IN YOUR OPINION, WHAT IS THE MOST BEAUTIFUL MAN-MADE OBJECT IN THE WORLD?
Tuesday, March 3, 2009
YET ANOTHER CHAT PACK QUESTION
Random Late Winter Thoughts
Ok. I'm back. I've been processing the culture, overwhelmed by the huge wave of Change, with Mr. Obama surfing its tunnel. Isn't that a pretty accurate word picture of the situation? I mean, its only a matter of time. Or, maybe not.
Robin and I went to see SLUMDOG MILLIONAIRE. Here's what I noticed. There was a wide-angle view of a massive Indian ghetto: one non-stop motif of roofs, under which a million people dwelled. It looked from the outside hopeless and forlorn. What do these people do? How do they live? Ah, but the film provided the answer! They lived in community, a man smoking a homerolled cigarette, running the projector as a boy wound his way among the gathered extended family to find a seat to watch an old B&W movie. A chase scene of kids being run down by police through the dense undergrowth of alleys and buildings, only to be apprehended by a burnoosed mother, the final authority. In fact, life in these poverty-stricken holes is probably happier than it is in the average American city. I mentioned this to Robin on the drive home. Apart from the occasional plague of disease that gallops unstopped through a community like this, the happiness quotient is probably rather high. Certainly the sense of dynamic community, the human bustle of daily vocation, is alive in these beehives of humanity. I liked that aspect of the film.
Otherwise, it was a bit saccharine. You could guess where it was going early on, and it went exactly where you guessed. But the dance scene during the credits was a lot of fun.
It is the end of Winter, 08/09. I took the opportunity afforded by the lack of snow but also the still-frozen ground to take Ms. Anke, German Shepherd extraordinaire, back over the fields to the woods overlooking Hook Lake (Calling it a lake is stretching the truth, but what is it? A two-foot-deep, three-square-mile pond with an island in the middle of it. But eye candy nonetheless) . We found the hunters' path, still snowy and packed from the guys' who came through carrying guns and hopes of squirrels, or coyote, or deer. Anke was in a state of unbelieving delight: free to roam after a Winter of being walked along the road. The smells were almost more than she could bear, and her due diligence was scanty at best. So many animal tracks, so little time!
The track led down a snow-loaded path to a stream, which Anke managed to cross after some canine hesitation. And back to Hawkinson Road, at the famous Peter Birch Bend (Another story for perhaps another time). And back over the hill to home.
I've been listening a lot to last year's Death Cab For Cutie release, NARROW STAIRS. The lead singer is also a poet, and his lyrics are very...poetic. That is to say, they accomplish what poetry does: it creates a unique, rich world that no other medium can create. Their song CATH..., which has been haunting me for a week, is a great example. It describes a woman who has been a part of a community of friends--perhaps since college days?--and who has finally decided to marry. But this isn't a marriage of love, but of necessity. The issue at stake--take it for what you will--is Cath's heart. "Her heart was dying so fast..." goes the line. You must take it for what you will, but you are expected to understand that this dear old friend Cath, in a life of silent but subtle desperation, has made a choice to marry that was probably not the best choice. The music is very powerful (I am in its thrall, so in two weeks, I'll think it is shallow and over-emotive), and does a nice job of expressing the underlying tragedy of the situation. Some lyrics:
This is not a happy band. Lots of human failure, lots of sadness. But some really complex and interesting lyrics.
There is a palpable fear of failure in the air among the tight community of self-employed service businesses that I am associated with. Well, perhaps "fear of failure" is too much: it is rather a deepening sense that what has been happening to others may soon happen to us. We check in with each other from time to time, happily referring work to each other; bearing perhaps a triumphant little referral that will help to keep the wolf from the door. I regularly hire perhaps ten sub-contractors in my line of work, and always hope that they are successful. But if the trickle-down stops trickling...
And, as Winter trickles to its conclusion--there are at least two nasty snow systems yet to pass through our way, hallelujah!--the family news from afar is good: Jeremy is relatively happily ensconced in a basement apartment in Denver, with his shoulder hard to the wheel of academia. And our oldest, Colin, has just finished two years of teaching in Korea and has moved across the sea to China, where he will be teaching for perhaps another year. He promises to bring his very self home in July, and I await that in high ernest. A package arrived from him today, containing a Gogol novel and another by Cormac McCarthy--both for his old man--and a collection of Deadwood westerns, which he entreats us not to watch till he is home to watch them with us. And, three of the ugliest ties I've ever seen. I am going to assume that he wore these things in the line of duty, and has now discarded them. They appear to have served as padding for the other items.
Unless he has in mind me wearing them to church?
I'm about finished with BLEAK HOUSE, which is in my mind Dickens' finest work, extraordinarily funny and creative. There is much to say about it--not the least of which is a type of Christ found in the book--and I'll try to gather my thoughts for some of that, soon.
Robin and I went to see SLUMDOG MILLIONAIRE. Here's what I noticed. There was a wide-angle view of a massive Indian ghetto: one non-stop motif of roofs, under which a million people dwelled. It looked from the outside hopeless and forlorn. What do these people do? How do they live? Ah, but the film provided the answer! They lived in community, a man smoking a homerolled cigarette, running the projector as a boy wound his way among the gathered extended family to find a seat to watch an old B&W movie. A chase scene of kids being run down by police through the dense undergrowth of alleys and buildings, only to be apprehended by a burnoosed mother, the final authority. In fact, life in these poverty-stricken holes is probably happier than it is in the average American city. I mentioned this to Robin on the drive home. Apart from the occasional plague of disease that gallops unstopped through a community like this, the happiness quotient is probably rather high. Certainly the sense of dynamic community, the human bustle of daily vocation, is alive in these beehives of humanity. I liked that aspect of the film.
Otherwise, it was a bit saccharine. You could guess where it was going early on, and it went exactly where you guessed. But the dance scene during the credits was a lot of fun.
It is the end of Winter, 08/09. I took the opportunity afforded by the lack of snow but also the still-frozen ground to take Ms. Anke, German Shepherd extraordinaire, back over the fields to the woods overlooking Hook Lake (Calling it a lake is stretching the truth, but what is it? A two-foot-deep, three-square-mile pond with an island in the middle of it. But eye candy nonetheless) . We found the hunters' path, still snowy and packed from the guys' who came through carrying guns and hopes of squirrels, or coyote, or deer. Anke was in a state of unbelieving delight: free to roam after a Winter of being walked along the road. The smells were almost more than she could bear, and her due diligence was scanty at best. So many animal tracks, so little time!
The track led down a snow-loaded path to a stream, which Anke managed to cross after some canine hesitation. And back to Hawkinson Road, at the famous Peter Birch Bend (Another story for perhaps another time). And back over the hill to home.
I've been listening a lot to last year's Death Cab For Cutie release, NARROW STAIRS. The lead singer is also a poet, and his lyrics are very...poetic. That is to say, they accomplish what poetry does: it creates a unique, rich world that no other medium can create. Their song CATH..., which has been haunting me for a week, is a great example. It describes a woman who has been a part of a community of friends--perhaps since college days?--and who has finally decided to marry. But this isn't a marriage of love, but of necessity. The issue at stake--take it for what you will--is Cath's heart. "Her heart was dying so fast..." goes the line. You must take it for what you will, but you are expected to understand that this dear old friend Cath, in a life of silent but subtle desperation, has made a choice to marry that was probably not the best choice. The music is very powerful (I am in its thrall, so in two weeks, I'll think it is shallow and over-emotive), and does a nice job of expressing the underlying tragedy of the situation. Some lyrics:
As I processed these words, listening to the song: well. I was really impressed with how in so few, indirect words, the writer expressed something very deep and complex.
Cath....she stands
with a well-intentioned man.
But she can't
relax
with his hand on the small of her back.
And as the flashbulbs burst
She holds a smile
As someone would hold
A crying child.
Well, as I said, the thrall will pass. But we've got three tickets to see the band in April, so maybe not.
Cath...
It seems
That you live someone else's dream.
In a hand-me-down wedding dress
where the things that could have been are repressed...
And everybody will ask what became of you.
But your heart was dying fast
and you didn't know what to do...
This is not a happy band. Lots of human failure, lots of sadness. But some really complex and interesting lyrics.
There is a palpable fear of failure in the air among the tight community of self-employed service businesses that I am associated with. Well, perhaps "fear of failure" is too much: it is rather a deepening sense that what has been happening to others may soon happen to us. We check in with each other from time to time, happily referring work to each other; bearing perhaps a triumphant little referral that will help to keep the wolf from the door. I regularly hire perhaps ten sub-contractors in my line of work, and always hope that they are successful. But if the trickle-down stops trickling...
And, as Winter trickles to its conclusion--there are at least two nasty snow systems yet to pass through our way, hallelujah!--the family news from afar is good: Jeremy is relatively happily ensconced in a basement apartment in Denver, with his shoulder hard to the wheel of academia. And our oldest, Colin, has just finished two years of teaching in Korea and has moved across the sea to China, where he will be teaching for perhaps another year. He promises to bring his very self home in July, and I await that in high ernest. A package arrived from him today, containing a Gogol novel and another by Cormac McCarthy--both for his old man--and a collection of Deadwood westerns, which he entreats us not to watch till he is home to watch them with us. And, three of the ugliest ties I've ever seen. I am going to assume that he wore these things in the line of duty, and has now discarded them. They appear to have served as padding for the other items.
Unless he has in mind me wearing them to church?
I'm about finished with BLEAK HOUSE, which is in my mind Dickens' finest work, extraordinarily funny and creative. There is much to say about it--not the least of which is a type of Christ found in the book--and I'll try to gather my thoughts for some of that, soon.
Friday, February 13, 2009
Thoughts Appropriate To The Day
Feel free to add your own.
ECONOMIC TOTALITARIANISM.
JUDGING A BOOK BY ITS COVER.
SO TRANSPARENT I CAN SEE RIGHT THROUGH IT.
G'NIGHT KIDS. AND GOOD LUCK.
ECONOMIC TOTALITARIANISM.
JUDGING A BOOK BY ITS COVER.
SO TRANSPARENT I CAN SEE RIGHT THROUGH IT.
G'NIGHT KIDS. AND GOOD LUCK.
Thursday, February 5, 2009
CHAT PACK QUESTION #6
IF YOU WERE a multimillionaire, where would you be and what do you believe you would be doing at this very moment?
Wednesday, February 4, 2009
A Jew From Warsaw
There are a number of movies around telling some of the stories about the suffering Jews underwent during War II in Europe. The Pianist, Defiance, and others--not to mention the great novels of Allen Furst--do a great service to the history and memory of that terrible war and its victims.
I was working today in the [retirement community] apartment of an elderly lady, restoring a few pieces of transit-damaged furniture and trying to figure out what went wrong with the sliding mechanism of an expensive Italian table she had purchased in Chicago.
"So, you're from Chicago, then?"
"Well, actually, I was born in Russia," the petite, dark-haired lady, whose name is Dvorah, said. I did the math, and figured out she had a story to tell. * She also looked more than willing to tell it, if I should be willing to take the time. I sat down, and off she went.
Her family was Polish, from Warsaw. Her grandfather--I pointed to a portrait on her wall; she nodded--was a cantor in a Jewish synagogue in Warsaw. By 1939, he had seen enough of what Hitler was doing to his people--and as a well-known religious leader in his community he knew he would be among the first to be singled out--that he decided it was time to flee. So in September of 1939, with the Germans already invading Poland, he took his wife and his daughter and her fiance, and escaped eastward across the border into Russia. By December 1939 Dvorah's parents had been married, and immediately afterward were taken as prisoners to Siberian work camps. They worked in the camps until 1942, when the gates of the prison were opened and they were told just to leave. Go! And Dvorah was born to destitute, weary, nearly-broken parents who were on the run.
But run where? At this point I started thinking about the movie DEFIANCE, which tells the heroic tale of a couple of Czech Jewish farmers, caught in the same circumstances in the same war. And then Dvorah began to tell me, in her own words, her own Defiance story. Her parents made their way to the mountains of Kazakhstan, because there was no other place that was safe, and because they had been told by other Jews that there were groups hidden out there. Dvorah's parents stayed there until the end of the war, Dvorah attending schools that were spontaneously organized in one camp and then another.
At the end of the war, they were required to return to their homeland. This wasn't safe, because the pogroms against the Jews continued well after the end of the war, something I had never realized or known about.
Well, they couldn't stay there. She told me she and her parents were smuggled out of Warsaw--by cart, train, boat--until they finally reached a refugee camp in occupied Germany. They pretended, dark haired and dark-eyed, that they were Greek gypsies, and Dvorah was allowed only to speak Hebrew, not Polish. Their escape was enabled by another phenomenon I hadn't known about: after the war Israeli commandos had dispersed throughout Europe, helping groups of their fellow Jews to safe havens. That is in itself a story that needs telling. Dvorah and her parents remained in the refugee camp from 1946 to 1949. Finally, an uncle arranged for them to come to Chicago and make their life there.
So, yes. She's from Chicago.
* I have found that elderly ladies in particular almost always have great, well-oiled, embellished-in-the-telling, vivid stories to tell. If only someone will sit down and listen.
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