Adages & Ovations

This man (link) needs to find another calling.

It makes sense that if you’re going to say something, say it in the most effective manner possible, but please—PLEASE—stop opening every speech with a spew of rhetoric. I get the sense that either President Obama or his speechwriter imagine listening to these speeches thirty years down the road, and man, they want them to sound eloquent. The problem, at least in the beginning of the speech, was that nothing was being said. President Obama understands the fear that keeps us up late at night. He understands we’re scared. But things will get better! (Standing ovation)

Things started to heat up towards the middle—President Obama explained that:

1. He’s going to fix the economy
2. He’s going to get affordable healthcare for every American, and what’s more
3. It’s time to cure cancer.
4. Education needs to available to every child, birth to beginning of career.

Does anyone disagree with any of these goals? I very much doubt it, but there was very little concrete presentation; just an unending flow of optimism, laced with a moment of slightly unsettling rhetoric—did anyone else pause when the President declared that if you choose to not pursue higher education, you’re “not quitting on yourself, you’re quitting on America!” Not going to college just progressed from a personal choice to an un-American activity. Sort of reminds me of something… (link)

I will say that I thought it was encouraging to hear there was a line-by-line budget cut in progress, and that Pres. Obama’s committee had already cut enough to save 2.2 trillon over the next decade. Before he gave that information, however, he put in a brief note about the auto bailout that I think was somewhat of a paradox, claiming that “we should not protect them (auto industry) from their bad choices.”
But we did! Why? Because “…the nation that invented the auto industry can’t walk away from it.” Is this really a reason for billions of dollars to be spent? What could that money have done for creating alternative forms of transportation?

Anyway. I thought there were some strong moments in the speech. I’m not sure what “Cold War defense systems” Obama was talking about dismantling (stock piles of A-bombs, H-bombs, and Star Wars type stuff I’m guessing...anyone know?), but it seems reasonable that that stuff has long been useless. Abu Ghraib was undeniably an embarrassment, and our intelligence community has a long, painful history of power abuse (in every sense of the word). Reform is necessary there.

Ups, downs...sifting for actual information shouldn't be as difficult as these speeches are making it…

Immortal Words!

There’s a lot of ideas floating around about what it means to be a writer. Sometimes I think I take the idea a lot less seriously than other people—other writers—that I know. For instance, Saturday night Angela and I were watching the movie Sylvia (Yes, it’s the true story of Sylvia Plath, who turned on her oven and gassed herself, but it was sort of a love story…anyway, we also cooked a romantic dinner together), and there’s a scene in the movie where Sylvia and Ted Hughes go to Hughes’s apartment with two of his friends, and for a good time they take turns reciting poetry with really serious faces, while the other people in the apartment yell “Faster! Faster!”
Yikes. Not cool. Is that supposed to look fun to me, because I’m a poet?
I used to wonder whether I should even call myself a writer or a poet, like it’s some special title that must be earned, and until I’m making loads of money I have to tell people I’m an aspiring writer. (to me, that reads: aspiring money maker)
I spend the majority of my time writing. I’m trying to make a career of it. What else should I call myself?
Anyway, after cutting through some of the bull, it’s hard to figure out whether the media is mirroring writers, or the other way around. I was talking with someone in my program a while back about something another student had written, and the person I was with said something along the lines of: …I don’t know why they’re wasting their time writing that stuff, it’s not immortal, like the words of the great poets.
Again, yikes. Who are the great poets? Is that what we’re suppose to be doing? Cranking out immortal words? Not possible—and if it was, I’m not sure I’d be interested.
I grimace when people make statements like “All art stems from sadness.” (L. Hughes, I think) I think inspiration is a slippery idea, and I haven’t seen it succeed apart from some manner of discipline. And rather than believe that writing is a sort of divine gift, I enjoy telling people that anyone can be taught to write—otherwise, why am I wasting my time teaching a freshman comp. course?
The source of many writer’s instability—because it’s undeniable that the profession has lost more than it’s share to early death—I think stems from a variety of sources: the problematic writing culture we have, other misguided writers, the desire for social status… and, I also think it’s simply a problem that any critical thinkers deal with.
When finding your own way--necessary, in our culture-- you just might start to lose your bearings somewhere in the wilderness.
A shred of the problem I'm beating around the bush about is evidenced by a volume I’m reading right now by Jack Spicer, another early death. The title of the collected works is the same as his dying words, which were “My vocabulary did this to me.”
Maybe. That catchy phrase will certainly inspire a host of fools to drink and write bad poetry, but I wonder how much of Spicer’s problem was vocabulary and how much was due to other factors? Could it have been your vocabulary…and the fact that you were a raging alcoholic? What if Spicer had been a philosopher? A teacher? A pastor?
The power of words I believe in, and even some of the mystery, and admittedly there’s a lot I still don’t understand—the idea of a genius still intrigues me, although I’ve never met one. (I’m more comfortable with the word “brilliant.” I think 99% of the time it’s more accurate.)

More Pop-Culture Musings

I thought B. Springsteen did a great job at the halftime show, but after I read this article today, I have to admit that the writer made some interesting points. Here's an excerpt:

Nothing will ever compete for sheer tone-deafness with Paul McCartney playing a zealous Super Bowl rendition of "Live and Let Die" at the height of the Iraq war. But Springsteen would have put America on its ass—its mind shortly to follow—had he strolled out with a Martin and played "The Wrestler." (And how about a nice "This one's for Danny," aka Danny Federici, the recently deceased keyboardist who was with Bruce for more than 40 years?) The national mood is sober bordering on a galloping panic. Lively as he was, I wouldn't say the Boss did much to either banish or capture it.

Right?And here's the link to the entire article, He Should Have Played "The Wrestler" if you're curious: http://www.slate.com/id/2210287/

The article is from slate.com, which is a really great online magazine (where else would you find an article about season 3 of Friday Night Lights titled Where in tarnation is Jason Street?) Loads of interesting columns on aspects of pop-culture that aren't always given their due in mainstream media, and what's more, Robert Pinsky is the poetry editor and he usually chooses/writes material that appeals to my tastes (and thus, possibly yours as well!).

Pictures forthcoming. Seriously.

New Cold Mountain Review Released

Cold Mountain Review has survived long enough to publish my poem, and I received my two contributor's copies yesterday. Angela and I each pulled one out of the packet, and leafed through at the same pace. Exciting.




http://www.coldmountain.appstate.edu/

I'll never be a critic/The new Springsteen album

A brief preface: Angela has found out I'm posting another pictureless entry, and warned me that pictures are what make blogs fun. There are no pictures below, but I promise that soon-- in the very near future-- there will be pictures posted on this blog of people, in some place, very possibly having the time of their life. That being said...

I recently realized that if I was a professional critic, I would be Peter Travers. Which means I wouldn’t be much of a critic at all. Travers, the film critic for Rolling Stone magazine, likes everything. I’m serious. If you read any of his movie reviews over the holidays, it seems like Pete sat around and tried to concoct unique ways of saying, “I love this movie.” Granted, the 08’ holiday season yielded some above-average films, but I guess many moviegoers and other critics expect a good critic to…well…criticize.

Check out Peter Traver’s take on…
Slumdog Millionaire: “What I feel for this movie isn't just admiration, it's mad love.”
Milk: “If there's a better movie around this year…I sure as hell haven't seen it.
Frost/Nixon: “It shouldn't work at all. But it does work, spectacularly, as a matter of fact.”

I think the last one is hilarious, like he really wants to criticize, but just can't bring himself to do it. Anyway. I’m making fun of Travers, but truthfully, I like him. The guy loves movies, and I imagine he sits down ready to enjoy the film, rather than searching for an opening to destroy it. That’s sort of how I am—I honestly want to like whatever media I’m engaging, which probably slows my inclination to acknowledge (or even notice) flaws/dislikes.

All that being said: The Boss—one of the last bastions of relevant (I’m using that word to discredit new music by Jackson Browne/Rick Springfield/Bob Dylan/John Mellencamp), classic American rock—released his new album Working on a Dream on Tuesday.
It’s got many of the inherent strengths and weaknesses of other Springsteen albums (Not counting those from 1990-1999, which even Springsteen refers to as “lost years”), but I’ll just skip over those and begin w/ a traversesque bottom line: Working on a Dream is brilliant, everything you could want it to be, and rocks all the way from the eight-minute-plus “Outlaw Pete” to the poignant “The Wrestler” bonus track, although technically the album ends on “The Last Carnival”, a poignant song about late band-member Danny Fedirici ,who died of cancer last year.

Working on a Dream is an updated Born to Run and an elevated Magic. It’s Bruce and the E Street Band celebrating what they’re good at—rock music with tinges of country, folk, and classic, and unafraid to ramble on with instrumentals and choruses as long as they please. To kick an abused adjective while it's down—the album is epic.

All those wonderful things being said…you know when an acquaintance is being a bit self-righteous, and you say “Don’t preach at me!” But then that same acquaintance is a pastor, so they’re allowed to talk like that? That’s how I am with Springsteen. I’ll cut the guy endless amounts of lyrical slack, because while what he’s saying sometimes come off as a bit awkward (The way he twists end-words in “Outlaw Pete” just to make some lines rhyme is painful.), he’s been doing his thing for over forty years and can write whatever the hell he wants. At least he's back to writing his old subject matter-- troubled, working class characters, who can't seem to decide whether life is something to be lived or survived. Their dilemmas are our pleasure.

For Blog Junkies

For the host of people who enjoy clicking through a list of links and seeing how other people are living their lives, I've added a new link to the blogroll on the right.

A friend of a friend is about to embark on a two year Peace Corp stint in Uganda, and he created a blog to record his experiences/reflections-- so it should make for some interesting reading.

Cheers.

Gran Torino Reviewed (Spoiler Alert)

There is talk that Gran Torino is Clint Eastwood’s final acting role. While I’ll believe that when the man (god forbid) dies, I will say it would be an unforgettable role to end a career on. Somehow, Eastwood found a way to direct a film where he plays a bitter, violent, and unapologetically bigoted old man who can barely form one sentence void of profanity or racial slurs, and then is still able to pull off—brilliantly—having that same man die in the unmistakable shape of a cross at the end of the movie. Gran Torino is cinema—that strange experience of pleasure and unsettlement, escapism and confrontation with reality—at its absolute best.

The story was engaging, and one that reflected reality—slightly characterized so that it would be easier for audiences to understand. An older man, Walt Kowalski, disconnected from his children. Their misguided efforts to try and move him into a retirement home, purchasing him a telephone with extra large numbers, a “gopher” for picking up items and pulling them off shelves so Walt doesn’t strain himself. The children’s busy lives that don’t allow them time to visit their father. The generational disconnect between Walt and his wild-clothes-wearing, disrespectful grandchildren. It was irritating, but well done. The audience was understanding the situation from Walt’s perspective. (Literally, at times—the camera angle represented Walt’s vision.)
Then Walt, a veteran of the Korean War, begins to develop an unlikely friendship with the Hmong family next door. First through an older daughter, Bee, then with the son, Thao, who becomes the target for a local gang of Hmongs.

Audiences are meant to understand right from the beginning of the movie that in some way, as unlikely as it seems, Walt and Thao are connected. Yes, Walt is old, American, and racist, as opposed to Thao, who is young, Hmong, and painfully shy. But in the early scenes of the movie, we’re shown through two juxtaposed scenes that there is still a similarity.
The scenes are from the funeral at Walt’s house, and a birth celebration in the Hmong house next door. We are shown Walt stepping outside to be alone, and then we see Thao removing himself from the crowd. So while we may not see any overt links between the two in personality or lifestyle, there is a connection. Death and birth. One is at the end of his life, the other is at the beginning. And, the two characters fill a void in each others lives. Thao has no father. Walt’s sons are not a meaningful part of his life.

This is not the only time Eastwood uses camera shots to add to his story. Towards the end of the movie, Walt decides its time to honor his late wife’s request, and go to confession. Although by that point audiences know Walt was part of some terrible things in the war (hacking bodies up with shovels, piling bodies up for sandbags), he doesn’t deliver the confession we expect. In fact, what Walt says seems almost trivial. Through the confessional screen, Walt said he regretted not being a better father to his sons. Very nice, Walt—but what about the women and children you hacked to death in the war?

Before Walt goes to execute his revenge on the Hmong gang, he locks Thao in his basement to keep him safe. Walt is preparing to make a larger sacrifice than Thao, or the audience, is prepared for—and it’s in that scene that Walt makes his second, more poignant confession. Between Walt and Thao is a metal screen to keep Thao in the basement, and as Thao is begging Walt to let him go with him, the camera is always viewing the character’s faces through the screen, as in a confessional. This is the confession we were waiting for, Walt explaining to Thao that killing is something “…you don’t want…on your soul.”

The camera communicates again when—as I mentioned—Walt’s ultimate sacrifice leaves him dead on a lawn in the shape of a cross—a sacrifice that liberates Tao and his family.
Gran Torino is a complicated, brilliantly done film. There’s a lot I simply don’t have time to write about—the humor, the violence, Walt’s relationship with the catholic priest—it’s all weaved together seamlessly. Nothing is ever forced or dumbed-down for audiences. Eastwood, in his directorial authority, never felt the need to beat us over the head with the fact that Walt loved his deceased wife. We are spared painful flashbacks. No one ever says, “Walt, you have lung cancer. And six months to live.” We see Walt smoke. We see Walt cough up blood. That’s enough.
The racism and violence is inarguably disturbing. But Walt is a flawed man, and the film reflects that. It’s his journey toward redemption that puts his words and actions in perspective, and ultimately justifies their inclusion in the film.

Morning themed poem by Mary Oliver

Why I Wake Early

Hello, sun in my face.
Hello, you who made the morning
and spread it over the fields
and into the faces of the tulips
and the nodding morning glories,
and into the windows of, even, the
miserable and the crotchety –

best preacher that ever was,
dear star, that just happens
to be where you are in the universe
to keep us from ever-darkness,
to ease us with warm touching,
to hold us in the great hands of light –
good morning, good morning, good morning.

Watch, now, how I start the day
in happiness, in kindness.


I thought this poem was fitting for my continuing (and, at day 2, still successful) quest to rise at 6:15 each morning. I have to say, while I enjoy this poem, this post is not in any way an endorsement of Mary Oliver. I really enjoy her collection American Primitive, and some of her nature writing, but overall I think she's shallow and a bit of an air-head. A lot of people would disagree with me, but I guess those are the poeple who think writing six-plus poems about a little dog named Percy (and titling each poem "Percy" and numbering it) is an entertaining subject.

In summary: mixed feelings on Mary Oliver, enjoy this poem.

Rising Early, 1

I've always liked New Year's resolutions, and try not to let the cheesy factor (or the fact that some people make the same resolutions and then abandon them year after year) bother me. I've always said and believed that change is important--as long as you're struggling (even if you're failing), you're doing something right. Anyway. I was planning on blogging about getting up in the morning, not writing a sermon, so I'm going to stop there.
One of my resolutions was to wake up at 6:15 in the morning Monday through Friday, so that I can pull more out of my weekdays. The only days I actually need to be up semi-early are Tuesday and Thursday, when I teach my English 112 (theme: Travel Writing) class from 8:00-9:15. Wednesday I don't have to be at class until 10:00, and Monday and Friday I don't have any classes. So, I could sleep in until fairly late, if I so desired.
I thought I could use the extra morning time to read, write, eat a bigger breakfast, and jog.
Today was the first day my alarm/cellphone actually went off at 6:15. I reach out and turned it off so it wouldn't wake Angela up, and then I just laid on my stomach with my head lifted up for a moment, trying to decide if I wanted to go back to sleep. Not surprisingly, I did want to-- but I wasn't sure if I was actually tired. My body felt heavy, my mind was groggy, and I felt slightly (and inexplicably) angry, but I wasn't exactly sleepy.
I began to use the power of logic against myself.
"What," I reasoned, "Am I getting up this early for? I know I could get up if I wanted to. But why would I?" It was dark out, and I wouldn't be able to jog for another hour and a half. I could read at any point in the day. All signs began to point for me to reset my alarm for seven (an admirable time to rise!), and fall back asleep.
But on that precipice between bed and beakfast, I overcame my own neo-serphent rhetoric and decided that rolling out of bed because I said I was going to was good enough. I think there's something to be said for mornings (just as there is something to be said about staying up late), and being a "morning person," and I didn't want to miss out on some of the benefits they offer. Such as time, and silence, and a certain kind of beauty that's absent at other times of the day.
So I got up quietly, made my way out into the hall, and switched on the light as I closed the bedroom door. I went downstairs and made a pot of coffee, then read my bible while I drank. I looked outside. Dark. I went upstairs, checked my email, and read about the Golden Globes. I finished, checked cnn.com, and looked outside again. Still dark.
Now, at 7:41, the dark outside my window is beginning to gray, and I can see footprints in the snow behind our building. Soon, I suppose, the sun will come up.

Blue-Collar Anniversary

Another year, another unromantic anniversary. Two years ago today, Angela and I married. Here is a picture of us, exactly one year ago.

We were visiting a water-treatment plant that powered Bongolo Hospital in southern Gabon. Here we are today, helping my dad paint the living room.

We did go out to dinner afterwards. Cheers.