral and so am pasting some sarcastic new hymn titles below. They’re funny, especially if you grew up with the Broadman hymnal:

HYMNS FOR THE SORTA-COMMITTED
• I Surrender Some
• There Shall Be Sprinkles of Blessings
• Fill My Spoon, Lord
• Take My Life and Let Me Be
• It is My Secret What God Can Do
• There are Scattered Clouds in My Soul Today
• Just as I Pretend to Be
• My Hope is Built On Somewhat Less
• It Is Fairly Well With My Soul
• When the Saints Go Sneaking In
• Onward Christian Reserves

READING: Jeanette Winterson’s Lighthousekeeping
SANG IN SHOWER: “Fill My Cup Lord” (sigh)
BEST OF SPAM: Be the "biggest" of all of your friends! (Oh, is that the one you want me to use tonight dear?)

Tuesday, November 6, 2007

170. HIGHWAY 90. THE JOBS ARE GONE

From the Archives

(November 2005) Southern fried rocker Charlie Daniels sings a song about missing the Carolina of his childhood that includes a little boy with a waggledy-tailed puppy, thus rivaling Mary Chapin Carpenter’s song about the short-lived kittens that were born on her old demin shirt in manufactured hokiness.

Despite Charlie’s hokiness though, he does include a line that captures perfectly my response to driving through the rural low country last week: Carolina, I knew you before the highways got to you.

It is impossible for me to drive those rural roads now without hearing Nanci Griffith singing Hwy 90. The jobs are gone. I see lights in farmhouse windows way out in the middle of nowhere and imagine the graying couple inside, getting by on their Social Security checks and what they can grow in the garden now that the mills and factories have moved overseas.

These days, they’re resigned to the fact that their children have moved to Raleigh or Atlanta or Chapel Hill or Charleston or maybe Portland or New York or Seattle and they won’t ever return to Smallville Carolina. Ever.

The rural roads of my childhood are beautiful, are holy to me, with Spanish moss hanging off the knuckles of gnarled old oak trees and winding mysterious roads set between wide trees that make music when the wind blows through their branches.

The low country, then and now, smells like wisteria and honeysuckle and it sparkles with fireflies. It is lush and occasionally magical and the seafood is fantastic. But, boy, is it ever conservative.

Those country stores that sold Nehi’s and boiled peanuts and pickled pigs feet are gone. Ditto the peach stands run by large black women with paper church fans or those vegetable stands run by a toothless white men who want to talk about Jesus.

Now there are Arby’s and Subways and Wendy’s and Walgreens and the occasional Ruby Tuesddays, just as there are on any northern highway.

And how can I begin to describe the tackiness that is Myrtle Beach?

Imagine a white sand landscape slathered in giant plastic water slides bursting out of brightly painted concrete-block buildings with the jaws of a giant shark constructed around a cheap Lowe's door in between the ubiquitous Hooter’s or XXX Gentlemen’s Clubs; add a million multi-colored fire-breathing putt-putt courses and too many Calabash-style (fried) seafood restaurants to count and you get the general idea.

I took those local roads to a spiritual retreat center and, let me tell you, it felt as if I had returned to paradise when I finally turned off the main drag into those woods. The retreat is on 500 acres of virgin forest with lagoons and lakes and wetlands and, of course, a private beach.

Their message: go inside yourself and find silence in order to grow spiritually, but recognize that you can get there through any number of different spiritual paths.

It’s been an exhausting semester, and this silence allowed me to see glimpses of myself again.

I stayed in a lakefront cabin with a screened-in porch across the front—an excellent place for writing and observing snakes crawling down pine trees.

My bedroom door opened onto this porch, so I opened my eyes in the morning to gorgeous pink sunrises over the lake.

And the place was quiet! Very few people were on the land and most of them were gentle souls trying to live authentically in a plastic, throwaway culture ... if only for a week.

I have to admit that returning to civilization has been more than a little jarring.

169. DRESSZING

From the Archives

(November 2005) Here’s what I now know, thanks to the Oprah magazine that was in my doc’s waiting room: you can go to dresszing.com to learn all about a fashion coach (!) who is devoted to helping women and men develop their personal style.

Now I ask you, what sort of person has to BUY her own personal style?

A psychoanalyst in the same magazine said that the task of adulthood is to remember and resuffer what we couldn’t really suffer as children because it was too painful then. So maybe hiring a fashion coach is how some people resuffer the pains of their youth?

(Wearing those bold-striped soccer shirts once was not enough so, a-ha, you must now live in argyle and Izod hell forevermore!)

Today I am wearing a moss-colored linen blouse, dark green linen slacks, a brown suede jacket, polka-dotted green socks, and brown Joseph Siebel shoes. What would my fashion coach say about that?

(And why should I care?)

Somehow I think it'd be exactly what my basketball coaches always said: run 5 more suicides, Medea.

Finally, some copywriter who is clearly not paid enough money wrote the following ad copy for an article about women married to men who use viagra:
Read about women who run with the pharmaceutically enhanced wolves.


Okay, so I am off to the Low Country now for some much-needed R and R and writing and fresh seafood. Won’t be online for at least a week, but will be oh so happy when I return, so ciao for now.

168. JUST MY DOG AND ME ON THE EDGE OF THIS HERE BRANE

From the Archives

(November 2005) Fifty-three years ago today, our country exploded the first hydrogen bomb in the Marshall Islands. What process of elimination led us to drop a bomb on these (apparently) expendable islands? And how many species evaporated because of this decision?

I spent today on much less serious stuff, but my day nevertheless exhausted me. I completed myriad administrative tasks (yawn) while trying to catch up while asking myself if this is what I received my MFA in poetry to do. (No.) And lawsie lawsie me, do I need to find some time for myself before I forget what my novel is even about!

Meanwhile, the news about Bush Inc’s newest conservative Supreme Court nominee is sobering, even if I don't have to worry about ever needing an abortion.

And let’s not forget to mention the taking-a-hard-stand-for-justice Methodist Church (motto: we only like people who are just like us), which recently kicked out an openly lesbian minister who is in a long-term, committed relationship but reinstated a straight southern minister who cast out a gay parishioner.

Gives new meaning to Jesus’s admonition to love those that persecute you, doesn’t it?

Um, you might be interested to know that Kinsey’s data siggests that we are nothing more than a natural variation. We also know that many of you so-called normal people fantasize about someone with the same anatomy or wear diapers to sex parties or enjoy being whipped or asphyxiate yourselves in erotic play and have any number of other never-to-be-spoken-aloud fantasies.

Of course, casting queers out into the sexual wilderness does allow bigoted people to pat themselves on their milquetoast backs and say what good Christians they are while they (sometimes manage to successfully) suppress these longings.

As for me, I think it’s high time that we define some new rings in Dante’s hell based on one’s level of homophobia. Hell itself would, of course, be a blow job from Fred Phelps—which would no doubt be the WORST form of torture, but would nevertheless finally satisfy this guy’s internalized homophobia.

On a similar note, I saw this sign at a protest recently: Would someone give the man a blowjob already so we can impeach him? So you see, Fred is just the man for the job!

All of which brings us to the topic of Dr. Randall of the Harvard University physics department.

Now if you happened to read the Science section of today’s New York Times, then you already read this intriguing sentence: Dr. Randall and string theory had their own kismet and you already saw a photo that confirms that the fine doctor is not only brilliant but also drop-dead gorgeous.

(And BTW my entry title is a very obscure reference to Dr. Randall and string theory, which posits that our uni(multi-, actually)verse is a brane—or, as Dr. Randall puts it, is an “island of three dimensions floating in a sea of higher dimension, like a bubble in the sea.” Add an obscure Bee Gees tune about “my dog and me on the edge of the universe” and, bingo, you’ve got today’s title.)

Anywho, Dr. Randall climbs mountains and absorbs the world around her deeply enough to ask questions that never even occur to other physicists, or most people. And she wants me. Bad.

Yes, I am certain of it!

So. Ahem. (Must be politically correct.) I need to re-read this intriguing article after I’ve absorbed some of these new theories for a few days, but can share this confusing typo-infused sentence from the once venerable Times in the interim:
Dr. Randall is intrigued by that fact that her results, as well as other results from string theory seem to paint a picture of the universe in which theories with different numbers of dimensions in them all give the same physics?

(Oh for the LOVE of GOD hire a goddamn copy editor already!!!!!)

167. LIVING LA VIDA LEATHER

From the Archives (November 2005)
I love you.
I love you but I am turning to my verses
and my heart is closing like a fist.

That is a fragment of one of my favorite Frank O’Hara poems and also what I long to say to the world today.

I left a Creative Suite II training on Wednesday and a feminist publishing symposium on Thursday with so many ideas percolating in my head and really need to hide out in my studio and create something, but all this administrative deadlines are hanging over me and shrinking my soul.

Had a long conversation with Ellie Smeal, former director of NOW, founding director of Feminist Majority, and current publisher of Ms. magazine. She said that the Feminist Majority did not want to take over publishing Ms. magazine and knew that it was probably a bad business decision, but that the previous publisher had “raped the magazine and very nearly put it under,”and was only interested in using their lists to market Working Mother and some other magazine instead of marketing Ms.

We talked about inclusive language and I told her about my experience creating inclusive lectionaries, responsorial psalms, and an Inclusive New Testament. And we talked about how one might create an electronic publishing business model for feminist writing.

We talked about blogs replacing zines as the feminist community-making tool of choice and she encouraged me to start a feminist press. I reminded her of how much that costs—not news to her, of course—but also confided that one of my favorite aspects of working in academic publishing is that I have access to equipment and expertise that allows me to pursue my personal creative pursuits affordably.

And she asked me to write for Ms. magazine

(in all my spare time).

So. Yeah. My life is pulling me in some new directions, some of which started with my need to keep this blog.

Basically, my soul just rebelled against administrative work and insisted on a place for me to cogitate creatively, a place where I can be me and not just this professional person who tries desperately to meet way too many administrative demands while my writing sits..

My need to create has been jumping up and down a lot more ever since, demanding attention, ad I m tryng o rearrange my life accordingly.

Meanwhile, I’d like to point out that The Gay and Lesbian Review’s summer sex issue includes the article “Strap-On Party for the People.”

The Christianists I mentioned in my last entry would use this title to justify their bias against queers, but show me a het couple that sticks to the missionary position and I’ll show you somw vanilla boredom in the bedroom.

LISTENING TO: Lou Reed/John Cale’s I Believe. It’s about Valerie Solanas shooting Andy Warhol: Valerie Solanis [sic] took the elevator, got off at the 4th floor. She pointed the gun at Andy saying you cannot control me anymore...Valerie Solanis [sic] took thee steps pointing at the floor from inside her idiot madness spoke and bang Andy fell onto the floor...)
READING: a Spanish version of a legal guide for girls.

SANG IN SHOWER: My power went off some time in the night and I drank wine last night, so I woke up at 8:28 AM only because the neighbor’s dog was barking. This means I took a one minute shower, during which time I sang “shit, shit, shit!” as I frantically lathered and rinsed. It also means that I am now at work with a way silly cowlick on the side of my head.

166. CAUSE AND EFFECT

From the Archive

(October 2005) A writer in The Nation points out that, while we focus our attention on whether or not Supreme Court nominees will overturn Roe v. Wade, Bush is stacking the courts with pro-business judges.

I worry that, as a culture, we have such a short attention span that we have already forgotten the Hurricane Katrina debacle because, hey, Brittany Spears had a baby!

Yet this debacle made clear the folly of giving precedence to private financial gain over actual human lives.

And speaking of giving less than a shit about people who live in poverty (or are sliding into it as the middle class vanishes), Bush Inc. has allowed Florida to limit Medicaid benefits. Their approved plan says that “the state will set aside a specific amount of money for each person enrolled in Medicaid,” based on the citizen’s medical condition and historical use of health care.

And the state is now allowed to limit the “amount, duration and scope” of services.

Did you pick up on that historic use of health care? That’s cause and effect from a White House that makes value judgments on human lives.

You’re a poor black New Orleanian? Well, you probably live a sinful life in that den of iniquity and voted Democrat and ate southern/soul food that ain’t real healthy, so you are expendable now, baby.

And, since you inconvenienced us by not drowining at the get-go, we’ll make sure you know how valuable your life is to us now.

Hmm. Says right here that you have been treated for bronchitis twice now, yet you choose to continue to smoke.

No treatment for you.

And you eat the starchy food that poor people can afford instead of grilling out a nice healthy salmon filets?

We choose to not pay for sins.

GOP cause-and-effect never extends to exacting payment from the corporations that pollute our environment and make us all sick with their pollutants, however.

So my question is this: Now that Florida can legally set a ceiling on insurance spending per person per year and per lifetime, what will JEB and W do with the next Terry Schiavo when she meets her insurance cap?

Inquiring minds want to know.

(Actually, Bush Inc. is making it harder to declare bankruptcy too, so I suppose Schiavo’s spouse will be stuck with the bills and a vegetable he can’t put out of her misery.)

•

One of my former roommates—a public-health advocate—decided to go to medical school because she saw the writing on the wall about Roe v. Wade and wanted to be in a position to set up illegal abortion clinics à la the Redstockings when the time comes.

And sometimes I believe I’m going to wind up pursuing Constitutional law in an effort to battle these Christianists who want to rewrite our rights.

(Note to self: send more $ to Americans United for the Separation of Church and State.)

Meanwhile, Steve Satterwhite of The Texas Observer interviewed some of fundies who want a constitutional amendment banning gay marriages and civil unions (i.e., who are working to codify discrimination against a portion of the citizenry) and what they said is just astounding. These people really do want to destroy our Constitution! And what they pass off as fact with such confidence just baffles the mind.

Satterwhite points out the echo-chamber phenomenon that I have discovered with my fundie students—a tendency to use the same phrases and inaccurate statistics to argue the same points (which some liberals do too, of course). Many (in the classroom and in this article) quote “widely discredited reports by Paul Cameron,” the man who started the urban legend about queers inserting hamsters into their rectums.

This doctor was dropped from membership in the American Psychological Association in 1983 because he did not meet professional codes of ethics and conduct, yet his lies continue to make the circuit as facts.

Example. Mary Ann Markarain from Sugar Land said
Sin is sin. We're not animals. [oh?] We're people, and I do not believe that you're born homosexual. They only have two signs over at the hospital: blue ones for the boys and pink ones for the girls. God knows when we're born what we're supposed to be.

The proof is in the pudding. Ninety-two percent of all gay males engage in rimming, the process of licking the rim of the anus and ingesting various amounts of fecal matter. Forty-seven percent of all males engage in fisting, the act of placing their fist in their partner's rectum for sexual pleasure. Twenty-nine percent of all homosexual males engage in golden showers—the practice of lying on the floor, typically nude, and allowing their partner to urinate on them. This is abnormal. These are things I've never read in the newspaper. This isn't something you hear about on CNN. But this is something that is taking place.

Now I know this is not real pleasant, but the truth needs to come out. When we say the word “gay,” we're really just hiding because we're really not understanding what that word really entails—what it means, what people are doing, and why this can hurt society as a whole. It's never been an accepted lifestyle. If we allow this to become accepted, then the numbers will grow astronomically. Now they want to take it into the classroom, to teach our children that this is okay. Our society is two to three percent gay, but if you teach children that homosexuality is okay, then we're going to have a lot of problems.

The median age of homosexual men dying with AIDS is 39 years old; that's wrong, not natural. The median age of all other homosexual men dying from other causes is 42. Do you consider 42 young? I consider it extremely young since I'm one year away from it. The median age of death for lesbians is 45 years old—of lesbians. That compares to 75 years old for heterosexual men and 79 for heterosexual women. Only one percent of homosexuals die of old age; only three percent ever live to age 55. Think about it, and then tell me that God doesn't have some problem with this whole thing—that God isn't speaking. It's unnecessary to put my name in the paper—you can just say that "God said," and here's the statistics.

Where did Mary Ann from Sugar Land learn these woefully inaccurate statistics and how many more people wrote them down and believe them after Cameron shared them on hate radio?

Monte Watkins from Houston said A few years ago, my husband and I were at one of the [Gay Pride Week parades]. After the parade broke up, some of them walked by us, talking to each other, but I heard them look around and say, “Mess with us, and we'll rape your kids."

Yeah. Sure you did.

Alan Ward of Stephenville said

There is a natural way that human beings are crafted to operate, and that is on a heterosexual basis.
We had a homosexual in my family, a young man. During high school, he learned to be gay; he wasn't before that. Was that different for my family? You bet it was, because we are a family of heterosexuals who really believe in being heterosexual.

About two years ago, that young man learned not to be homosexual, and he has a girlfriend now. Right in the midst of all this social controversy, he learned to be gay, and then he learned not to be. I've seen him changed, and I've seen two or three or four changed.

Logically, [policing sexual behavior] is out of the reach of the government, but I'm not saying that I believe it should be.

There is not enough manpower—not enough people working for the government—to go into every home of every professing homosexual to put eyes on them and watch to see that they do not commit homosexual acts. That's not possible. There is not enough manpower.

I’ll say there’s not (and ever heard of the Right to Privacy?).

Of course, many Christianists deny scientific evidence anyway, so reminding them that homosexuality exists in many species, that's it's a naturally occurring deviation from the norm, is ineffective. And it doesn’t seem to occur to them that their god could have made some people homosexual on purpose just as he made some of us, say, left-handed—that maybe this is a gift, as my friend Louisville and some Native-American tribes call it.

Nope it’s a choice, pure and simple.

But so is believing in myths, dude. And you don’t get to rewrite our nation’s constitution based on your myths and unsupportable lies and smear campaigns.

BEST-OF SPAM: Just a reminder; Our University Enrollment department has been trying to contact you. The date for enrolling in our 2-week degree program is ending on Friday, October 28, 2005. As of now we can only offer you a BA, BSc, or a MA. If you enroll by the due date then your degree of choice and transcripts can be sent to you within 2 weeks.

165. OF PRESIDENTS AND EMPERORS

From the Archives

(October 2005) This just in from Writer’s Alamanac:
OF PRESIDENTS AND EMPERORS
by David Ray (from The Death of Sardanapalus and Other Poems of The Iraq Wars, Howling Dog Press)

Comparing our imperial leader today to Nero,
whose troops were also engaged in occupation
of Parthian lands along the Euphrates, with about
the same luck as today, we surely must temper
our judgments, forgive a few lies and lives lost,
give thanks that most of the deaths are uncounted,
and not ours. After all, our leader did not murder
his mother. He and she are on excellent terms.

Nero murdered his wife Octavia, also Poppaea,
his second, by kicking her while she was pregnant
with his child, guaranteed divinity. In Washington
you see no such abominations. The lies are genteel
and murder is at the far end of Pathfinders,
Tomahawks, gun ships and Patriot missiles.
Back home we can thank our stars that tribunes
and freed gladiators do not arrive bearing swords
and platters for heads. And because Congress
consists of the deferential they would never be at risk.
Our leader needs not assassinate sassy senators.

He would never set fire to Washington or build
an ostentatious mansion like Nero's over the ruins.
As a God-fearing Christian he would never thank
Jupiter for throwing javelins of fire at his enemies,
nor would he go on tour to read his poems or play
his harp in the provinces. Yet for his speeches
our President gets as much applause as Nero,
whose soldiers prodded those who nodded off.

In the Oval Office no visitor is obliged to fall upon
knees and weary the President's hand with kisses.
Yet the fear Tacitus expressed could be voiced today.
He worried that such "a monotony of disasters"
as those ordered by Nero might, if recited, disgust all
who heard them. He preferred not to sicken his readers
lest they be "fatigued of mind and paralyzed with grief."
In Rome thousands like us could only pray for relief.

164. THE OFFICIAL LANGUAGE OF DREAMS

From the Archives

(October 2005) I just finished reading Andrei Codrescu’s essays about New Orleans, some of which you may have heard on NPR.

When Codrescu talks about Jimmy Swaggart and Jimmy’s cousins Jerry Lee Lewis and Mickey Gilley, he says with whom [Jimmy] is co-emperor of the lower middle class.

Here are other favorite passages (the first of which could also be a comment on a Jeanette Winterson novel):
There are certain cities and certain areas of certain cities where the official language is dreams. Venice is one. And Paris. North Beach in San Francisco. Wencelaus Square in Prague. And New Orleans, the city that dreams stories.

And this could be a comment on the low country cuisine of my childhood:

There is a closed-eye rapture in the act of swallowing raw oysters au deux, the rapture of legend and rumor, no doubt. And in the swallowing of shrimps and the sucking of crabs there resides the ever-so-slight perversity of devouring our origins, a kind of reverse cannibalistic philogeny.

And this, sadly, could be a statement about my workaholic tendencies, but my spirit rebels against this ultimately dysfunctional soul-killing tendency of mine and forces me to write and create again, to save myself:

Vacations are desperate things even if you are not old and retired. I have always felt keenly the unbearable pathos of tourism, the lonely masses of the twentieth century shuffling through each others’ cities in small, insulated units looking for innocence. It’s there somewhere, riddled with the holes the clock punched in it.

And this comment stopped me in my tracks. I hope Commander’s Palace survived Hurricane Katrina:

The turtle soup at Commander’s is said to be over one hundred years old. They say that the turtle-soup pot has never gone out since the restaurant opened on these premises in 1888. One time there was a fire and the first thing the cooks did was to take the turtle-soup pot outside. Then the building burned down. There is something indescribably comforting in knowing that you’re eating from the same pot with your dead ancestors.

And finally, some post-Katrina words from Codrescu:

AFTER THE DELUGE: A LETTER TO AMERICA
There will be a little bit of New Orleans everywhere when our refugees move into your communities.

Here are some of the changes:

Your food will get better. In the past ten years, thanks to Asian and Latin flavors brought in my immigrants, American food improved. Now it will reach sublimity.

Instead of canned music you will have the real live thing. Clubs will mushroom and street performers will make your town a livelier place. Start working now to remove the tight-ass rules that forbid street theater.

Get ready to hear strangers open up to you in public places and tell you stories. You will remember that once upon a time, before television, people used to say hello to strangers and tell them stories.

Several times a year there will be festivals and parades that will remind you ritually that it’s okay to be alive and you don’t have to work like a dog without any joy in this lifetime.

There will be new coffeehouses, bars, and community centers where you will, hopefully, forget to be a couch potato. Sure, you might become a barfly instead, but I’ll take a living human drunk over a phony electronic-pixel vampire. Many people will shoot their televisions; that’s inevitable.

Speaking of shooting, the gun business will boom, as it is doing right now. Other businesses will boom as well, as skilled manual laborers from New Orleans pour in. (Just don’t expect them to finish anything on time.) The real estate market is booming already. Schools will be filled to capacity and there will be a need for more teachers. There will also be more jobs for doctors, nurses, firemen, policemen, and criminals.

You will experience an overnight growth in self-esteem as our refugee poets and writers begin to use your city as a source of material. You will also experience an equal plunge into embarrassment when they reveal what they found out.

You will no longer experience any faith in your government—if you still have any. Our refugees will teach you how to be self-reliant, depend on your community, and live without any faith in the government.

The bums who run the country now will be swept out of power, first Bush and his cronies, then all the spineless officials and bureaucrats wasting your money in Washington.

You will be renewed by the intelligence of a whole culture, just the way we were renewed by the refugees of Europe after the Second World War.

On the downside, you will start smoking again.

I’ll take a living human drunk over a phony electronic-pixel vampire. Yes indeedy.

SANG IN SHOWER: Lyle Lovett’s “If I Had a Boat” (a song Rosa just taught me)
LISTENING TO: My tummy rumble because I am hongry!
READING: “2005 Legislation Affecting Local Taxes” (sigh)

163. STATE OF GRACE

From the Archives

(October 2005) The Gnostics, like William Blake, believe that Jesus has already returned to Earth and that we already live in Paradise. Few of us recognize our always already perfect existence though. Instead we tell ourselves that Paradise will surely be ours in our NEXT life.

So much of our world is small and mean, with machetes and tires set aflame around fragile human necks and mind-numbing atrocities and grueling work and gnawing poverty. And there’s so much pain and injustice that, at some point, so many of us just become numb and morph into anger or autopilot, into permanent survival mode.

Nevertheless, we are—many of us—loved by someone whom we also love dearly and we manage to surround ourselves with kind and loving people who enrich our lives.

I don’t know about Jesus fitting into this equation, but do believe that we already live in paradise. The natural world is so amazingly crisp and beautiful and filled with beauty and wonder that it practically begs us to acknowledge it. And, if creativity is your religion (as it is mine), then there’s endless possibility of worship with only the need for (annoying) work and sleep interrupting our extended ecstasy.

This weekend, I hung out with artist friends. We had a big cookout on some friends’ farm, then hung upside down on state fair rides and ate bad-for-us food such as fried Coke and deep-fried twinkies (them) or fried Wisconsin cheese (me). Then we watched a magnificent fireworks display before having a big slumber party together.

Next morning, we built a bonfire and played guitars around it and made things in the studio.

Rosa said she’s been worried ever since she left the Peace Corp that she will get lazy and forget to appreciate every day that she’s alive.

One of the many reasons I value her as a friend is that we both recognize the wonder of the present moment. We recognize the grace involved in our being alive in such a beautiful and relatively peaceful place where we can live and love and cry and laugh and climax and gasp and touch and smell and hear and see and share our fleeting experience with others. And we recognize that this grace is fragile and can be fleeting.

I believe in my heart of hearts that it is only our ignorance of and inability to recognize this grace that keeps us removed from paradise.

162. AFTER LOVE

From the Archive (October 2005)

AFTER LOVE
by Maxine Kumin

Afterwards, the compromise.
Bodies resume their boundaries.
These legs, for instance, mine.
Your arms take you back in.
Spoons of our fingers, lips
admit their ownership.
The bedding yawns, a door
blows aimlessly ajar
and overhead, a plane
singsongs coming down.
Nothing is changed, except
there was a moment when
the wolf, the mongering wolf;
who stands outside the self
lay lightly down, and slept.


... And that is why fucking is so incredibly wonderful.

It is 11:52 PM Wednesday night and I am having a glass of wine and I’m sitting out on my semi-wet deck listening to the evening and owls unwind.

Don’t ask me why, but a song from Yentl is stuck in my head tonight: I’m a bundle of confusion but it has a strange appeal; did it all begin with him and the way he makes me feel?

Weird.

I have had Seattle dreams for two nights running—probably because I discovered an excellent Seattle-based photographer on Flickr and really like his work. Well, and because the Pacific NW is my favorite part of the country.

I look at his photographs and smell the place, feel my feet sinking down into that Keith Haring beach san as my hair blows back in the stiff coastal wind and here I am longing to be there again.

... Okay. So now it’s 1:30 AM already and I am going to be very tired when that 7 AM alarm starts shouting.

I attempted to watch TV but Howard Dean was being so stupid on David Letterman that I turned to HGTV, but then they advertised an upcoming show about “the last drink glass you’ll ever buy” and then a show that is actually called I WANT THAT, which features a graphic of a man with his face pressed against a plate-glass store window.

Reminds me of Ann Pancake’s story about her niece looking at a catalog as her West Virginia grandmother notes that “there she sits, just learning to want.”

I’m sorry, but how could anyone see those HGTV advertisements and not understand that corporations are paying for product placement to convince them that their life won’t be complete until they need something they probably never even thought about before?

Ugh.

LISTENING TO: Jennifer Daniels’ Oatmeal (you didn’t have to tell me stories of how your mother made you oatmeal and all while the sun was pouring down across your bed. You didn’t have to make believe that you were in love with me when you were in love with this vision of this vision in your head.)

SANG IN SHOWER: Slip-Siding Away by Paul Simon

161. SINGING ... ABOUT THE DARK TIMES

From the Archives

(October 2005) So. Scientists have determined that the 1918 flu pandemic was a bird flu that jumped directly to humans. Scientists also speculate that AIDS is a monkey virus that jumped directly to humans.

Now bear with me ‘cause I’ll come back to that. But, in the meantime, anthropologists argue that humans have survived as a species, in part, because our ability to communicate allows us to weed out, through ostracism or physical elimination, the bloodthirsty bullies who would destroy our communities.

Unlike chimpanzees, we homo sapiens manage to silence our bullies in an effort to sustain our species.

Yet homo sapiens engineered the Holocaust. The Crusades. Destroyed priceless cultural artifacts—destroyed thought—during the Dark Ages and beyond. Introduced untold atrocities in the twentieth century. Engineered the disasppeared. And Rwanda. And Darfur.

Now we have reached another juncture when the Christianists have become the arrogant, aggressive iron-fisted bullies who are attempting to silence alternative viewpoints, to silence diversity.

In our time, it is the Donald Trumps of the world—the people who say, with glee, You’re fired! as we sit on our couches eating popcorn and celebrating such meanness—not the Gandhis or Martin Luther Kings Jrs or Bobby Kennedys of the world—who are revered, some photogenic asshole on Survivor who flexes his abs for the camera while stabbing a teammate in the back who is lauded as the new American hero.

Meanwhile, we have elected a president who used his Daddy’s connections to weasel his way out of serving in the armed services but now dons war gear in an effort to pass himself off as a hero. And a mean-spirited, heartless preacher who shows up at gay children’s funerals waving a “God Hates Fags” placards and shouting to the boy’s mourning parents that their child is in Hell where s/he belongs is celebrated as a moral hero by people who consider themselves moral.

We worship the biz school detritis of suburban America—the glamorous, consumer-branded offspring of corporate CEOs and the idle rich who will do anything in the name of bidness and retaining their status among the economic elite.

So I guess it makes sense that the Christianists have followed suit and realized that American citizens want a mean Jerry Falwell-type and not some kind-hearted country bumpkin Will Campbell-type who admonishes us to fulfill Christ’s directive to love one another, damn it!

Evangelists who once proclaimed Jesus’s message of love and inclusiveness now strut their power on stage and their hatred over the radio waves, garner control from their tax-protected pulpits and rake in millions spreading hatred as God’s unerring truth.

Modernity, twentieth-century German Jewish philosophers Walter Benjamin and Theodor Adorno argue, is marked by a superstitious worship of oppressive force (and by a concomitant reliance on oblivion, poet Carolyn Forché would add).

I fear people who are convinced that they hold the only version of truth, perhaps because I grew up surrounded by too damn many fundamentalists who wanted to control my and everyone else’s mind, body, and soul. I fear people like Eric Rudolph who are so convinced that their god gives them the right to silence all other interpretations of truth that they believe they are justified in walking into a bar and spraying nails into fellow human beings.

And I fear the neighborhood Eric Rudolphs who spread homohate and misogyny across their kitchen tables and backyard fences.

Today, American universities, like universities in Tehran and other theocracies, are teeming with students who “have an unwavering moral compass that is not swayed by public opinion” (as several grad. students informed me before refusing to complete a writing assignment that required them to argue both sides of an issue).

It’s no longer paranoid to imagine American students reporting professors who don’t espouse the presidential administration’s iron-fisted policies to some thought Gestapo that will monitor library books and e-mail and telephone calls, hold us without cause for indeterminate periods of time without ever pressing charges because we spoke out in the name of justice, democracy.

Professors who dare discuss a controversial topic (or who insist that students stick to the topic instead of monopolizing discussion time with their repeated bigotry) are dragged through the mud in newspapers and punished for preaching reason.

Meanwhile, a university degree is something to be purchased, just a piece of paper that suburban parents buy for their children like designer clothes.

But what about knowledge for the sake of knowledge, enlightenment? That’s what kept me working to pay my tuition even when I was exhausted, what keeps my artist friends and me up nights reveling in new ideas and exploring new ways of thinking and seeing and interpreting and moving in the world, our place in it.

My mother used to threaten to send me to Bob Jones University when I mocked Baptist doctrines and I count my blessings every day that religious school vouchers were not available back when I was a kid. I try to remember to recognize how fortunate I am that I was able to attend public schools where—at least in some cases—such narrow doctrines were challenged.

But today Christianists are in a position to hold their children prisoner to these ignorant views, to define the conversation within the parameters of their own narrow world view. And, since Reagan did away with balanced reporting, Christianists can purchase television shows (on, say, the National Geographic channel) that assert their so-called Intelligent Design or whatever philosophy they’re currently espousing as scientific truth without justifying it.

Did you know that there are two different rafting tours down the Grand Canyon: one for scientists and one for people who espouse the theory of intelligent design? Ponder that. And even the once-credible New York Times spends far too much time furthering the president’s agenda instead of presenting objective news (but that’s a topic for another day).

What comes to us via our TV screens and the radio and in our newspapers today may not be factual, may instead be whatever message a sponsor paid for us to hear.

Or shall I just state the obvious: Our reality is determined by the market.

Christianists would argue that science is but an advertisement as well, but some of them have never even taken a legitimate science course from a legitimate scientist. Why then should they be allowed to lecture about this field of expertise?

So many Americans—like Bush’s current Supreme Court nominee—base their world view solely on what they define as the perfect word of God and insist that patterns found in our natural world are immaterial.

Carolyn Forché notes, in her introduction to Against Forgetting: Twentieth-Century Poetry of Witness, that
the gap between self and other opens up the problem of relativism that has bedeviled modern philosophy, politics, and poetry. Respect for otherness seems always to release the specter of an infinite regress. The language of religion therefore becomes quite important in this supposedly secular century, for religion traditionally makes claims for universality and unimpeachable truth.

And some of the most flagrant forms of institutionalized violence in our era, she notes, have been directed toward specific religions (during the Holocaust) or against religion in general (as in the Soviet Union and in Eastern Europe).

Religion in our age of atrocity bears substantial responsibility for human suffering.

I try to believe that most of us are reasonable people who are likewise appalled by the fact that we seem to be worshipping Donald Trump.

(Surely that must appall people at some level.)

I try to believe these people are grasping for morals in a world that feels increasingly out of control and meaningless.

The Christian church is an easy answer in such a world. It provides a social outlet for our children, still teaches the Golden Rule, offers up a (patriotic) version of the Ten Commandments, the promise of salvation, clear boundaries.

The problem is, the modern evangelical movement, the fundamentalists, are also attempting to introduce a new dark ages.

WHAT HAPPENS IF THE RELIGIOUS FUNDAMENTALISTS SUCCEED?

A lawyer friend and I have long philosophical conversations as often as we can manage. Her lawyer husband was on Clinton’s shortlist to be the next Supreme Court justice and said, after the Meiers nomination, We’ve gotten it all wrong. We thought it was abortion, but it’s religion. The ultimate goal is not to overturn Roe v. Wade, but to force their religious beliefs onto the rest of us.

That writing’s been on the wall for some time now.

My friend is re-reading Margaret Atwood’s Handmaid’s Tale now and it’s scaring the living shit out of her. She says she still can’t believe that we’re actually in a place where the possibility of waking up to discover that her bank account has been closed and her money placed in her husband’s account does not seem so far outside the realm of possibility anymore.

I think of the homeschooled Christianist children, the ones who never even get a chance to experience Enlightenment thought, in terms of Plato’s Parable of the Cave. They’re indoctrinated now, afraid, unable to turn their heads and acknowledge the light at the opening of the cave, and thus continue to insist that the world is black and white, without nuance, without subtlety. They’re rigid with fear and ignorant, yet insist that everyone else see the world through their narrow black and white lens.

There’s a reason Hitler went after the artists, the free-thinkers, first. A reason the Hungarian poet Miklós Radnóti was sent to forced-labor camp where his words were silenced.

Carolyn Forché notes that,
as North Americans, we have been fortunate: wars for us [provided we are not combatants] are fought elsewhere, in other countries. The cities bombed are other people’s cities. The houses destroyed are other people’s houses. We are also fortunate in that we do not live under martial law [yet]. There are nominal restrictions on state censorship; our citizens are not sent into exile. We are legally and juridicially free to choose our associates, and to determine our communal lives. But perhaps we should not consider our social lives as merely products of our choice: the social is a place of resistance and struggle, where books are published, poems read, and protests disseminated. It is the sphere in which claims against the political order are made in the name of justice.

Still, I stand by Bertolt Brecht’s belief: In the dark times ... there will be singing. About the dark times.

Yet (Medea says, finally getting back to those scientists and the bird flu that jumped to the human species and making a huge specious leap), sometimes I wonder if we should compare this cowboy Christianist mindset that now dominates our land to rogue chimpanzee behavior that threatens whole species.

160. MEMORIALIZED VEGETABLES

From the Archives

(October 2005) It was bound to happen.

The William Morris Agency has sold the rights to publish, on the one-year anniversary of her death, an as-yet-untitled memoir written by the parents and siblings of the late Terri Schiavo, that will “share their love and sorrow, joy and pain, and some shocking revelations as they honor Terri’s life, mourn her death, and finally tell the whole story.”

And the president has nominated, to serve on the highest bench in the land, a homophobic, anti-choice evangelical who has never even served as a judge and who believes in biblical inerrancy.

Lots going on that can alter our nation’s tapestry but, meanwhile, over 11 million American households have Built-a-Bear (TM) in the past 8 years. That’s over 30 million bears. Wonder how many of those households devoted the same amount of time to expressing outrage about cronyism? Poverty? Or were they too goddamn distracted by their fuzzy-ass teddy bears?

Meanwhile, just in time to coincide with a Supreme Court justice who believes in biblical inerrancy, Warner is slated to publish Christopher Hitchens’ GOD IS NOT GREAT: THE CASE AGAINST RELIGION.

Hitchens asserts that religion does more harm than good in the world, and aims to show how society would benefit if faith remained personal rather than public.

And now a quote. James Madison said The purpose of separation of church and state is to keep forever from these shores the ceaseless strife that has soaked the soil of Europe with blood for centuries.

Iraq. Did Madison allude to the soils of Iraq?

159. LUMINOUS DEBRIS

From the Archives
(October 2005)
”Luminous Debris was the title of Gustaf Sobin's collection of essays (UCal Press, 1999) on the landscape and history of Southern France, where the American expatriate has lived for more than forty years—but it might just as well describe his poems: like shards of some distant and immemorial linguistic eruption, they are full of middles and sometimes of ends, but their beginnings are lost in silence."—KultureFlash.net

LINGUA FRANCA
by Gustaf Sobin

frivolous with immensity, let your
fingertips slip over the
very contours
of
inception, grazing as they did its pleats, ripples, the
slick
contracted expanse of its muscles, laminated in
dark oils. loom and
dissolve; heave and succumb. for there, furtive, epi-
phenomenal, you'd only transit—vaporous—through all
those flexed
de-
terminants. does the mirror know what the
mirrored doesn't? wouldn't the

resonance enter, root
resplendent, there where the voice,
manifestly,
couldn't? thus drawn, solicited, even the air's
for

inclusion. so, too—you'd noted—each
dis-
tended member, its least
emitted murmur, but

only wrapped, enclosed in the whirring viscera of its own
un-
wording. for only then, in its very
ex-

tinguishing,
spoke.

Friday, November 2, 2007

158. NO PLACE FOR A POET

From the Archives (September 2005)
Laura Bush
First Lady
The White House

Dear Mrs. Bush,
I am writing to let you know why I am not able to accept your kind invitation to give a presentation at the National Book Festival on September 24, or to attend your dinner at the Library of Congress or the breakfast at the White House.

In one way, it's a very appealing invitation. The idea of speaking at a festival attended by 85,000 people is inspiring! The possibility of finding new readers is exciting for a poet in personal terms, and in terms of the desire that poetry serve its constituents—all of us who need the pleasure, and the inner and outer news, it delivers.

And the concept of a community of readers and writers has long been dear to my heart. As a professor of creative writing in the graduate school of a major university, I have had the chance to be a part of some magnificent outreach writing workshops in which our students have become teachers. Over the years, they have taught in a variety of settings: a women's prison, several New York City public high schools, an oncology ward for children. Our initial program, at a 900-bed state hospital for the severely physically challenged, has been running now for twenty years, creating along the way lasting friendships between young MFA candidates and their students—long-term residents at the hospital who, in their humor, courage and wisdom, become our teachers.

When you have witnessed someone nonspeaking and almost nonmoving spell out, with a toe, on a big plastic alphabet chart, letter by letter, his new poem, you have experienced, close up, the passion and essentialness of writing. When you have held up a small cardboard alphabet card for a writer who is completely nonspeaking and nonmoving (except for the eyes), and pointed first to the A, then the B, then C, then D, until you get to the first letter of the first word of the first line of the poem she has been composing in her head all week, and she lifts her eyes when that letter is touched to say yes, you feel with a fresh immediacy the human drive for creation, self expression, accuracy, honesty and wit—and the importance of writing, which celebrates the value of each person's unique story and song.

So the prospect of a festival of books seemed wonderful to me. I thought of the opportunity to talk about how to start up an outreach program. I thought of the chance to sell some books, sign some books and meet some of the citizens of Washington, DC. I thought that I could try to find a way, even as your guest, with respect, to speak about my deep feeling that we should not have invaded Iraq, and to declare my belief that the wish to invade another culture and another country—with the resultant loss of life and limb for our brave soldiers, and for the noncombatants in their home terrain—did not come out of our democracy but was instead a decision made "at the top" and forced on the people by distorted language, and by untruths. I hoped to express the fear that we have begun to live in the shadows of tyranny and religious chauvinism—the opposites of the liberty, tolerance and diversity our nation aspires to.

I tried to see my way clear to attend the festival in order to bear witness—as an American who loves her country and its principles and its writing—against this undeclared and devastating war.

But I could not face the idea of breaking bread with you. I knew that if I sat down to eat with you, it would feel to me as if I were condoning what I see to be the wild, highhanded actions of the Bush Administration.

What kept coming to the fore of my mind was that I would be taking food from the hand of the First Lady who represents the Administration that unleashed this war and that wills its continuation, even to the extent of permitting "extraordinary rendition": flying people to other countries where they will be tortured for us.

So many Americans who had felt pride in our country now feel anguish and shame, for the current regime of blood, wounds and fire. I thought of the clean linens at your table, the shining knives and the flames of the candles, and I could not stomach it.

Sincerely,
SHARON OLDS

•

Here's a quote from Friday's New York Times: "I find that I am becoming more and more angry," said a 40-year-old priest on the West Coast who said he had not decided whether to reveal his homosexuality publicly. "This is the church I've given my life to and I believe in. I look at every person I come in contact with as someone who's created in the image and likeless of God, and I expect that from the church that I'm a part of. But I always feel like I'm 'less than.' "

157. IDLE AND BLESSED, OR, JUST ANOTHER SPECK IN THE STEW

From the Archives

(September 2005) First day of autumn, my favorite time of the year. Our days are getting shorter. The air is getting crisper. And our grandmother trees are transitioning from busy food-making preparations into their long party season of stored sugar highs. The state fair. Apples. Rakes and leaves. And finally we leave the steamy 100° days behind. Full speed ahead to the chlorophyll—seep into those branches and turn our leaves to gold!

I like to think of those sugar-loaded winter trees as statelier versions of that annoying little addicted sister in John Waters’ film Pecker, petulantly shouting “Me want SUGAR now!!”

But we were talking about autumn, weren’t we? The mountains’ fine crispness and leaves.

Mary Oliver says she doesn’t know exactly what prayer is, but she does
know how to pay attention, how to fall down
into the grass, how to kneel in the grass,
how to be idle and blessed, how to stroll through the fields,
which is what I have been doing all day.
Tell me, what else should I have done?
Doesn’t everything die at last, and too soon?
Tell me, what is it you plan to do
with your one wild and precious life?

What do I plan to do? I plan to be outdoors—making art, making music, making love.

A pal and I have been talking about death a lot since the hurricane hit. She’s terrified of dying and says her fear interferes with her ability to enjoy life in the present tense. “Just knowing I’m going to die ruins it for me,” she says.

I’m not particularly afraid of dying, but really don’t want to die in pain.

Still, I rage against the dying of my light as much as anyone else, mourn and miss loved ones who have been dead for years, and go to the gym on a regular basis in an effort to stave off the inevitable.

And, unlike my friend, I don’t believe that there’s some benevolent being with his eye on this particular sparrow, that one day he will come scoop me up in his kind godly hand and set me down on some proverbial street of gold.

I don’t believe (or disbelieve) in previous lives either, have never once though that I might really be Cleopatra or Edna St. Vincent Millay or Sylvia Beach reincarnated.

I am, on the other hand, very fond of the notion that, since I am composed of matter and antimatter (which doesn’t disappear), then I might simply change form and continue to exist, with possible awareness.

If this is the case, then I would like to settle into the form of a Pacific NW river rock that can smell the air. I recognize that it’s just as likely that I could wind up a speck of dirt stuck under some stinkin’ cow turd in rural Texas though.

Frankly, I know that I probably won’t settle into any particular shape at all, but will instead mix with all the other dispersed beings in the universe to form some giant universal stew that, with luck, is cognizant of our universality.

And that notion doesn’t bother me much at all.

156. CUI BONO

From the Archives

(September 2005) Cindy Sheehan points out on Truthout.org that over 200 innocent Iraqis have been killed this week alone. Maybe GWB should ask his mother to make a statement about those murdered Iraqis after her next self-improvement workshop. Let me guess. Babs says They were underprivileged anyway.

Meanwhile, here I sit at my keyboard typing away and there I will sit in my safe automobile later, singing along to the radio as my tax dollars blow off another Iraqi's legs. It's all so clean, so sanitized, almost as if the entire country is one great big gated resort community at Epcot where the real-life consequences of our policies happen behind a sanitized curtain.

It amazes me that the same president who suspends federal wage laws for workers who are rebuilding the Gulf Coast has the gall to authorize another massive supplemental spending bill that will give more no-bid contracts to his incompetent chums at Halliburton and Bechtel, to donors who have done nothing but bungle Iraqi reconstruction at our expense!

Makes you wonder how Al Gore, a democrat familiar with the Tennessee Valley Authority model, would have handled the hurricane and those contracts, doesn’t it?

William Greider notes in The Nation that
in the totality of the Gulf Coast destruction, the economy and the society have been collapsed. As New Dealers understood, you cannot fix one without fixing the other. And only the federal government has the resources and authority to lead such a complex undertaking.

A new New Deal, that's what he's talking about.

Joshua Holland points out stark differences in how the two parties (shhh! don't tell Nader) are responding to the Hurricane Katrina debacle in Alternet's "It's the Governance, Stupid!"

Illinois Democrats Rahm Emmanuel and Barack Obama (please elect this man president) are pushing legislation to get tax refunds to hurricane victims faster but Republicans Jon Kyl (AZ) and Jeff Sessions (AL) are trying to find a dead person with enough money to pay estate taxes so they can push another repeal of what the GOPers insist on calling "the death tax."

I guess it hasn't occurred to the Republicans that few southerners—few people outside their circles, in fact—are wealthy enough to pay that tax to begin with.

Jim McDermott (D-WA) is working to extend benefits to children in need of relief even as the obscene Rick Santorum (R-PA) works to extend benefits to his donors.

Santorum got busy in the days following the disaster by advancing legislation that would keep the National Weather Service out of the business of predicting the next deadly storm, Holland notes.

And conservative legislators are pushing an amendment to cut the non-defense budget by 2.5 percent, even as Democrats propose "comprehensive, long-term aid to the stricken areas for housing, keeping kids in school and healthcare."

Meanwhile, the New York Times reports that GOP leaders and White Housers see opportunities in Hurricane Katrina to push controversial legislation "giving students vouchers to pay for private schools, paying churches to help with temporary housing and scaling back business regulation."

Sen. James Inhofe (R-OK)—who would no doubt insist that global warming couldn't possibly have raised water temperatures and thus increased Katrina's strength or that all those disappeared barrier swamps could have protected New Orleans from such devastation—has actually written a bill that allows the EPA to suspend environmental regulations during Gulf Coast reconstruction, giving the oil industry a big break. I can just see it: come on down and enjoy the newest New Orleans cuisine: oil-glazed alligator.

Ted Kennedy (D-MA), bless his heart, wants to create a Gulf Coast Redevelopment Authority based on FDR's Tennessee Valley Authority model.

(See, I did eventually loop back to Al Gore.)

William Greider notes that other

bold Democrats are doing what they haven't dared to do for many years, even decades: They are invoking their New Deal legacy and applying its liberal operating assumptions to the present crisis.

Former Senator John Edwards proposes a vast new jobs program, patterned after the New Deal's Works Progress Administration (WPA) and Civilian Conservation Corps (CCC), in which the displaced and the poor are hired at living wages to clean up and rebuild their devastated communities. In the week after Katrina, Representatives Dennis Kucinich and Stephanie Tubbs Jones swiftly rounded up 88 House co-sponsors, including some from Mississippi and Louisiana, for a similar initiative.

As the dimensions of this challenge become clearer, reformers will discover other New Deal models they can emulate and adapt to present circumstances. For instance, in the 1930s Roosevelt's Reconstruction Finance Corporation was a central player in rebuilding the industrial economy, because it acted like a public-spirited investment banker empowered to channel startup capital to collapsed companies, provide temporary protection from creditors and impose equitable terms on how the private firms relate to social priorities. This time cities and schools need similar help.

Neither local school systems nor small-business employers can recover unless their communities have a large, reliable base of wage incomes—that is, government-financed jobs to sustain customers and taxpayers. You can't rebuild homes without tools and materials or temporary relief from mortgage defaults. You can't reopen schools if their tax base is gone. You can't prevent poor people from sliding back into desperate conditions unless government creates ladders of upward mobility. Recognizing such social-economic connections was the essence of New Deal innovation. Serious politicians need to jump-start their imaginations. This born-again New Deal spirit isn't backward-looking but instead can seize the opportunity to address grave issues—such as the myriad ecological dangers spawned by our hydrocarbon economy—that status-quo politics neglects, like the New Orleans levees.

And here's something worth noting:

The catastrophe, as many seem to grasp, is one of those big moments that jolt public consciousness and alter the course of national history. I would go further and describe it as an exclamation point that marks a dramatic breakdown for the reigning right-wing orthodoxy, the beginning of its retreat and eventual demise. This by no means insures the restoration of progressive alternatives, but events have at least reopened the argument conservatives thought they had won. A profound political question is suddenly on the table: Must the country continue to give precedence to private financial gain over human lives and public values?

That's a question worth repeating.

Ironically, Republicans rose to prominence by promising to liberate the citizenry from the government's intrusive powers, but now intrude on our private lives legally thanks to their fear-of-terrorism legislation. They have certainly succeeded in liberating us from public assistance, eh? And the sad reality is that the GOP leadership couldn't even intrude enough into our lives to move available water, medicine, food, and security to a place where the citizens are in harm's way.

Even Newt Gingrich is worried about his party right now and warning his co-conspirators that they'd better change their tune or face big losses. (Of course, the Newt is also urging the president to turn the Gulf Coast into a humongous tax-free zone for subsidized businesses and, like Sen. Inhofe, wants to relieve the oil industry [currently being sued for price gauging the citizenry] of those meddlesome environmental regulations that at least attempt to keep us healthy and safe.)

It seems obvious that GOP leadership is concerned not with protecting the average citizen, but with protecting wealthy donors—those 20 percenters who use over half of our goddamn resources that we can't get to flooded people in the richest country in the world.

Holland says it best: these acts are the very essence of poor governance: placing cronyism and ideology over the needs of devastated communities.

Maybe, just maybe, enough citizens will ask cui bono (who gains?) now, while the Republicans stew in their own fetid juices.

What’s that Molly Ivins line? Our legislators are a bunch of rubber-nosed woodpeckers in a petrified forest—and the only saving grace in this horrible mess is that the truth has finally caught up with the assholes/the truth has come home to roost.

155. A THOUSAND POINTS OF ... SOMETHING

From the Archives

(September 2005) I won't be writing much till my laptop returns from its motherboard-replacement vacation to California, but I do have a question before I disappear: Has anyone else noted the irony of the fact that King Bush the Former made his thousand points of light speech (in which he promised to help the poor) in the Superdome?

Anyway. It’s car-free day and a whole lot of people have lost their things, so here's an apt poem from Writer’s Almanac:

THINGS
by Liel Muller
from Alive Together: New and Selected Poems

What happened is, we grew lonely
living among the things,
so we gave the clock a face,
the chair a back,
the table four stout legs
which will never suffer fatigue.

We fitted our shoes with tongues
as smooth as our own
and hung tongues inside bells
so we could listen
to their emotional language,

and because we loved graceful profiles
the pitcher received a lip,
the bottle a long, slender neck.

Even what was beyond us
was recast in our image:
we gave the country a heart,
the storm an eye,
the cave a mouth
so we could pass into safely.


•

Meanwhile, I came across this signature on Bowlie Whisper It: Feminism:

I feel certain that somewhere very near here—the first house down the road, maybe—there's a good poet dying, but also somewhere very near here somebody's having a hilarious pint of pus taken from her lovely young body, and I can't be running back and forth forever between grief and high delight.

154. GAY SEMINARIANS & ECLECTIC SPIRITUALITY

From the Archives

(September 2005) And now the latest in homophobia (which, at this rate, could become a column at the end of my entries, perhaps replacing SINGING IN THE SHOWER, which I always forget to include): The Vatican is sending inspectors to each of its US seminaries to look for evidence of homosexuality and for instructors who dissent from church teaching.

Does the phrase “witch hunt” mean anything to anyone?

This news got me thinking about my radical co-conspirators at The Quixote Center, where I worked in the late 80s. We sent humanitarian aid to Nicaragua, started an artist collective in Nicaragua, worked to end sexism in the Catholic Church and to have women ordained as priests, and I wrote one kick-ass full-page New York Times protest ad in response to the Bishops’ restrictive Pastoral Letter on Women.

Bill, the Jesuit priest who co-founded the Center, was excommunicated after refusing to cease and desist associations with the Center and its work.

Of course, the current apostolic visitation has nothing to do with Bill, but is instead in response to the burgeoning sexual-assault scandal.

The church has, historically, demanded that priests repress their sexual urges and then hidden the results of their sexual urges seeping out all over. Yet stil they deny these natural longings. Jesuits are instructed to wrap barbed wire around their thighs to rid themselves of arousal. And gay men are instructed to take an abstinance oath, to bury their longing as well.

And um need I mention that sexual attraction to children and sexual attraction to grown men are entirely separate things? Yet these people insist on lumping gay people in with the largely hetero child abusers.

The New York Times notes that “the catechism of the Catholic Church says people with deep-seated homosexual tendencies must live in chastity because homosexual acts are intrinsically disordered” ... I guess because a bunch of men who never have sex are more qualified to define sexaul disorders than the psychiatrists who are experts in this area.

Here’s a sample question that will be asked of every faculty member, seminarian, and student who graduated in the last 3 years:
Is the seminary free from the influences of New Age and eclectic spirituality?

Amazing how subjective this question is—but, of course, we are talking about a witch hunt, aren’t we?

(Um does a spirit catcher hanging off my mirror count as New Age spirituality, guys?)

•

In other news, Massachusetts soundly rejected a bill to eliminate gay marriage by 157 to 39. More than 6,500 same-sex couples got married last year in this state and, turns out, most of the lawmakers who supported marriage equality were re-elected.

Still, it looks as if we’ll have a new Supreme Court justice who is comfortable weakening the separation of church and state and who had no qualms about weaseling his way around answering those pesky Roe v. Wade questions.

And did anyone else note that an NPR commentator referred to media coverage of the Supreme Court as “the sound byte-ification” of the Court? I wonder if that term will show up in Webster’s 12th?

Meanwhile, here’s an apt op-ed piece that ran in today’s New York Times:

READY? CUE THE SUN...
by David Brooks

ARLEN SPECTER Welcome to Day 3 of the confirmation hearings of John Roberts. I'd like to take this opportunity to remind the nation of what a wonderful job I'm doing chairing this committee, and I'd like to let the ranking member tell me so.

PATRICK LEAHY Absolutely, Mr. Chairman! And let me kick off this morning's platitudes about the grandeur of our Constitution by quoting its first three words, "We the People." That means that here in America the people rule - except on issues like abortion, where their opinions don't mean spit.

SPECTER Very well put, Senator Leahy! And welcome Judge Roberts back before our committee.

JOHN ROBERTS JR. Aw, shucks. This has been a humbling experience, Mr. Chairman. To think that a boy from an exclusive prep school and Harvard Law could grow up and be nominated for the Supreme Court—it shows how in America it's possible to rise from privilege to power! That's the hallmark of our great nation.

So while, of course, I can't talk about specific cases, or any emotions, weather patterns or sandwich meats that may come before the Supreme Court at any time between now and my death in 2048, I do want to reiterate that I feel humbled by this experience. I feel humbled that my wife is dozing off behind me. I feel humbled by this committee's inability to lay a glove on me. And I feel modest. You see this suit? I skinny-dip in this suit. That's how modest I feel.

TOM COBURN Well put, Judge Roberts. Yet when I think of the polarization that still divides this great nation ... waaaahhhh ... waaaahhhh. (Senator Coburn breaks down weeping.)

JEFF SESSIONS This may be a good moment to remind my colleagues on the other side of the aisle that in this country unelected judges don't write the laws. We have unelected lobbyists to do that. Under our system, judges merely interpret the law and decide presidential elections.

SPECTER Senator Sessions, let me interrupt you right there. We're not here to argue among ourselves and ignore the nominee. We're here to deliver thirty-minute speeches disguised as questions and ignore the nominee. So let me turn to Senator Bid—

COBURN And when I think of the flaws in the reconciliation process! And the gerrymandering! Oh, the suffering! Oh, the humanity! Waaaahhhh ... waaaahhhh. (Senator Coburn collapses and is taken back to his office on a stretcher.)

SPECTER As I was saying, Senator Biden, you have the floor.

JOSEPH BIDEN JR. Thank you, Mr. Chairman. I thought this might be a good moment to give the committee a complete history of my heroic sponsorship of the Violence Against Women Act, but before I do that I'd like to interrupt myself by mentioning that I ride the train every day, often speaking with regular Americans, but before I do that I'd like to interrupt my interruption of myself by asking the chairman to restrain the nominee. During my first round of questioning, the nominee continually interrupted my questions by trying to give answers. I could barely keep up my train of thought on stare decisis.

EDWARD KENNEDY Starry De Cysis? Didn't she do a fan dance down at that old burlesque house in Providence?

ROBERTS Mr. Chairman, I certainly don't mean to draw attention to myself, for, as I have said, judges are like umpires - not home plate umpires, but those umpires stuck way out by the right-field foul pole. Nobody ever went to a game to watch the umpires.

But as you know, Judge Ginsburg, during her confirmation hearing, had herself wrapped in duct tape for fear that any involuntary reflex gestures she might make would mar her impartiality in deciding cases later on. Following her example, I have decided to spend the rest of these hearings in a soundproof booth, sunk in a tank of ravenous sharks and accompanied only by the illusionist David Copperfield. But before I go into isolation, I would like to mention the intense modesty I feel at this moment, notwithstanding the fact that not a single one of you slobs could have charged $700 an hour the way I did in private practice.

RICHARD DURBIN Judge Roberts, before you go, one of the ways we in the Senate prove our superior souls is by emoting mawkish sentimentality on cue. Would you please emote sadness and pain on behalf of politically powerful but downtrodden groups?

ROBERTS I am emoting, senator.

153. COLLABORATIONS

From the Archives

(September 2005) Here’s another piece from shock and awe: war on words. It’s Adrienne Rich—which means, of course, that she has odd line breaks and deep indents ... only I can’t figure out how to create those deep indents in HTML so you get it all flush left. She wouldn’t like that one bit, would probably come up with some kind of hyphenated obscenity with which to put me in my place.

collaborations
by Adrienne Rich

I
Thought of this “our” nation :: thought of war
ghosts of war fugitive
in labyrinths of amnesia
veterans out-of-state textbooks in a library basement
dark
didn’t realize it until I wrote it

August now apples have started
severing from the tree
over the deck by night their dim impact
thuds into dreams
by daylight bruised starting to stew in sun
saying “apple” to nose and tongue
to memory

Word following sense, the way it should be
and if you don’t speak the word
do you lose your senses
And isn’t this just one speck, one atom
on the glazed surface we call
America
from which I write
the war ghosts treading in their shredded
disguises above the clouds
and the price we pay here still opaque as the fog
these mornings
we always say will break open?


II
Try this one on your tongue: “the poetry of the enemy”
If you read it will you succumb

Will the enemy’s wren fly through your window
and circle your room

Will you smell the herbs hung to dry in the house
he has had to rebuild in words

Would you weaken your will to hear
riffs of the instruments he loves

rustling of rivers remembered
where faucets are dry

“The enemy’s water” is there a phrase
for that in your language?

And you what do you write
now in your abandoned house tuned in

to the broadcasts of horror
under a sagging arbor, dimdumim

do you grope for poetry
to embrace all this

—not describe, embrace staggering
in its arms, Jacob-and-angle-wise?


III
Do you understand why I want your voice?
At the seder table it’s said

you reclined and said nothing
now in the month of Elul is your throat so dry

your dreams so stony
you wake with their grit in your mouth?

There was a beautiful life here once
Our enemies poisoned it?

Make a list of what’s lost but don’t
call it a poem

that’s for the scriptors of nostalgia
bent to their copying-desks

Make a list of what you love well
Twist it insert it

into a bottle of old Roman glass
go to the edge of the sea

at Haifa where the refugee ships lurched in
and the ships of deportation wrenched away


IV
for Giora Leshem

Drove upcoast first day of another year no rain
oxalis gold lakes floating
on January green

Can winter tides off the Levant
churn up wilder spume?

Think Crusades, remember Acre
wind driving at fortress walls

everything returns in time except the
utterly disappeared
What thou lovest well can well be reft from thee

What does not change / is the will
to vanquish
the fascination with what’s easiest
see it in any video arcade

is this what the wind is driving at?

Where are you Giora? whose hands
lay across mine a moment
Can you still believe that afternoon
Talking you smoking light and shade
on the deck, here in California
our laughter, your questions of translation
your daughter’s flute?

(First published in The School among the Ruins: Poem 2000–2004, forthcoming)

152. THE UNDENIABLE PRESSURE OF EXISTENCE

From the Archives

(September 2005) From the Writer’s Almanac:

THE UNDENIABLE PRESSURE OF EXISTENCE
by Patricia Fargnoli

from Duties of the Spirit (Tupelo Press)

I saw the fox running by the side of the road
past the turned-away brick faces of the condominiums
past the Citco gas station with its line of cars and trucks
and he ran, limping, gaunt, matted dull haired
past Jim's Pizza, past the Wash-O-Mat,
past the Thai Garden, his sides heaving like bellows
and he kept running to where the interstate
crossed the state road and he reached it and he ran on
under the underpass and beyond it past the perfect
rows of split-levels, their identical driveways
their brookless and forestless yards,
and from my moving car, I watched him,
helpless to do anything to help him, certain he was beyond
any aid, any desire to save him, and he ran loping on,
far out of his element, sick, panting, starving,
his eyes fixed on some point ahead of him,
some possible salvation
in all this hopelessness, that only he could see.