Lucubration of the man from Utz

Grey Craig, entering the landscape

2011-12-27T14:02:00.000-08:00

While Grey Craig has not been the sole focus of my work as a professional designer during 2011 it certainly has been an overwhelming one. This description of the site and my involvement with it will give me an opportunity to explain what it is I do in this odd practice I have, it will be a good and useful exercise for me. When people ask "what I do" I am often at a loss. I don't fit very neatly into any category. The standard answer is that I am an "Interior Designer" which is a useful but suspicious phrase. My academic background was in painting and education. My thesis for the education program at the National College of Art in Dublin, Ireland was the development of a course focused on the history of the Irish craftsmen who built Georgian Dublin. At the time, the late 1960's, the average Irish person considered the 18th century culture of Ireland to be a manifestation of English domination. While there is validity to that view, it is also the case that Irish culture at the time had a very distinct personality, and people creating the material culture were Irish and expressed their distinct Irishness through their art. I was trying, with some success, to document and promulgate this understanding.

My mentor at the time was a man who was in the business of saving the interiors from buildings being demolished so that they could be conserved. In working with him I learned how to dismantle these buildings. Note that one can not simply tear these things out of a building, a great deal of detective work is involved. One must reconstruct the process of construction- find the last peg put in and take it out first. I little expected that this training would be enormously useful to my later career, but it turns out to be the case. The term "interior designer" seems a little off the mark to me because what I do very often involves a great deal of research, both of history and of my clients needs, a great deal of detective work, a certain amout of drawing, sometimes more, sometimes less, a sense of structure and systems, and all this not only inside but often outside as well. At Grey Craig I have been able to exercise all these skills. This is a good opportunity to explain them.

Grey Craig, spelt various ways, has a particularly interesting history. I recommend a book called "Newport Villas" by Michael Kathryns for a well researched relation of it. As Mr. Kathryns states the property came into being when Oliver Hazard Perry Belmont and Cornelius Vanderbuilt along with others purchased 100 acres in Middletown, overlooking Sachusetts (Second) Beach and Paradise Rock. This was a farming area, and the property eventually became a model, or "gentleman's" farm under Belmont's ownership. Belmont sold to J. Mitchell Clark who built the first house. You can read it's history here. This is the area that Newland Archer rides through in Edith Warton's "The Age of Innocence" the horse farm being used as his alibi when he visits Ellen in Portsmouth. John LaFarge lived on the other side of Paradise Avenue, and it remains a rural, agricultural area. The Norman Bird Sanctuary borders the property, and despite having being divided, the original estate has been preserved through the foresight of the Grey Craig owners association.

The house was sold to J. Lawrence Mott III in 1917, but was destroyed by fire in 1919. In the mid 1920's the property was sold to Michael Murray Van Beuren and his wife Mary L. Archbold, whose father was one of the founders of Standard Oil.

I must acknowledge that I become very impatient when I am reading about a building because I am interested in the building and all I get is the trials and tribulations of the very rich. I include the "social" part of the history here because it actually will be useful in understanding some facets of this site as a design statement. I will now add two more names. The Van Beurens built the existing house, I should say houses, there are, I think 5, functioning as separate residences and their architect was a man I am ashamed to say I had never heard of: Harrie T. Lindeberg. I have, over the last year developed a rather intimate relationship with Mr. Lindeberg, or at least with his work, and the more I learn the more respect I have for him, and for this building. Let me say, that like most truly great designers he knew when to get out of the way. Never was this more apparent to me than the day before Thanksgiving when my sister and I were guests at the house for cocktails, sitting by the fire in the enormous living room, in this enormous and beautiful house which was yet warm and comfortable and imitate. I can not pay Mr. lindeberg and the his clients any greater compliment than the comfort and family intimacy that this staggering house affords.

I love stories, and there is a story about Lord Kitchener being driven past the Royal Hospital in Chelsea. He asked, rather surprised, where did that building come from? He had never noticed it before, but now, there it was huge and beautiful! His companion told him that it had been built by Christopher Wren 200 years before, how had he not noticed it going past as frequently as he did? Kitchener responded that architect must have been a true gentleman. Amusing story, but the fact is that Wren knew how to get out of the way. Lindeberg did also.

The other name I want to share with you is Ferruccio Vitale. He designed the landscape at Grey Craig. Like Lindeberg, he is not exactly a household name, despite being one of the most import landscape architects in the history of American landscape architecture. He is often compared with the Olmstead brothers, his contemporaries and to some extent main competition, however Vitale was very involved in the formation of the profession of landscape architecture, developing awards and postgraduate education for landscape architects, including the Landscape Architecture prize of the American Academy in Rome and the Foundation for Architecture and Landscape Architecture. His work includes the planning of the National Mall in Washington, The site of the National Gallery of Art, parts of Longwood Gardens, and of course Grey Craig. I have not been able to trace any documentation for his work at Grey Craig and would be very grateful for information. There is now a very fine monograph on Vitale, by R.Terry Schnadelbach.

It happens that the Grey Craig is almost exactly contemporary with Emmanuel Church's Leslie Lindsey Chapel. It has been most interesting to for me to come to this project after the intense research done on the restoration of the altar screen at Lindsey Chapel. On the one hand the structural and systems issues are very similar, in some cases identical, on the other, it is clear that Lindeberg and Vitale, Allens and Collins with Ninian Comper, were thinking about the tradition of western architecture and it's continuing relevance to modern life in a way that was new and intelligent. It is easy to get tied into the romance of luxury, the nostalgia for history, a jaded view of ones own time that leads to a deadening desire for things as they were in the past. That is not what was happening with these buildings from the early 20th century. Understanding their modernity requires a knowledge of the tradition, and that is a vantage point from which they are seldom viewed. In addition to "style" the engineering of these buildings is remarkable. It is to me rather ironic that if one takes the rhetoric of the International School and applies it to these buildings they hold up very well. Yes, Grey Craig is a big grand house, built for big grand people, but the engineers house, and the gate house, both equally beautiful and rather modest in size both function as family houses equally well. Form does follow function here, structure is rigorously expressed, the systems and engineering were state of the art. This is the surprise of these buildings.

So in March I found myself in the position of having to advise my client While he struggled with structural problems, reversing years of neglect of the roof and drainage systems, the need to make changes to parts of the landscape and to paint and furnish the interior working with and advising his wife. The first step was understanding. It is clear that the VanBeurens were intelligent and sensitive people. No other sort would have spent such vast sums in such subtle ways, and fortunately my clients are intelligent and sensitive people who appreciate and are willing to support a rather thoughtful process.

I have never worked at this scale before, and I have no staff. Fortunately the client's wife was eager to be involved in the gritty details- in fact she handled all the paperwork which was daunting, and many of the structural and mechanical issues were urgent. Despite the pressures we all read, researched and came to understand this wonderful and subtle place. I should add that my client had been following the trials and tribulations of this building for 30 years, and had tried to buy it twice before. Their love for it was the prime motivating factor, and the house has worked a spell over everyone involved. It has been pure pleasure from the start.

The approach to Grey Craig.

The house and landscape are a unified experience. Lindeberg and Vitale work together on this and the result is so right and so subtle that it is easy to take it entirely for granted. I have learned over the years of looking, learning, and practicing, that beauty and harmony never "just happen" and the greatest and most unified experience of place is usually the result of great discipline, and its success turns on small and subtle points. I am showing you a sequence of photographs that depict the experience of approaching this place. They start at the inner gate, beside the gate house from which one proceeds down the drive through woods and meadow, finally around a bend one sees the front of the house and then the entrance arch comes into view. The experience is pastoral and quite. The trees are magnificent. At one point there is a marshy place to the left that in spring is carpeted with primroses, to the right one can glimpse an open area beyond the trees, then to left again is an orchard, then on the right the front of the house with a background of trees and an open lawn. The single most important element of this is what you can't see, the water. These pictures were taken in March and May. Also, ignore the dragon lamps on the gate posts, the originals are in the basemet and will be replaced.

In Japan, or maybe it was China, I no longer have my books and notebooks so I can not find the correct citation, there was a garden built by a very wise philosopher, built on the edge of the sea. Perhaps someone can remind me of the source of this. The story is that when people came to visit they were amazed that he had built hedges and walls to block out the very beautiful view, but when the reached the tea house, and only when they sat down, was the view revealed through a carefully placed opening in a hedge; only after gaining the location of repose was the view revealed in all its beauty. This story appears in many works on landscape design, and I am tempted to think that it is not a coincidence that Vitale and Lindeberg did the same thing at Grey Craig. It is also an instance of how well they worked together. When going through the gate, and along the drive, and into the arch the view, which is amazing, is deliberately screened. One enters the house in a very dark and compressed vestibule which is inside the arch, this gives onto an entrance corridor which runs into the main section of the house past an enclosed courtyard, then into the stair hall, then the center hallway, both of which look to the back of the house. One then enters the main reception rooms and it is only then, after this long and complex series of views and spaces that the view down the lawn past the rocks and over the beach to the ocean is revealed. The view is held until the last minute as a complete surprise, and one feels like one has entered a different world, a magical world. It is a total tour de force, and depends on having the discipline to deny one of the East Coast's most expensive views when the visitor enters the property.

When I first looked at the plan of the house I could not make head nor tail of this entrance sequence. It seemed odd, and round about to have the entrance in a side wing, to have a small inner courtyard right beside it, why not drive up to center of the house? It is only in experiencing the way the house and the landscape interact with the location that one can understand this master stroke.

It is said that the arch is built on the location of the entrance arch of the previous house. The old foundations are indeed down there, I saw them one day crawling through the foundations tracing some wetness that was creeping into the walls. It is also said that the previous house was built of stone from the site, and that also appears to be true of the present house, which makes it fit in the setting in a most remarkable way. The grey outcroppings of Pudding Stone are everywhere and the walls blend right into them, accented by sandstone from Ohio, and that massive red clay roof.

This may seem like an awful lot of space to give to an aspect of this project that I had nothing to do with, but I am very committed to that idea that good design can proceed only from a very delicate understanding of the site. Further, when working with a creation of considerable worth it is important to come to an understanding of the original designers intentions; to get inside their head, to use a phrase. I have had to make a rather large intervention in this landscape, which I will talk about later, and so I feel that understanding, research and appreciation are required if one is to proceed responsibly.

These are my own photographs. On the website of Windigo Architects, who did some renovations some years ago there is a very nice wide angle photo that shows the relationship of the entrance arch to the main body of the building very nicely.

Where I've Been!

2011-12-26T10:39:00.000-08:00

These pictures are referred to below, and in reverse order. I can never seem to get pictures into the body of my posts- oh, well!

I am looking at a lovely Christmas card from my dear cousin Sara of "Word Medicine," and in her very sweet message she chides me for not being in touch, either here or directly; "where are you?" she asks; as well she might! She has brought to my attention that my last post was in May! So I am going to take the time to update this blog, family, friends, and followers, with some comments on this strange and wonderful year that I have had. There are a number of headings to each of which I will devote a post, but here is a brief overview of those headings.

I cast my thoughts back to the caroling party at the home of my dear friends the Mygatts last December which Dr Funk and I attended, and which you can see here! I had made my pledge to Emmanuel for 2011 and was fretting a bit over whether I would be able to meet the obligation. Dr Funk very generously offered to cover it, and so we became involved in a discussion about how the obligation of the pledge forces me to push out of the complacency of sickness and engage in life and my profession.

My retirement arrangement pays my bills, such as they are. On the one hand, this gives me a great deal of peace, and in fact allows for significant healing, stress being the great enemy of "T cells." On the other hand, however, it presents the danger that complacency might erode the engagement in life that I have found equally important to my own healing. My observation is that, at least for me, my body tends to respond to the need for activity that my mind and interest places on it. Sometimes it protests, sometimes the virus demands acknowledgement, but in general I find enthusiasm and interest, challenges even, can produce a productive détente amongst body, mind, spirit, and sickness!

So I challenge myself with the pledge I make to Emmanuel. It took some conversation that night to bring Dr. Funk to understand why I could not accept her kind offer, and to undo the arrangement I discovered she had made with our Rector, and I entered 2011 feeling a little apprehensive about what the year had in store for me. Not all that different from the way I feel right now, having repeated my pledge for 2012. I have the ability to feel this way simultaneously with the ability to chuckle over last years apprehension in retrospect. Strange beings, we!

Here we go:

In November of 2009 I made a post about a building I had designed that had been used as set for a scene in a movie. This was very exciting! but in 2011 the same client turned up another, rather different movie association. Those who follow popular culture more closely than I might be aware of the trials and tribulations of Nicholas Cage. He had a house in Newport RI which he sold this past march. The buyer was my client for whom I had designed the building shown in that post. He had been speaking about this deal for some time, and had shown me pictures of the house- being one of the "Newport Mansions" it is shown in various big expensive books. It is actually in Middletown, overlooking 2nd beach. I would chuckle to myself when he would talk about it, never dreaming this would actually happen. Well, it did, last March, and he told me he wanted me to work on it, but I would need to give it all my attention for a few months. What a quandary I was in! I couldn't let it pass, but I had serious doubts about my health holding up. The result of all this is that 2011 brought me the most exciting and satisfying job I have ever had. Much of the time I've been stretched to the max, but it has been amazing and wonderful! there is a picture above.

Here is a little secret. I don't talk about neuropathy very much, for the same reason Beethoven didn't talk about deafness, what would my clients think if they knew I couldn't hold a pencil for more than 5 minutes? It has been one of the great burdens of my HIV difficulties (and, by the way, makes typing very difficult.) The physical therapy people at Beth Isreal gave me kneading exercises some years ago. They seemed rather silly and boring and I kept thinking I should be kneading bread or clay. Thinking, but not acting until my friends at Pucker Gallery organized a beginners ceramics class at Mudflat Studios. I signed up, and have since then been working rather diligently and have started to produce some ware that I don't mind showing people: the tall bottle above is a sample.

Now, with all this going so well, I've been thinking about my difficulties holding a pencil. Saying to myself that while I might not be able to draw in the same way that I once did, with a little courage I could probably find a new way to draw, that I should get back to it, finding a way around my difficulties. I was discussing this one day with a friend at Mudflat, who suggested some search terms to find groups of people in the area who get together to draw from the model. I searched and found "The Boston Figurative Arts Center" in September. I have been holding pencils a paint brushes ever since. A photo of one of my new drawings is posted right at the top of this.

And Emmanuel? About mid year the vestry asked for an update, what had the building commission accomplished and what remained to be done, on out 150 year old building that had suffered from years of neglect. While there is still a lot of costly work to be done, it turns out that when written down on paper the accomplishments of my cohorts and myself are rather considerable, surprising actually, to no one more than myself. I am rather proud!

Oh, and the pledge? No problem, not only was I able to exceed it, I've also been able to distribute some funds in other places as well. It actually feels kind of luxurious, being able to support the groups and activities one cares about. It has really seemed like the more I do for the church and other organizations the more I am able to do. What I've been saying about all this is that it is enough to cause one to doubt one's agnosticism!

I will acknowledge that all this wonderful activity has really strained me to the max. I do still get lots of exercise on my bicycle, but most days when I get in I can barely make some food, never mind cleaning or dishes or blog posts or emails. I hope you will all forgive that!

Rapture

2011-05-20T06:42:00.000-07:00

"sigh"

This will be short.

Judgement day is every day.

There are two columns, what you have given,

And what you have taken away,

Keep them balanced and you'll be OK.

The thing about "Rapture" is that it is available, and constant. It's like a train always rushing past us and we only have to jump on. Of course doing that requires an acknowledgment of how temporary, how insignificant, the things that keep us in one place really are. I include such things as Bible thumping, orthodoxies, personal preferences, and particularly the feeling that we have things figured out.

"There is nothing to fear, but fear itself"

Have a really great day tomorrow!

On The Road to Damascus

2011-04-02T10:45:00.000-07:00

All nature is but art unknown to thee;

All chance, direction thou cans’t not see;

All discord, harmony not understood;

All partial evil, universal good;

And spite of pride, in erring reason’s spite,

One truth is clear, ‘whatever is, is right’

Alexander Pope

My Lenten activity this year has been to join our Rector, Pam Werntz, and a group of Emmanuelites, as we call ourselves, in the study of Paul's epistle to the Romans. It was this or give up chocolate, so the choice was easy. I am very wary of Paul. His writings seem to me to be in many ways damaging, yet in many ways beautiful; they are very inconsistent, their meanings often conflicting, and he therefore is, to me, annoying. I have been doing background reading, books about Paul and books about the Bible. I read A.N.Wilson's "Paul, The Mind of The Apostle," which presents an interesting, complicated character, a provocative promoter and business man, in contention with just about everyone and also achieving really great passages of Poetic insight.

"For now we see through a glass, darkly; but then face to face: now I know in part; but then shall I know even as also I am known."

We sit around a table in the Emmanuel room, enjoying food and one another's company, discussing what Paul meant here or there, the critic, perhaps I should say skeptic, in me thinking- sometimes saying- look at these words, don't they mean what they say? And if they don't, if it takes 1,900 years of modification and explanation to arrive at the meaning then is it really Paul we are speaking about or some convenient construct to which we choose to attach ancient authority?

At one point I blurted out "the guy's a crank!" to which Pam suggested that perhaps I was projecting. Touché, no doubt I am, projecting myself, my expectations, frustrations and concerns. And worst, "no worst there is none!" I fell into exactly the trap which frustrates me most in Paul, and in life in general: I made a statement poorly explained and open to exactly opposite interpretation from what I intended. I will expand about it here.

This particular outburst of mine was triggered by one of my friend's statement that the world is seriously wrong, and Paul was addressing that. I exclaimed that the world is exactly what it is supposed to be, and it is our job to deal with it constructively. Allow me to give this a context. The proposition is that the first person sinned in disobedience, condemning the human race to the darkness of evil, from which it is necessary to be "Saved," this, either as a group- by the sacrifice of Christ- or individually, saved either through "Grace," by which can be meant a number of complicated concepts, or through "Works," which are defined variously. Actually Pam makes sense of this, but I am pretty sure it is Pam and not Paul in whom the sense resides.

Some time ago I started to think very carefully about the quote from Pope that I have at the head of this entry. The line that was a real stumbling block for me was "All partial evil, universal good" sometimes Pope is as bad as Paul; whatever could he mean by that? The subject of evil in the world is prominent in any discussion of the nature of God and the subject of evil in the individual seems to be the motor of Christian religion- what is it that is meant by this word evil?

I think that one reason I am attracted to Pope is that I have found that it is easier to understand the world and my fellow man if I avoid words that denote abstract notions of evaluation. This is because of the eternally fascinating conundrum that when we speak these words we assume in our listener a complete understanding of concepts whose definitions are in fact very subjective, vague, at best culturally defined often individually defined, and circular. One of my favorites is "perfect" which means without flaw; perfectly clear until you start a discussion of what constitutes a flaw, which inevitably becomes an extremely subjective question. There is a very important aspect of the Japanese aesthetic that an object without any flaws would be very undesirable- not "perfect" perhaps. Evil, in the OED has many interesting meanings, but the entry starts with this:

"In Old English, as in all the other early Germanic langs. exc. Scandinavian, this word is the most comprehensive adjectival expression of disapproval, dislike, or disparagement. In mod. colloquial English it is little used, such currency as it has being due to literary influence. In quite familiar speech the adj. is commonly superseded by bad; the n. is somewhat more frequent, but chiefly in the widest senses, the more specific senses being expressed by other words, as harm, injury, misfortune, disease, etc."

One of our company spoke of insects. When she was a child she thought of them as being bad because they bit her- "why would God make anything so bad?" As an adult she sees how her limited understanding of the world as whole determined the formation of her question. It is a very simple example of a very human tendency, to view a thing as bad because it bites me. The first definition of "evil" in the OED is:

"Bad in a positive sense."

So, the insects are evil. They do harm to me; pollination not withstanding.

When one thinks of the recent tsunami this gets very complicated. I would not be surprised at all to find that some people's faith is shaken by such a disaster. I asked myself about it, but really, those villages and power plants were built very consciously in low lying areas, in full knowledge of their vulnerability, for reasons of economic convenience; for reasons of the flesh as Paul might determine. Earthquakes and tsunamis are not new, and the disaster a result more of men's greed and laziness than an act of God.

In 1968 I moved to Ireland, moved from my secure upper middle class suburb, to attend the National College of Art, and I ended up living outside of Dublin in the countryside. I rented a room in a "County Council Cottage"- rural poor housing, with a friend and was immersed in a society in which meat was seen on the table perhaps once a week, children never had new shoes or clothes, and drinking water was a ten minute walk away. The woman I was renting from had never been more than five miles from this cottage, in which she had been born, claimed never to have had all her clothes off at the same time- with no plumbing bathing was always from a basin, and with no heat the incentive to not disrobe was strong. These folks were well off among their peers, after all, they had an extra room and were renting it for cash, so they didn't have to reuse the tea leaves as often as otherwise. This all seemed very romantic to me, but I acknowledge that I had a return ticket to the US so I wasn't trapped in it as they were, nevertheless I realized something rather surprising. All the hardship didn't seem to affect anyone's happiness. The profile of personalities in the community was pretty much the same as at home. Some were lazy, some were energetic. Some were religious some were "ferocious anti-clericals" and most importantly, as I got to know the community at large I was surprised to find that compared to my affluent, white, upper middle class hometown, about the same percentage were content and happy and the same percentage were discontent and unhappy. The same turned out to be true for me, my level of happiness was not affected, going from a warm well fed home with showers and laundry, to potatoes, reused tea and warm water on rare occasions. I found the same to be true when I was in Bulgaria under the Communists. I found the same to be true of my fellows during the period when I was held in jail during 2006, and I wouldn't be surprised to find amongst those folks sheltered in halls and gymnasiums in Japan, once the shock had passed, that the happiness that an individual has in relationship to their society reasserts itself and is not much determined in the long term by the externals of circumstance. As I say in the right hand column, happiness is something we do, not something we find.

So what is bad? What is evil? I once read a definition of evil as being that which runs counter to the aims of society. A good definition, because it points up the subjectivity of the word. That Pastor in Florida has staged a trial and shown that Islam is evil. Of course much of Islam feels that Christianity is evil. The difficulty is that by definition both are correct, because in both cases the other is counter to the aims of the particular society, and that is how we determine evil.

We are all children of the same God however. At least that is my belief. It has been much discussed, even in the ancient days in which Judaism was forming, whether "monotheism" means there is only one God, or that only one God among several would be worshiped, but I believe, and I think most Christian, Jews, and Muslims agree, that there is only one God. It then follows that any act of sincere worship is directed to that God, and would it not then follow that in calling other religious groups evil we are projecting our very human prejudices into a much larger sphere? "Verily, Verily, travellers have seen many monstrous idols in many countries; but no human eyes have ever seen more daring, gross, and shocking images of the Divine nature than we creatures of the dust make in our own likeness, of our own bad passions" as Dickens says in Little Dorrit.

Such is the problem with words of evaluation, and in this is rooted the basic meaning of my statement about the world being the way it is supposed to be. The word bad, or evil, implies an inherent quality; I think it is fair to say that that is how we tend to use it. So a distinction must be made in our discourse, whether we mean, when we say "the world is bad, is badly wrong," that we don't like the way things are going, or whether we mean that the world is inherently bad, structurally evil. The range of meanings could be anything from "I really don't like the way people are wearing their hair this year" to "the nature of creation is so badly damaged, the human soul so destructive, that our own actions are to no account." Whether Paul, whoever he was, was intentionally saying the later I think that that is the meaning that is often taken away from his writings, and I find it disrespectful to the creator.

When I say "the world is just what it is supposed to be" what am I saying? That it is inherently good? Good is just as slippery a word as bad, just as subjective.Things are what they are.

There is an interesting design exercise: to take a thing, or a color perhaps, that one dislikes, and base a design on it. When given to a group of students what results is often their very best work. It seems ironic, but the activity is to look beyond one's prejudices and preferences, one's comforts, and see the potential that any thing has to offer. There are no bad things. Some things offer one advantage, some another. Some may be useful to me, some may be useful to that crow I see hopping around outside my window. I don't think a whole lot of worms, but it seems to like them.

The world has many uncomfortable corners. It has certainly been no bed of roses for me, viewed one way; but no, it has been a very challenging, interesting, and at the end of the day, satisfying place to me, that's viewed another way. All facets of creation are linked in the most amazingly complex chain, and even the bad, the evil if you will, are links in that chain, sometimes are in fact the golden links in the chain. The world is just what it is supposed to be because there isn't any other way for it to be. This is my revelation, my incident on the road to Damascus, if you will. It came to me in an equally dramatic way (though after reading Oliver Sacks I start to wonder if it was actually Migraine-no matter.)

In Job, chapter 38, The Lord asks "Where wast thou... when the morning stars sang together and all sons of God shouted for joy?...Have you entered the places where the snow is kept? Have you seen the storerooms for the hail?" I come to believe that it is the greatest part of faith to accept not just that we don't understand, but that we can't understand; to trust that which isn't understood. That which is seen as evil is the partial evil Pope is referring to, and it is a link in the chain of universal good. That what we see as bad and what we see as good are in that dark glass, and we often can't distinguish them. That in that dark glass is our understanding of ourselves, of others and the world at large; and the only badness, or goodness, is contained in our acceptance of our own responsibility to love all of this world and all of it's creatures of the dust.

How many keys?

2011-01-24T09:23:00.000-08:00

I am reading Bill Bryson's (or bill bryson, as he is described on the cover) "the mother tongue, english and how it got that way." Often, it happens that you are fully justified in castigating my careless capitalization, but in this case I am simply transcribing from the book cover. It was loaned to me by Dr. Funk. The subject interests me, and I find it delightful. It is a veritable mine of the sort of odd, erroneous or internally contradictory statements that I particularly enjoy.

"One of the persons to think to do so was, perhaps somewhat surprisingly, J.R.R.Tolkien, later to become famous as the author of the Hobbit trilogy."(capitalization his)

He is discussing the study of dialects. I suppose the superficial reader might miss Tolkien's interest in Linguistics. It is perfectly possible to assume that he was merely reporting those languages, not inventing them. It is rather surprising though, that he missed the fact that "The Hobbit" isn't a part of the trilogy, and that if you include it you have four books rather than three.

but it seems that math can be a problem, as witness;

"The Japanese have now managed to get around the pictographic problem by using a keyboard employing katakana syllables which are converted on the screen into kanji characters, rather as if we were to write "twenty percent" by striking 3 keys- "20," "per," "cent"- and then seeing on the screen one symbol: "20%."

How is it that I had to use 4 keys to get that 20%, I'm counting the shift of course, and, not counting the quote marks, 14 were needed for "twenty percent"

It is obvious that Mr. bryson's typing has become totally unconscious (I assume the Mr. should be capitalized, no?) There is, however a larger and subtle issue that over the years has become a great concern to me. I say this often, that it would seem that the public has become so passive that you can basically tell them anything and they won't challenge you. Amusing enough in this context, and I am enjoying the book, and I hope Mr. bryson will take my carping in good sport and not mind so much his poor math being pointed out. But in the political arena this passivity is being used to persuade the public into any unthinking position that certain politicians want them to take, and there it is dangerous.

Dr Wright's Cat

2011-01-17T12:06:00.000-08:00

Today is Martin Luther King Day. It just occurred to me that that fact adds some interest to a number of currents that seem to be swirling around me, and impels me to leave aside the "work" I should be doing for my clients and make some observations.

These currents, that are combining into a force, let's see: there is the violence, waste and sickness of the attack on Congresswoman Giffords, and the attention it has brought to the level of hate and aggressive speech in our public discourse. Also, a friend of mine is working very hard to address the habitual denigration of female doctors in our medical system, and has this morning sent me quite a lot material about the cases she is interested in. She also looks at sex trafficking- in New York, yes, it's an established fact! My client and dear friend who spends the winter in Florida has sent a copy of a sermon she heard recently, it deals with Kurt Cobain's suicide and his personal pain which resulted from the anger and violence in his parents marriage. At church yesterday I was given a copy of "The New Yorker," which contains a very nice article on "Blue Heron" and contains a picture of some our friends, but I opened it carelessly this morning and found the pages just ahead are filled with discussion, some rather graphic, of Stieg Larsson's novels, their violence, and ability to hold the public's attention despite their rather poor writing.

I went on line to make sure I had the correct spelling for Congresswoman Giffords, and found an ABC news report about her, not bad in itself actually, sandwiched between a very long advertisement for Macy's "million dollar" makeover- change your appearance and change your life, and followed by someone bring on pretty little critters (I'm not making this up.) I think, actually, that those conjunctions pretty much sum up both the way this world looks to me and what I think is wrong in it.

As my readers have probably surmised I have been having a time of "writer's block," and I feel rather negligent, and in fact have made some poor attempt to keep up with posting. I feel especially negligent at not having related the very satisfactory resolution of my "post Dr. Choi" medical team, particularly as that as yet unposted piece sits unfinished here on "Sam." Sam is my hard drive, named for the cantankerous cat who spent 18 years with me, my longest domestic relationship as it turned out. So here is the upshot of that: I was assigned to Joe Wright, whose NPR posts over the last 6 years or so were a consolation to my fears of this dread disease I live with. As my Primary is Rafael Campo I come to feel like my health care has become a writer's workshop!

I am jumping around, I know, but if you will continue to jump with me you will perhaps discover that there is a place I intend to land.

The friend I mentioned above, who is concerned with women in the medical field, is kind enough to include me often in her Boston Symphony Orchestra season subscription. Last Fall, James Levine conducted Mahler's Fifth Symphony. I find Mahler emotionally exhausting, and in this symphony the 4th movement, the "Adagietto," speaks especially strongly to me now. By "now" I mean in this "post disease," "post acceptance of finality" existence that I lead, what I call my "afterlife." I told my friend that this movement is what I would identify as representing my personal "near death" experience, and I can't help wondering if there wasn't a good deal of James Levine's own medical struggle contained in his powerful and delicate reading. If it is the case that there is any purpose or intentionality in our fates, and if I look for the purpose in mine, then I wonder if I am perhaps left here to tell you all that the experience of transition from this life is like that movement, rapturous, warm and full of love.

But the "Adagietto" is not the last movement, neither of the symphony, nor of my life. It is followed by the cheerful "Rondo-finale." The odd thing is, well, odd to you I suppose, that it was that movement that I had trouble with. There was pain in moving from the quiet resolve of the 4th back to the cheerful life of the fifth. A distance felt, as though life is being watched from afar, and the joy and the dancing filled with pathos, this is just how I feel in this phase of my life. I expect people to think it somehow ungrateful of me not to rejoice in having overcome, if that's what I've done, AIDS and it's attendant problems, the personal and material loss I've experienced, but I've been teased with an experience of the end, and it was glorious, and so I wait.

In composing my "unposted" post about Dr. Wright I went to his blog to collect a link and found this very beautiful statement about loss. I feel just like Dr. Wrights cat, looking through the glass, perplexed and vacant.

And so to get back to the beginning of all this I want to tell you what I see.

I see us all tending to cause pain to our fellows and the world; often to our gain, but as often with no gain in mind at all. A woman promoted and honored by her colleagues only brings them and their department credit. Keeping people down and excluding them only prevents the accretion of good. The man who pays and exploits for sex degrades himself more than he degrades the person he exploits. He denies himself human fulfillment and erodes his own sense of self. Those who focus on their desires will always be disappointed, and not because their desire can not be achieved, but because, as Dr. Johnson said 250 years ago, our wishes are vain and false. Those who pay money for, and reward, the creation of violent fiction harden themselves and condone violence in our society. Those who seek their own benefit without taking care of the world they live in make a fortress for themselves and will live under siege.

These lessons have been presented to us repeatedly. It doesn't take a great sage, although it does take a certain amount of courage, to grapple with them. It also takes a willingness to live with a concept and deal with it over time, a capacity that our society seems to be losing rather quickly.

I wonder in particular about the situations where pain is caused for no reason. I have been subjected to those actions in the past, and I observe them around me continually. Dr Johnson would say that they are where real evil lies. I don't know about evil, we always use that term for the things we don't approve of, I prefer the word destructive. Whether we are good or evil, I think we all know when we are building up and when we are tearing down. As a society I think we should be talking more about why destruction is so "salable" as entertainment, why we look so strongly at the differences between us and ignore the similarities. When we criticize is it to be helpful or just to show off, when we deny others their rights, or proper credit for their accomplishments could it be because we have no confidence in our own? And when society strikes out at good people, and we protest and complain, do we ask ourselves what change we can make in ourselves that will give us the right to our own complaints.

Finally I ask what we suppose we add to the value of our own lives or our society by depriving others and oppressing them? The discussion is often cast in terms of the rights and hardship of the oppressed. From this side of things I have to say that I really can't see what the oppressors are gaining. It seems like yet another case of the emperor's clothes: that in the end the oppressors are denying themselves the skill, support, and benefit of those they oppress, whether spouses, coworkers, nations or races. It's just stupid.

Snow

2011-01-15T14:47:00.000-08:00

People are talking a lot about the snow we've had. As I've said many times before this world is beautiful in all it's guises. This evening I took a long walk, but didn't have a tripod so I couldn't catch that magical time when the street lights are reflecting off the white ground as the sky darkens to a haze of mother of pearl. This is from the Arnold Arboretum last weekend.

May you live in interesting times

2011-01-13T18:04:00.000-08:00

Violent language pervades our culture: "no, I'm going up, would ya hit 6 for me?" Even in elevators, I suppose people would be shocked if the friendly person actually drove his fist into the button panel but the language has become so much a convention that it requires some attention to use "press" in this context, despite it being the appropriate word.

I've just come from the opening of the new Yawkey Center at Dana Farber. My tour group was waiting for the elevator, one opened at the other end of the bank and another group scooped it. "We could fight them" a bright young man said, (yuk, yuk!) As we entered our own car I said to him "we mustn't use aggressive words in public discourse anymore," trying to be equally jocular. "What did he say?" the woman with him whispered. "I guess something about my language," he replied, perplexed.

How he could have missed my point I don't know, but he seemed to. If there is an explanation I think it is that this language, and the mindset that produces it, is so accepted that it doesn't register anymore. Watch television (if you can,) even the commercials are violent. American have constructed such an artificial society that they mostly live in isolation from consequences and thus don't have to understand the real meaning of their language, their attitudes or their politics. The ultimate example of this disconnect is in Sarah Palin's claim to be the victim, to be the subject of "blood liable."

We live in very interesting times

What Does Several mean?

2010-11-03T06:34:00.000-07:00

This morning, I allowed myself to be distracted from the election reports by this interesting article in the New York Times. It concerns chocolate. As I am Dr. Funk's assistant in her very important research into the neurology of Metro Boston restaurants I thought it important to keep up with the chocolate market. The report is interesting, and became more so when I discovered one of my favorite things in it- not as favorite as Madagascan Hot Chocolate at Burdick's in Cambridge, but close: yet another internally contradictory statement presented to the American public with a rather suave non-concern. I quote:

"Tcho’s creators beg to differ. The company, which sold its first chocolate in 2009, is privately held and will not reveal its revenue, except to say that sales have already reached into the millions over the last several years, according to Ms. Metcalfe, Tcho’s president. “By 2012 we hope to be profitable,” she said."

Let me review my counting skills: 2009, 2010! I only get one year there, so is this the answer to that perplexing question, how many is several? In the New York Times just one?

It may seem that this is a rather trivial thing to spark a blog post after all this time, and especially on the morning that election results are coming in, but isn't unreasoned acceptance of clearly questionable statements a dangerous component of our "volatile electorate" as we are called elsewhere in this mornings reports. Edmund Carpenter's phantom is still giving us lots of blows, and we are still taking them complacently.

Do read the article though, whatever Tcho's interpretation of the word "several," they do encourage fair trade and organic cultivation, and gives it's farmers Apple computers, so we now they are "right thinking people." Their chocolate may be good also- more research is required.

One modification of the "Favorite" cited above is that while Dr. Funk and I together go to Burdick's for Madagascar, I singly have been falling into addiction to Clear Flour bread's"Bouchons." I happen to know that they use Scharffen Berger, which isn't mentioned in the NYTimes article. I have been a customer of Clear Flour since the early 80's and I have to say that the quality of the product continues to amaze me. These little "Bouchons" are a case in point- the first one was interesting, the second time I said (to myself) "Hmm, these are rather good" the third time they seemed very good, then I started thinking "what is Christy doing here?" gradually the appreciation of these little chocolate pastries has expanded into a full fledged compulsion. That's how I define really quality and interest. Not completely revealed at first, a little mysterious, a growing fascination.

Would we could experience the same with our leaders before we vote them out of office. Well, here is reassurance- we have Clear Flour, Flour, and Sofra, and Barney Frank won his election, so perhaps there is hope!

Renewing an old hobby:

2010-06-19T05:33:00.000-07:00

Collecting conundrums.

It is such a short time after my previous post, and yet I have come upon a real topper in an article in today's Boston Globe concerning the Homeland Security employee who has been convicted of a felony for employing an illegal immigrant.

Here is a quote from the article:

She secretly tape-recorded Henderson advising her not to leave the country or she would be deported.

This is presented as evidence that Henderson, the Homeland Security employee, was encouraging Bettincourt, the Brazilian cleaning lady, to remain in the country illegally. I'm not making this up- there it is in the newspaper. I guess it's sort of like "you can't fire me because I quit." That is, unless the reach of Homeland Security now extends to deportation from other countries. Would she be deported back to the US?

The Judge is looking for a sense of proportion, for which I laud him.

We are told Bettincourt is now in the country legally. Therein lies a tale, I'm sure.

I have another statement ripe with internal contradiction to add to my collection of public utterances that prove, once again, that Edmund Carpenter was right about the force of the media.

And finally, the now legal cleaning lady will lose her employer.

Cheers!

Stonewall to Gay Marriage

2010-06-17T06:44:00.000-07:00

"Pride Week," or as a certain friend of mine refers to it, "the Gay High Holy Days" is now over. Emotionally it's been a little tough on me. I start out with a photo of the official flag raising at City Hall, and it ended with the very unlikely circumstance of your humble servant giving a gay historical tour of Boston's South End called "Stonewall to Gay Marriage, a Long Road Through the South End. Today, I see in the New York Times, that the final arguments in the marriage trial in California have been presented, so there is a nice arrangement of events.

Folks who knew the "Mad Genius" through his "Lucubrations" don't know that he worked at City Hall for a while, so finding myself there for the flag raising was peculiar; my head fairly buzzed with his caustic comments, not the least because I was there at the behest of my friends at "Ethos," and Boston's community of elder LGBT's (I hope I haven't left anyone out of the acronym.) It would seem that I am now officially part of that community which he didn't survive to join with me.

I marched in the Parade with Emmanuel Church, and I will confess that I marched in my first Pride Parade, bare chested with my honey of long ago, with a little more ease than I did "Coming out" as this staunch Episcopalian which I've been lately- of course I worked out a lot then, and the church is much different now; and then there was the joyfully bizarre gathering on City Hall Plaza at the completion of the parade, now filled with booths for break away Catholics complete with tonsure, leather men, drag queens, corporate sponsors, doggie gift sellers, and politicians. I have been avoiding these gatherings since "The Mad Genius" passed. I have an almost surreal feeling of watching the proceedings from somewhere beyond the grave. I say this all the time but it is starkly true- almost everyone is either 10 years younger, or 10 years older than I. Of those with whom I was even acquainted during the 80's only 2 or 3 are seen around. I keep a mental tally of men I hear of in Boston who about 60- the present number is 9. When you consider that the year of my birth, 1948, was the crest of the baby boom, that we should be the largest, not the smallest, segment of the population, the devastation of AIDS becomes apparent. As I wandered around the festivities I felt like a "stranger from a strange land."

I don't need to tell you about my walk through the South End because one of the new friends who joined us has reported on it already, and very well, here, at Diffuse5. I encourage you to explore her blog.

So on to this report in the New York Times which has graced the cyberworld this morning. As usual, I have some questions. I realize that these may be more about the report than about the arguments reported upon, which I am not about to read in transcript,there are limits to my political enthusiasm!

Here are my questions, the quotations from the NYT report are in italics:

“The marital relationship is fundamental to the existence and survival of the race,” said the defense’s leading lawyer, Charles J. Cooper. “Without the marital relationship, your honor, society would come to an end.”

This line of argument against Gay marriage has always confused me. Yes, this is the lawyer defending Prop. 8. It is as though extending marriage to Gay couples will remove it from world of straight couples, once gay people can marry there won't be any more babies. All the straight people in the world will suddenly revert to Hippies who feel it is unconscionable to bring children into the world, I guess. Or another explanation, which I feel seriously may be the case, has to do with latent homosexual feelings. this is particularly conspicuous in the case of religious leaders: making sexual relations between men OK will threaten sexual relationships between men and women (when we speak of procreation we are speaking of sex after all.) In what set of circumstances could this be true? Only if men are much more attractive sexually than women, right? So when you hear this argument, doesn't it make you wonder about the inclinations of the speaker?

At one point, Judge Walker wondered at Mr. Cooper’s logic. “Do people get married to benefit the community?” he asked. “When one enters into a marriage, you don’t say, ‘Oh boy, I’m going to benefit society!’ ”

Here, my liberal friends will have to excuse a sardonic comment. I have always thought it strange that the homophobic community would be against gay marriage rather than insistent upon it. Gay people are bad, right? And really at their worst when they are running around the streets at night, looking for sex and having fun dancing to loud music. Get them off the streets and confined to the restrictions of marriage like decent people! Let them model themselves on us and benefit society! I suppose that the danger of this line of reasoning would be that straight people would have to stay in their marriages, raise their kids responsibly, do good for the community, and work to reverse the divorce laws. Odd that these "procreation as a standard" folks are not so active in that area.....

Judge Walker also asked why the state’s domestic partnership law, which affords most of the same rights as marriage, was not “sufficient accommodation” for the rights of gay people. Mr. Olson countered that marriage was a unique institution and more significant than domestic partnerships.

“It means something completely different,” Mr. Olson said.

Arguments in the trial began in early January, and included two weeks of evidence and testimony by plaintiffs and experts on marriage, sociology and political science.

The defense offered much more limited testimony, with two witnesses arguing, among other points, that same-sex marriage damages traditional marriage as an institution and that special judicial protections are unnecessary for gay people.

I have very conflicted feeling about the issue of "Gay Marriage" verses "Domestic Partnership," but will also acknowledge that my ambivalence is self interested: had the community in Massachusetts accepted domestic partnership rather than holding out for marriage "The Mad Genius" and I would have had some protections, and I would have been able to claim his assets when he died. Because of this personal cost I have always been skeptical that the price of "Marriage" was worth the delayed protection that the fight resulted in. I am now coming to see the wisdom of it however.

The quote above contains another oddity. I must say that I am continually amazed at the obvious lack of logic in statements that are made in the media- and also in court. California was mandated by the Court to apply the marriage laws equally to all people, not only to heterosexual people. This mandate was reversed by Proposition 8, and that reversal is being defended by Mr. Cooper who is saying that it would be a special judicial protection to apply the law equally to gay people, and that that is unnecessary; that applying the law to one section of society is routine, but applying it to another is unnecessarily special!

This appeal to the myopic view of a self-centered and fearful majority is exactly what our constitution is meant to protect us from.

and finally, back to the parade!

One problem with marching is that you only get to see what is just in front and just in back of you. I did get to see, however, a couple in a pedicab carrying a sign that read "55 years together, 6 years married." Here is another of my long standing observations about the validity of gay relationships. Consider that in our society all the legal, social, financial, and religious institutions have historically reinforced, supported, even demanded heterosexual marriage, yet the divorce rate is high and examples of happiness rare. And in times past, the times this couple established themselves during, gay people in relationships have suffered legal prosecution rather than protection, were ostracized by society at large and often their families as well, received no financial advantage or religious support, yet have managed to maintain a meaningful relationship. It is rare assuredly, as rare as the fifty-fifth anniversary of a straight couple, and who can say that it is of any less value to society.

A Few Controversial Statements....

2010-06-10T04:51:00.000-07:00

This post is inspired by Joan Vennochi's comments in today's globe regarding Helen Thomas's statement that the Jews of Israel should go back to Germany and Poland. Ms. Vennochi's comments, equating Helen Thomas with Glenn Beck and Rush Limbaugh et al seem to me to be poorly developed. It is interesting to read the many comments. Most of them would be amusing if they didn't expose such disturbingly poor reasoning on the part of the American public, but a few bring important points to the discussion, not least the difference between Thomas's position and voice as a serious reporter compared to the the position of outrageous talk show hosts who are, it is suggested, entertainers. Technically this is a valid point and might have been considered, but whether it obtains in the mind of the general public is a question- I will once again refer to "Oh what a blow that phantom gave me."

There are many difficulties involved in this discussion, not the least being coming to an understanding of the difference between being "anti-zionist" and "anti-semitic." I know Jews who are not Zionists, and by the way the Arabs are Semitic people. A subtext read in Thomas's statement, I suppose, is that returning to Germany or Poland would be a return to pogroms and death camps, which inference I think the Germans and Poles of today might resent, and by the way, wasn't America included in Thomas's original statement? And while reading the comments Obama's oil spilling in the gulf came up- I thought the oil was British, obviously connected with Balfour, I'm really surprised the commentators missed that, and I also learned that the Jews are right wing, I always thought they were left wing. The world is becoming so confusing to me, it must be my age, just as it must be Helen Thomas's age, which is great, and her career long. Perhaps, in the impatience of age, perhaps not quite at her best, she has slipped a little. We will all , at least the fortunate amongst us will get to that place in life, and having gotten there will think that the world might extend a little consideration, but alas, Dryden was right...

"When I consider life, 'tis all a cheat;

Yet fooled with hope, men favour the deceit;

Trust on and think tomorrow will repay:

Tomorrow's falser than the former day;

Lies worse; and while it says we will be blest

With some new joys, cuts off what we possest.

Strange cozenage! None would live past years again,

Yet all hope pleasure in what yet remain;

And from the dregs of life, think to receive

What the first sprightly running could not give.

I'm tired with waiting for this Chymick gold,

Which fools us young, and beggars us when old."

You cast your bread upon the water, as the good book says, when you jump to criticize the indiscretions of our seniors.

But still, that situation in the Mid-East is very confusing and distressing, so I want to share the opinon of a woman I once worked for with you. My first job out of college, where I minored in stained glass, was working for Durand Studios in New York City repairing stained glass. obviously this caused the team I was on to spend much time in religious establishments, I have many stories to tell! We were working in a Mid-manhattan Synagogue on this occasion. The Synagogues and temples were always the most hospitable and generous places to work- a marked contrast to the RC churches which wouldn't let come inside to eat our lunches. It was a cold rainy December day in 1972, and the woman who staffed the placed was busy making sure we had what we needed and were comfortable. "The Weather- you're working in this weather- we should be in Miami... You think it's warm in Miami? even in Miami it's cold!" She thought a lot about Miami it seems. During lunch we were chatting about the news which contained much distress from Israel just then. She threw up her hands and said "Oy! They should have given us Miami, then we wouldn't have all this trouble!" I still chuckle every time I tell this story.

Warning: Journalist may pose health risks

2010-06-04T06:39:00.000-07:00

On my igoogle home page I have a feed from Scientific American, which included this morning an item entitled "Warning: New Doctors May Pose Health Risk." it is a jaunty little essay that reports on a statistic which indicates that there are more mistakes made in hospitals regarding medications during July that any other month, and it implies that this is because July is the month when freshly minted doctors hit the ward. The survey does not seemed to include any statistics on freshly inebriated barbecuers.

I will leave it to Dr. Funk to opine whether this is a causal relationship or not- she lurks amongst the anonymous followers here. I'm sure we will have an amusing diner talking about the incidents of barbecue burns and fish hook wounds, to say nothing of firecrackers during July 4th weekend, or the difficulties in obtaining accurate information on a person's medication from a sober patient, never mind one who has spent the day at the beach drinking "be-ahs" (excuse the dialect, just couldn't help myself.)

What concerns me is the idea that all doctors would have started their career with the seasoned knowledge of an experienced clinician. Obviously we all hope that at the end of that ambulance ride we will be put in the hands of the particular hospitals most experienced doctor. I doubt that would do us much good if the venerable doctor had been work 24 hours a day for the last 20 years and so some of us will have to accept he might be at home asleep- or even at the beach himself- when we are delivered to the emergency room.

This report, I acknowledge I haven't read the study itself, doesn't mention emergency rooms. I think they must be the scene of the errors, however, because if your doctor has admitted you he will be monitoring your case. That is if you have chosen your doctor well, and that my friends, is your own responsibility. And if you are in the hospital and you don't enquire about what they are administering to you, and question if it is different than what you are accustom to, why that is also your own responsibility.

My problem with this jaunty little report in Scientific American is actually a responsibility issue. In it's largest sense, the "it takes a village" sense it has to do with our responsibility as a society to foster the quality of the young professionals. I am often reminded of an essay by Eleanor Perenyi in her book "Green Thoughts." It is titled "Partly Cloudy" and comments on our attitude toward weather. This is a garden book, and she talks of gardeners who complain about rainy days, and then goes into a rather detailed description of what the world and our gardens would be like if we never had to have another rainy day. You may anticipate one of my pet themes here- rainy days are beautiful. It seems a very unfortunate thing to me that people will ignore both the misty pastel colors and vital supplies of the one element that we can't survive without that rainy days bring us. So too with the influx of young doctors, who will become deeply experienced doctors and who, by the way come, in the lack of experience, with the most up to date knowledge, fresh in their minds and right at their finger tips. You, we, are lucky to have them.

So here is my own report on new doctors.

My primary care doctor (I just can't use the acronym PCP, it sounds too much like a toxic chemical) went on Sabbatical last year so I had my check up with one of the "New Doctors" who was covering for him. As you know, I spend a lot of time with doctors, each has his specialty and interest, the older ones have, yes, experience. What I was having was an unsteadiness in balance- I was having to use a cane. At the time I was being treated with interferon, and every one was looking at that as the source of all ills, but this "new doctor," Dr. Petty, took about 5 seconds to question my B12 levels. Surprise, low B12 can cause all sorts of problems with your nervous system, which become permanent if not attended to. No surprise, my B12 levels were in the basement and in a very quick and easy fix Dr. Petty got rid of the cane.

So I say, rejoice if you get one of the New Doctors, and if you don't know what your medications should be you'd better learn. It takes two to tango.

Best wishes to Dr. Choi

2010-05-12T10:14:00.001-07:00

In January of 2009 I made a post called "The Patient Patient" which I dedicated to Elisa Choi, M.D. at Beth Israel Deaconess Medical Center. Dr Choi is, or unfortunately I now must say was, my infectious disease doctor. The past tense is because I was notified yesterday that she has left the Practice at Health Care Associates, and I will be reassigned. This is very distressing to me, but my primary care physician, the poet and doctor Rafael Campo who originally put me under Dr. Choi's care is still my primary care physician and will, I am sure, make an excellent choice in reassigning me.

And yet there is a great sadness in this for me. It has been a huge comfort for me that Dr.Choi has been in my court over the last six years and so I would like to take a moment to give tribute to her.

I have made some allusion to the time in 2004 when Tufts medical insurance dropped me and I was left without HIV meds- ok, that's a comment about "Death Committees," any one who thinks they aren't present in private insurance really needs a reality check. I was without my HIV meds for a few months as a result. These were the months following the death of "The Mad Genius," a time of fear and despair. The result of this was a rather complicated and confusing case of medication resistance that surfaced when Dr. Campo and the social workers at Beth Israel managed to get me medications again. It was at this point that Dr. Campo sent me to Dr. Choi whose specialty this is.

Dr. Choi guided me through the process of identifying the medication problems and she found a new "cocktail" that eventually brought the virus under control. She also identified a host of other problems- in particular damage to my bone marrow that AZT had caused and she got me back on the road to feeling like I had some future after all. All this time my liver enzymes were way out of normal range, and the easy explanation was that it must be my HIV meds, given that I consistently tested negative for Hepatitis C- that great passenger in HIV infection. Dr. Choi was never content to take the obvious cause without proof, and it is really this that I most respect her for. She is a great scientist and wants an exactly defined cause before she rests with any diagnosis. After many, many, tests she insisted on a Hep C viral test, in spite of the negative antibody test, and found that I was indeed carrying a lot of Hep C virus. "If I can beat HIV I can beat Hep C! Don't worry." She actually said that to me once. Further exploration revealed that I was losing other Hepatitis antibody's as well.

I can not explain the importance that my relationship with her has had for me without being so personal about my health. I have seen her every two months for 6 years now, and relied on her to get me through some very scary problems. But there is also another connection that has developed.

In 2007 Dr. Choi had a child. One isn't necessarily aware of pregnancy with male doctors but you know with your female doctors. I really wanted to do something personal- for me that means giving some of my art work- to mark the occasion, but juvenile isn't really my thing. I walk to my appointments at the BI through the Fenway and I had the idea of taking photographs of the ducks and geese, thinking a kid might enjoy them. The image here is one of the results. It has ended up being a large and very successful series of prints, and each one of them has a little thought of Dr. Choi and her family attached to it. I offer her my greatest respect and best wishes for the future!

Oh Joy

2010-05-11T16:05:00.000-07:00

I have discovered that yet another fascinating Emmanuel Church person is writing a blog. You will find it over there on the right in my blog list- "The Crooked Line." Look through it, it is very worth reading!

Your Tax Dollars at Work

2010-05-04T05:52:00.000-07:00

I was walking through Boston Common yesterday. We are having "Marine Days" here in Boston and the first sign I saw of the activity on the common was trio of smartly dressed officers walking up the path that runs parallel to Beacon Street. They were walking toward the State House. They nodded very politely. Then, as I proceeded down the slope I noticed a group of soldiers wearing fatigues and carrying rifles darting in an out of the trees. We will assume that the rifles were not loaded. The open field of the common was off to the left and as it became visible I saw tents and heavy equipment, vehicles and helicopters, all surrounded with metal railings and with very polite and well washed marines allowing the public to to clamber through them. Here are some pictures from this morning's globe. The engineer in me became fascinated. I actually walked through one of them. The engineer in me sometimes feels like my evil genius.

My route took me through the Public Garden. It has been truly spectacular this spring. Two weeks ago we had some warm weather that brought out all the flowers and then it turned cold so they have persisted. It has been a huge flower arrangement that has been sitting for weeks in the refrigerator of the early spring weather of New England.

Next I headed for Copley Square. The Marines were there as well. They had 4 machine guns set up around the large fountain where the skate boarders practice all winter while it is empty. It's still empty, but only one skate boarder was there in the cross fire of the machine guns. He looked very brave, but then there were no marines actually manning the machine guns at the time. They still looked very threatening though. And there was a large, I think it's called a mortar? I didn't stop to ask, a very large gun about 12 feet high, which they had pointed at the Boston Public Library. I can't imagine what these people are thinking about. I'm sure this is all meant to gain good will and show us how our tax dollars are spent, but pointing machine guns at skateboarders and artillery at the BPL is a little to ominous, dare I say prophetic, to be comfortable.

Here is another article from this mornings Globe- "Travesty of Justice" by Kevin Cullen. I recommend to you that you read it carefully. Be mindful that in describing the actions of the FBI and the Court system he is discussing the same entity which enforces it's will with the Marines who are flexing their muscles for us all in our fair "City on a Hill." Then go look at those gun emplacements on Copley Square.

Oh! By the way, did you hear that the BU class of 40 years ago will finally have a graduation ceremony. Those of you who remember will know that they never graduated because of the National Guard killing 4 students at a war protest at Kent State University. Those of you who don't can read about it here. BU has invited all the members of that year's class to join in this year's graduation, so they will finally have a ceremony. I add this as a reminder to those who think that it can't happen here. Think about Kent State in 1970 while enjoying "Marine Week".

Bicycles, accidents and police

2010-04-21T06:45:00.000-07:00

Here is a story from the NY Times regarding a confrontation between a bicyclist and a police officer. While you are drawing your own conclusions I'll tell you a story.

On September 30th 2004, about 4 pm, I was riding my bicycle on Massachusetts Avenue from my home in Dorchester, that is I was heading into town. I had only just started riding again after the summer during which I was struggling with medication resistance and the damage that AZT had done to my bone marrow. It felt good. After months of thinking that life was over I was starting feel like there was a future and strength would return. I was exercising, I was out in the free air, I was also fairly weak still and being quite cautious.

I am a long time bike rider- I started riding racing bikes in 1964, and I always rode fast. I discovered in high school that the guys who bullied me started to back off when I started to pass them on the long straight road that lead to the High School. They were in cars, I was on my bike. My philosophy of bike riding is that the cars can't hit you if you are going faster than they are.

But on that day in 2004 I discovered a flaw in that reasoning. Mass Ave, as we call it, gets a little complicated in the area where the food markets, Melnea Cass Bldv. and the exit from the central artery all converge. there is a huge detour around the fire department buildings, unexpected one way changes and very odd traffic patterns. In my hay day this would have been a signal to sprint- and perhaps if I had things would have been different, but I was cautious. There is a sidewalk on the left hand side, and I slowed down, got on the sidewalk, and was proceeding cautiously. As I was crossing Gerard Street, quite properly in the cross walk, a car came full speed down Mass Ave, turned into Gerard Street, and plowed into me. So much for being cautious. These are my memories: I remember flying through the air, thinking an expletive about not being able to "get out of this;" I remember coming to in the ambulance, I called my brother, I am told, and remember the EMT saying the car was doing 30 mph when it hit me; I remember having my clothes cut off and then a doctor apologizing profusely about how long I was in the Emergency Room. I assured her it was my quickest trip to an ER ever, I had no idea that it was midnight and I had been there for 6 hours. That's it, no memory of anything else.

Weeks later, when I went to get the police report, thinking of a nice law suit, I discovered that the officer, of whom I have no memory, entered a report saying that the car had been parked and that I ran into it, and in addition that I had been belligerent toward him. No explanation of how it happened that the front and rear wheels of my bicycle had been bent sideways, or of how the hood and windshield of the car had been damaged. I say nothing about how an unconscious person expressed his belligerence.

So that is what I have to say about bicycles and the police!

Watch this!

2010-04-21T05:34:00.000-07:00

Here is a link to a film about Kevin Bright teaching blind students at Perkins School for the Blind to use a video camera. It is a "Must Watch!"

I am reminded, by one of the incidents in this short clip, of an exchange I witnessed, I should really say overheard, in the locker room of the Metropolitan Health Club many years ago. I should mention for the benefit of those who live in the real world that the Metropolitan Health Club was Boston's first avowedly gay gym. There was a blind fellow who worked out there and was quite popular, and he was chatting with another fellow while they were changing. I was in the next row of lockers but recognized the voices.

Our blind friend ask what the other had done over the weekend, to which he responded quite readily that he had gone out on a "blind date." By the time he finished the statement, however, he realized that he had probably transgressed all sorts of codes, manners and PC standards, and so without taking a breath started profuse apologies for making this thoughtless statement to one who was actually blind.

"No, no, it's fine, I use the term myself" said our very secure and grounded friend. But what followed was, to the ears of an eavesdropper, a foolish and continued insistence on the part of the sighted fellow that he was in error, while all the time the blind fellow was consoling and reassuring him.

I have learned how often it happens that it falls the lot of an assumed victim of affliction to take care of his comforters. I encourage you to watch the video!

Speaking of rain

2010-04-20T16:01:00.000-07:00

I posted a photo last year- see Rain- which I had taken in response to a various comments I had heard at Emmanuel about our being in a bleak time of year. As it happens last year, at the end of March, we were also having a good bit of wet weather. While that photo made my point about color I was always dissatisfied with it. My Canon camera was new, and I eventually replaced the lens. This year on the same date we were having similar weather so I returned to the location, this is the result. The location is the Longwood stop on the green line. This is taken from the bridge over the Muddy River which brings on from Beth Israel via Winsor School, a route I travel all too frequently.

It's Raining Today So I Hope You Are Going Out!

2010-04-16T13:07:00.000-07:00

I came in from the Friday Matinee at The Boston Symphony to find the message "It is raining today so I hope you are staying in." I had been reveling in the extraordinary beauty of the day on my way and on my return, the colors in the soft moist light, pinks and whites and the hot lavender of the early rhododendrons. The walk was ravishing. why would one stay in? I grabbed my camera in order to show you!

An Explanation

2010-04-15T10:01:00.000-07:00

A few days ago I open up this blog in order to send a new friend a link to it and was surprised to find new "followers" I will take advice on whether the quotations are correct in this context. This is a pleasant surprise, and makes me feel badly that I've been so negligent about making posts over the last months. A number of factors have been contributing, not the least a large increase in the difficulty I experience typing, these resulting from the neuropathy that I developed a few years ago. It seems that the nerves are not carrying the signals from my brain to my hands at the same speed, left and right. I sometime have to try two or three times to coordinate the cap shift with the intended letter. It has been very frustrating. I am getting around it however, and hope to be more communicative. Posting photos and poems is a way to get around that ofcourse so I will not make excuses, but try to be more attentive. Someone asked me a few weeks ago if I was a famous poet, I responded that yes, very famous, but only amongst a group of five people. Now I find the group is extended to eight, and I've been ignoring the possibilities. Mea Culpa!

What have I been doing all this time? I've been working on building projects at Emmanuel Church and reading Sir Walter Scott.

Every one asks why Scott? The answer is simply that other authors refer to him so frequently that it seemed like a sensible idea to familiarize myself with his writings. This intention received a solid push when I discovered a copy of "Guy Mannering" at a recent Boston Public Library book sale. While I was paying my dollar for it the librarian said wistfully,"Ah yes, Scott, ahhh, Guy Mannering, so dear, my favorite!

It turns out that picking favorites is very difficult. I struggled with the dialect in Guy Mannering, became completely hooked, and promptly decided that if one was going to struggle with the dialect and the vocabulary one had best get on with reading them all at once; which I have, pretty much. I'm reading all of the Waverly novels, in order as well as I can manage that, and am now up to "Woodstock," number 22 of 26.

The remark was made the other day that I must be some kind of masochist to attempt such a thing, but the truth is that they are all amazingly compelling, enormously interesting, and great fun to read. Taken as a whole they are an astounding accomplishment, and each is fresh and new and unique. I can't put them down which is something to say when reading the twenty second novel by the same author in the space of five months. There is no repeat of plot, or characters. There lurk surprises at every turn, and one can see very clearly the source of much in Dickens, Thackeray, Elliot, and Trollope. One also finds bizarre and convoluted premises for the tales- one person relating it to another who writes a memoir that gets read by a neighboring antiquary who tells us this story.... and heros who are ambivalent and blown by fate one way or another, bad guys who turn out to be essentially good and good guys who are motivated by evil, it's almost post modern.

I'll try to be better about sharing all this, but to be honest, until I'm finished, I just can't put them down!

Reckless

2009-11-29T15:16:00.000-08:00

This afternoon I went to see the SpeakEasy Stage production of "Reckless." The Emmanuel Center had it's "talk back" at this Sunday's matinee. These are very worth attending and I give a link to the Emmanuel Center web site and suggest that you participate. The production was very good and very imaginative. I am all amaze at what they can do in that small theatre; the quality of the sets and the performances; but I am not a theater critic and so won't attempt a review. What I want to do is to share some thoughts on the themes of the play. Actually I'm "Talking Back" to the "Talk Back" with benefit of time and access to the online edition of the Oxford English Dictionary.

The O.E.D. becomes a factor here because one of the things I started to puzzle about was the word that forms the title. This is one of those very interesting words that is used very generally and frequently, the meaning of which is fairly well understood, we assume, but whose meaning is really understood when examined with a kind of peripheral vision. When we look directly at it it starts to get sort of fuzzy. What does it really mean. And why is there no "W?"

Clearly the "Less" is a suffix, lets remove it, we have "reck." Reck; wreck; wreak; I deal only with verbs here, and my mind starts playing all sorts of games of association. She wreaked a wreck-full recklessness. That's what happens in the play, by the way. Wreck comes from the latin wrecare and means "to cast on shore": "a1440 Sir Eglam. 894 He say that lady whyte as flowre, Was wrekyd on the sonde."

Wreak: to drive, press, force to move, from Old English, also to banish or expel, as the characters tried to do to the past, whether their passive or their active past. I said that I was dealing only with the verbs, but the noun wreak is so interesting I can't pass it by "1. Pain or punishment inflicted in return for an injury, wrong, offence, etc.; hurt or harm done from vindictive motives; vengeance, revenge.

In frequent use from c 1540 to c 1620." By the way wreckful means, not full of wrecks but full of vengeance!

But it is "Reckless" that is the main concern here, less the less: what is Reck?

I make an aside to tell you, in case you aren't aware, that you can access the OED online with your Boston Public Library card. Log into your account, go to electronic resources and select the oxford English Dictionary Online. you will need to put your library card number in the log-in box, which is easy if you copied it onto your clip board when you logged in to the BPL, you now simply paste it. I assume many libraries and academic institutions offer this access.

The etymology of "Reck" is very long and interesting, at least to me. The meaning, in each variant is short and clear, but they are preceded with this:

From its earliest appearance in English, the verb is almost exclusively employed in negative or interrogative clauses. In the former the simple negative may be replaced by nought, nothing, little, not much, etc.; in the latter, the pronoun what is most usual. Now chiefly arch. and literary.

1.a To take care or thought for or notice of something, along with inclination, desire, or favour towards it, interest in it, etc.; to think (much, etc.) of.

b. To take notice of or be concerned about something, so as to be alarmed or troubled by it, or so as to modify one's behaviour or purposes on account of it.

Now add back the "Less," and we have "without the concern about something, so as to be alarmed or troubled by it, or so as to modify one's behavior or purposes on account of it," exactly what has been driving, wreaking, the action in the play.

But there is one more thing to say- that this lack of "recking"- oddly reconing is a different root so won't do here- this driving on reckless is one thing when it is Lloyd, who was the perpetrator of the actions that wreak him and make his past a nightmare that he wakes up too; whereas Rachel was a victim and what appears to be the equivalent to Lloyds, or Pooty's, impulse is actually a very stark and quite accurate representation of a very severe post traumatic stress disorder.

The children were mentioned in the "Talk Back" session- they are a troubling factor- why did she run from them, why were they abandoned? I think that the comic aspects of the show, and in particular the comic portrayal of Rachel's character, tended to trivialize the enormity of the emotional shock she experienced. It is one thing to be left unexpectedly by one's mate, it is another thing to have a ones murder attempted, but the mate being the murderer is a thing so devastating that we can't credit it, we take it as absurd and trivialize it and proceed to equate Rachel's running away with Lloyd's abandonment of his family. This distinction was inadequately made in the play and the result was a real confusion of reality and dream.

It can come sometimes that reality and dream can be confused, but the confusion is a first person confusion. When was Rachel dreaming? Ever? Never? The incident with Lloyd and Pooty, or Lloyd's drinking and death? Or was her brake down a dream, or her recovery and final meeting with her son? Was the doctor really the bus driver- "The bus driver" or just a bus driver?

Life can be like that, I'm here to tell you. "A Serious Man" is like that. But Job isn't. Job wasn't dreaming, he knew and he persevered. He retained his integrity. We, the audience, the third person, are observers, and while there is some benefit to experiencing the confusion of the protagonist it is also inevitable that we will make judgments. If we are not allowed to see beyond the dream then we become like Job's comforters, who lack understanding and whose opinions are worthless. I don't like being put in that position.

As I was saying to Ben Affleck.....

2009-11-26T06:55:00.000-08:00

Those of you who know me will wonder that I, who always describe myself as "popular culture challenged" will bring up such a person as Ben Affleck. Ahhh! but fate plays all sorts of little games with us.

I give you photograph of a building in Boston's North End, and also a drawing of mine. In 2000 a client of long standing asked me to design a facade for this building he had just purchased. I don't talk about my design work very often in this blog, but this particular project is perhaps the best illustration of it. I have a very particular knowledge of classical detail. It is seldom that I have the opportunity to exercise that knowledge and work to my full potential. To do so requires a very intelligent and patient client and unfortunately that species of client is rather rare. The gentleman I refer to here is one of those and I have had a long and rewarding association with him.

When we started there was only stucco and aluminum and plate glass on the first two stories. You see what we did. Everything below the second floor cornice is new. The cast stone was fabricated in Nebraska and the mill work was done in Rochester NY. I designed the facade and worked with a local architect to execute the design and supervise the construction. It took years- the patient client was very committed- and it won the 2004 design award from the Cast Stone Institute of America.

So what are those plastic covered signs above the first floor windows all about? They were a surprise to me on a recent trip to visit my client. It turns out that the building has a new distinction. It is the "bank" that Ben Affleck robs in the movie "The Town" which was filmed here recently. Here is a link to a picture of him standing, rather heavily armed, in front of my windows. And a good thing too that they choose this building, because part of the design problem was to make the windows sound proof. We were thinking about fire engines at the time, not machine guns. Mon dieu!

I started designing buildings in 1974. I have a small but very faithful group of clients, but except for one book and the odd magazine article I have never received any public notice- until now. So watch the big screen in 2010!

Unfortunately no one has offered me any residuals... always the bridesmaid... as a friend of mine likes to say!

Cheers

Creation

2009-11-12T17:34:00.000-08:00

This afternoon, before the Emmanuel Church Building commission meeting I had a few extra minutes and so was able to see a snippet of the dress rehearsal for Emmanuel Music's saturday evening concert. They will perform Schoenberg's Genesis Prelude and Haydn's Creation Mass. Even for Emmanuel Music it is spectacular. Amazing. Do not miss it! There is nothing more to say.

Oh, yes, it has been a long time.

Cheers

The farmer's Market, Copley Square.

2009-08-23T11:51:00.000-07:00

Here in this great space, sandwiched between Richardson's Trinity church and McKim's library, In this place of sophisticated aesthetics erupts a celebration of Ceres. A dionynisia of fertility and plenty and beauty, beauty of fruits, beauty of light, beauty of people.

The sky is a pale cobalt cup, a Ming cup, still and translucent and radient.

The lowering rays of sun steal through the branches of the trees and explode in brilliance on the white marquees that shelter under them.

The quality of mercy

2009-08-20T05:50:00.000-07:00

"..... it is twice blest;

It blesseth him that gives and him that takes:

'Tis mightiest in the mightiest: it becomes

The throned monarch better than his crown;

In the BBC on line news, as well as other sources, I see that the Lockerbie bomber is to be returned to Libya on humanitarian grounds. I am surprised to learn from the associated press that his conviction was not a life sentence but for only 27 years, that there is ground for an appeal, and that many in Britain think him innocent. This was not mentioned in the BBC report, and is rather important in forming an opinion about the situation. I find myself wondering what it means that the sentence was only 27 years, given the heinous nature of the crime, this in itself seems odd. further exploration of the BBC yields this report regarding the likelihood that he was simply a scapegoat. I encourage you to read it before forming an opinion regarding the release. It seems rather clear that the evidence was very tenuous, and even that may have been paid for by our own government, who are now vociferously protesting the release: he purchased clothing in the store of a Maltese merchant. Things often change there appearance when one starts comparing reports.

In the first BBC article, however, there is a statement that deserves careful attention. It is a statement from the Scottish Justice Secretary kenny MacAskill I quote the BBC

He said compassion and mercy were about "upholding the beliefs we seek to live by, remaining true to our values as a people, no matter the severity of the provocation or the atrocity perpetrated".

There is an important concept in this, that we have values and be committed to live by them. In the post 2001 US it often seems to me that whatever the rhetoric about "The War On Terror" the fact is that in the aggressive curtailing of individual rights we give victory to the forces who attack our principles. I find myself asking what our principles are that the ideas of justice, of proof, of mercy and of compassion are so easily perverted by mass hysteria fanned by sound bites and the need for scapegoats. It is not very comforting, but Mr. MacAskill at least seems to have been paying attention to Shakespeare.

DREAM. 10:45 am

2009-08-09T11:26:00.000-07:00

ROW, ROW, ROW......

I'm walking to the garden in Bradock park;

To my little garden plot on this very still

Saturday morning, very still and calm;

And wafting through the air a sound is teasing my ears.

YOUR BOAT.......

I have always wondered that those words

Scan so well. The voice is light and sincere,

Maternal, it seeks my ears so very gently; I sense

A rhythmic movement in the playground at the top of the alley.

GENTLY DOWN THE STREAM...

So gentle she is, gentle as my own mother

Sweet and simple under a porcelain sky.

Down the stream of life I've flown, gently;

Being gentle has never been hard at all for me.

MERRILY, MERRILY, MERRILY, MERRILY....

But oh, my dear mother, the merrily part

That has so often been hard in this my life;

But I have pulled this heavy oar of mine

Happily, no matter how rocky and turbid the stream.

LIFE IS BUT A...........

On the August air the little response failed to carry;

Instead came the rident staccato chime of a child's laugh.

The Alley of the Giant Elm: 10:10am

2009-08-09T11:15:00.000-07:00

Marriage

2009-08-08T09:54:00.000-07:00

I step outside of my series on August to draw your attention to a piece on gay marriage that I encourage every one to read. It has been brought to my attention by "sticky stuff stew." it cuts a bit close to home and is too well written for me to want or need to say very much about it.

Except this: it was a year before the law in Massachusetts allowing gay marriage passed that Aramis and I found ourselves in the position of Bill and Mike in this story. Beth Israel never questioned my rights to direct Aramis's care. There was no searching for papers, only the full recognition of our commitment to one another and my place in his life. My own health problems have made Beth Israel a haven of safety for me, but even before, with Aramis, they had shown a human compassion and respect for relationships that, especially then but even now, was edifying.

My Window

2009-08-08T09:04:00.000-07:00

“But about that day or hour no one knows...

And what I say to you I say to all:Keep awake.”

Mark 13: 35 and 37

Listen to me: you could lose this all

Not in the far off sense of environmental catastrophes,

But you, personally. I write this

In bed unable to go out and explore

The shifting meters of sun and cloud;

Hearing only from a distance the occasional bark of dogs

Or the distant wailing of a siren

Mapping the geography of tragedy

While the traffic murmurs.

All those things that never happen, will!

They have happened to me. The stalking specter

Of disease that robs the tongue of taste,

That makes light a searing threat,

That muffles sound and thought

And makes a prison of one's weariness;

Which trades the sky of moving clouds

For a stark white ceiling

And a desperate yearning.

A prisoner in one's own body,

An orphan in one's own city,

A voice crying in a familiar wilderness;

The hand of fate can open

And give you these things unexpected.

So I tell you, walk with your head raised,

Raised to the lofty and infinite sky.

Walk in awareness of the beauty of creation,

The mosaic of green and blue,

The tracing shadows and the jeweled puddles,

The voices of young and old in humanity's chorus;

Walk in this world with joy;

While you can!

Morning, 8:24 a.m.

2009-08-08T09:01:00.000-07:00

Some Comments

2009-08-08T07:40:00.000-07:00

This is the headpiece to the poem "Dawn"

Before continuing with the progress of this day in August I will make some comments. These images are all of the area immediately around my apartment, as will be the next few. You've seen these locations before. The man walking through the snow in "Orange Pink Sky" is walking on the same path as can be seen "8:26,"and the bollards with iron rings which appear in "Dawn" are also at in my last post showing snow. The have also, by the way, received the attentions of "The South End Knitters." I am fortunate that when I found myself unable to move around, the place I was confined to was so rich in beauty.

I have told you about my pictorial objectives before I started this series, and now that I have shown you some of them I'll tell how my intentions have changed. The change seems to have stuck because as you will realize the images since, since regaining my mobility, have continued to be informed by it. The image that will follow this post "Morning" was the turning point. I made it on a day when I hadn't any choice but to stay put, but you know the latin proverb, "nulla dies sine linea," even when laid low...

This view out of my window (all right, I'll confess, it is actually from the door) is of the yard which quite literally lies outside my window. There are a few spectacular trees and a lot of junk and clutter. I do, after all, look out onto a functioning, unpaved alley, albeit a very nice one. What to do with the beach chairs, cars and garbage pails? What to do with the telephone poles and low hanging wires? I made them a challenge for myself. The artist, in creating, faces a tricky dichotomy. Are the creation of beauty and the depiction of beauty the same thing? It is the difference between coming upon a beautiful view and making a record of it, on the one hand, or taking a much more prosaic view and arranging it in such a way that a formal beauty is achieved that the passerby might never have noticed on the other. What I had to work with included a lot of junk and wires so I decided to accept them as elements in the composition and see what could result. "Morning, 8:24 am" was the result. it was very stimulating to feel that I had created an image that I felt was beautiful from the mix of elements that I was confronted with. The beauty is not a fiction, I do truly experience it out there, but is created in a very complex process of visual selection and processing that the casual snapshot does not partake of. In fact I felt that I had recorded the beauty of my experience rather than the facts of the objects. I'm very proud of that and having done it, I have continued to work with the wires and signs and even the "pedestrian crassness of the playground with it's ground rubber pavement" which you will see shortly.

I have been asked about the word "rident" which appears in the "Dawn" poem and will appear in some others which follow. It is one of my "Thackeray" words. I had to go to the OED to find the meaning: "radiantly joyful"- what other word could describe a child's laugh or the rising of the sun after a storm. English has a huge lexicon of amazing words of which we use only a small percentage, many are duplicates, of course, but many are beautiful, subtle and very specific.

In the corners of the images you will see some lettering and a box. I design these images to be printed on my printer. The sheet size is 13 inches by 19 inches. they are archival prints and I limit the production to 50. Since I am printing them myself I have the ability to number the sequence of the edition in the file itself each time I print one, and I keep records of when and for whom each was printed. I deal with it in a traditional "printmaking" way. Perhaps one day that will matter to someone! The box receives my signature and the date of the print was made.

8:26 AM

2009-08-05T07:37:00.001-07:00

The morning sun grazes Carleton Street.

7:26 AM

2009-08-03T16:02:00.000-07:00

DAWN

2009-08-01T13:12:00.000-07:00

...shall I choose the wings of Dawn for my flight...

Cantata "Ich armer Mensch, ich Sünenknect" J.S.bach BWV 55

Dawn! Look, the ardent sun is rising,

Rising over West Newton street and the corridor;

Rising in the East, or at least seems to be so.

But you perhaps remember that it is we,

And with us this delicate, nacreous sky,

Pearl, mother of pearl, mother of us all,

We with our lungs, and with our fragile,

Our mysterious and powerful air,

We are rising as we spin, hurtling

Through the dark and starry void.

We are spinning on our wobbly axis

Like the top of some giant child.

Whirling so fast he couldn't even see us

As we crawl across the South West Corridor Park.

How rident would be that child's laugh-

And perhaps at our expense as we swarm

In our self absorbed festering across this globe;

As we trace our frantic orbit, spinning on our way.

Spinning, and West Newton Street

has just rushed to edge of light

Where the warm and the vibrant;

Where the massively energetic orb

Is glimmering into view to gild this August day.

And that man, do you see him there?

He is spinning at 1000 miles per hour

While being thrown through the track of our orbit

At sixty seven times that speed, and he is walking;

Being late for work he's charging at perhaps

Six miles per hour; my goodness!

What must the addition of his velocity be?

And he is still determinedly upright.

And what is stranger, he doesn't even notice!

2009-08-01T06:17:00.000-07:00

The hours of my days

“In a summer season, when soft was the sun.”

Piers Plowman

Here, let me show you what is outside my door, mundane though it may seem, with its traffic signs and telephone wires and the pedestrian crassness of the playground equipment and its ground rubber pavement.

But it is also under the lofty infinite sky, and caressed by the eddies of breeze, gilded by the sun and jeweled with puddles. I want to show you, look and see the world that Courbet and Constable painted- it is right there, all around you, you are walking through it right now.

Hear the symphonic cacophony of our laughter, and chatter, and dog barks, backed by the murmuring continuo of the ever moving traffic and the percussion of our footsteps.

Even in the most ordinary view there is splendor, I invite you to see it, to swoon in it’s beauty; because,you see, tomorrow you, or it, may be no more.

Believe me, I know!

“August; the hours of my days” is a series of images and text which chronicle my daily journeys through the month of my birth. In it I attempt to depict the passage of the sun, the movement of clouds, and the feeling and beauty of the hours of my days.

GoudamentBricks is a typeface by Manfred Klien
typeoisis.com

Willow along the fenway

2009-07-31T06:07:00.000-07:00

This image was made over a year ago, and I am posting it now because I want to illustrate the things I was concerned with prior to last August, just a year ago. I've made reference to my various health problems; I discovered during 2006 that walking was very therapeutic, both physically and mentally, and so became a dedicated walker in the parks, by ways, and neighborhoods of Boston. Boston is a wonderful city for walking and I'd like to tip my hat (you know about my hat) to Antonia Pollak, our parks commissioner. This willow tree is in the fenway, right in front of Simmons College. If you know the area you will realize that the roar of traffic is only slightly to the right of this tree.

The pastoral nature of the image is deliberate. I was immersing myself in the beauty of God's creation. I was consciously trying to mend the despair I've spoken of in earlier posts by praising the beauty I found around me, but I was doing that by pointing out the unadulterated beauty of the natural world without any reference to man's place in it. Fortunately subjects abound in Boston and I have a great many images like this.

Medically,I was also trying to build myself up as much as possible because I knew I was facing a very rigorous year of harsh treatments, which I was warned would leave me bedridden for most of 48 weeks. That started in December of 2007, and for quite some time I continued walking from Holyoke Street to Beth Israel for my weekly treatments- hobbling I should say, but still with my camera, then only one way, and then, by last summer I was on the "T." and no longer walking in Nature.

I have included the detail because I want to illustrate what I have been doing with the images. I hesitate to call them photographs because they do not respond to the technical formalities that really fine photographs should, and because I have never considered myself to be a photographer. I am a painter, and I have managed to learn how to take the raw material my digital camera produces and translate it into images that I would have painted. I hope you can see in the detail some of the levels of manipulation, both of the image and of colors. I actually combined many images to try to give the impression of the movement of the air, and an experience of a moving viewpoint. They are very consciously not a depiction of the place they were taken, but a more generalized and romanticized image.

When I came to the point last summer that I couldn't get around my focus had to change, and my attitude also changed. For me, when I get really, really, sick I become very aware of the fragility of life. I had spent years in despair- I refer to this period in "Lent, part 2," then I had come to treasure this life and immersed myself in it only too find myself to weak to participate. That is where I was last summer.

I am going to show you now what came of it. As with Kingfishers it became a suite of images and words that I think of as a book- so the graphic presentation is also an important part of it for me. I will try to give some sense of the graphic presentation in the following posts. Let me also say, that the treatment ended and I've been recovering from it nicely so don't worry if the tone in the poems seems a bit dark from time to time- all is well and I am in life with both feet- at least I think I am. I sometimes feel that after my last "Near death" experience they didn't quite get all of me back, but that's another story, and a very nice one too!

I call what follows a "Portrait of August." You will get commentary as well as the poems themselves.

7.22.09

2009-07-22T19:02:00.000-07:00

The hatch shell was filled with Haydn

Clouds moving east above it

Growing as they did, roseate

Against the fading sky, and grey.

Brahms brought the waltzing night

And a flock of geese flew to the river

The fountain in Copley Square is still.

It's basin trembling with reflections

Of the tower of Old South Church

While 8 young women pass;

Tall as giraffes and lithe

Their silk dresses bright like jewels,

Short like flags above their heeléd legs.

Laughing, they wear plastic crowns

And party beads and two hold hands.

A bachelorette party they tell me,

I wish well and happy the bride.

The man making my meal

Is blond and wears a baseball cap.

And his skin is fine. Inside

His arm is a tattoo. Initials

And small dates rank up his arm.

As he hands me the bag

And says my name I see

The list is long. He wears it with grace.

Along the park the sky is deep

I see some stars, the horizon glows.

It is beautiful.

arrest

2009-07-21T05:17:00.000-07:00

"His front door refused to budge, which is why Harvard professor Henry Louis Gates Jr., just home from a trip to China filming a PBS documentary, set his luggage down and beckoned his driver for help."

So begins an article on Gates' arrest in this morning's on line edition of the Boston Globe, I encourage you to read.

Some of my readers know why this catches my attention. At least Gates still had a home to return to when the dust settled. The situation seems extreme, but it is only Gates' fame that makes it so. We have been convinced that the American values of liberty and justice are threatened, and I agree that they are, but not from without. They are threatened from within, and the threat is directed mostly, but I can tell you not exclusively at Blacks and Hispanics and Muslims. While Gates position makes us all sit up and take notice, and perhaps this will bring some much needed attention to the problem, the problem is a quiet cancer that grows in our society. We delude ourselves if we think otherwise. I am in a position to know.

Hats off?

2009-07-17T07:24:00.000-07:00

When I was young we had in our family a book of riddles. This was before computer games. It was called something very imaginative like "101 riddles for young persons" I may have the number wrong. As is so often the case, it is the perplexing ones that I remember, to whit:

Q. When is a boy not a boy?

A. When he is abed!

The syntax should date the publication, even in the 50's we had to seek out our septuagenarian baby sitter to explain. In my youth the proposition that one's essence could be changed by simply lying down was troubling. I have come to understand that it can, puberty helped with that, and I find that the world continues to be indefinite, filled with troubling questions about the nature of things, such as:

Q. When walking through Copley place, as I will be shortly, I'm having breakfast with "The Other Reader," am I inside or outside? Also, when leaving one building and crossing the bridge to the next, does that condition change and, which is really the pressing concern, at least to those of us who have managed to outgrow baseball caps, do I remove my hat or not?

I have actually watched the bifurcated video screen at the top of the Huntington Avenue escalator for clues, thinking that Louis Vuitton's models would know, but have been unable to ascertain what is hat and what is hair, except in the case of the black bunny ears, but they are on what we can assume is a woman. She keeps them on, but women do keep them on, being relieved by the sexism of our culture from having to fumble with their hat as well as their shopping bags while trying to open a door. Or pass through a revolving door in defensive posture (more on that later.) Or still yet, press an elevator button. I say nothing about men's rooms.

Keeping my hat on in the hallway does allow me to remove it on entering a shop, which still makes a pleasant impression, and under the skylights it can still serve the stated function of protecting my aged skin from the harsh rays of the sun. That answers fairly well in regard to the bridge, and as we know, in some contexts the dear bought fedora is never removed- but those folks have evolved a different taste that eludes me as yet.

Ah!me.

I suppose this could be extended into a contemplation of the question "where are we really when we enter the mall, is it possible to ascertain in any real sense?"

Meanwhile, I'm at the revolving door so will sign off. As I said, you'll be hearing about that too!

Cheers

Kingfishers#12, A final word

2009-07-10T05:25:00.000-07:00

The meditation on Gerard Manely Hopkins' poem "As kingfishers catch fire" contained in the foregoing posts was a long time gestating. Poetry expresses much in a very compact form, and projects a great deal of meaning by implication. Implied meaning of necessity depends on a dialogue with the listener, whose inference is rooted in his own experience and mood- things that change over time. As time has passed I have focussed on different sections of this poem, understanding some easily and consistently- "The just man justices" while others, " deals out that being indoors each one dwells" took a long time to find a fertile soil in my mind.

I have mentioned that "Kingfishers" was accompanied by two other Hopkins poems when I was introduced to it, and can be said to be part of a group that are beautifully lyrical. The lines about being indoors, even if their meaning seems obscure, are still so wonderfully beautiful that one can speak them in the same spirit as the tucked strings and roundy wells as part of Hopkins "sprung rhythm" without catching the harbinger of darkness and isolation which was to engulf Hopkins life and poetry. His journey to "THOU art indeed just Lord, if I contend" passed through a large number of poems that I frankly could not square with the beauty of "Kingfishers" until I had also passed though "the fell of dark" as well.

In "THOU art indeed just Lord, if I contend" we witness a retrospective dialogue of Hopkins,' in this case with the prophet Jeremiah. The first lines are a very literal translation of the beginning of Jerome's Latin translation of the 12th chapter of Jeremiah, which he then turns into a beautiful, if challenging sonnet. For many years the beauty of his latter poems was hidden from me. I hadn't collected the compost that the meaning of such as "Carrion Comfort," which ends with his own God wrestling, needed to grow. I should also add that my years of anti-clerical feeling inhibited me from accessing the religious aspect of a lot of these poems. But time and experience has made a fertile place, and my dialogue has continued, and my affinity deepened.

I have learned from the Marianni biography that there are also a number of coincidences- "THOU art indeed just Lord, if I contend" was written on St. Patrick's day only 30 miles from the fields I described in my own "St. Patrick's Day" (see post on March 17.)

There has been much more of my dialogue with Hopkins which I will share with you as time passes.

kingfishers#11, A Coda

2009-07-08T07:32:00.000-07:00

I am large, I am small

On some days short, on others tall,

Full of force,

Filled with fear,

More, or less, or naught, or all.

Always rebellious but well behaved,

Formal in manner if somewhat depraved,

Ever so kind

Even when curt

Abrupt when distracted but never a knave.

Happily depressed, I'm Saturn's man,

A.D.D. with a long attention span,

Ever sober,

Given to extremes

Exacting the rigor perfection demands.

My mind runs wide, my opinions resolved,

Generously conservative with liberalities allowed,

Retiring to the very bone,

Of course assertive when at home,

Mildly disposed with much strength involved.

I myself become confused

By so manners used,

Facets turned to light,

"Which one is right,

Which true, which false?" I often muse.

What was it I was looking for?

Some clear cut image, nothing more

To hold with comfort

My odd shaped mind,

and bring my simple self to the fore.

Sorry, did I hear you laugh?

Have I made some kind of Gaff?

Why would you think me

Stern or haught,

Can't you see my fragile heart?

kingfishers#10, A Conundrum

2009-07-06T16:24:00.000-07:00

I once was lost, but now am found,

Was blind but now can see.

From "Amazing Grace" by John Newton

A Conundrum

My search for myself was almost fifty years long. It only ended when my diagnosis with HIV placed so many other urgencies in my way that I forgot about the search for myself for a while in my haste and worry. At that time it seemed that my years were now quite limited and that they would just have to be lived as I was. Perhaps disease is the ultimate “come as you are party.”

Circumstances were such that I felt there was justice in my being indulgent of my less practical goals in life, doing only what I wanted, was gratifying, had meaning, or a thing I would be proud to leave behind. I turned work away if I couldn’t work at my best level, tried any kind of fun on offer, and started to explore experiences I had shunned, lest I die unknowing, or worse, criticize in ignorance.

The conundrum is this: it was only then, when I was no longer searching that I found myself, or perhaps better stated, that I realized I had never lost myself. It happens this way for many, and seems peculiar to some, but I believe there is a very good reason for it. In order to search for a thing that thing must be separated from us on some level. We use our minds, eyes, and bodies to move through thought or space hoping to discover that which we seek, and certain that we will know it when we stumble on it. That which we seek, in this case is our self. It is a rather humorous image of us all inextricably bound within our selves bumping around attic and alley and bazaar in the hope of stubbing our toe on some self we think we could claim. It is after all our self that is doing the searching, but being that self is so inevitable and mundane that we can not credit it as being worthy or sufficient. What then is it we search for?

I will answer only for myself. I was searching not for myself, but for another self which would suit better the people around me and not be troubled by all the quirks and insecurities acquired through a long and unprotected life. In reality it turns out to have been more a running from myself than a searching for it.

Is there not some feeling that for all of us there is a happy place where we work at gratifying jobs with respectful people and have peace and security in our life and home and self? Could we not have that if we just could find that self that makes the promise true and doesn’t disturb others or ourselves with that which lies beyond understanding or explanation?

I say I found myself, but in truth it was more an accepting than a finding. It was compelled by a seeming necessity but the urgency brought a great gift: the knowledge that the promise was a fantasy, and like most fantasies, it’s attractiveness rested on the denial of my own complexity and richness. It required as much conformity as a suburban life might, and looked at objectively promised more boredom and less self than the present state did.I sought self, and then realized that any self that might be found would be less than the one which was seeking.

We look to heaven and forget to enjoy our earthly home, we plan for a future in focused detail while the present sails past unnoticed, we speculate on the potential of our family and friends to achieve goals and attend events, but don’t hold life’s pressures at bay while they are with us so that we can know their mind and heart, we think always of what we ought to be, or could be, refusing or unable to see what we are and feel confident in it’s rightness.

What need is there except be ourselves, as we are and as we evolve? What supposition of our own identity can be more right than the inevitability of our being as it exists this very moment? Is it even possible to see or know it with out distorting it in the process?

When we walk without self-consciousness we walk best I think, when we walk directly and without contrived intention. When we react as we react, give without thought, love without agenda. When being is our only purpose and our way of being is nothing more than the natural impulse of our native force. It is there, in being without conscious thought, just as our inner force directs that resides our self. It is inevitable and inescapable, as in flux as the passing days, and as complex and contradictory as are the infinite stimuli it responds to. What other way could it be? Could we be? Except to be less than we already are, divided from creation’s interdependence, an extraneous link in the chain of life.

Kingfishers#9, Selves

2009-07-05T17:07:00.000-07:00

"Deals out that being indoors each one dwells"

SELVES

How like a house our selves are;

Our eyes and mind it’s windows

And we looking hard at others' lives

Can no more see our self as others do

Than see our house as we gaze from it

At yards and houses that obscure our view.

But those on the other side

Retuning looks from inside themselves

See our self so large that like a house

It looms from distance with a clear outline

Etched sharp against the evening sky,

The windows glowing with our inner light;

Beacon, beckoning to the passerby

That which we cannot see of self.

Need we see it? Know what that beacon offers?

Would seeing it make the offer better?

I think not. That as we are we’re meant to be

Watch each step alone, where it takes wait to see.

kingfishers#8, Inner Dialogue Continued.

2009-07-05T16:39:00.000-07:00

A Parable

In my memory it seems as though it actually happed this way! I will relate it to you.

Always I felt that strange presence. It seemed to follow me everywhere, yet I could never quite understand who, or what it was. It annoyed me, dogging my footsteps, intruding into my thoughts and making me conscious of my every word. While walking along the path one day, unprovoked, unexpected, I stopped suddenly and turned 180 degrees on my heels and confronted him.

“Why are you following me!”

“But I'm not.”

“You are always right behind me.”

“Well, if you walked more slowly we could walk side by side, perhaps even talk with one another.”

“And you always seem to turn up, where ever I am.”

“Yes, that’s true.”

“And why would I want to walk beside you, and talk with you?”

“This is a useless question, neither of us has a choice, we may as well make the best of it, you are rather amusing you know.”

“Who are you?” I demanded.

But he didn’t answer, and putting his hand on my shoulder started us down the path again.

In time I became quite accustomed to him. Although he could be rather difficult, he was also a good companion, overall very fair, and at times quite funny.

I also came to realize that he was a rather attractive person and came to be quite glad of his company.

We eventually came to a place where the path was blocked by a lake. He went to find a boat while I rested. He returned with small row boat which we got into and he started rowing across the lake. The sun was high and I became drowsy, but suddenly my attention was caught by a kingfisher diving into the water. The bird caught a fish, and as he rose above the surface the writhing of the fish sent shots of fire from it’s scales. I turned to point this out to my companion, but he wasn’t there, and I was rowing. Finally I understood and I felt whole.

Kingfishers#7, Inner Dialogue

2009-07-05T16:12:00.001-07:00

Soul and self-

Are they speaking?

Soul says self

Is always tweeking.

Self says soul’s

No one to talk,

The stuff he does

Makes Tweekers balk,

Says he even

Talks to God!

And God talks back,

If that’s not odd!

Imago, Ego,

Then there’s Id,

They all quarrel

Like little Kids.

Each one saying

The other’s wrong.

Why can’t we all

Just get along!

Kingfishers#6, By Pretty Pool

2009-07-05T14:16:00.000-07:00

On Reading History

It is not the least ingenuous to say

He had no idea who he saw that day

When he stopped to rest by pretty pool

And lost his heart in its rippling surface

Looking back from this end of time

It’s fair to ask “how could that be?”

But two thousand years had yet to pass

Before the arts of metal or of glass

Could perfect a reflecting surface.

So his own image he could only glean

As capricious undulations on blade or shield

Or as depicted by the imperfect arts;

But not as now with the force of light.

We reading back with our assumptions

At times seems quite unfair to me:

A complex web of strange projections,

But I see revealed in it an irony.

That as author of our ego’s love of self

Should be one as confused as we are

About what image a reflection brings;

And just as he did not know himself reflected

Reflection seldom helps us find the self we seek.

Kingfishers#5, Hazel

2009-07-05T14:02:00.000-07:00

The grammar school I attended was the local parochial school, St. Luke School. After the eighth grade my parents put me in the public school system and I attended our town’s brand new junior high for ninth grade. Lloyd Broomhead was in my grade and facing this trauma together brought us into a friendship that really hadn’t existed before. The Broomheads Senior were friends of my parents so there was that familiarity to build on, and as they lived near the junior high it was natural to walk home with him. It was this association which brought me into contact with the Howes, who lived next door to the Broomheads, and whose son David was in our class.

David was a rather large overweight and somewhat goofy young man, but a true wit, even in his early teens. It was David who taught us that by carrying a clip board and pen one could get into almost anyplace, as people always assumed one to be reporting on them, and the desire to ingratiate themselves would always be more forceful than the fact that they shouldn’t let you pass. He took particular delight in the irony that the effort to get good reviews would involve actions directly contracting their purpose. It was David who used to say, “Work fascinates me, I love to watch it!”

Stopping at David’s on the way home from school became a habit, as much because of his mother as because of him. The source of his wit was soon discovered. The first time I met her she introduced herself as “Hazel” in reference to the TV character. She had been cleaning and I suppose looked the part. She was of course toying with the irony that a person in “Mrs. Howe’s” circumstance would have a maid, and I think testing for those poor souls so gullible to accept such a thing. I pity the thought of such a person at her hands. In any case she was thence always Hazel.

We were sitting at the kitchen table one day admiring a rather impressive cake she maintained that she had made “From scratch.” When she noticed that my glance had fallen on the waste basket beside me, but before I had really taken in what I was looking at she stated, “of course the box was the hardest part!”

David and I fell out of touch after High school, he going west to San Francisco and I to Ireland for college. Contact with the Howes slowly dropped off, but many, many years later I was at Symphony one night and in response to a tap on my shoulder turned to find Hazel and Mr. Howe sitting behind me. We had a warm reunion and I was pleased to find that they were well and happy. When I inquired after David her response was stunning in it’s wry statement on self knowledge:

“You know, Michael, some things never change. David is still trying to find himself, and we are still trying to lose him!”

Kingfishers#4, Prologue

2009-07-05T13:59:00.000-07:00

I come from Gæa

And dwell in the damp earth.

On warm rocks

I worship the sun.

I am ancient, I am fear,

The feckless call me evil.

I bring you life,

I bring you death

I bring you seeing of yourself.

I am knowledge.

My name is Serpent.

Kingfishers#3

2009-07-04T17:24:00.000-07:00

I have now picked up the theme I started some weeks ago having posted the poem "As Kingfishers catch fire," which I mentioned in my post of June 1 as having a very special significance for me. On the one hand the message of how one defines oneself and on the other the ringing beauty of the language both have been continuing inspirations.

I have been writing poems for a very long time. On March 17th I posted my poem "St. Patrick's Day" which I often cite as my first conscious attempt at writing a poem, that consciousness was in large part the result of the revelation of Hopkin's language as a vehicle of expression. My friend at RISD, Theresa Snyder, had introduced me to the poem, along with "the Windhover" and "Spring and Fall." " The just man justices......through the beauty of men's faces......" these lines have never left me, either as concepts or as models. "St. Patrick's Day" was conceived and pretty largely formed in the next year and the connection is for me direct and strong.

To know oneself is a great struggle- and accepting oneself an even greater one. Viewed from a distance that seems odd because we all are creatures of God's creation, and we all agree, or most of us do, that God does perfectly, so why should we find ourselves so lacking? We do, Hopkins certainly did, and many of the ills of life find root in that.

I have a friend for whom I care deeply who more than most disparages, despairs of, himself, despite being a brilliant, interesting, and handsome man. A few years ago I gave him the "Kingfisher's" poem, typeset and illustrated- the image I posted with the poem is from that illustration, and doing that started me on a series of writings and images that spring from the poem. They came in a flood and now I am going to share them with you now- some are prose, some are poems- each will have it's own post, they end in a piece I call "a conundrum." I'll include some of the images as well.

The theme of these all is finding oneself, and being able to find happiness with what it is we do find find in that process.

Kingfishers #2

2009-07-04T06:28:00.000-07:00

AS kingfishers catch fire, dragonflies dráw fláme;
As tumbled over rim in roundy wells
Stones ring; like each tucked string tells, each hung bell’s
Bow swung finds tongue to fling out broad its name;
Each mortal thing does one thing and the same:	5
Deals out that being indoors each one dwells;
Selves—goes itself; myself it speaks and spells,
Crying Whát I do is me: for that I came.

Í say móre: the just man justices;
Kéeps gráce: thát keeps all his goings graces;	10
Acts in God’s eye what in God’s eye he is—
Chríst—for Christ plays in ten thousand places,
Lovely in limbs, and lovely in eyes not his
To the Father through the features of men’s faces.

Greetings to the newbie doctors!

2009-07-03T06:29:00.000-07:00

While reading the news this morning I came across this article about emergency rooms in "Scientific American." It references the fact that this weekend emergency room visits may not be well advised, not because of the new crop of doctors that are beginning the academic year, but because of excessive holiday makers clogging the system and causing long waits.

I'd like to say welcome to all those new doctors, and point out that we, their patients, are part of their training and that we, their patients will very soon be dependent on their training for our own well being as time passes. New doctors don't evaporate into the ether after their residency, but become involved and reactive experienced doctors. What they become, and the way they handle situations will in some degree depend on their experiences with you- you are a part of their training, for good or ill.

My experience is that the new people coming out of medical school are extremely bright, quick thinking and extensively educated. It is usual for them to have the most recent knowledge and be familiar with the most progressive treatments. They have yet to acquire a "bedside manner" and their experience at your bedside is going to determine what their manner becomes. If you can focus on your own "enlightened self interest" you will realize that making the inexperienced doctor comfortable and relaxed will only improve his or her performance. Be interested in them, teach them that patients can be helpful to them, show them that you respect the ordeal of education that they have been going through, and you will then reap many benefits.

Ovid once said "to be loved, be lovable," and I will add "to be cured, be curable."

My generation is aging fast, and the discipline of medicine is advancing at an amazing rate. We will be cared for by the young more and more, and we will get amazingly fine and committed care from them; and we are all responsible for their training.

Rain

2009-06-21T11:52:00.000-07:00

Yes, I've been silent, really neglectful for 21 days, but have both excuses and explanations. The biggest excuse is that Dr. Funk and I positively wore ourselves out with Boston Early Music Festival performances. The smaller excuses are far less interesting and so I won't bore you with them. The Festival, by the way, was truly amazing.

And now we have all this rain, which is a current subject. I have an understanding of the world that probably comes from having nearly exited it: that there is amazing beauty in every day, regardless of the weather. Some time ago I set myself the objective of putting on paper the beauty that I find even on a cold and rainy day in March. I assure you that I see the beauty depicted in the photo above, but unfortunately my camera didn't. This image represents quite a struggle, which has been going on for some time now. At one point I thought I would have to declare a failure, but I had a specific reason to persevere.

This view is from the footbridge that leads over the Muddy River on the path from Beth Israel to the Longwood "T" stop, a route well travelled by me. It happens that the people at Beth Israel have requested some of my work for the walls of the Radiology department, a place with which I'm very familiar. One of the people I've been talking too about this has actually told me that these images have caused her to pay more attention while she's moving through the world, more attention to the beauty around her, and that has caused her to appreciate it more. I was very pleased about that! But a rainy march day?

Yes, a rainy march day, when the buds on the maple trees are just starting to create a red haze in the woods, and willows are pushing out their tiny catkins and the ground is glowing with the acid green of emerging grass and damp moss. Next March, on such a day, as you are hurrying on your, way look up and say to yourself "if I were never to see this again....."

Being the hearty Episcopalian that I've become I can't say much about what is and what isn't, about certainties and acting "As if" things were true, or certain, or able to be known; but I do feel that what ever the ultimate answer is, however a covenant may be kept or broken, that gratitude and appreciation will keep most of the celestial bases covered, and keep our own heart happy.

Which is another thing I find I share with the BI!

Kingfishers

2009-06-01T08:24:00.000-07:00

Below is one of the last poems written by Gerard Manely Hopkins.

I seldom play the "favorites" game, thinking it a little silly, and a lot limiting, to be so focused on a color or a composer or a painter that all others are somehow relegated to a place of less enjoyment. I think this is true of Poetry as well, but in the case of poetry an answer is easy for me: Gerard Manely Hopkins. I was introduced to his poem "Kingfishers" in my freshman year in college and was stunned by it's beauty. If I may call myself a poet then I must acknowledge Hopkins as my inspiration. I am far from alone in that. I suppose I am also not alone in feeling that my relationship with his poems is very personal, indeed, that the ideas expressed in the poem "Kingfishers" have been a lifelong guide to me, a constant focus for meditation.

I have just finished Paul Mariani's very beautiful and challenging biography of Hopkins and feel that it is appropriate to share my responses to Hopkins' poetry. This will form one of my series of posts, please be patient.

I learn from Mariani's biography that Hopkins often prayed in a kind of retrospect, feeling that as time did not apply to God, to pray now about something that had happened in the past was appropriate. It that spirit I hope that my tribute might provide a drop or two of whatever rain Hopkins' roots did find.

THOU art indeed just, Lord, if I contend
With thee; but, sir, so what I plead is just.
Why do sinners’ ways prosper? and why must
Disappointment all I endeavour end?

Wert thou my enemy, O thou my friend,	5
How wouldst thou worse, I wonder, than thou dost
Defeat, thwart me? Oh, the sots and thralls of lust
Do in spare hours more thrive than I that spend,
Sir, life upon thy cause. See, banks and brakes
Now leavèd how thick! lacèd they are again	10
With fretty chervil, look, and fresh wind shakes
Them; birds build—but not I build; no, but strain,
Time’s eunuch, and not breed one work that wakes.
Mine, O thou lord of life, send my roots rain.

Hooray!

2009-05-19T12:09:00.001-07:00

The farmers market at Copley Square has started. It is a wonderful thing full of life and beauty and good things to eat. It is a very good thing for my spirit to watch humanity at it's most beautiful and most productive, at one with nature, the city and themselves. Tuesday and Friday- don't miss it!

At The Opera

2009-05-17T16:12:00.000-07:00

Gerry Springer The Opera.

I assure you, had this not been an event of the Emmanuel Center I would never even have considered attending. I went out of loyalty to the organization, and if I had any curiosity it was only to discover what in fact Rev. Werntz and Rabbi Berman could possibly do with this in their "Talk Back" session afterwards. We hadn't left "Blackbird" with a very high opinion, Dr. Funk decided to sit this one out, and I left home out of a sense of duty.

I was surprised to find the house packed, and even more to find myself in constant hysterics from the first number to the end of the show. The music is brilliant and the staging is brilliant and the actors are brilliant, and there would have been a long standing ovation except that the audience was so exhausted by laughing that at the end we could hardly clap.

Gerry, in the first act is in tension with his "inner Valkyrie" (she appears in the upper corner of the set to taunt him in her helmet and shield.) This is appropriate because the music is a very imaginative pastiche of Wagner- along with jazz, Busby Berkeley, Jerome Kern, Sondheim, and I think Papa Haydn was stirring the pot at one point but it gets hard to sort out about midway in the first act.

Amongst the challenging questions asked by "Gerry Springer, The Opera" are these. Can two jealous women fighting over a man be a valid premise for a soprano duet? Obviously, yes, even if they are redneck sluts fighting over a Ku Klux Klan member- I should have included Leonard Bernstein in the list above. Can a Wagnerian chorus be built on the text "we eat, excrete, and watch TV?" again, yes, but more surprising. Most surprising indeed is that "Gerry Springer The Opera" pulled this sort of thing off with great craftsmanship.

And then Mozart- Gerry, like Don Juan, takes a trip with Satan to warmer climes- and decides he'd rather stay there "I'm less confused here" and bring a balance of sorts between Satan and Jesus, and the God "it's not easy being me" and the inner valkyrie is reconstituted as St. Michael.- we even have Milton poking around here. The show is a tour de force of "Reducio ad absurdem" and I recommend it heartily.

You can, by the way, bring your pretensions, they will probably survive, not quite intact but perhaps a little better for the workout!

Cheers

May Seventeenth

2009-05-16T19:12:00.000-07:00

Would I had someone to wed this day

Too long in coming for my life’s pure love,

Snatched by fate and death from me

With nothing to keep my hope

And body from the winds of fortune,

Which too easily severed the tie we made.

Too long in coming to stay those fickle hearts

Left so free that whim could wreak

Destruction of a life and home.

Too long coming to give me future peace

Though I kept my bargains with care and toil

Loyal, faithful, beyond all calling, tending the

Heart and garden of my lovers’ lives,

Seeing in their happiness my own.

Now the parade of ghosts marches through my past;

Would wedded one of them have stayed at last?

May 17,2004

Colorful Science

2009-05-16T15:46:00.001-07:00

This rather pretty diagram is my result on the Farnsworth Munsell 100 hue test. I took it because a friend who is a scientist was discussing with me the inevitability that my 61 year old eyes had yellowed and that I must have lost my ability to discriminate finely between colors. That possibility was a terrible shock to me, especially as I consult with people about color. I felt that if my color vision was skewed I had better know about it, hence the test. The result is very reassuring "My guess is that your color discrimination is substantially better than 99% of normal people of any age. So do not worry" says my friend who scored it.

I won't!

There is something so elegantly beautiful about the circular chart. Color is a paradox to me. It is a thing we who have color vision simply assume as part of the physical world. It seems so empiric, so definite, yet it so subjective. We experience it as a quality of the objects around us yet it exists only in our brains. Just this morning the old question about a tree falling in a forest came up. If no one is there to hear it, is there any noise? The same question applies to color- is the field green if there is no one there to see it? The answer to both these questions is no. When the tree falls the event will send mechanical waves through the medium of the air, and an ear and brain working together interpret those waves as what we call sound if they each them, but that is in our heads, not in the forest.

When we "see," electromagnetic waves which are reflected off of a surface reach our eyes and are interpreted as a representational "vision." The sun shines upon the field, showering it with the remnants of energy waves that have not been blocked by the atmosphere. The sun, in it's seeming endless roiling of atomic explosion radiates on the fragile atmosphere which envelopes this tiny planet. The atmosphere fragments it into the glow of blue that we call sky. The energy that now has substance to interact with becomes visible as light as it energizes the air and irradiates the grass to give it the energy of life, and those wave lengths that the grass doesn't take in are reflected to our eyes and we experience a wave length, one that is not absorbed by the grass, and we have decided, as a group, a culture, to call that sensation green.

It seems to me that this agreement is rather like the "as if" approach to religion. Some of my friends in our theology discussion group will recognize what I am referring to. That we agree to participate "as if" it is all true. In the case of color, we agree to name it "green" as if we are all experiencing the same thing, but in fact all we know is that we each of us has that wavelength available to us if we are observing under the same conditions. It has passed through the air, been bounced off the grass, passed through more air, some glass perhaps, and now passes through our very probably yellowed cornea, thence to stimulate a now motley collection of much worn rods and cones and then the resulting stimulus winds it's way through the rather quirky maze of the individual brain to create that experience that we call green, which we treat as if it were identical for us all.

We can never know if the experience is the same for all of us- all we know is that when we see that wavelength we recognize it's sameness to the other occasions on which it is visible to us. I am wearing a sky blue sweater, it is the color of the sky, the egg of a robin. I say it is the color of the sky "Blue" and you say"oh yes! the color of the sky, like the egg of a robin, your sweater is that lovely, light, and slightly greenish blue." But really, beyond the fact that this sweater is showering you with the same wavelength as a clear sky on a cool summer morning, and so you make that pleasant association, the experience is completely within yourself, and you are profoundly isolated within your reactions to the wavelength of light, as I am within mine, and it is only the consistency of our individual experiences that enables us to shout across the gulf of sensual interpretation that separates us, and allows us to talk "As If" the field were green, and the tree crashes loudly, and the beauty of the world around us makes us one with creation.

We are dealing with, not the wavelengths that are in the grass, but those that are not in the grass. One could say that the grass is every color except green. It has rejected the greeness, thrown it back to us. This is another aspect of the paradox, that the color the thing is "is" exactly the color it "isn't." The grass gives our eyes "green" as the left over of it's feast on the sun's life giving energy. And we see it with pleasure.

2009-05-16T05:33:00.000-07:00

Before we move to far into the warm weather, and forget winter altogether, I want to share this photo with you. With the coming of Spring I heard many prayers at church and at temple which thanked God for deliverance from the cold and ugly repression of winter- from the grey days. From my perspective this seems odd, in the first place because I think winter is amazingly beautiful, and in the second place- well, here's that projection of myself again. It always makes me cringe if someone says they don't like something I've made, so I wonder what must God feel about those prayers? Half the year thrown away by a people absorbed in the preconceptions of what life should be that have been fostered by a material culture that only recognizes sunshine

Creation is a varied and complex thing that has a repertoire of beauties that is vast, and we can enjoy most of them without being threatened on any level. Technology keeps of safe from freezing and damp, so we can enjoy the manifestation of nature's moods without being threatened by them, yet we rush with our heads down through scenes like that above and complain of the ugliness of winter. Allow me to suggest long underwear. Thank God for for the beauty of a winter night.

another nocturn

2009-05-10T17:53:00.000-07:00

I call these "nocturnes," for the obvious reason, I've been shooting at night. I've done quite a few of these this year, as you will see!

full moon

2009-05-10T14:31:00.000-07:00

Another image, this from just the other night, a full moon rising over the street I live on.

orange pink sky

2009-05-07T17:20:00.001-07:00

Since I mentioned the orange pink sky here it is!

Spring evenings

2009-05-07T15:22:00.001-07:00

I have been rather absent from my blog, and now "the Other Reader" has shown me up once again so I'll have to get in gear and blog (and read "Ulysses".) Life has at present certain pressures and new responsibilities that have been calling me away from my studiola and it's ambiance of introspection. But I have not been idle, and so I thought I would share a recent photograph.

Now I will write a tiny bit about making pictures. This is a photograph of the very pleasant South West Corridor Park, looking toward the Hancock Tower.

Recently I made reference to the destruction of my house, and have also referred to some of the trials I have had to endure, but my fortune has not been altogether bad, in fact it all turned out quite well. You see this is where I live, in a tiny little room in a warm and quirky house owned by a very kind man and inhabited by interesting and caring tenants. Every journey I take starts and ends here- my door is just a few steps away, and it is wonderfully beautiful. The magnolias in the last post are just a bit further along, and the hancock tower is always there, brooding or brilliant by turns.

So you think that you now know what this is a picture of, since I have described the place I took it, but in fact there is more.

I have been using a camera as my principal means of visual expression since 2004. I phrased that carefully. I was trained as a painter- landscape to amuse myself and portraits for income. There has always been a tension in me between the fine arts and the applied arts, to use very old fashioned terms. When I was painting I was playing the dilettante at design, and when involved in design I was a dilettante painter. Of the two, visual imagery is the stronger compulsion, and as difficult as my periods of illness have been they have given me the time to focus on that aspect of my creative life. Alas, the Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away, and in this case along with some time, I was also given peripheral neuropathy and lost the ability to control my hands. The camera had always been a reference tool for my painting, and now it moved into the primary position. Digital, computers, photoshop! You will think it odd to say, but I really feel that the excitement of learning all this new stuff gave me the impetus to survive some very bleak times, and still does as a matter of fact. It has been very rewarding, and I do think I'm doing pretty well with it.

The first group of pieces I did were a big surprise: they were totally abstract! Then I became very involved with very stylized landscape, then very romantic landscape, then another little stumbling block popped up- I became almost totally housebound last year- no afternoon rambles in the Fenway victory gardens or in the Arboretum. I was lucky if it could get the six doors to the spot you see in the photograph above. That is when I fell in love with the Hancock Tower.

It is relatively easy to go to some absolutely beautiful location and use the camera to make a record of it's beauty. Some skill is involved of course, but you're getting a lot of help from the Big Ungendered Person who created the beauty for you to record; but when you can't get there anymore the nature of the challenge changes rather a lot, and that was what I faced last year. If I was going to make pictures I had to make them right at home.

How many pictures can a person take of the Hancock Tower? Quite a lot, as it turns out- but really the tower is a kind of red herring. These pictures are actually about the day and the time I took them. They are about the passing of the season, about fragile balances of light and air. About temperature, about darkness and rain. There are days when the sun reflecting off the tower balances almost perfectly with the sun itself and we stand with shadows casting before and behind us, the light enveloping the plants and passersby in a glow that I've only before seen at the edge of death. Snow falling under the sodium vapor lamps from an orange pink sky, or rain making a mirror of the walkway- that's what all my recent photographs are about. I'll start showing them to you.

We talk in our discussion group about prayer, and I often say that I don't pray. but really I do- with my camera.

3 Hiaku; Spring

2009-04-27T05:34:00.000-07:00

WILLOW

Dark willows are floating in the room.

Outside the house my Salix Alba is budding

Hidden by the wall.

ELM

Elm branches hang in tension, weighted with downy mouse ears.

Through the blinds gold bars shine on the wall:

Evening.

MAGNOLIA

Magnolia petals float in the chill wind.

The path is fragrant and clouded like the sky.

Is it Spring or Autumn now?

My Eye on the BI #4

2009-04-16T06:06:00.000-07:00

As I have mentioned, I follow Paul Levy's blog "Running a Hospital" I have specifically linked to his comments about MRSA, and I hope that after the recent publicity you will read them with attention. I ask you to consider this principle, the paradox, that those who are honest and sincere about a problem; honest in confronting it publicly; sincere in actually addressing it proactively; are the very ones most likely to be vilified by a superficial public. Please read the NPR article linked above carefully, and you will find this statement

The infection control failures at Beth Israel are not believed to have caused the maternity ward infections. But the problems were discovered during that investigation.

The situation is suddenly far less sensational when you notice this statement. What did the investigation find? a range that includes possibly poor hand washing, or an infected worker. Possibly?

As some of you may know, my home and all my possessions were destroyed because my painting and furniture refinishing materials might possibly have been used to manufacture drugs. Possibly? I am very sensitive to public accusations that have been made with no reference to fact, and are completely speculative. Even NPR is not immune to this tendency. They need listeners, the papers need buyers and advertisers, and for some reason reportage of honest and sincere efforts to combat serious problems seems not to be very good at accomplishing that end. This was discovered and institutionalized by William Randolph Hurst, I recommend "Citizen Hurst" by W.A.Swanberg for an interesting history of the way he fabricated the Spanish American War in order stir up society and sell newspapers. I wont continue with my thoughts on the way the standard of public education facilitates this because I want to return to Beth Israel.

"The B.I." is different from other hospitals not because it has had some infection control problems and the others have not; it is different precisely because Paul Levy and the board of directors are committed to complete openness in public disclosure about the issues that all hospitals deal with. I will bring a personal perspective once again. I have spent seven years with a very compromised immune system, and have received all of my very extensive care at the BI yet have never experienced any sort of infection problem there. Amongst people with HIV MERSA is a rampant threat, yet I have remained completely clear of it.

I am reminded of a tale we were told in Ancient History class in grammar school. In order to illustrate the difference between the Athenians (which we identify with) and the Spartans ("Other" fascist types) the story was related about a boy who had lined up for inspection by his superiors. He had stolen a fox- it was never explained what he wanted a fox for. this story must have originated with English fox hunting types, maybe Trollope! In order to avoid discovery he stood still and motionless while the fox clawed into his chest; this monument of self control and deceit was the behavior that the Spartans admired, while the Athenians, like us, aspired to truth and social responsibility.

In what way like us? Aren't we more like the Spartans of the story, who will forgive any nefarious action as long as it is successfully hidden? Who are we in the face of the Beth Israel's policy of openness, and who in the face of other institutions who will be clawed to death under their cloaks by problems hidden by their public relations departments.

I will now link to another post from Paul's blog which rings very true for me. As you all will guess that I am more than a month old I won't have to explain that this Michael is not me!