Honorable #1 son has decamped for the summer to Paraguay, previously best known as the retirement home of Dr Joseph Mengele & friends; currently best known as the site of the assassination of Anastasio Somoza, by a Sandinista commando team calling themselves Operation Reptile. My son did not allow Paraguay’s reputation to deter him from volunteering for One Laptop/One Child. (Do check out the website; there is a very entertaining interactive map.) Honorable son, being a smart and intrepid young man, anticipated playing soccer in the rain (as it’s the rainy season), dealing with a recalcitrant bureaucracy and eating lots of beef and hard bread. He did not expect to find himself in the home of the gigantic Basilica of Caacupé, where resides the famous little statue of Our Lady of the Miracles.
Her story begins in the early 16th century when a converted Guaraní prayed to the Virgin to save him from certain death at the hands of his enemies. He hid inside a tree trunk and was saved. Afterward, in gratitude for her succor, he carved a statue of the Virgin, featuring blue eyes and blonde hair, for reasons unexplained. Then in 1603 Tapaicuá Lake flooded the surrounding valley, including the statue of the Virgin. When the waters receded the Guaraní Virgin reappeared, and she has been revered by the locals ever since.
Of all the places he might have gone in Paraguay, it seems to me serendipitous that my son has gone to a place where the Conception of the Virgin Mary is annually celebrated (December 8th) with great fanfare.
Full disclosure: After some prodding, my son did enter the basilica; but he evinced little (no) enthusiasm.
Sunday, July 31, 2011
The Importance of Jigsaw Puzzles in American Summer Houses
For a while now I have been pondering this cultural trope. It seems fairly obvious that the chief pleasure of a jigsaw puzzle is in creating (arbitrary) Order out of (contrived) Chaos. What could be more satisfying?
You start with an unsorted pile of oddly shaped bits of wood or cardboard.
Hesiod’s world also starts with Chaos, a shapeless, bundled, tangled and inchoate agglomeration of everything and nothing, neither truly solid nor fluid nor gaseous.
You empty the box onto a flat surface. Before you can do anything else you turn the pieces over onto their ‘correct’ side; the assumption of the existence of a ‘correct’ side already being a great leap away from Chaos.
Hesiod tells us how the earth(Gaea), the sky(Ether) and Eros(the creative force), separate and take on form and emerge from Chaos.
(In Book VII of Paradise Lost, Milton describes Chaos as: “… the vast immeasurable abyss. Outrageous as a sea, dark ,wasteful, wild.” It is the use of the word wasteful here that strikes me for its implied harsh judgment.)
Back in the American summer house, you sort through the turned-over pieces to find the Edges, because knowing the periphery of a thing is so helpful in defining it. Where we would be without Limits? Edges or Borders or Fences? (As you can see, we have already ventured far from a ‘simple’ jigsaw puzzle into some fairly ponderous questions.)
In Hesiod’s Theogony, the gods, the Titans and finally mankind develop on earth.
Your hands hover over the random pieces as your eye scans for matching colors and shapes; even so, your mind wanders. This puzzle featuring water birds of North America inexorably leads you to the skeleton of a Great Blue Heron that dangled from a rafter of the screened porch in Marshfield for many years. Your ex/late husband found this prize one day on the salt marsh at low tide. He strung it with fishing line and set it to spin above your heads as you dined and played Risk and painted pictures. When you last inhabited the house on the marsh, the delicate bird bones were already finely swaddled in dust and scented with marijuana and fish. Perhaps it hangs there still, witness to another decade of revelry and discord.
You return to the puzzle and discover that the blue-greenish underbelly of the avocet is similar in shade to a watery frond.
Each completed bird is created out of Chaos; each time the pieces smoothly interlock a small breath of Order enters the room.
All this, and it is only a rainy day in a musty house by a lake, where the loons sing duets in the mornings and the moose are always on the other side.
Tuesday, July 26, 2011
What a piece of work is man and/or woman
The other evening we went to see The Tragedy of Hamlet, Prince of Denmark at Boscobel, presented by the Hudson Valley Shakespeare Festival with a wonderful young Matthew Amendt as Hamlet, and I could have sworn someone was fooling around with my brain by having inserted the “What a piece of work is Man! How noble in reason!”* speech into Act 2 of Hamlet. You know the speech because it was set to music in “Hair!” and we can all sing it. And I could have sworn, and indeed did swear, that the speech belonged to Caliban in The Tempest. It is the perfect speech for Caliban, poor misshapen & oppressed creature that he is, to express his wonderment at these buff and sweet-talking gentlemen just been washed ashore onto his island.
Then I decided that the director (Terence O’Brien of HVSF) had conceived a clever device to illuminate the plays of Shakespeare: in each play he directed he would insert a speech from another play, but in such a way that it would proceed smoothly and mesh seamlessly with the action. I decided that this was his subtle way to illuminate certain recurring themes. And possibly, so I thought, it was meant as a signature fluke or “error”, in the same way that Native American weavers will deliberately leave one thread awry, so as not to provoke the gods with the perfection of their workmanship.
I may have missed some elegant swordplay in Act V because I was still working out the explanation for this unprecedented insertion of a speech from The Tempest (WS’s final play and a so-called comedy) into Hamlet (tragedy, without a doubt).
But I was wrong. The speech really is in Hamlet. The deeply troubled Hamlet says the words to Rosencrantz and Guildenstern, those perfidious friends.
How could I have been so confused? Is it possible that in The Tempest Caliban makes that same speech, that Caliban in fact, quotes Hamlet?
*What a piece of work is a man! How noble in
Reason! how infinite in faculties! in form and moving
how express and admirable! In action how like an Angel!
in apprehension how like a god! the beauty of the
world! the paragon of animals! and yet to me, what is
this quintessence of dust? Man delights not me; no,
nor Woman neither; though by your smiling you seeme
to say so
Friday, July 22, 2011
Three Odd Things about
Three Odd Things about Lucian Freud’s Obit
1. The mention of the mooning incident: In 1938, he was expelled from Bryanston, in Dorset, after dropping his trousers on a dare on a street in Bournemouth.
2. The mention of the arson incident along with its refutation: While it is true that the school burned to the ground while he was there, the often repeated story that Mr. Freud accidentally started the fire with a discarded cigarette seems unlikely.
3. The non-naming of his children. He is survived by many children from his first marriage and from a series of romantic relationships.
Notes:
1.This writer certainly has no objection to mooning; in fact, regards it as a noble tradition. But rarely does it get mentioned in obits. Chances are very good that in their early years several presidents and Supreme Court justices – especially those who benefited from private education – mooned a figure of authority. Yet I defy you to find this delightful fact mentioned in any of their obituaries.
2.I don’t want to quibble, but this seems disingenuous to me. Should we all now fear that our (hitherto-hoped-and-assumed-to-be-reverential) obituaries will contain the following slur: While it is true that Michael Jackson died under mysterious circumstances, the oft-repeated rumor that [your name here] was responsible for his death by means of a voodoo doll seems highly unlikely.
3. Maybe I am imputing the offense I would take were my name omitted from a parental obituary; and maybe it is less offensive since none are singled out for omission. But still. Isn’t it fairly standard for the children to be listed (the survivors, the bereaved, the heirs, the progeny) in an obit? And what is the excuse here? That there are “many”? Are they to be penalized for the paternal proclivity for procreation? (According to Wiki: “Freud is rumored to have fathered as many as 40 children, although this number is generally accepted as an exaggeration.” Then the article goes on to list 13, and they all have names.
1. The mention of the mooning incident: In 1938, he was expelled from Bryanston, in Dorset, after dropping his trousers on a dare on a street in Bournemouth.
2. The mention of the arson incident along with its refutation: While it is true that the school burned to the ground while he was there, the often repeated story that Mr. Freud accidentally started the fire with a discarded cigarette seems unlikely.
3. The non-naming of his children. He is survived by many children from his first marriage and from a series of romantic relationships.
Notes:
1.This writer certainly has no objection to mooning; in fact, regards it as a noble tradition. But rarely does it get mentioned in obits. Chances are very good that in their early years several presidents and Supreme Court justices – especially those who benefited from private education – mooned a figure of authority. Yet I defy you to find this delightful fact mentioned in any of their obituaries.
2.I don’t want to quibble, but this seems disingenuous to me. Should we all now fear that our (hitherto-hoped-and-assumed-to-be-reverential) obituaries will contain the following slur: While it is true that Michael Jackson died under mysterious circumstances, the oft-repeated rumor that [your name here] was responsible for his death by means of a voodoo doll seems highly unlikely.
3. Maybe I am imputing the offense I would take were my name omitted from a parental obituary; and maybe it is less offensive since none are singled out for omission. But still. Isn’t it fairly standard for the children to be listed (the survivors, the bereaved, the heirs, the progeny) in an obit? And what is the excuse here? That there are “many”? Are they to be penalized for the paternal proclivity for procreation? (According to Wiki: “Freud is rumored to have fathered as many as 40 children, although this number is generally accepted as an exaggeration.” Then the article goes on to list 13, and they all have names.
Monday, July 18, 2011
WHO's who where?
It feels like ages since I have written in SQD and chances are I have missed it more than you, dear readers, who presumably have more important things to do. But for those rare moments requiring distraction, I am returning with a few vignettes from our recent time in glorious Pleasant Pond in the north woods of Maine.
And closer to home, if you happen to visit the NYC offices of NRDC you need only go next door(Save energy! Be environmentally savvy!) to buy your weekly supply of Fake Blood, Cobwebs, Ice Effects and Mustaches.
Do you ever read the WHO’S WHO in the Playbill, hoping for something to catch your interest, spark your imagination, and tell you something other than the episodes of Law & Order in which this actor supported his or her art? Only to be disappointed. That is probably because you are attending theatre in one of the great metropolitan areas, watching serious artists perform serious plays.
But if you are lucky enough to attend any of this summer’s performances at Lakewood Theatre in Skowhegan, Maine* you will find in the WHO’S WHO a wealth and breadth of biographical detail you had not dared to dream of. I offer here a few selections; to appreciate the full experience you too will have to sit in a Torquemada™ chair and watch the 350 lb. owner of the hardware store in Moscow, Maine tap dance across the stage (and he was great):
NANCY resides in North Anson and likes Mexican food, An Officer and a Gentleman, Judy Garland, Carol Burnett, the color green and Hawaii 5-0”. She is really good at multi-tasking and wishes she had the magical power to lower energy prices.
JUAN’S pets are named Guido, Rosie and Sully. The 150 guppies are unnamed. He claims he is really good at being patient and his hero is Albert Einstein.
IRVING of Stetson lives with wife Jantha, Zeus the dog, and twin cats, Phantom and Ariel.
MIKE was born in England and his family includes Paris, 4 ½ pounds of attitude with a rhinestone collar. He has a degree in rock mechanics and mining, and works as an insurance advisor. Mike claims he is really good at doing a British accent.
GARY is the doting grandparent of Izabel, Madden, Alyuia and Brennan. A Scorpio, Gary likes chocolate, the color green, “Grey’s Anatomy”, and Henry Fonda. He wishes he had the magical power to change his Maine accent. Gary would like to visit the Holy Land.
GREG resides in Hartland and says, “I was born in the wrong era”. Greg’s hero is his wife Dawn and he claims she says he is “really good at everything”. He wishes he had the power to teleport anywhere in the world.
BOBBY claims he is really good at “being kind”. His heroes are Kurt Vonnegut and Daniel Day-Lewis.
*111 years old, and one of the oldest summer theatres in America, on the western shore of Wesserunsett Lake, this Lakewood should not be confused with the Lakewood Center for the Arts in Oswego, Oregon; or the historic Art-Deco Lakewood Theater in East Dallas, Texas; or the Lakewood Theatre Company of Nashville, TN; or the Lakewood Amphitheatre in Atlanta (its formal name is: The HiFi Buys Amphitheatre) or the Lakewood Cultural Center of Lakewood, Colorado, or the Regal Lakewood Cinema of Lakewood, Washington. The Lakewood Theatre in Skowhegan is not only the oldest and hence first Lakewood, but lays claim to the most uncomfortable seats among the Lakewoods, a coveted distinction.
Look for future posts on the Importance of the Jigsaw Puzzle to the American Summer Home; the Social Register at Pleasant Pond; the eternal problem of The Pecking Order; and the Virgin of Caacupé.
And closer to home, if you happen to visit the NYC offices of NRDC you need only go next door(Save energy! Be environmentally savvy!) to buy your weekly supply of Fake Blood, Cobwebs, Ice Effects and Mustaches.
Do you ever read the WHO’S WHO in the Playbill, hoping for something to catch your interest, spark your imagination, and tell you something other than the episodes of Law & Order in which this actor supported his or her art? Only to be disappointed. That is probably because you are attending theatre in one of the great metropolitan areas, watching serious artists perform serious plays.
But if you are lucky enough to attend any of this summer’s performances at Lakewood Theatre in Skowhegan, Maine* you will find in the WHO’S WHO a wealth and breadth of biographical detail you had not dared to dream of. I offer here a few selections; to appreciate the full experience you too will have to sit in a Torquemada™ chair and watch the 350 lb. owner of the hardware store in Moscow, Maine tap dance across the stage (and he was great):
NANCY resides in North Anson and likes Mexican food, An Officer and a Gentleman, Judy Garland, Carol Burnett, the color green and Hawaii 5-0”. She is really good at multi-tasking and wishes she had the magical power to lower energy prices.
JUAN’S pets are named Guido, Rosie and Sully. The 150 guppies are unnamed. He claims he is really good at being patient and his hero is Albert Einstein.
IRVING of Stetson lives with wife Jantha, Zeus the dog, and twin cats, Phantom and Ariel.
MIKE was born in England and his family includes Paris, 4 ½ pounds of attitude with a rhinestone collar. He has a degree in rock mechanics and mining, and works as an insurance advisor. Mike claims he is really good at doing a British accent.
GARY is the doting grandparent of Izabel, Madden, Alyuia and Brennan. A Scorpio, Gary likes chocolate, the color green, “Grey’s Anatomy”, and Henry Fonda. He wishes he had the magical power to change his Maine accent. Gary would like to visit the Holy Land.
GREG resides in Hartland and says, “I was born in the wrong era”. Greg’s hero is his wife Dawn and he claims she says he is “really good at everything”. He wishes he had the power to teleport anywhere in the world.
BOBBY claims he is really good at “being kind”. His heroes are Kurt Vonnegut and Daniel Day-Lewis.
*111 years old, and one of the oldest summer theatres in America, on the western shore of Wesserunsett Lake, this Lakewood should not be confused with the Lakewood Center for the Arts in Oswego, Oregon; or the historic Art-Deco Lakewood Theater in East Dallas, Texas; or the Lakewood Theatre Company of Nashville, TN; or the Lakewood Amphitheatre in Atlanta (its formal name is: The HiFi Buys Amphitheatre) or the Lakewood Cultural Center of Lakewood, Colorado, or the Regal Lakewood Cinema of Lakewood, Washington. The Lakewood Theatre in Skowhegan is not only the oldest and hence first Lakewood, but lays claim to the most uncomfortable seats among the Lakewoods, a coveted distinction.
Look for future posts on the Importance of the Jigsaw Puzzle to the American Summer Home; the Social Register at Pleasant Pond; the eternal problem of The Pecking Order; and the Virgin of Caacupé.
Friday, June 17, 2011
All the fun of travel without ever leaving the airport
What follows is a slighted redacted version of my sister’s blow-by-blow description of her latest adventure traveling.
Background: She takes the bus down from Portland, and the parents go to Logan by cab. They rendezvous there at United Airlines, in order to fly to Chicago to watch their estimable & venerable godson/grandson graduate from Business school where he has learned how to find Free Food wherever it may be. It is time to go through Security, which in the 21st century has replaced cholera as a traveler’s best friend. We shall now switch to my sister’s voice:
• We get in line; there is only ONE line.
• Mom goes through first. She has a faux knee, which requires a pat-down after the scan. She goes ahead and has certain parts of her body patted down 'with the back of a hand". Dad and I are right behind her.
• I remove Dad’s shoes, which are double-knotted. Tightly double-knotted.
• I remove Dad’s belt. His pants start to descend. I will try to ignore this warning sign.
• I remove Dad’s jacket.
• I remove both wallets, one from each back pocket. He always carries two wallets – can anyone tell me why?
• He is called to go through the full body scanner. But he cannot do this because he physically cannot raise his arms above his head, and it is required to do this in order to be seen in one’s naked glory by the snickering TSA staff inside the Wizard’s black box.
• He steps out of the scanner and is sent through the metal detector machine. It beeps.
• I walk through the detector in order to re-check his pockets, and I unclip the volume control for his hearing aid.
• Have I mentioned that Dad is completely unsteady on his feet because they took away his cane, and he is walking in socks and has no feeling in his feet because of neuropathy? Well, he is.
• He goes through the detector again. It beeps again.
• I go through again and discover that his house keys are deep inside yet another pocket, and his watch is still on. I remove them.
• He goes through the detector again. It beeps. People behind us in line are getting agitated. Have I mentioned that there is only ONE line?
• I dig even deeper into his pockets and find a bag with extra hearing aid batteries and a used handkerchief. Have I mentioned how much I enjoy rooting around in my father’s business in the middle of Logan airport? No? That is because I was not enjoying this one bit.
• Dad goes through again. He doesn’t beep.
• Now I get scolded for going through the x-ray and must go back out the detector so I can go through the body scanner. The woman in charge of the scanner yells at me because I have my boarding pass in my pocket. I remove it, put the by-now radioactive boarding pass between my teeth, raise my hands above my head, and get scanned. I hope someone out there is enjoying this.
• I am sent on my way, and I put Dad’s shoes back on, double knotting the laces. I put his belt back on, his jacket back on, and put all his items back in their appointed pockets.
• At the gate we find Mom awaiting us.She could use a nap.
• The flight is delayed due to thunderstorms. We have excellent molded plastic seats at the gate, allowing us to watch the sky darken and the planes taxi.
• Six and a half hours later we are told we can board. We are on the gangplank. The pilot emerges from the plane and announces that there is no way he is flying in ‘that weather’ and besides, he is ‘timed out.’ We return to the gate.
• Thirty minutes later the flight is officially canceled.
Background: She takes the bus down from Portland, and the parents go to Logan by cab. They rendezvous there at United Airlines, in order to fly to Chicago to watch their estimable & venerable godson/grandson graduate from Business school where he has learned how to find Free Food wherever it may be. It is time to go through Security, which in the 21st century has replaced cholera as a traveler’s best friend. We shall now switch to my sister’s voice:
• We get in line; there is only ONE line.
• Mom goes through first. She has a faux knee, which requires a pat-down after the scan. She goes ahead and has certain parts of her body patted down 'with the back of a hand". Dad and I are right behind her.
• I remove Dad’s shoes, which are double-knotted. Tightly double-knotted.
• I remove Dad’s belt. His pants start to descend. I will try to ignore this warning sign.
• I remove Dad’s jacket.
• I remove both wallets, one from each back pocket. He always carries two wallets – can anyone tell me why?
• He is called to go through the full body scanner. But he cannot do this because he physically cannot raise his arms above his head, and it is required to do this in order to be seen in one’s naked glory by the snickering TSA staff inside the Wizard’s black box.
• He steps out of the scanner and is sent through the metal detector machine. It beeps.
• I walk through the detector in order to re-check his pockets, and I unclip the volume control for his hearing aid.
• Have I mentioned that Dad is completely unsteady on his feet because they took away his cane, and he is walking in socks and has no feeling in his feet because of neuropathy? Well, he is.
• He goes through the detector again. It beeps again.
• I go through again and discover that his house keys are deep inside yet another pocket, and his watch is still on. I remove them.
• He goes through the detector again. It beeps. People behind us in line are getting agitated. Have I mentioned that there is only ONE line?
• I dig even deeper into his pockets and find a bag with extra hearing aid batteries and a used handkerchief. Have I mentioned how much I enjoy rooting around in my father’s business in the middle of Logan airport? No? That is because I was not enjoying this one bit.
• Dad goes through again. He doesn’t beep.
• Now I get scolded for going through the x-ray and must go back out the detector so I can go through the body scanner. The woman in charge of the scanner yells at me because I have my boarding pass in my pocket. I remove it, put the by-now radioactive boarding pass between my teeth, raise my hands above my head, and get scanned. I hope someone out there is enjoying this.
• I am sent on my way, and I put Dad’s shoes back on, double knotting the laces. I put his belt back on, his jacket back on, and put all his items back in their appointed pockets.
• At the gate we find Mom awaiting us.She could use a nap.
• The flight is delayed due to thunderstorms. We have excellent molded plastic seats at the gate, allowing us to watch the sky darken and the planes taxi.
• Six and a half hours later we are told we can board. We are on the gangplank. The pilot emerges from the plane and announces that there is no way he is flying in ‘that weather’ and besides, he is ‘timed out.’ We return to the gate.
• Thirty minutes later the flight is officially canceled.
Thursday, June 16, 2011
Swarm étude
Just when you think you have your day organized and that you are well situated to accomplish all your allotted tasks, something happens. Sometimes it’s a volcano that fills the airspace with resplendent ash or a tornado that sends you scurrying to the dank cellar. Another time it’s a surprise communication from a man you knew forty years ago, and with whom you behaved badly. Regrettably. Yesterday it was a swarm.
The call came as I was reading and making notes about the fractious friendship between Henry James and H.G. Wells. I kept seeing the two men as “the unsexed and the oversexed”, though that is not how the literary rivalry was discussed in the critical context. Esther in Tarrytown said that the bees were swarming, this very minute, and gathering on the crabapple right next to their stone terrace. CSB was not answering his phone. I told her that I could keep trying his phone and that one of us would get there momentarily. I found him, and we did.
The bees were indeed collecting on the crabapple. Often a swarm will alight on a branch and then hang down in a teardrop shape; when this happens all we have to do is snip off the branch and shake the bees into the awaiting hive box. But these bees were wrapped around the tree trunk, so there was no snipping to be done. How could we encourage them to relocate to the hive box we placed atop a white sheet at the base of the tree? We had not brought our bee brush with us, but luckily I was able to borrow a basting brush from Esther. Kneeling beneath the tree I gently brushed the bees downward, and they came. Initially I wasn’t wearing my bee veil, but then I got stung right between the eyes. (This was unfortunate since I generally assert to anyone who will listen that when bees swarm they are not at all defensive and so you will never get stung. The bees that stung me missed that directive.) So I put on my bee veil and the netting kept getting snagged on the crabapple branches, making it harder to see than it is anyway when wearing a veil. And glasses.
The afternoon was waning, and certain tasks could not be ignored, not even for a swarm. So Imogene slipped back inside through the French doors and started practicing her oboe, an elegiac piece, and the bees streamed down towards the hive box, creating a shimmering and undulating new kind of bark. Some bees stood outside the box, upraised their tails and fanned outward the queen’s delicious pheromones, to lure in any stray sister. Would a clarinet have pleased them just as well? A fiddle?
The call came as I was reading and making notes about the fractious friendship between Henry James and H.G. Wells. I kept seeing the two men as “the unsexed and the oversexed”, though that is not how the literary rivalry was discussed in the critical context. Esther in Tarrytown said that the bees were swarming, this very minute, and gathering on the crabapple right next to their stone terrace. CSB was not answering his phone. I told her that I could keep trying his phone and that one of us would get there momentarily. I found him, and we did.
The bees were indeed collecting on the crabapple. Often a swarm will alight on a branch and then hang down in a teardrop shape; when this happens all we have to do is snip off the branch and shake the bees into the awaiting hive box. But these bees were wrapped around the tree trunk, so there was no snipping to be done. How could we encourage them to relocate to the hive box we placed atop a white sheet at the base of the tree? We had not brought our bee brush with us, but luckily I was able to borrow a basting brush from Esther. Kneeling beneath the tree I gently brushed the bees downward, and they came. Initially I wasn’t wearing my bee veil, but then I got stung right between the eyes. (This was unfortunate since I generally assert to anyone who will listen that when bees swarm they are not at all defensive and so you will never get stung. The bees that stung me missed that directive.) So I put on my bee veil and the netting kept getting snagged on the crabapple branches, making it harder to see than it is anyway when wearing a veil. And glasses.The afternoon was waning, and certain tasks could not be ignored, not even for a swarm. So Imogene slipped back inside through the French doors and started practicing her oboe, an elegiac piece, and the bees streamed down towards the hive box, creating a shimmering and undulating new kind of bark. Some bees stood outside the box, upraised their tails and fanned outward the queen’s delicious pheromones, to lure in any stray sister. Would a clarinet have pleased them just as well? A fiddle?
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