Category Archives: shards

the end of an era*

The End of an Era*

What are the properties of an era? What are its true dimensions? No idea?

Apparently the Smithsonian Museum in D.C. doesn’t know either. An eleven-year-old boy from Michigan went strolling by their Tower of Time (which included the Pre-Cambrian Era) tugged on the guide’s sleeve, and said: “Excuse me, sir, but technically the Pre-Cambrian isn’t an era, it’s a period of time containing numerous eras, and the Cambrian isn’t one of them, the Cambrian too is a period of time, contained within the Paleozoic Era.”

There’s a reason why children are meant to be seen and not heard, an adage from a different era than the one we’re in now, which is the Era of the Eve of Destruction and will never make it into the Smithsonian’s flawed Tower of Time, because when it’s over, that’s a wrap.

The Smithsonian sent the boy a letter, misspelling his name and the name of the town he lives in, thanking him for his observation, and then they made the appropriate adjustments to their Tower of Time which had been on display without challenge for nearly a quarter of a century, a negligible amount of time, as eras go.

These are the fragments of distraction that they hypnotize us with on NPR as the ship of mankind’s journey lists hard to starboard in Mayday distress.

*(An actual occurrence…)

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spokesman for his times

SPOKESMAN FOR HIS TIMES

I read the L.A. Times synopsis of Norman Mailer’s literary career, and I thought no, it isn’t true, he wasn’t the spokesman for the times he lived in. He was a spokesman for a privileged class that is broader than you might think. The privileged take the sting out of the raw misery of the multitude by filtering it through the clever minds of people like Mailer, handy with a pen.

Jack Henry Abbott came closer to what’s really going on in his book In the Belly of the Beast. Mailer stabbed someone, he went free. Abbott stabbed someone, he went back to prison where he’d already spent most of his life since the age of nine.

Anyone they give the Nobel Prize in Literature to is an apologist.

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taking hope to task

Taking Hope to Task

He was frightened by his own shadow. He was frightened by the man in the moon, even tho he knew there was no man in the moon. That was an old-wives tale, a child’s dream of a better world.

He was frightened by the people who were frightened by how frightened he was. He was frightened by their envy over the things fright drove him to, their unwillingness to get off the couch and do likewise.

By the time he got that far he wasn’t frightened anymore, he was pissed, and he made a clean break with convention. Well, not that clean – there was splintered bone and shredded flesh hanging from branches.

Down deep he knew he was no different from most people, but knowing that made him different from most people, which back-pedaled him into fear again.

Just seeing three women in sweat pants yammering away in abrasive voices while walking their dogs past his car was enough to make him hate the whole human race.

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gertrude the turk

Gertrude the Turk

“Three birds in winter
flying in formation
melt into a ménage a trois.”

Those are lines from a Pulitzer-nominated book of poems by Gertrude the Turk, an until-recently much underrated Greek poetess who once compared Rumi to Kahlil Gibran on Radio Free Berlin.

Choosing Gertrude the Turk for a nom de plume might explain her lack of popularity in her homeland, but how account for her years of neglect world-wide? By way of explanation, Gertrude cuts right to the chase–a conspiracy, she says, fueled by vicious rumors spread by the Board of Directors of The Gertrude Stein Adulation Society, a nefarious, non-profit organization based in Philadelphia whose CEO got waterboarded for funneling funds to a Lebanese orphanage suspected of housing budding young terrorists–three dunkings and he offered up Gertrude the Turk’s name, which led to her internment at Guantanamo.

Gertrude’s getting locked down at Guantanamo triggered a rash of academic interest in her work, but when an adjunct professor of comparative literature at Wayne State University got waterboarded for publishing a paper on her poetry, comparing her with e.e. cummings, interest waned.

For her part, Gertrude went on a hunger strike and began praying with the Muslims who constitute the majority of the detainees at Guantanamo, which brought about a visit from a delegation of Greek Orthodox priests who tried to talk some sense into her head. The delegation stormed out after only a few hours, flew back to Athens, and within a week Gertrude the Turk’s Greek citizenship was revoked, which started a chain reaction of happy coincidences.

For starters, Random House offered Gertrude a hefty advance for her autobiography, which prompted Ophra to read six poems by “G the Turk” (as the press was now calling her) on Ophra’s trend-setting TV show. Leonard Cohen declared her the reincarnation of Gertrude Stein (raising the ire of the Gertrude Stein Adulation Society), and Rufus Wainwright wrote a song about her.

President George W. Bush, sensing an opportunity to pick up on some much needed good-guy PR, expressed the sentiment at a press conference that everyone should have a country and right there on the spot issued a pardon for the crimes Gertrude was suspected of committing, and–cutting through the red tape–declared her an American citizen by presidential decree. There was a ticker tape parade down Madison Avenue, and now GT (the latest press morph) is poet-in-residence at Yale University where her lectures are heavily attended.

Word has it that GT is hard at work on her autobiography, the publication of which is awaited with bated breath by bibliophiles the world over, except in Greece, where the book has been banned before it’s been written.

All of which goes to prove that there’s still hope for our troubled world if we’re willing to put our noses to the grindstone and stay the course.

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start here, go there

Start Here, Go There

Sixty-nine horse trailers containing 84 horses, two goats, a laughing hyena and a fluctuating number of field mice. Dung paddies, straw, a pungent aroma.

My mind’s turned into an unsaddled stallion galloping thru a low-income landscape. An enterprise without price tag, compounded and escalating. They should have bought me out while they still had the chance.

I’m happy alarmed and confused. I hope you don’t mind my sharing.

I float thru life like an echo.

You cannot love what makes you uneasy.

***

I no longer want love and I never did need it. Neither did you, little kittens and lean-ribbed hounds. Love’s something beyond our ill-tempered reach.

***

Love poets are the Thunder God’s snack food. He shovels them in by the handful. This is why we cling tight to each other when the lights go out. It’s not love. At best it’s good sex.

***

Enough trade secrets for one night. Enough false leads and high-strung indifference.

I know what you’re thinking, but the chance I’ll climb down off my soap box is remote. The thing’s about to lift off like a rocket.

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