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some people have a knack of telling their life stories with an addictive humour leaving their audiences clamouring for more. my genetic make-up seems to lack that story-telling trait, or, perhaps in a more optimistic light, such phenotype has not yet come to manifest behaviourally.
a couple of weeks ago, i found myself in the audience listening to David Sedaris read from his latest opus “When You Are Engulfed in Flames“. i had only very recently discovered that the university bookstore held such events. as i waited excitedly in the reserved seating section in the bookstore’s underground premise, i felt quite alone amongst the sea of strangers and Sedaris pilgrims.
unlike most other people in the audience, i am the odd-ball who has never before this event read any of Sedaris’s works. friends, monoceros and DSD, in particular, adore his writing, and have mentioned that i ought to look up his other works. as i haven’t heeded their good advise, i thought that attending his reading might make up for the apparent lack of solidarity.
with a rather straight face, Sedaris read his anecdotes aloud. one does not really know if he ever laughs in his pants with the audience or that it’s a facade he’s learnt to assume during readings. the stories are undoubtedly funny; awkward life situations that are both embarrassing and ridiculous, but quite plausibly true, too. some of his trans-cultural experiences are uncannily similar to mine, although mine were never quite so embarrassing. it seems that linguistic faux-pas can be a devastatingly easy cultivator of unfortunate circumstances, and at the same time, potentially a lot of laughs. while his conversational style and thematic approach to his subject render his readers an expectation of what subsequent developments might be likely… he offers suspense with digressions, not too far removed from the main theme. we arrive at the end of each anecdotal chapter of his life enlivened, and perhaps a little more at ease at laughing at ourselves if we weren’t already used to doing so.
the book-signing queue was endless, and for the most part remained in situ. the wait was made a little more miserable by the fact that many buildings in the midwest, while magestic in its sheer volume, do not capitalize in their architectural design, the natural sunlight that is pleasantly abundant in this part of the world where winters dominate the weather forecast. it’s an utter shame for summer has finally arrived!
when i finally got to the table where Sedaris was perched, he mentioned ‘having to’ visit Hong Kong later this year… i said he ought to explore Singapore but forgot to add that i think he might find his visit interesting fodder for his travel anecdotes… i guess if he were to visit he’ll figure that out himself! in any case, i was one of the few hundred patient but restless readers who left the stuffy underground that evening with an autograph and a bit of random doodling from the man; apparently, if i had a cat, it would look as weirdly crossed-eyed as it appears in my book.
for those who missed the event, here’s a podcast, a list of programmes related to Sedaris, and a recent entry by the man reflecting on his letting go of a habit. but be warned… laughing might be a necessary and natural response.
Desiderata
Go placidly amid the noise and haste,
and remember what peace there may be in silence.
As far as possible without surrender
be on good terms with all persons.
Speak your truth quietly and clearly;
and listen to others,
even the dull and the ignorant;
they too have their story.
Avoid loud and aggressive persons,
they are vexations to the spirit.
If you compare yourself with others,
you may become vain and bitter;
for always there will be greater and lesser persons than yourself.
Enjoy your achievements as well as your plans.
Keep interested in your own career, however humble;
it is a real possession in the changing fortunes of time.
Exercise caution in your business affairs;
for the world is full of trickery.
But let this not blind you to what virtue there is;
many persons strive for high ideals;
and everywhere life is full of heroism.
Be yourself.
Especially, do not feign affection.
Neither be cynical about love;
for in the face of all aridity and disenchantment
it is as perennial as the grass.
Take kindly the counsel of the years,
gracefully surrendering the things of youth.
Nurture strength of spirit to shield you in sudden misfortune.
But do not distress yourself with dark imaginings.
Many fears are born of fatigue and loneliness.
Beyond a wholesome discipline,
be gentle with yourself.
You are a child of the universe,
no less than the trees and the stars;
you have a right to be here.
And whether or not it is clear to you,
no doubt the universe is unfolding as it should.
Therefore be at peace with God,
whatever you conceive Him to be,
and whatever your labors and aspirations,
in the noisy confusion of life keep peace with your soul.
With all its sham, drudgery, and broken dreams,
it is still a beautiful world.
Be cheerful.
Strive to be happy.
~Max Ehrmann © 1927
today’s poem from the Writer’s Almanac is one i like:
I carry your heart with me(i carry it in
i carry your heart with me(i carry it in
my heart)i am never without it(anywhere
i go you go, my dear;and whatever is done
by only me is your doing,my darling)
i fear
no fate(for you are my fate,my sweet)i want
no world(for beautiful you are my world,my true)
and it’s you are whatever a moon has always meant
and whatever a sun will always sing is you
here is the deepest secret nobody knows
(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud
and the sky of the sky of a tree called life;which grows
higher than soul can hope or mind can hide)
and this is the wonder that’s keeping the stars apart
i carry your heart(I carry it in my heart)
by E.E. Cummings from Complete Poems: 1904-1962.
© Liveright Publishing Corporation, 1994.
today’s poem selection from The Writer’s Almanac is apt for my big brother & Lynette…
My Daughter’s Morning
My daughter’s morning streams
over me like a gang of butterflies
as I, sour-mouthed and not ready
for the accidents I expect
of my day, greet her early:
her sparkle is as the edge of new
ice on leafed pools, while I
am soggy, tepid; old toast.
Yet I am the first version
of later princes; for all my blear
and bluish jowl I am welcomed
as though the plastic bottle
I hold were a torch and
my robe not balding terry.
For her I bring the day; warm
milk, new diaper, escapades;
she lowers all bridges and
sings to me most beautifully
in her own language while
I fumble with safety pins.
I am not made young
by my daughter’s mornings;
I age relentlessly.
Yet I am made to marvel
at the durability of newness
and the beauty of my new one.
by David Swanger from Wayne’s College of Beauty.
© BkMk Press, 2006.
tuesday’s poem from The Writer’s Almanac seems to echo the state of affairs… the long-anticipated snow did arrive… dumping its soft crystals all over and stalling traffic… the scenery is a mixture of magnificent white, muddy grey, and haze. … and it continues to snow…
Snow-Flakes
Out of the bosom of the Air,
Out of the cloud-folds of her garments shaken,
Over the woodlands brown and bare,
Over the harvest-fields forsaken,
Silent, and soft, and slow
Descends the snow.
Even as our cloudy fancies take
Suddenly shape in some divine expression,
Even as the troubled heart doth make
In the white countenance confession,
The troubled sky reveals
The grief it feels.
This is the poem of the air,
Slowly in silent syllables recorded;
This is the secret of despair.
Long in its cloudy bosom hoarded,
Now whispered and revealed
To wood and field.
~Henry Wadsworth Longfellow~
… i wonder if i might ski again before the whiteness disappears…
it finally snowed. what beauty in those individual white crystals that bring new dimensions to the cold wintry season. the mississippi is frozen and speckley with the white dusting… there’s something really magical about snow…
i am trying to write up my thesis… and finish up bits of the data summary that you discover that you maybe should do while writing things up… generate scripts to plot figures… it’s difficult… not least because i’ve never written something this complicated… and it should be substantial enough to warrant all the time you took… and because there’s also a lot going through my mind… as well as a lot of question marks… Neruda sums it up eloquently for me… he often does.
“While I am writing, I am far away;
and when I come back, I’ve gone.
I would like to know if others
go through the same things that I do,
have as many selves as I have,
and see themselves similarly;
and when I have exhausted this problem,
I am going to study so hard
that when I explain myself,
I will be talking geography.“
from “We are many”; Pablo Neruda,
translated by Alastair Reid
i really like this stanza… its simplicity and truth… and am real glad to have discovered it. in the same collection “Extravagaria”, lie many other beautiful, simple, profound verses… i’d like to be able to write poetry in that way… better still, to write a poetic thesis. but i am sure i’d be glad when it’s all done, poetic or not.
i’ts nearly 6am and i am AWAKE! with my brown beady eyes… and contemplating what to have for breakfast… i just peeped out through the bedroom window… the moon is a smiling crescent and the chill lingers. it’s freezing cold… nearly -20degC including the deathly wind-chill… and hardly any signs of snow… the forecasters think we might get some though, and i sure hope so! winter without snow is like summer without sun… i’d like to make snow-angles and some snow sheep… baaaaah.
Relearning Winter
“Hello Winter, hello flanneled
blanket of clouds, clouds
fueled by more clouds, hello again.
Hello afternoons,
off to the west, that silver
of sunset, rust-colored
and gone too soon.
And night (I admit to a short memory)
you climb back in with chilly fingers
and clocks, and there is no refusal:
ice cracks the water main, the garden hose
stiffens, the bladed leaves of the rhododendron
shine in the fog of a huge moon.
And rain, street lacquer,
oily puddles and spinning rubber,
mist of angels on the head of a pin,
hello,
and snow, upside-down cake of clouds,
white, freon scent, you build
even as you empty the world of texture
hello to this new relief,
this new solitude now upon us,
upon which we feed.”
by Mark Svenvold from Soul Data.
© University of North Texas Press.
the first seagull i got to know was Jonathan Livingston… that was nearly another lifetime ago… i’ve always liked the idea of learning to fly… not least it makes it seem easier getting from one place to another… and you don’t have to subject yourself to the incessantly frustrating and rather dehumanizing experience of air-travel these days; btw, thanks to apparently new CIA security measures, travellers from many european countries and british colonies will have to have all their paw-pads scanned during customs & immigration come summer. maybe it would be easier if we all could fly like birds do (– we might learn to carry less baggage! ha) … but perhaps it would be much ‘simpler’ if we all trusted, respected, and loved each other… A LOT more than we currently do.
aeronautics and musings aside, the use of seagulls seems to be a recurring theme in literature… Anton Chekov wrote The Seagull in 1896, a play which speaks of the materialistic dreams that often cloud one’s pursuit of happiness… and of breaking from tradition to find one’s voice, to be. the protagonist of the play, Constantines, is the seagull who perishes because of individualistic idealism… a dramatic end, which starkly contrasts with those who live and (seemingly) readily/blindly accept the societal norms and vogue of the ‘old’ Zeitgeist…
if seagulls are the emblem for freedom, individualism and/or idealism… i sure have an affinity for them…
pondering seagulls; Aldinga Beach
… and i hope they will remain a reminder of hope and the fact that it is alright to be different.
it’s been weeks after the fall of leaves, and yet, there’s still no snow… and now, with Thanksgiving come and gone… we are still waiting.
it is a wet november day here… and i have Simon&Garfunkel’s Kathy’s Song lingering about my mind… it’s awfully trying to get beyond this point in my programming… and while wandering in my restlessness, i am reminded by this poem selected by Garrison Keillor last tuesday… i am hoping that the snow might arrive…
Interlude
We are waiting for snow
the way we might wait for a train
to arrive with its cold cargo
it is late already, but surely
it will come.
We are waiting for snow
the way we might wait
for permission
to breathe again.
For only the snow
will release us, only the snow
will be a letting go, a blind falling
towards the body of earth
and towards each other.
And while we wait at this window
whose sheer transparency
is clouded already
with our mutual breath,
it is as if our whole lives depended
on the freezing color
of the sky, on the white
soon to be fractured
gaze of winter.
– by Linda Pastan –
from Queen of a Rainy Country.
© W. W. Norton & Company.
i couldn’t sleep last night after a few days of staying up real late — or till real early — funny how hard it is to get to sleep when you are so exhausted! oh well…
“Sometimes I have trouble falling asleep but it’s not so bad
I don’t worry and I don’t weep. In fact I’m glad.
Because I get up off my pillow and I flip on the light.
I get down and get hip in the still of the night
I stretch and I yawn and then I breathe real deep
And dance myself to sleep.I hoof around my beddie just a-tappin’ my toes
Before I know what’s happened I’m a-ready to doze
Got some partners I can count on called the boogie-woogie sheep
I dance myself to sleep.— Ernie”
from ‘It’s Not Easy Being Green And Other Things to Consider’
Jim Henson , The Muppets, and Friends
i woke up this morning… kinda sore in my back… i wonder what i ended up doing to myself, trying to get to sleep!
