tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-62572622987927963312024-03-13T03:05:15.515-07:00Clouds Like MountainsKaren Greenbaum-Maya's photo and poetry blog:
what I see when I look, what I write when I do (and weird things I overhear)Karen G-Mhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06691978985320143360noreply@blogger.comBlogger266125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6257262298792796331.post-16097754591435958292023-11-26T10:19:00.000-08:002023-11-26T10:21:19.559-08:00My third Pushcart nomination! And then<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhK8cEkt5PZfeYVmYvhlfY6aOcka7ewzwh4fpmE345M8lC1S95peuH7QYZBR3FNJPoiqSSzt1CJh5RCNMNfPuisZs6nkEmIJmnCGLm2WeEMm_kagHv5vpw_RZzNoxDq7AshUd0UC5APQC-9cEnTN_lQMCjBKjn20Ar5nGN9ellrC9KSb5j86SaOxm_9fW6H/s2790/23%20996%20Walter%20watches%20the%20ducks.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2262" data-original-width="2790" height="490" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhK8cEkt5PZfeYVmYvhlfY6aOcka7ewzwh4fpmE345M8lC1S95peuH7QYZBR3FNJPoiqSSzt1CJh5RCNMNfPuisZs6nkEmIJmnCGLm2WeEMm_kagHv5vpw_RZzNoxDq7AshUd0UC5APQC-9cEnTN_lQMCjBKjn20Ar5nGN9ellrC9KSb5j86SaOxm_9fW6H/w604-h490/23%20996%20Walter%20watches%20the%20ducks.jpg" width="604" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Walter watches the ducks</div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTubFb2Q8Dy2jp1yUA1LXOFBq44sILxswrBKmwaTg_huVDta1VxDNDw670sqy-oZbLZgceULkAeSp5O6rAvgiy2UeuXtyohWaG6Z35F-MVyGwX8wM7N4oF5gUT7zLVEnSQn1S8cI8dRrZRl8wY5a1b0HtMLpmr3iUHmA-gEto0p5KW66hN3P8PX6UFMdyR/s2942/Walter%20&%20Betty%20collaborate%202.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2150" data-original-width="2942" height="464" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTubFb2Q8Dy2jp1yUA1LXOFBq44sILxswrBKmwaTg_huVDta1VxDNDw670sqy-oZbLZgceULkAeSp5O6rAvgiy2UeuXtyohWaG6Z35F-MVyGwX8wM7N4oF5gUT7zLVEnSQn1S8cI8dRrZRl8wY5a1b0HtMLpmr3iUHmA-gEto0p5KW66hN3P8PX6UFMdyR/w634-h464/Walter%20&%20Betty%20collaborate%202.jpg" width="634" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Walter and Betty collaborate</div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhinNa_TiSVypBm4xBacZmihM47f6a-a3uw9Tv-WTbp5OleLj4W7l9kqeigWiQPiRZjcL7o0YbcN7ItdZ4h81UlBheAP1ddBA0T708xuehutG5VKrmK1QAZVDAjcKAqmNR7bB4yrWTpxjN8HxzEwpVIQVuh_Ac99U26R3zn9K5mFnNlLQj1fIkbLEIjeyRZ/s1221/winter%20Walter%201.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1044" data-original-width="1221" height="590" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhinNa_TiSVypBm4xBacZmihM47f6a-a3uw9Tv-WTbp5OleLj4W7l9kqeigWiQPiRZjcL7o0YbcN7ItdZ4h81UlBheAP1ddBA0T708xuehutG5VKrmK1QAZVDAjcKAqmNR7bB4yrWTpxjN8HxzEwpVIQVuh_Ac99U26R3zn9K5mFnNlLQj1fIkbLEIjeyRZ/w689-h590/winter%20Walter%201.jpg" width="689" /></a>Walter in winter</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Thank you thank you to Dale Wisely, <span color="rgb(var(--color_15))" style="font-family: enriqueta, serif; font-size: 13px; letter-spacing: 0.1em;">F. John Sharp, </span><span color="rgb(var(--color_15))" style="font-size: 13px; letter-spacing: 0.1em;">Annie Stenzel, </span><span color="rgb(var(--color_15))" style="font-size: 13px; letter-spacing: 0.1em;">Bill McCloud, </span><span style="font-size: 13px; letter-spacing: 0.1em;">Steve Klepetar, </span><span style="font-size: 13px; letter-spacing: 0.1em;">Ina Roy-Faderman, and </span><span style="font-family: enriqueta, serif; font-size: 13px; letter-spacing: 0.1em;">F. J. Bergmann for nominating my poem "And then" for the 2023 Pushcart awards. Right Hand Pointing is champion of the small but mighty and I am always honored to appear there. But this is much more. My other two Pushcart nominations I could rationalize away: it was a new journal; I had done the editor a kindness, blah blah. This one has no such handle. And, really, this is a double endorsement: the same group nominated the poem also for Best of the Net.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: enriqueta, serif; font-size: 13px; letter-spacing: 0.1em;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: enriqueta, serif; font-size: 13px; letter-spacing: 0.1em;">And we are on the verge of the five-year anniversary of his death. I am on the verge of the five-year anniversary of his death. I will never be done grieving, just as I will never be done loving him, but I am moving through grief, and continuing to live.</span></div><p></p><div><span class="wixui-rich-text__text" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; border: 0px; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><span class="wixui-rich-text__text" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; border: 0px; letter-spacing: 0.1em; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><span class="wixui-rich-text__text" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; border: 0px; font-family: enriqueta, serif; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><br /></span></span></span></div><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><br /> <p></p>Karen G-Mhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06691978985320143360noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6257262298792796331.post-30943808251750360012023-11-14T11:19:00.000-08:002023-11-14T11:22:15.491-08:00We Gather Together<br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsFoLIhxV8ZldZ2MZqN-pbH3DPZs4xiv-lyujZWnCZPvSng90IYv1-OBr6bKO_NwktAAU2EBk9ielQceDDZ0vuA6f_m_oxIfwimkA_iXkxOBW_wZaHvXmbjiShre7IyITCvNyyJPru6A95JYKe1d_3yndGuO6vKhAaAVqXHdfXpUGCWm6arCK2gEeuglNX/s1475/cranberry%20squircle%20red%201.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1475" data-original-width="1475" height="493" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsFoLIhxV8ZldZ2MZqN-pbH3DPZs4xiv-lyujZWnCZPvSng90IYv1-OBr6bKO_NwktAAU2EBk9ielQceDDZ0vuA6f_m_oxIfwimkA_iXkxOBW_wZaHvXmbjiShre7IyITCvNyyJPru6A95JYKe1d_3yndGuO6vKhAaAVqXHdfXpUGCWm6arCK2gEeuglNX/w493-h493/cranberry%20squircle%20red%201.jpg" width="493" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQ7p2Y9bpXX5w5QU-3XhcouW4j6kF58N1AGYx4F8V8Y5NSwnBsQycojhA2CwtMJ_jbZhLiwWll675Esrnn46ZjvP6VFgKatSMyL7-GHRerUmfhWgKoRDSKivsNrfhecBAqiz6oF_pddo9vsETQoiSZdDoCoY0SG0HOnDV8Vof1kMDHcYDp4GK3Ht_WJKC8/s3264/flaky%20crust%20Thanksgiving%202016.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2448" data-original-width="3264" height="445" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQ7p2Y9bpXX5w5QU-3XhcouW4j6kF58N1AGYx4F8V8Y5NSwnBsQycojhA2CwtMJ_jbZhLiwWll675Esrnn46ZjvP6VFgKatSMyL7-GHRerUmfhWgKoRDSKivsNrfhecBAqiz6oF_pddo9vsETQoiSZdDoCoY0SG0HOnDV8Vof1kMDHcYDp4GK3Ht_WJKC8/w594-h445/flaky%20crust%20Thanksgiving%202016.jpg" width="594" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiITkfNZuQ4AVy6LSHTehiq-jSklRy2_P1ZhakzpNbsJJuBg8S7C29M7rqKmuiAlluMg3H9cHH6eVOB3svbJKvmILAVkItz376hyphenhyphen7uTet3g9HphbSwIuNBrBsEDed2bKT7vdZshotxxU70TgUOE5OX141ArCQlSIMvAEt_dCsLBfboMO56oejRDhKGwesFB/s3248/turkey%20&%20flamingos.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2191" data-original-width="3248" height="342" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiITkfNZuQ4AVy6LSHTehiq-jSklRy2_P1ZhakzpNbsJJuBg8S7C29M7rqKmuiAlluMg3H9cHH6eVOB3svbJKvmILAVkItz376hyphenhyphen7uTet3g9HphbSwIuNBrBsEDed2bKT7vdZshotxxU70TgUOE5OX141ArCQlSIMvAEt_dCsLBfboMO56oejRDhKGwesFB/w506-h342/turkey%20&%20flamingos.jpg" width="506" /></a></div><br /><p><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">Some years back, Ruth Reichl ran a
column about someone who analyzed family dynamics from the contents of the
Thanksgiving table. It was a provocative piece, and it got me asking a question
that I now ask, in a different spirit, as I make the rounds this time of year: </span><i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14.0pt;">What has to be on
the table for it to feel like Thanksgiving to you?</span></i></p><p>
</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">The process has been quietly
hilarious. Most start by essentially denying that there is anything special in
their mouths or hearts: "Just the regular things." Regular to you,
maybe. Or a reversion to the more-or-less cheerful assumption of childhood that
what is familiar is how all the world must be.</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">
</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">Everyone names the bird, but almost no one lights up at its mention.
“Oh, turkey, of course,” said A, with a self-deprecating giggle. She ended up
admitting that for her it's ham, smoked ham, that she has had as long as she
can remember, from her mother's table on to her own, and that the turkey might
as well be a center-piece. B, who lives by the juicer and makes her own
turkey-breast sausages so that they will be safely fat-free, spontaneously
recites recipes from her Pennsylvania-Dutch childhood, all of which seem to
start with a cup of melted butter and to finish with an inch of sour cream. Her
eyes gleam.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">The taste of some childhoods: green
bean casserole, made entirely from processed foods, canned fried onion rings
and frozen green beans and cream of mushroom soup, so much a part of some
traditions that the recipe stands on the onion ring can. Its memory brought
tears to the eyes, for a variety of reasons. I recently saw a recipe I can only
think of as cruel, recreating this dish with fresh and scratch ingredients,
including shitake mushrooms. What's the point? It won't taste like childhood,
disappointing the Cs, and D who spent two-plus hours slivering fresh green
beans and whisking béchamel will feel, accurately, unappreciated. I think this
taste-of-childhood issue is the root of the two religions apparent at
Thanksgiving: E reveres the marshmallow, F holds it to be an abomination.
"Yams, with marshmallows of course. The little ones." "Yams, the
way I make them, without marshmallows."</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">
</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">Do mixed marriages take turns, double up, or mix the sacred with the
profane and go half-and-half with a DMZ?</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">In G's tradition, it's tamales, the
only time of year that her father takes serious action in the kitchen. As many
as can be found gather the weekend before, mix the masa, prepare the remembered
fillings and make up some new ones. H always promises to bring me a sampling,
but there are never any left, just descriptions. J waxed ecstatic about dinner
rolls and stuffing and yams and corn and mashed potatoes. </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">Any particular kinds? “Nah, out of the box or
the can or the freezer is fine, just so they are all there all at once.”
“Mashed potatoes,” said K shyly, “real ones.” Real to her means smooth and
soft. “Real mashed potatoes,” said her husband, agreeing with her emphatically,
“but real means lumpy, and stiff enough to make ponds for gravy. If they're
lumpy, you know they're real.”</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">L has tried many paths to holding a
kinder gentler Thanksgiving. One year everyone offered to bring the touchstone
dishes, and she took them up on it. The trouble was that it was then no one's
Thanksgiving: the special dishes weren't the way she liked them, and L found
herself trying to accommodate everyone else's notions of what ought to be
there. For instance, a daughter swore that her new husband's family always had
three kinds of Jello molds, that it was generations of tradition and critically
important to them. L wanted all the families to feel welcomed. So, she took up
scarce time and scarcer refrigerator space and duly produced the Jello molds.
Came time to clean up and there they were, each one with only a spoonful or two
removed. Slow burn.</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">Some years people
would brightly bring pies, but "tricked-out pies, pumpkin with molasses or
pecan with chocolate, and they tasted just plain wrong." Now a
daughter-in-law brings plain pies from Costco.</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">
</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">They do not thrill, but neither do they offend. One year L decided to do
a completely different Thanksgiving, and changed everything. She ended up with
a sort of Italo-French-Chinese Thanksgiving, which sounds intriguingly
post-modern until you think about how and where the whole feast began. Never
mind the culture wars: it was better in theory than it tasted in practice.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">M admitted that her husband is the
cook, year-round, and that his rule becomes yet more imperious at this time of
year. (I recognize that.) This year, she wanted to have green beans.</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">“No,” he said, “it's gotta be peas.” “But—“
she said.</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">“NO,” he said, showing some
strain, “it must be peas or it is not Thanksgiving.” Did he command the entire
meal? “No no NO,” she said, eyes flashing; she always made the dressing. It
started with her mother's recipe that included several kinds of nuts and seeds
and herbs, and that was only where it, and she, started.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">And how about my table? For me, it
seems to be recipes that take time, advance prep, and at least two stages of
pre-cooking. Spiced cranberry sauce whose spices are whole and start with
steeping in a sugar syrup, and that must ripen for a week. Dressing with at
least ten ingredients of which two themselves require what amounts to a recipe.
Yams that are parboiled, then bake very, very slowly in fresh-squeezed—not
negotiable—orange juice. Various guests asked one year about various dishes,
but when someone asked about the turkey, one friend sighed, "Probably
parboiled and then roasted in cream." Actually, that turns out to be
rather how I feel by the time we sit down: wilted, seasoned, opulent, a bit
crusty. As a family member used to say when she was a competitive cyclist,
"Stick a fork in me, 'cause I'm done."</span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><br /></div><br /><br /></div><br /></div><br />Karen G-Mhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06691978985320143360noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6257262298792796331.post-55388201336229686282023-09-30T08:09:00.003-07:002023-09-30T08:09:33.382-07:00Best of the Net Nomination, 2023: And then<p> <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiP8oVcXBk1lCsCw6pULULEODQhCBic85ShTlovyCy8nLTVce1aWwV9_BIpAhZ53knCvCZpH5RkZFgGwqebMOQKZGS7i3q6LdOEyXqzioHZjIs9smhhP2RE2gsnnIVKs0VOZ6lAEhIfgvz1ZNK1W3LUGfwCXQfzPTlVr1Qujo1UaGctsjmCrZJyt4Eafcvi/s2940/184%20W,%20K,%20et%20Julie.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1780" data-original-width="2940" height="515" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiP8oVcXBk1lCsCw6pULULEODQhCBic85ShTlovyCy8nLTVce1aWwV9_BIpAhZ53knCvCZpH5RkZFgGwqebMOQKZGS7i3q6LdOEyXqzioHZjIs9smhhP2RE2gsnnIVKs0VOZ6lAEhIfgvz1ZNK1W3LUGfwCXQfzPTlVr1Qujo1UaGctsjmCrZJyt4Eafcvi/w725-h515/184%20W,%20K,%20et%20Julie.jpg" width="725" /></a>WWalter, Karen, and Julie chez Christine and Anand, 2010</p><p><br /></p><p>Thank you Dale Wisely and other editors of Right Hand Pointing for nominating my poem <i style="font-weight: bold;">And then</i> for Best of the Net 2023. I am honored. This poem also appears in <b>The Beautiful Leaves</b>.</p><p style="margin: 0in;"><b><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua", serif;">And then</span></b><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"> How empty his body became</p><p class="MsoNormal">once he’d left it,</p><p class="MsoNormal">his jaw hanging slack, then
slacker,<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal">his face emptying, dissolving<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal">into mere parts. Empty of him,<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal">no longer his face. Still his
hands.<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;"> </span>I still expected him</p><p class="MsoNormal">to pull away <span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal">from my tugging fingers<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal">when I tied up a bundle of his
silver hair <span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal">with a length of thread, <span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal">binding a sheaf<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p>
</p><p class="MsoNormal">before I cut it off.<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p><br /></p><p><a href="https://www.facebook.com/groups/40861739063/?multi_permalinks=10160231000884064&notif_id=1696077222780944&notif_t=group_activity&ref=notif">right hand pointing/ambidextrous bloodhound productions | Facebook</a></p>Karen G-Mhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06691978985320143360noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6257262298792796331.post-15045160897780967302023-09-22T17:25:00.012-07:002023-09-28T08:25:56.635-07:00Poetry In the Marketplace--Literally<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4wv4u7WkMq3FqVcDX6cqOIPthIs2SZL5h7mAFZhFY4fvkV1qKX16KLcjkXCk4D5Lz4-I3rysAgYnMFrh9ldWyWR0vnIHqiXUbSgNDkPPfA1hZvCHznLPXyBkK3UqGirVPlMq4YvQoq21FY4YmexojZ5U4dYYkfC8Hn7MzOH88X1QTn-2fkG8VqIAgTfTu/s766/Tate%20abundant%20purple%20Italian%20eggplants.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="744" data-original-width="766" height="656" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4wv4u7WkMq3FqVcDX6cqOIPthIs2SZL5h7mAFZhFY4fvkV1qKX16KLcjkXCk4D5Lz4-I3rysAgYnMFrh9ldWyWR0vnIHqiXUbSgNDkPPfA1hZvCHznLPXyBkK3UqGirVPlMq4YvQoq21FY4YmexojZ5U4dYYkfC8Hn7MzOH88X1QTn-2fkG8VqIAgTfTu/w677-h656/Tate%20abundant%20purple%20Italian%20eggplants.jpg" width="677" /></a></div> <p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6vWk8S3EifiiqL3IsEmw9TyZcFetsDHgQE0sEQ4hAes3lxOJUncRldD40jWR7tMGnI0VWbP20DUsXOc9kBQCu_Kz6Uy2046DJrwALYAdef5ZXz1xxqkQpZWp4dPhEZuE44PnQN_LqFzcqcGJWlaEZxkLfR8-rDgnogxHL9fy0VHUDytaQ_pifHPf4SOVS/s1226/fresh%20herbs%20are%20where%20it's%20at.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="810" data-original-width="1226" height="471" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6vWk8S3EifiiqL3IsEmw9TyZcFetsDHgQE0sEQ4hAes3lxOJUncRldD40jWR7tMGnI0VWbP20DUsXOc9kBQCu_Kz6Uy2046DJrwALYAdef5ZXz1xxqkQpZWp4dPhEZuE44PnQN_LqFzcqcGJWlaEZxkLfR8-rDgnogxHL9fy0VHUDytaQ_pifHPf4SOVS/w674-h471/fresh%20herbs%20are%20where%20it's%20at.jpg" width="674" /></a></div><p>Fresh herbs are where it's at in the open air market</p><p>Chinese or Asian eggplants in the farmers market</p><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b>Marketplace<o:p></o:p></b></p><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal">Thin blondes and their teacup Yorkies yap<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal">next to the baby beets, the bunches of purple basil.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal">A wannabe-Dylan’s harmonica whines, <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal">but these organic buyers don’t look back.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal">By the heirloom potatoes, fitful typing chatters <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal">as the Unheard Poet taps out a poem,<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal">free, for anyone who asks, plus a bill or two for Art.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal">He is taking the Bash<span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face",serif;">o
challenge </span>on his dusty portable Olivetti.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal">Hipster skulls twitch on his brown suede sneakers,<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal">and he works his toes as he hunts and pecks his way.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal">Behind him, a puddle holds a scrap of lettuce<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal">
</p><p class="MsoNormal"> floating in
its mirrored milky sky. <o:p></o:p></p><p><br /></p>Karen G-Mhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06691978985320143360noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6257262298792796331.post-42682375577850034092023-09-12T11:55:00.004-07:002023-09-12T11:55:42.772-07:00Rowdy Seniors Close Down Poetry Reading, Get Booted from Bookstore<p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUcFaBB6EHWq95FchKUqew2012PGVxqQ2rqEjqxW-Y2oD8F-X8lOX7qC1JxjaUPxzyPFApcCR2QwT1_bpNPpncP9qb4rknubuJFeydJZhMDYx-BWXXK8rxfIiP8nbwaHtXMM1HFzXhocM32lz4dC-sWrvCLqfhT9IqVhC3d8sPNIIORiCo6-VHmYS33XOz/s9248/2023-09-09%2014.35.31%20(1).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="6936" data-original-width="9248" height="555" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUcFaBB6EHWq95FchKUqew2012PGVxqQ2rqEjqxW-Y2oD8F-X8lOX7qC1JxjaUPxzyPFApcCR2QwT1_bpNPpncP9qb4rknubuJFeydJZhMDYx-BWXXK8rxfIiP8nbwaHtXMM1HFzXhocM32lz4dC-sWrvCLqfhT9IqVhC3d8sPNIIORiCo6-VHmYS33XOz/w741-h555/2023-09-09%2014.35.31%20(1).jpg" width="741" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Signing copies of TBL for Stephanie and for Sherry</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">McKenna DeLucca, much-tried bookstore manager, and Mark Givens, my esteemed publisher<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJI0MnJbFQBwhumkUCTQNE4SOgFC_qm8i3bEA85VVh6rXLdRVGafWhm_vmuyUIiHGUSRiEkGe4Th6slWO-ajtSZ9tUTUZfF-1PgPexx13Aw6zO3Eyr6MXw15dHNcItOh9DewVq664Th8wQB_bejx43os7JtL9ZX3rQTa0A8RjB36R3SGGrzpFw1JNPwKlT/s9248/2023-09-09%2014.51.21.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="9248" data-original-width="6936" height="688" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJI0MnJbFQBwhumkUCTQNE4SOgFC_qm8i3bEA85VVh6rXLdRVGafWhm_vmuyUIiHGUSRiEkGe4Th6slWO-ajtSZ9tUTUZfF-1PgPexx13Aw6zO3Eyr6MXw15dHNcItOh9DewVq664Th8wQB_bejx43os7JtL9ZX3rQTa0A8RjB36R3SGGrzpFw1JNPwKlT/w517-h688/2023-09-09%2014.51.21.jpg" width="517" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div> Last Saturday, September 9 2023, I threw a book launch party for The Beautiful Leaves at the Claremont Forum's Prison Project Bookstore. The Prison Project sells donated books to fund prisoners' requests for books. (The most requested book? Dictionaries.) It was a great afternoon. Official start time was 2:00, but
we kicked off at 2:20 to give people a bit of time to gather and to buy books.
Mark Givens, my publisher at Bamboo Dart Press, introduced me warmly (and told
me privately that he thought this was a really good collection, and that it
gave him ideas for expanding the purview of his press). <p></p><p class="MsoNormal">I read five poems. I
selected them on the fly, so I could gauge my audience’s response. I found
myself avoiding the poems I wrote closest to his death—not really for read-aloud.
Nancy Murphy commented that my poems sounded conversational. It’s true that I
strive to write the way I talk, which is sometimes conversational, sometimes
more elevated and holding forth. Left over from having taught pre-docs, I
suppose. It’s also true that I am a fairly experienced reader, so choose poems
that read more conversationally. The more intricate poems work better on the page,
and that’s where I leave them. It is also true that it takes a lot of craft to sound artless.</p><p class="MsoNormal">Partly because of my age, most of my friends are seniors. The rest comprised friends from all parts of my life: high school, acupuncturist, voice teacher, psychologists, poetry people, people affiliated with the Cal Poly Chemistry Department whom I met through Walter, friends who are simply friends. People drifted, congregated, saw old friends, talked with new
people, milled around. Then the manager received a call—three calls—from Claremont
Forum board members. They were ‘concerned’ about people blocking the aisles. It
was at this point that I noticed a camera surveying the bookstore. Apparently
board members can monitor the feed. The manager apologetically asked me if I
could ask my guests to leave those spaces clear, in case some emergency arose
and the place had to be evacuated. I thought to myself that the board
apparently hadn’t minded people in the aisles before my event started, when the
bookstore was so full of people milling around in the center space that I had
trouble entering. But anyhow. My guests fitted themselves into a bay, rather
the way you arrange yourself in an elevator, talked and sampled refreshments, ventured
out of their improvised compound to buy the bookstore’s books. Then the much
leaned-upon manager told me that the board was insisting she stop the reading,
or else close the bookstore. I read another set, a little grimmer this time. My
daughter and friends packed up the refreshments while I chatted with folks and
signed some more books. We were out by 4:00 instead of 5:00. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal">How often do you get to say, “Dude! Raging seniors kicked
out for partying too hard! Whoot!” Walter would have been proud.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p><p><br /></p>Karen G-Mhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06691978985320143360noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6257262298792796331.post-41066591660395381312023-07-25T22:05:00.005-07:002023-08-11T13:56:01.575-07:00The Beautiful Leaves, the book arrives<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKbxlIjW5CCeJD671fkqn5aVIHg-izlBr8jzb4AUs09sg3wLmMA8FXyRUjguQoFS9THwlhvvKOxOWVThwQAJxKETsbgK-l5c6SZECX_yDPsz5SMrUyfspeazx2tTXRXKAmpAcELJG8k4bBIum3sSDCh5k7b_5JEVoRiT1_JEUKu7Bk3TKdEo5vliiakU1J/s3949/karen_greenbaum-maya-the_beautiful_leaves-full_cover-proof.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKbxlIjW5CCeJD671fkqn5aVIHg-izlBr8jzb4AUs09sg3wLmMA8FXyRUjguQoFS9THwlhvvKOxOWVThwQAJxKETsbgK-l5c6SZECX_yDPsz5SMrUyfspeazx2tTXRXKAmpAcELJG8k4bBIum3sSDCh5k7b_5JEVoRiT1_JEUKu7Bk3TKdEo5vliiakU1J/s3949/karen_greenbaum-maya-the_beautiful_leaves-full_cover-proof.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEie3VeE9BRcZVZOr4yw3aJt8KCe8Hp0BoQWObUXsPG0Aem0PiTnlufAzYW_FP6praXiR2o5mJLs7jLpsqOd_k05BynZe03tBYNFSecEUPl9xUd1J1WUv5_UY2_R32_4jWkkXWivtp8Xpk6hVrVmMgJJBVI1Yr-44z89FVtSK-r5bHJfYjVaaeqs3fxkmpp5" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="1959" data-original-width="1877" height="614" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEie3VeE9BRcZVZOr4yw3aJt8KCe8Hp0BoQWObUXsPG0Aem0PiTnlufAzYW_FP6praXiR2o5mJLs7jLpsqOd_k05BynZe03tBYNFSecEUPl9xUd1J1WUv5_UY2_R32_4jWkkXWivtp8Xpk6hVrVmMgJJBVI1Yr-44z89FVtSK-r5bHJfYjVaaeqs3fxkmpp5=w589-h614" width="589" /></a></div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 16px; text-align: left;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: black; font-size: 14pt; mso-themecolor: text1;">You’ve been hearing me talk about this collection for a few years, </span><span style="font-size: 14pt;">and
now it is about to see light of day. The Beautiful Leaves , the collection of
my poems about my beloved last husband Walter, will be published on August 8 by
Pelekinesis Press (specifically, the Bamboo Dart division). Usually, I feel
somewhat constrained about promoting my collections, but not this time. I feel
that I am honoring Walter as he deserves. I feel also that my particular take on
death and dying is not one you commonly encounter, and that my approach might
strike a chord with other bereaved folk.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14pt;">If you would like me to sign a copy and send it to you, please send $12
($9 for the book, $3 for packaging and mailing, to my PayPal account, </span><a href="mailto:pieplate8@yahoo.com" style="font-size: 14pt;">pieplate8@yahoo.com</a><span style="font-size: 14pt;">. Be sure to include
your address in the notes. If you prefer Zelle, send me an email to the above address,
or leave a comment, and I’ll send you the account number. Venmo also works: @karen-greenbaum-maya. Of course, if we will
see each other soon, or if you are planning on attending my book launch, or any
of my readings, then just the $9.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14pt;">I am so happy to have this collection come out. Walter loved the poems I
wrote before his death, and I am glad to leave testimony about him.</span></p><br /><p></p></div>Karen G-Mhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06691978985320143360noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6257262298792796331.post-32118497934580370922023-07-15T22:25:00.000-07:002023-07-15T22:25:19.539-07:00AHA: a blast from the past, so to speak.<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbqnLnWsS1BqVLppo52bCIyTO1OGXZeXw1TX-xzTE-yyeedAApBAQLV4wtJcxpnpCWAB2LHB6brLMACSphVL_MwKsFpevp6WVHWA8Uwp0dvrNX654j82WrH8E7AgURAfTv3O8mraFtwT391ts5qneVQQb9HqniTDEWpdy69JAZH2-10Nsz8s7liggVl5pE/s4096/4th%20Wall%202022-03-07_11-55-56.PNG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4096" data-original-width="1892" height="796" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbqnLnWsS1BqVLppo52bCIyTO1OGXZeXw1TX-xzTE-yyeedAApBAQLV4wtJcxpnpCWAB2LHB6brLMACSphVL_MwKsFpevp6WVHWA8Uwp0dvrNX654j82WrH8E7AgURAfTv3O8mraFtwT391ts5qneVQQb9HqniTDEWpdy69JAZH2-10Nsz8s7liggVl5pE/w368-h796/4th%20Wall%202022-03-07_11-55-56.PNG" width="368" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;">A very striking (no pun intended) virtual installation. You had to download the app, then sign in and view this creation through your phone. Naturally, the other people on the pier have no idea what you're seeing--and the phone just adds them into the scene</div><p></p><p class="MsoNormal">There is a little game in this prose poem. No one has noticed it yet. Perhaps you will.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Aha:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Atomic Apron<o:p></o:p></b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Hidden in the fold of the hem are the secrets of the atomic
bomb, the equations and transitions that won the war. A white cotton apron,
trimmed with satin-stitched wild roses. How can it have gone through the war
and still be so pure? And the cloth, gauzy, open-weave, nothing but a net of threads.
How did the secrets not leak through? Always the question no one asks out loud:
<i>Did that </i>really<i> happen?</i> He’s the one who knows. Archbishop of physicists, eighty
years ago they say, he inscribed the breakthrough on the cloth, then stitched it
up tight. He is now so famous that credit, blame, renown no longer concern him.
All respect is temporary. He knows this, as surely as he knows everything
atomic reverts, sooner or later, to hydrogen. Ad infinitum, he will remember
the moment when he understood: <i>My God</i>,
he’d said, <i>ja mei, mais non, aha.</i></p><br /><p></p>Karen G-Mhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06691978985320143360noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6257262298792796331.post-23992962114986808802023-07-08T08:23:00.000-07:002023-07-08T08:23:25.503-07:00Take it or leave it: Actually<p> </p><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgm8K45kBpie0VeGtgdYTzlZf1UQFFy2jS2DwG_-MM9VXZodz24rg_ixy82hLhGN_BpsAAs9odJx2yUra1X2htXX9krKIzAlhE5HET6sN4Q9kSZWLcSBpL5VJVDdfQ0WaWTJK1nyWELglN-geoe0ZH7LkBCu4zKRbvZ7AoDX8nZcmaPu9cqDcoH8wYPq7xw/s3264/wildfire%202016%202.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2448" data-original-width="3264" height="531" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgm8K45kBpie0VeGtgdYTzlZf1UQFFy2jS2DwG_-MM9VXZodz24rg_ixy82hLhGN_BpsAAs9odJx2yUra1X2htXX9krKIzAlhE5HET6sN4Q9kSZWLcSBpL5VJVDdfQ0WaWTJK1nyWELglN-geoe0ZH7LkBCu4zKRbvZ7AoDX8nZcmaPu9cqDcoH8wYPq7xw/w709-h531/wildfire%202016%202.jpg" width="709" /></a></div><p></p><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">The beginnings of a wildfire, near Sunland, CA</b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b>Actually…</b></p><p class="MsoNormal">…before she grew up in a barn, she was raised by wolves.</p><p class="MsoNormal">
Her hair's a mess, but she has a fine big voice.<br />
You can hear her down the street howling out Mahler<br />
with something of an accent. Sends a shiver up the spine.<br />
She was a wild child, looking out into the moonlight,<br />
snarling and nipping if someone interrupted.<br />
School wasn't easy, what with the biting and the fleas.<br />
No one has ever been trapped so long and survived.<br />
She woke with the chickens, she slept with the cats.<br />
Their smells kept her safe with the other animals.<br />
People in the house made horn-signs, spat to avert her.<br />
Their every sigh drew drops of blood.<br />
This brought bad luck. If you stumble as you go,<br />
you are not welcome, and she never stepped right,<br />
as sure as dancing, not even once.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Play her the song. Maybe she'll sing.<br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" />
<!--[if !supportLineBreakNewLine]--><br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" />
<!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p><br /><p></p><br />Karen G-Mhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06691978985320143360noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6257262298792796331.post-69276805473290296192023-07-04T08:38:00.000-07:002023-07-04T08:38:17.863-07:00Not quite Shakespeare: About the Author<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMWuZKjipWdSEbc-1NdBhPypD0xHb3j9DpAaLnxXbrQR7NZ8hni33wSPOIQEWJh0TzaK2Fno6h2r5kvI4LXEdV36qQert6N74jop90S3cgkiAhi3cSA-jja16-KslY4hLws51PI1YLqMXb2ekeXDnXFZLAPAIROcnqdi8XMFDOz7b_ajU5NvvasVdSEe7I/s2277/Founr%20Shakespeare,%20improved.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2101" data-original-width="2277" height="725" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMWuZKjipWdSEbc-1NdBhPypD0xHb3j9DpAaLnxXbrQR7NZ8hni33wSPOIQEWJh0TzaK2Fno6h2r5kvI4LXEdV36qQert6N74jop90S3cgkiAhi3cSA-jja16-KslY4hLws51PI1YLqMXb2ekeXDnXFZLAPAIROcnqdi8XMFDOz7b_ajU5NvvasVdSEe7I/w787-h725/Founr%20Shakespeare,%20improved.JPG" width="787" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"> Found poem with refrigerator magnets</div><p></p><p>In college I had a friend, then known as Frances Harrod, who adored Alexander Pope. She had memorized hours and hours of his work, and would recite at any provocation. I loved it. I particularly loved Pope's <i>Epistle to Dr. Arbuthnot</i>, where Pope complains about the travails of being a famous poet. Alas. At one point, he mocks folks who try to flatter him by telling him how he resembles the greats, but only in their defects: "Go on, obliging creature, make me see//All that disgraced my betters, met in me." Naturally I found it very possible to take the same approach.</p><p><br /></p><p><b>About the Author</b></p><p>
</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Like Proust, I’m not inventive.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Like Henry James, I’m fat.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Like Melville, slow to publish;<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Like Eliot, I’ve a cat.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Like Stevens, I do other work;<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Like Jarrell, write in prose.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Like Thurber, I don’t see too good;<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Like Shakespeare, I wear clothes.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Like Kafka, I remember dreams;<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Like Shaw, pontificate.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Love Paris just like Baudelaire;<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Like Henry Roth, I’m late.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Like Freud, I must have enemies.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Like Gilbert, I’m not glad.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Like Wilde, I’m snide but tactless.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Like Sylvia Plath, I’m mad.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Like Joyce, exploit allusions;<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Like Tolstoy, I’m no fun;<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Like William Blake, can’t catch a break;<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Like Reverend John, I’m donne<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua",serif;">.<o:p></o:p></span></p><br /><p></p>Karen G-Mhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06691978985320143360noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6257262298792796331.post-25597082334669469032023-06-28T20:05:00.002-07:002023-06-28T20:05:42.429-07:00Stradivarius in Press Pause Press<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhenZazKwgLflFxIMB4jJ2pj-6gPXH29Q92ivUBAJg4tV-jiRyckhXNezIi_TEhtZN2xogOFpH91b5KvRqyojQmbi_3Seau7pxvF_SBzjF9d12CxhwyEoa19W-3lA0DBqmuUQh2AnvSJ8RL3nxhwIXqun0GvQjJ5cUnu3RTywOjNqbim3vdvsZwf8e6TV2x/s1364/553%20really%20good%20violinist.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1112" data-original-width="1364" height="505" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhenZazKwgLflFxIMB4jJ2pj-6gPXH29Q92ivUBAJg4tV-jiRyckhXNezIi_TEhtZN2xogOFpH91b5KvRqyojQmbi_3Seau7pxvF_SBzjF9d12CxhwyEoa19W-3lA0DBqmuUQh2AnvSJ8RL3nxhwIXqun0GvQjJ5cUnu3RTywOjNqbim3vdvsZwf8e6TV2x/w618-h505/553%20really%20good%20violinist.jpg" width="618" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;">Street musician in the plaza in front of the Pompidou Center. </div><div style="text-align: center;">Damn he was good. Playing Bach, as I remember.</div><p>Stradivarius, a prose poem about the Judy Garland-Van Johnson vehicle, In the Good Old Summertime is the headliner in The Family Room on Press Pause Press. Another ekphrastic prose poem about one of my life-long obsessions, Buster Keaton. If you like, paste the address below into your browser. One you get there, I suggest you 'select' the text. Otherwise, pale gray on white on a monitor is kinda hard to read, though it looks cool and all that.</p><p><span style="color: #fff2cc; font-family: "inherit", serif; font-size: 14pt;">Stradivarius in the
Family Room of Press Pause Press. Thank you!</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #fff2cc; font-family: "inherit",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Segoe UI Historic"; mso-themecolor: accent4; mso-themetint: 51;">https://www.presspausepress.org/press-play/2022/2/15/karengreenbaummaya</span><span style="color: #fff2cc; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-themecolor: accent4; mso-themetint: 51;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 0%;"><span style="color: #fff2cc; font-family: "inherit",serif; font-size: 9.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Segoe UI Historic"; mso-themecolor: accent4; mso-themetint: 51;"><a href="https://www.facebook.com/"><span style="border: none windowtext 1.0pt; color: #fff2cc; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-border-alt: none windowtext 0in; mso-themecolor: accent4; mso-themetint: 51; padding: 0in;"><o:p></o:p></span></a></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 0%;"><u><span style="border: none windowtext 1.0pt; color: #fff2cc; font-family: "inherit",serif; font-size: 9.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Segoe UI Historic"; mso-border-alt: none windowtext 0in; mso-themecolor: accent4; mso-themetint: 51; padding: 0in;"><a href="https://www.facebook.com/"><span style="color: #fff2cc; mso-themecolor: accent4; mso-themetint: 51;"><br />
<!--[if !supportLineBreakNewLine]--><br />
<!--[endif]--></span><span style="border: none; color: #fff2cc; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; text-decoration-line: none;"><o:p></o:p></span></a></span></u></p><p class="MsoNormal">
</p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #fff2cc; mso-themecolor: accent4; mso-themetint: 51;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 0%;"><span style="color: #1c1e21; font-family: "inherit",serif; font-size: 9.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Segoe UI Historic";"><a href="https://www.facebook.com/"><span style="border: none windowtext 1.0pt; color: blue; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-border-alt: none windowtext 0in; padding: 0in;"><o:p></o:p></span></a></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 0%;"><u><span style="border: none windowtext 1.0pt; color: blue; font-family: "inherit",serif; font-size: 9.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Segoe UI Historic"; mso-border-alt: none windowtext 0in; padding: 0in;"><a href="https://www.facebook.com/"><span style="color: blue;"><br />
<!--[if !supportLineBreakNewLine]--><br />
<!--[endif]--></span><span style="border: none; color: windowtext; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; text-decoration-line: none;"><o:p></o:p></span></a></span></u></p><p>
</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><br /></p><p></p>Karen G-Mhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06691978985320143360noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6257262298792796331.post-79296924774878740072023-06-26T08:38:00.000-07:002023-06-26T08:38:08.956-07:00Blast from the past: Abecedarian of the Budgies<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgr9tPvmAXTINkThpoL87rD-Ucwl35wqhh2NAcCZz2aaRh1RPRagOqH_Wn7x3REd5_Q7zbxj9dBkG8lUZFDdfWofl7ZFGBvSTCI9WUZF2KlZTYIZwMoSwKwu8-E0cJ1OjKEjtWyRGOiDKaAT2TDGVVKpdG59bYJVZ9jNBYDueaFzMZIKvkuZYteYWz4py0Z/s3264/November%20hawk%20winter.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2448" data-original-width="3264" height="497" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgr9tPvmAXTINkThpoL87rD-Ucwl35wqhh2NAcCZz2aaRh1RPRagOqH_Wn7x3REd5_Q7zbxj9dBkG8lUZFDdfWofl7ZFGBvSTCI9WUZF2KlZTYIZwMoSwKwu8-E0cJ1OjKEjtWyRGOiDKaAT2TDGVVKpdG59bYJVZ9jNBYDueaFzMZIKvkuZYteYWz4py0Z/w661-h497/November%20hawk%20winter.jpg" width="661" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;">Hawk in the apricot tree, November.</div> <p></p><p>When I was coming up on fifty, my dear husband told me, "I know I'm supposed to throw you a surprise party, but I'm no good at those things. If you like, I will try. But I could also take you on a vacation to Paris and Athens. What would you like?" That was an easy decision. In preparation for the trip, I scoured guide books for targets of opportunity. In the event, however, I was in the middle of a health crisis on top of the ongoing midlife phase (it's not a midlife crisis--it lasts too long to be considered a single crisis). The trip itself was much more difficult than either of us had expected, Still, worth having done. This photo is not from that trip, all of whose photos were on FILM, as was still the custom, mostly, and I would have to scan them, manually to post them here. Maybe someday. In any case, the only birds we saw were hungry sparrows. And, you can probably surmise that the initial words of the lines of an abecedarian follow the alphabet. This below is a double abecedarian: the last letters of each line also follow the alphabet, in reverse.</p><p>This piece first appeared in <i>Unshod Quills</i> in July 2013.</p><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Abecedarian of the
Budgies<o:p></o:p></b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">A week in Athens for my half-century birthday, sure antidote
to Weltschmerz.</p><p class="MsoNormal">Believed Frommer’s: <i>owners parade their budgies in Oneiros Park every
Sunday</i>.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Could caged canaries be freed? Imagine seeing each avian
aviatrix<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">dance, bound only by cotton strings that would trail
daintily below.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">(Elastic cord would have launched each bird like Barishnikov,<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">feverish, entangled like the louche courtship dances of
Corfu.)<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Greeks lock bumpers, jump from cars, snarl and brawl in
traffic, but<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Hellenic birds, even on Sundays, must stay separate as
dolmades.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Icarus convinced folk you could fly too high. Greeks remember.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Joy-riding birds of Athens, loosed every Sunday from <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">deux à cinq</i>,<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">kites with tiny minds of their own, would soar while locals nap.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Limp, weepy, off-kilter, sleepy, I was not philosophical
like Plato.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">My half-century found me so much less settled than even Helen,<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">noodling my way through midlife, out-of-step and off the
rhythm. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Olives of Athena sprouting in every park; now, this mythic marvel:<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">parakeets uncaged in the polis? What a custom! I was wild to
gawk.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Question that I never sent to Arthur Frommer, trusted tourist
Raj:<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Remind me, who told
you this tale of tethered birds? The Oracle of Delphi?<o:p></o:p></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Simple me, I asked the hotel clerk how to find the park. In fine
English,<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">truthful, not at all unkind:<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Never have I ever heard such a
ridiculous thing.<o:p></o:p></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Unstoppered, fabled birds flew away. I felt my whole flock
take off,<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">vanishing back into the naïve guidebook of this faded layered
place,<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">where nods mean <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">no</i>,
where one conveys <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">yes</i> by shaking the
head.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Xenophile I might be, but that wasn’t enough in Athens. Organic<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">yoghurt was the only soothing part of entire days I spent silent
as a tomb.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Zeno said, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Once delayed,
you can never catch up.</i> You can bet your last drachma.<o:p></o:p></p><br /><p></p>Karen G-Mhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06691978985320143360noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6257262298792796331.post-91201859290276550962023-06-21T18:22:00.000-07:002023-06-21T18:22:11.573-07:00Newly published: Rembrandt at Fifty, Eve the Inventor, where he did go<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKCm-KMAuUSzGzUtDoBlrLvNq8MgGSHrCWlTysPLdAaYjqCopLdfJoFLtICMcChbWJtuXvcesMkrVY0lar-OxRjwHrP6ntNhnMFP5rPt147vSos_-awm-wfgBXq2FMDnDUTXoy6Z0K0jKH4ZbytwyOCgZ6qhWlfyAQa-Q7jhgUIRz3bZNLKLKzHc5uD_5R/s1176/Walter%20&%20Rembrandt.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1176" data-original-width="1132" height="626" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKCm-KMAuUSzGzUtDoBlrLvNq8MgGSHrCWlTysPLdAaYjqCopLdfJoFLtICMcChbWJtuXvcesMkrVY0lar-OxRjwHrP6ntNhnMFP5rPt147vSos_-awm-wfgBXq2FMDnDUTXoy6Z0K0jKH4ZbytwyOCgZ6qhWlfyAQa-Q7jhgUIRz3bZNLKLKzHc5uD_5R/w604-h626/Walter%20&%20Rembrandt.jpg" width="604" /></a></div><br /> Walter in NYC at the Frick in 2006, contemplating a younger Rembrandt. And thank you, Isabel Niremberg of Offcourse, for publishing these poems.<p></p><p><br /></p><h1 class="colored_head" style="color: #660000; font-family: "Times New Roman", Times, serif; font-size: 2.7em; letter-spacing: -1px; margin: 10px 5px;">Poems by Karen Greenbaum-maya</h1><div class="p_big_indent" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", Times, serif; margin-left: 30px; margin-top: 20px;"><p style="font-size: 1.3em; line-height: 27.04px; margin: inherit; padding: 10px 10px 0px 0px;"><br clear="all" /></p><h2 class="colored_head" style="color: #660000; font-size: 2em; margin: 10px 5px 5px;">Self-Portrait, Rembrandt at Fifty</h2><p style="font-size: 1.3em; line-height: 27.04px; margin: inherit; padding: 10px 10px 0px 0px;">He is already looking at you.<br />No speculation, just appraisal.<br />The painter plays down the all-seeing eyes<br />peering from his famous shadows.<br />The arms of his chair give him a throne,<br />the right hand easy and magisterial,<br />deploying a paintbrush, or a baton,<br />something with a point<br />suitable for pointing out.</p><p style="font-size: 1.3em; line-height: 27.04px; margin: inherit; padding: 10px 10px 0px 0px;">Those rich fabrics we’ve seen before.<br />Perhaps they distract, dazzle us,<br />so we don’t read the bulk of his chest<br />as a swell of maternal bosom,<br />cinched, but not by the crimson sash<br />whose crimson brings out the same tone<br />in his drink-mottled cheeks, his winter-bitten lips,<br />in the whiskey nose that may be no such thing.<br />Could just be temperature shifts, spicy foods. Or stress<br />of bankruptcy, one after another infant<br />dead before summer,.</p><p style="font-size: 1.3em; line-height: 27.04px; margin: inherit; padding: 10px 10px 0px 0px;">You can barely make out his head covering.<br />A squashed cloche, perhaps velvet.<br />Deep red-brown. There’s that red again.<br />Hard to distinguish against<br />the darkness that surrounds him, yet<br />it makes a hole, still darker, in the darkness,<br />shadows those bleak eyes<br />no amount of dress-up can soften.</p><p style="font-size: 1.3em; line-height: 27.04px; margin: inherit; padding: 10px 10px 0px 0px;">Seems what the painter saw<br />left the sitter with a bitter taste in his mouth.<br />Just don’t blame the artist.</p><p style="font-size: 1.3em; line-height: 27.04px; margin: inherit; padding: 10px 10px 0px 0px;"> </p><h2 class="colored_head" style="color: #660000; font-size: 2em; margin: 10px 5px 5px;">Eve the Inventor</h2><p style="font-size: 1.3em; line-height: 27.04px; margin: inherit; padding: 10px 10px 0px 0px;">When Eve bites into the apple, she invents Time. She crunches the bite, tastes the juice released from the crushed chambers. She swallows. Now it is Gone. Now there is a Now, becoming Then. Now the apple starts to enter the past, The next bite is a little less crisp. We are told that Eve has invented Death. Do not forget that she also invented Loss. And Music. Birds sing for the first time when their song begins and ends. Grasses bend in the new little wind, and the sun starts to drift to the horizon. The serpent is astonished to feel the desire to shed his skin. Eve discovers her apple’s green-woody stem that doesn’t even know its useful life is over. She has not yet discovered that no good deed goes unpunished.</p><p style="font-size: 1.3em; line-height: 27.04px; margin: inherit; padding: 10px 10px 0px 0px;"> </p><h2 class="colored_head" style="color: #660000; font-size: 2em; margin: 10px 5px 5px;">where he did go…</h2><p style="font-size: 1.3em; line-height: 27.04px; margin: inherit; padding: 10px 10px 0px 0px;">…when he left Brasil at nineteen<br />cheapest passage was on a freighter<br />Took eight weeks. Crew got to know him<br />They offered him a job as Sparks<br />because he knew Morse code<br />He saw himself as Joseph Conrad,<br />wearing dress whites,<br />writing in his cabin below the waterline</p><p style="font-size: 1.3em; line-height: 27.04px; margin: inherit; padding: 10px 10px 0px 0px;">Where he did go was New Orleans, then<br />the Greyhound to Austin,<br />counting on the scholarship they yanked<br />when they realized<br />he was no US resident<br />He said the accents in the hallways<br />sounded like a joke, a movie<br />but it was for real<br />same as those fancy cowboy boots everyone wore</p><p style="font-size: 1.3em; line-height: 27.04px; margin: inherit; padding: 10px 10px 0px 0px;">Where he did go<br />After death is told by the living<br />We looked<br />into his face losing its faceness<br />his jaw drooping from its hinges<br />the muscles off-line<br />forgetting what they were there for<br />retired at last</p><p style="font-size: 1.3em; line-height: 27.04px; margin: inherit; padding: 10px 10px 0px 0px;">I took a photo<br />I will never show,<br />the last thing I have of him<br />except the last glimpse of his face<br />the coroners looking over at me<br />for a signal, for permission<br />before they closed the bag</p></div>Karen G-Mhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06691978985320143360noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6257262298792796331.post-15751443807877939812023-06-16T09:40:00.002-07:002023-06-16T09:40:59.196-07:00The New Normal 2.3 (Jitterbug, and Father's Day)<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiV936QkKKH5pJHwl4z9FZMky9l-l1LcH028XhJoxaAvsKtJu6UD0_bw_ZTPTdky_vZlKQ9E579NoNh6bDadghCknS0AaAYVmI4Am7KwSKV_BRCVHVasQ4GPQURw8FugWi5TTlE-jqyIrV5txw4i41Yy77ZVkfvjUFfv3RumraaxY6LT9dzDKfPaOBzhQ/s1102/David%20Greenbaum%20wearing%20loden%20suit.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1102" data-original-width="686" height="788" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiV936QkKKH5pJHwl4z9FZMky9l-l1LcH028XhJoxaAvsKtJu6UD0_bw_ZTPTdky_vZlKQ9E579NoNh6bDadghCknS0AaAYVmI4Am7KwSKV_BRCVHVasQ4GPQURw8FugWi5TTlE-jqyIrV5txw4i41Yy77ZVkfvjUFfv3RumraaxY6LT9dzDKfPaOBzhQ/w490-h788/David%20Greenbaum%20wearing%20loden%20suit.jpg" width="490" /></a></div><br /> My father, David Greenbaum, probably 8 or so, already deaf. (1927-1979)<p></p><p><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">Jitterbug<o:p></o:p></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">You have
to understand:<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">at six
months he should have died<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">when fever
torched his otic nerve,<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">scalded
his inner ear. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">Grandma
bargained, connived, even<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">changed
his name to change God’s mind:<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">David</span></i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">, always outmatched,<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">yet
understanding the swing of sling.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">The odds
shorted him, every time.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;"> <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">Somehow he
knew music, <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">sold vinyl
in Hollywood after school.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">His heart
beat 4/4 like the blues, <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">just right
for a jitterbug slow enough for flair, <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">to place,
to plant the back foot <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">so the
wave snaps right up your spine <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">to your
thrown-back head. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">Loved the
cool grunt of the bass <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">sounding
diminished thirds, <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">augmented
sevenths. Vibes poured <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">through the
pencil <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">he held like
a straw between his teeth,<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">eraser
braced on the turntable base. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">The man
could dance. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">Taught me
the off-kilter tilt of hips <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">kept
balanced by the partner’s hand, <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">shoulders
spiraled around the core, <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">each of us
styling, saved from falling <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">by the
back-beat back-step. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">He’d raise
his arm and I’d strut under, <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">turning as
natural as walking.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">We’d move
into the snazzy draw, <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">hands
sliding along the other’s arms, <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">no words
needed for the trick<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">of snagging
fingertips, <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">catching
and pulling back to the center, <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">leaning
and returning,<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">solid on
the beat he could not hear. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p>
</p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">:::<o:p></o:p></span></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Karen G-Mhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06691978985320143360noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6257262298792796331.post-66048362495370181712023-06-14T23:10:00.000-07:002023-06-14T23:10:58.476-07:00The New Normal 2.2 (featuring The Clairvoyant Widow)<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQoI49lUcJolGclBAVd-nfbJy6OA53JqbmJBvdNcJryoKVRxOquBwVcYcINgs5bniQ4ibscvFSZWgs2pRXZQGfpXuC3_Nbk8TNrG7LOgHKLWwNfye-zHU0uL1NH3vvMJfIMCV_kVMHvvzq7En58ezoXSOZOcasxevEqu3kexxdiJTmZorISYdVv89cng/s1818/mountain%20lake%202.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1152" data-original-width="1818" height="430" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQoI49lUcJolGclBAVd-nfbJy6OA53JqbmJBvdNcJryoKVRxOquBwVcYcINgs5bniQ4ibscvFSZWgs2pRXZQGfpXuC3_Nbk8TNrG7LOgHKLWwNfye-zHU0uL1NH3vvMJfIMCV_kVMHvvzq7En58ezoXSOZOcasxevEqu3kexxdiJTmZorISYdVv89cng/w679-h430/mountain%20lake%202.jpg" width="679" /></a></div><br /><p><a href="https://unlostjournal.com/tag/karen-greenbaum-maya/">Karen Greenbaum-Maya Archives | U n l o s t (unlostjournal.com)</a></p><p>The cento is a fun form and something of a Rorschach test for the poet. You pull out some other writers' work and take lines that strike you, in no particular way. Then you arrange them so that the order makes sense to you. I love found objects and found poems anyhow, and when I saw that line of Roethke, I knew what to do. I have included this one in my tribute to my husband, The Beautiful Leaves, which Bamboo Dart Press will publish in August 2023.</p><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">The Ballad of the Clairvoyant Widow</b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;">--a cento of lines of Christine
Gosnay, Michelle Brittan Rosado, Russell Salomon, and Theodore Roethke</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"> Slow, slow as a fish she came,</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;">A green angel swaying branches.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;">The wide streams go their way.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;">She went in slowly, and found him.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;">She watched the river wind itself
away.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"> Everything undoes itself.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;">He woke with mountains in his knees.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;">She saw her father shrinking in his
skin.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;">She thought a bird and it began to
fly.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;">The light cried out, and she was
there to hear.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"> The wings have fallen off. The arms
too.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;">It was as if she tried to walk in
hay.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;">Once she knew how to run.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;">She came to the western river,<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;">breathed as if moving a hand toward
a candle.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"> The sleep was not deep but waking was
slow.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;">The outline of one is inseparable.<o:p></o:p></p>
<br clear="all" style="mso-special-character: line-break; page-break-before: always;" /><br /><p></p>Karen G-Mhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06691978985320143360noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6257262298792796331.post-35604256949023379332023-06-13T18:30:00.002-07:002023-06-13T18:30:44.256-07:00The New Normal 2.1 (featuring Busy)<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6JkMqQZ_kq7UuUjc3zDAkBtcRW48Gbpbxkg1xW2ozd30x4V3Ux9UFegFOSXFYsCQQh2xCLvmBh4CZEFPElk3DJvYtn9O2aGoVk9P-KCXORgYHm8hBJB7qXwSweSoPRvWfwRTacvcaMQsLzB51sQnrI5XamGPqMtAkqi4hzLvKXMxcs4LCAkYZyD2Vhw/s3264/matillija%20&%20bee5.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2448" data-original-width="3264" height="452" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6JkMqQZ_kq7UuUjc3zDAkBtcRW48Gbpbxkg1xW2ozd30x4V3Ux9UFegFOSXFYsCQQh2xCLvmBh4CZEFPElk3DJvYtn9O2aGoVk9P-KCXORgYHm8hBJB7qXwSweSoPRvWfwRTacvcaMQsLzB51sQnrI5XamGPqMtAkqi4hzLvKXMxcs4LCAkYZyD2Vhw/w603-h452/matillija%20&%20bee5.jpg" width="603" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left; text-indent: 0.5in;">https://bodyliterature.com/2020/01/27/karen-greenbaum-maya-5/</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;"><o:p></o:p></p></div><div>B O D Y is an estimable journal published out of Prague. Yes, <i>that</i> Prague. I am honored to have placed several pieces there over the years.</div><p></p><div><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 107%; margin-left: 0in; text-indent: 0in;"></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin-left: -.25pt;"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin-left: -.25pt;"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><b><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua", serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 99%;">Busy</span></b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-left: -.25pt;"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">French bees are dying, she tells me.
Not because of big Agro pushing its products, threatening finance interruptus,
the short-term win killing the long-term love. The bees are dying because the
Chinese have planted killer bees that lay their eggs in the French bees. Like
mantises they behead, like termites they eat wood, like wasps they colonize
from within the good-hearted worker bee herself. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 107%; margin-left: 0in; text-indent: 0in;"></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin-left: 0in; text-indent: 0in;"></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-left: -.25pt;"><span style="font-size: 14pt; text-indent: 0in;">Oh, these Chinese bees. They’re
aggressive as South American bees and twice times the size. Easily they kill
the French bees. A single smear of their honey leaves you braindead but unable
to stop consuming Chinese imports. There you go, buying twice what you need.
There are bees flying all over the blossoming trees, cherry and quince, even
willows and camellias, but she knows the bees are dying, just going through the
motions.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-left: 0in; text-indent: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><span style="font-size: 14pt; text-indent: 0in;">She can tell the Chinese ladybugs
from the French. The vulgar Chinese are gaudy with too many dots. The French
ladybugs are subtly accented with two, at most four, asymmetrical for interest.
Chinese ladybugs adapt quickly. They do not care about tradition. They
undersell the French ladybugs and take over their turf. You’d think there would
be enough for all, aphids being what they are, but no. Oh no.</span></p><br /><p></p><p></p></div>Karen G-Mhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06691978985320143360noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6257262298792796331.post-85412635469771783782023-06-12T09:41:00.006-07:002023-06-13T18:51:52.014-07:00The New Normal 2.0 (featuring To Die in Cochabamba)<p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgD0l26rX3X1FmS2zvOY0IgoBdiQrBcV4aGGAk1Pl1tZ97uxv2z7CYqkk91h_xTEZ8HtlDoPLpz232TGu0ZEt1C6LhJDBVXLmHJhUw_9i90KGDgd5qiukl4k2GM6RV9vXlEBrHoXeXfpanYbRkTBceHQmBBsqiiIQKkwqUrjBqdFG31inXeEWWLSy5DfA/s3264/IMG_9757%20(1).JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2448" data-original-width="3264" height="511" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgD0l26rX3X1FmS2zvOY0IgoBdiQrBcV4aGGAk1Pl1tZ97uxv2z7CYqkk91h_xTEZ8HtlDoPLpz232TGu0ZEt1C6LhJDBVXLmHJhUw_9i90KGDgd5qiukl4k2GM6RV9vXlEBrHoXeXfpanYbRkTBceHQmBBsqiiIQKkwqUrjBqdFG31inXeEWWLSy5DfA/w614-h511/IMG_9757%20(1).JPG" width="614" /></a></p><p>You realize, of course, that I'd rather be able to go back to the way I was managing this blog before, namely, putting forth my comments and observations and posting links to any on-line publication. But Google improved the format over a year ago, and as a result I can't figure out how to set up the links. So, I'm going to make it possible for me, and I hope simple for you, Gentle Reader. When I get something published, and when it achieves publication, I will post the link and the text of the poem right here, in the post. Where you are reading this. If I actually achieve a thought worth sharing, I'll put that up here too.</p><p>Today's post, not a new one, but from an expired link to <i>The Centrifugal Eye,</i> a project of Eve Hanninen, who set it down so she could spend some time with her own work. What an excellent editor she is, reading closely and considering what might improve the poem.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><b>To Die in <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:city w:st="on">Cochabamba</st1:city></st1:place> (I Will Not Die
in <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:city w:st="on">Paris</st1:city></st1:place>)</b> </p><p class="MsoNormal"><st1:place w:st="on"><br /></st1:place></p><p class="MsoNormal"><st1:place w:st="on">Cochabamba</st1:place>,
green valley at the mountaintop,</p><p class="MsoNormal">umbilical scar high on the equator.</p><p class="MsoNormal">No one dies in <st1:place w:st="on">Cochabamba</st1:place>.</p><p class="MsoNormal">I will die in <st1:place w:st="on">Cochabamba</st1:place>.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><st1:place w:st="on"><br /></st1:place></p><p class="MsoNormal"><st1:place w:st="on">Cochabamba</st1:place>
of eternal spring,</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal">no longest night, no shortest day.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal">Streams freeze hard after sundown,<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal">winter comes every night in <st1:place w:st="on">Cochabamba</st1:place>.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><st1:place w:st="on">Cochabamba</st1:place>
of bum leg, the <i>fùtbol</i> ploy.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal">The center herds the ball around rival feet,<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal">threads it down the field on bamboo legs<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal">while fans shout eternal spring in <st1:place w:st="on">Cochabamba</st1:place>.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><st1:place w:st="on">Cochabamba</st1:place>,
hit samba of <i>Carneval</i>.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal">Close the window, that <st1:place w:st="on">cochabamba</st1:place>
<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal">is getting on my last nerve, I tell the nurse, <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal">but she is busy slipping morphine under my tongue.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal">She cups my face in her dry hand,<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal">and my eyes, lips, bum leg relax,<i> Ay, mi <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:city w:st="on">cochabamba</st1:city></st1:place>.</i><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal">It seems in <st1:place w:st="on">Cochabamba</st1:place>
everyone knows,<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal">but I don’t understand, I never have.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal">I am a plane crash in <st1:place w:st="on">Cochabamba</st1:place>,<o:p></o:p></p><p>
</p><p class="MsoNormal">aisle lights down the center in the darkness.<span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype",serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p><br /></p>Karen G-Mhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06691978985320143360noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6257262298792796331.post-46837334961720742792022-11-04T10:57:00.003-07:002023-03-19T17:22:40.972-07:00She Discovers that the Changes to Blogpost and Google Prevent Her from Constructing a Handy List of Links to Published Work<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEic-mRnPgmeggJ9T6VOE0hQ8I5PlJnryuz9Rfxlpl5gUYJnWSBq7FHUQ9QMnhdkWYAZUEGP-eoN5ClxMK6gMz9DlMclAP7F7g4eNgF1J-24mad424g6BgQxVa3GxHH-IkbxaxkkdjT0NwiP2lBbo1p8V0lkQZANQKFIVng1LDlJgs6LiznPB5i0UQSK3A/s1710/late%20leaves%208.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1176" data-original-width="1710" height="440" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEic-mRnPgmeggJ9T6VOE0hQ8I5PlJnryuz9Rfxlpl5gUYJnWSBq7FHUQ9QMnhdkWYAZUEGP-eoN5ClxMK6gMz9DlMclAP7F7g4eNgF1J-24mad424g6BgQxVa3GxHH-IkbxaxkkdjT0NwiP2lBbo1p8V0lkQZANQKFIVng1LDlJgs6LiznPB5i0UQSK3A/w640-h440/late%20leaves%208.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><p>Yes, what it says. And since this was the reason I set up a blog int he first place, I'll start making a post for each new work I get published. This will not make finding my pieces easier, but it will do until I set up a proper website. Ah well.</p><p>In that spirit, I note that <a href="http://mobiusmagazine.com/poetry/shedisco.html">Mobius: The Journal of Social Change (mobiusmagazine.com)</a> will take you to She Discovers that Her Republican Grandfather was a Secret Nazi Hunter, of which some was imagined but none was invented.</p><p><br /></p><p><a href="http://mobiusmagazine.com/poetry/shedisco.html">Mobius: The Journal of Social Change (mobiusmagazine.com)</a> March 2021</p>Karen G-Mhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06691978985320143360noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6257262298792796331.post-5969999241708024052022-11-04T10:32:00.007-07:002023-06-14T15:39:56.454-07:00Long Time Gone, but Well-Remembered<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjY5dT0K1POiqBfQX39vtQts8_SOnmZ9REtPF5tvz-p0tQyrNupH56FuBRpgh0w_E23CWVsbhjh6Zlt70Y80sLQAqJm8NvaDKb0vWDtKtZAFK7Um41W-KjkFW_MGBcTutOdHFS9CdlMknVMgHre1oUB5Gu6MDtI9MFCkkLSHytVnbXi7kpeoBxhn0hOIA/s916/Paris%202011%20096%2036%20locks%20of%20love%20on%20the%20Pont%20des%20Arts.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="576" data-original-width="916" height="402" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjY5dT0K1POiqBfQX39vtQts8_SOnmZ9REtPF5tvz-p0tQyrNupH56FuBRpgh0w_E23CWVsbhjh6Zlt70Y80sLQAqJm8NvaDKb0vWDtKtZAFK7Um41W-KjkFW_MGBcTutOdHFS9CdlMknVMgHre1oUB5Gu6MDtI9MFCkkLSHytVnbXi7kpeoBxhn0hOIA/w640-h402/Paris%202011%20096%2036%20locks%20of%20love%20on%20the%20Pont%20des%20Arts.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>The first photo shows Walter breaking bread for breakfast in the flat we rented in Paris. Breakfast is baguette tradition, some chevre, Normandy butter, and a tangerine. Cafe au lait to come, in the nice little footed bowl. The second photo shows the locks of love mounted on the Pont des Arts, before everyone from all over the world started leaving locks, locks upon locks linked to locks, and the whole thing became too heavy and started peeling away from the bridge itself. Now the bridge is faced with thick pale green glass? or some kind of plastic? not unattractive, but nothing like the panoply of locks. Ours is the tiny black one at the upper left.<p></p><p>I have been working on a collection of my poems about Walter, sending it out to publishers. This week, The Beautiful Leaves was accepted by Bamboo Dart Press. They hope to have it printed by August 2023. The poems encompass Walter's aging and my grief about losing him. The poems themselves date from 2012 to 2022. I know that there is nothing new about loving someone who then dies, but I do believe that I have something unusual to say about that experience, namely, looking at the pain and the beauty directly of losing someone you have loved deeply and who loved you that way as well. I wrote these pieces partly to be honest about the horror and pity, but also to honor him as he deserved.</p><p>I had expected that getting the manuscript accepted would leave me joyous. This is not so. I have felt confused and weirdly relieved. I believe that, as glad as I always am when my work is appreciated by someone else, wrapping up this particular project means also wrapping up a chapter in my life. Ready or not, there it goes.</p><p><br /><br /><br /></p></div>Karen G-Mhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06691978985320143360noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6257262298792796331.post-73003974926836870622022-01-22T12:25:00.004-08:002022-01-22T12:25:56.139-08:00Not to Complain, but Complaining<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjuuXAHcgXV5HThZitE_zcBrR_tYkvJNSW79xEchuU9jzn-Om3-F8L0dBbylY05XAxo2yPg8qatuZsH3Z8QvsBFWInhfvRtDYIAwjk53upuNebHHbcIU0diKvKs8P9K8tr8rdIWbYP1qSmKeCeBR8V3aYyqRxg0mCbgB0GfOG30WUuL1Jm3FDd3ch31MQ=s4032" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="489" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjuuXAHcgXV5HThZitE_zcBrR_tYkvJNSW79xEchuU9jzn-Om3-F8L0dBbylY05XAxo2yPg8qatuZsH3Z8QvsBFWInhfvRtDYIAwjk53upuNebHHbcIU0diKvKs8P9K8tr8rdIWbYP1qSmKeCeBR8V3aYyqRxg0mCbgB0GfOG30WUuL1Jm3FDd3ch31MQ=w652-h489" width="652" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEizeYc9Nwe4XaccTXTbSc5GSuRREeLJGiwboBYP9aOW-C_m_ws--RBnj5dIiar0XYleIDBrPaacyOosMiDeVomUd_iRIyeARbYPX_J0Io-Fs8dKJirZsINnCK9-zoHKNScnZVJXTAh0ipulUnblyY0g780ej0CU_pgB1Ww4GRJjLEsQHAV-Pyu4SnFU7A=s4032" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="546" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEizeYc9Nwe4XaccTXTbSc5GSuRREeLJGiwboBYP9aOW-C_m_ws--RBnj5dIiar0XYleIDBrPaacyOosMiDeVomUd_iRIyeARbYPX_J0Io-Fs8dKJirZsINnCK9-zoHKNScnZVJXTAh0ipulUnblyY0g780ej0CU_pgB1Ww4GRJjLEsQHAV-Pyu4SnFU7A=w728-h546" width="728" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhFZRzw3aNXR21xMPWu3n7cJMRgBWzG2Sc_VyycU-XNzqFtA5K93o9iqbc4FZDXfC5ECRvInJwqEHXQd5T75Wz6l0vdPB4qhDQRF6MvGIMx5xwdV1AWLRTqa7TKDAwdy-bKZOEHlGZq0fiJGDoVRtMGRuZQ9R7f452jUlELnvl3OOQoAlbTEMcV2NHM-A=s4032" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="547" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhFZRzw3aNXR21xMPWu3n7cJMRgBWzG2Sc_VyycU-XNzqFtA5K93o9iqbc4FZDXfC5ECRvInJwqEHXQd5T75Wz6l0vdPB4qhDQRF6MvGIMx5xwdV1AWLRTqa7TKDAwdy-bKZOEHlGZq0fiJGDoVRtMGRuZQ9R7f452jUlELnvl3OOQoAlbTEMcV2NHM-A=w729-h547" width="729" /></a></div><br />Behold, an act of God. Last night we had hard winds, gusts up to 80 mph. For comparison, a Category 1 hurricane achieves speeds between 74 and 95 mph. I am not the only one in my community to have trees or parts of trees blowing over. This Italian cypress, unfortunately, came right up out of the ground and landed mostly in my neighbors' yard and on their roof. <p></p><p>As it happens, these are the neighbors whose Tesla solar roof sends excruciatingly bright glare into my house ten months out of the year, running all along my west-facing wall. I've managed to mitigate said glare by installing ceramic film on all the windows and sliding glass doors. They had seemed amenable to paying some part of it, then apparently decided that I was harassing them and ordered me never to contact them again. Well, goodness. These are the folks whose kids hugged me when they saw me, and to whom I sent fresh-baked goodies. I had hoped we might remain civil but had to give up on that.</p><p>Well. Now, the tree lies on their roof, a pine of Rome. I suspect they are not home, as I have heard nothing from them, which suis me fine. Friends and my insurance company tell me that each person is responsible only for their own damage, a relief to me. I will incur $2000 for the deductible, thanks to the pipes that broke two years ago and flooded/destroyed half the house. </p><p>Now I wait to be contacted by my insurance company's designated contractor. Apparently, there are 25 people ahead of me, so far. I had called an arborist I'd used in the past, but 1) he won't be available for two weeks, and 2) his truck now bears the message, "Democrats Are Destroying America." I'd rather not support him anymore.</p><p>This debacle follows bills of $2000 to the veterinarian for my cat, who attacked a possum and lost, of $4800 for corroded pipes, which repair included digging up half the front lawn, and, a bill for $8000 for bringing the electrical system up to code (and installing a new main switch, as the old one had frozen). </p><p>I'm feeling beaten up by these acts of God. I had been in the middle of a major re-write qua reorganization of my manuscript of poems about my late husband, and I was making progress, though not without struggle. Looks like time to take a break for something hard in the outer world.</p>Karen G-Mhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06691978985320143360noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6257262298792796331.post-62742107430531021772021-12-07T13:32:00.000-08:002021-12-07T13:32:14.910-08:00Seasons of Love<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgecOA7XY4CcbGNVR1BCXUgPkcfck6MEw7IZdvpHAlSiSV7Tqx3Hkbq2C13YhJB9kbZ6jB29N6ysuhiCkEuVZOK931kT9jgspRSuy8thdXOAsFwo-90Uc9SrOY1Wo8QhAwNbDIEcbZnWqmz/s2048/23+997+Walter+photographs+the+ducks.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="2002" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgecOA7XY4CcbGNVR1BCXUgPkcfck6MEw7IZdvpHAlSiSV7Tqx3Hkbq2C13YhJB9kbZ6jB29N6ysuhiCkEuVZOK931kT9jgspRSuy8thdXOAsFwo-90Uc9SrOY1Wo8QhAwNbDIEcbZnWqmz/w626-h640/23+997+Walter+photographs+the+ducks.jpg" width="626" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFoECAFGu-hoyI5Xwa-927Qh15QzxpfJQKiVWWxNdAjzHbzgQscAJETP-7Bmhdz6Is28h5KWit0oFQrKhvHjPs3LiV7z2ZEn3la_MZG-LhV_UbVu4VKdEoysuz0gGs-uXK8Tdf9mnIXwU3/s2048/Paris+2009+109.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFoECAFGu-hoyI5Xwa-927Qh15QzxpfJQKiVWWxNdAjzHbzgQscAJETP-7Bmhdz6Is28h5KWit0oFQrKhvHjPs3LiV7z2ZEn3la_MZG-LhV_UbVu4VKdEoysuz0gGs-uXK8Tdf9mnIXwU3/w640-h480/Paris+2009+109.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhd4FlVsMg5I0Ey7E3lShLvPDrp65GH5V6OUXO8CzYjM-L3mOil9GldncA695uB8EQUJttoNVmnA8glXTBDoRK3u1Ln0zTdPJgOsCDDcX3DkGFySIcokGJRBeeDa_YMOYRl9nN7tQ2QHnyT/s2048/sign+partition+wooden+goodies+reflet+Walter.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1651" data-original-width="2048" height="516" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhd4FlVsMg5I0Ey7E3lShLvPDrp65GH5V6OUXO8CzYjM-L3mOil9GldncA695uB8EQUJttoNVmnA8glXTBDoRK3u1Ln0zTdPJgOsCDDcX3DkGFySIcokGJRBeeDa_YMOYRl9nN7tQ2QHnyT/w640-h516/sign+partition+wooden+goodies+reflet+Walter.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /> <div>Walter's yahrzeit is coming up. December 16 2021 will be the third anniversary of his death. I remain weirdly disoriented by his not being here. Sometimes I feel as though he had never been here in my life, sometimes I feel that he died last week. Every time I deal with something but remain dissatisfied with the outcome, I feel that he would have handled it better. At the least, he would have been able to reconcile me to the imperfect situation.</div><div><br /></div><div>The house is still full of stuff from our life together, even though I have divested myself of things that have nothing to do with my life alone. The practice cello, for instance. He hadn't played it in our 35 years together. Neither had his daughters. I offered it to them but they didn't want it, Turns out it was a good cello to begin with, a good tone, but it would need a lot of repair to be in good condition again. The bow was actually worth more than the cello. They're both gone now, as is the old-school metronome I gave him (wooden, spring-driven). I never found it helpful to play or sing with a metronome, and I'm unlikely to start now. It gave him joy to see them all in the house, though, even after he stopped being able to use them.<br /><p></p><p>Walter did a lot of looking, and a lot of seeing. He noticed, he saw, he thought about what he saw, he made connections. I have long thought that curiosity is an under-appreciated trait, and Walter was certainly curious about the world around him, the people around him, the possibilities around him. You can see that, in his seeing, he was experiencing--something.</p><p><br /></p></div>Karen G-Mhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06691978985320143360noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6257262298792796331.post-45361467339775890742021-11-21T09:19:00.000-08:002021-11-21T09:19:05.944-08:00Everything new is old again<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvz-KB4QA4Wa27DJ8ttR92ACfektFdpB-jHq4gDjYRaPW0KlukvKFwsL1J3BcB8BZTnen4IuDmbHMYiDB5_UwMg-UzQDsKmkNrMGUVcKeAdgw3jMqW45Ul_3-xWJ-cEAySIXiM7IH8q8A4/s2048/26+1180+Walter+en+profile%252C+Senat.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvz-KB4QA4Wa27DJ8ttR92ACfektFdpB-jHq4gDjYRaPW0KlukvKFwsL1J3BcB8BZTnen4IuDmbHMYiDB5_UwMg-UzQDsKmkNrMGUVcKeAdgw3jMqW45Ul_3-xWJ-cEAySIXiM7IH8q8A4/w640-h480/26+1180+Walter+en+profile%252C+Senat.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p><br /></p><p>We're getting into the time of year when my dear husband, Walter Maya, declined and died. This photo speaks for itself, including the little flourish of flowers apparently growing out of Walter's head: his playfulness, his imagination, his ability to take what was in front of him and make something good out of it.</p><p>And this pertains to writing how? I am in the thick of making a collection of poems about him, mostly directly, and incidentally about mortality and decline. There's a lot of that going around. My memories and preoccupations have always been influenced by the time of year. I wonder if it is the slant of the light and the length of days, but who knows--not me. Anyhow, I am writing new poems about him and adding them to the older poems. I've always written about death and decline, even mortifyingly early on. In the years since his diagnosis with cancer, I wrote very few poems that were not about loss and change, his changes, losing him.</p><p> As a psychologist, I performed neuropsychological evaluations. Which is to say that I used my experience and the available tools to answer questions about changes and difficulties in other people. You might say that I was peculiarly trained, suited even, to notice his changes, his losses, and therefore my losses too.</p><p>So, since the last time I posted in this blog, I've been steeped in thoughts and feelings about who Walter was and about the hole his death has left in my life. I do believe I'm making progress in this project, this book-to-be. I don't know if the smaller or larger worlds care about such a thing, but it's what I need to be doing.</p>Karen G-Mhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06691978985320143360noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6257262298792796331.post-76826974900720697522021-07-23T22:56:00.001-07:002021-07-23T22:56:43.162-07:00Found in Translation<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOxnBuhmb0a-9YNGFYRdFd6MNt2CT_UPQeabu9IPODgZe6RqhkF9pIGGfpk__VnOJo3T2Hz993TjcFgS-Ct1H-YfHh_yPakInzOQGgC0KyVvmdWByQldIbtFOrLU4JRU6NOuC9ErHYtCOk/s2048/napa+valley+055.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOxnBuhmb0a-9YNGFYRdFd6MNt2CT_UPQeabu9IPODgZe6RqhkF9pIGGfpk__VnOJo3T2Hz993TjcFgS-Ct1H-YfHh_yPakInzOQGgC0KyVvmdWByQldIbtFOrLU4JRU6NOuC9ErHYtCOk/w640-h480/napa+valley+055.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_KHS9m53Yr4M_hwfF4Syc06I0WwUZiWMYCt_pHkZMEUFwswnTh6oG_gA3BK-rKf_A3sNGKdxMOPDO-cVFx8kPhPrWT905wrLFzuv9FJVNYZPSeKzUCJAvtwR26o5Ql6k9yjlIgZ79D2Ls/s2048/napa+valley+053.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_KHS9m53Yr4M_hwfF4Syc06I0WwUZiWMYCt_pHkZMEUFwswnTh6oG_gA3BK-rKf_A3sNGKdxMOPDO-cVFx8kPhPrWT905wrLFzuv9FJVNYZPSeKzUCJAvtwR26o5Ql6k9yjlIgZ79D2Ls/w640-h480/napa+valley+053.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBEGhD-9l4IKSqsjH4CatCWzdxYpNmKBITaDFH-mWbjlph5IuYfZE91AW9DOI-U0V1afpyNpBDf-U7wdXf72VBfSKVtuQrdN8dynm8rIYOsf7An0eDwQUlk-xWD3A_S-pN7mOpJqDavMJV/s1320/heirloom+hen+10.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1320" data-original-width="1239" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBEGhD-9l4IKSqsjH4CatCWzdxYpNmKBITaDFH-mWbjlph5IuYfZE91AW9DOI-U0V1afpyNpBDf-U7wdXf72VBfSKVtuQrdN8dynm8rIYOsf7An0eDwQUlk-xWD3A_S-pN7mOpJqDavMJV/w602-h640/heirloom+hen+10.jpg" width="602" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWL3ASkkCIlsLyw-fRptK2HXXzGei5lGRHi24Aba5FF6ppdzSRbajdpfRYrX7nFmg6mCcoPzDBiOypG7hJBR7QoXhaxEIIyfWbOfsbnDoxhMdYQc_1dLMQxBqJVpphvp56a2a-GuYbB4UB/s1012/heirloom+hen+1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="870" data-original-width="1012" height="550" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWL3ASkkCIlsLyw-fRptK2HXXzGei5lGRHi24Aba5FF6ppdzSRbajdpfRYrX7nFmg6mCcoPzDBiOypG7hJBR7QoXhaxEIIyfWbOfsbnDoxhMdYQc_1dLMQxBqJVpphvp56a2a-GuYbB4UB/w640-h550/heirloom+hen+1.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p>Behold some residents of the 2015 writers' conference at Napa Valley Community College. That was when I last attended, with my sweet husband before his diagnosis of lung cancer. We both had a good time; he always got on well with writers and hit it off particularly well with Brenda Hillman, whose mother was born in Brazil.</p><p>I'm looking forward immensely to taking part in a workshop given by Robert Hass (yes, <i>that</i> Robert Hass) on translating poetry. So far, the languages of the source material proposed by other attendees include Tagalog, Korean, Russian, Spanish, and my own German. I want to come up with an English translation of Schumann's setting of sixteen of the poems of Heinrich Heine, Dichterliebe--A Poet's Love. I have loved this piece of music ever since I was introduced to it 50 years ago, and I've been fooling around with translating Heine ever since I first read him. What I'm trying to say is that this is indeed my idea of a good time.</p><p>So, this year will be the first time I'm attending a writers' conference solo. I've never before attended one of these conferences without my husband. I'd attend the workshop in the morning and we'd get lunch and I'd tell him all about it and then go write and we'd get dinner and I'd tell him how I wasn't sure if what I'd written was even a poem and he'd support and encourage me through all of this and even claim to have had a good time reading or walking or lying out somewhere and looking at the sky. I still expect to have a good time talking with other writers and attending events, but--I'll miss my sweetheart too.</p>Karen G-Mhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06691978985320143360noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6257262298792796331.post-47384857948051547192021-07-12T17:25:00.001-07:002021-07-12T17:25:52.205-07:00Bruce Wayne! He's the greatest orphan of them all!<p> <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwYJC0DAHCO-MoQB93PNatICZJ30SqXEbWkTMeHh4q1P7k1_MEjrGhHs8Ft6szToWSVySd3VpwH1Ctcp6nuwo1XjdvH9yRswUbdKYyfApPiW5wBbmzaOR1dlyMh0Y5sgbMIflAatlhBj-8/s1734/L%2527Ideal.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1170" data-original-width="1734" height="478" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwYJC0DAHCO-MoQB93PNatICZJ30SqXEbWkTMeHh4q1P7k1_MEjrGhHs8Ft6szToWSVySd3VpwH1Ctcp6nuwo1XjdvH9yRswUbdKYyfApPiW5wBbmzaOR1dlyMh0Y5sgbMIflAatlhBj-8/w652-h478/L%2527Ideal.jpg" width="652" /></a></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;">In a desperate effort to find the top of my desk, I came across the following dialog. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;">I wish I had written it, but I suspect I transcribed it from the LEGO Batman movie.</span></div><p></p><p class="MsoNormal">Joker: I’m your
greatest enemy!</p><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Batman: I don’t
really have <i>a</i> bad guy. I’m fighting a few different people.</p><p class="MsoNormal">Joker: <i>What?!</i></p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Batman: I like to
fight around.</p><p class="MsoNormal">Joker: Look, I’m
fine with you fighting other people, if you want to do that, but what we have? This is special. So when people
ask you who’s your #1 bad guy, you say….?</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Batman: Superman!</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Joker: Are you seriously saying that there’s nothing—nothing!—special about our relationship?</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Batman: Whoa. Let
me tell you something, J-Bird: Batman
doesn’t do “-ships”. As in “relationships”.
There is no “us”. “Batman & Joker” are not “a thing”. I don’t need you. I don’t need anyone. You mean
nothing to me. No one does.</p><p class="MsoNormal">Joker: Don't you think it's finally time to face your greatest fear?</p><p class="MsoNormal">Batman: You mean snakes? No! Clowns! No--snake-clowns!</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Joker: <span style="text-indent: 0.5in;">Why did you build the Batmobile
with only one seat?</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Batman: <span style="text-indent: 0.5in;">Because I only have one butt.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;"><o:p></o:p></p>I wrote down also these deathless lines:<p></p><p>What's good about Batman: Lots of cool gadgets; loves punching; excellent brooding.</p><p>We're going to punch those guys so hard, words describing the impact will spontaneously materialize.</p>Karen G-Mhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06691978985320143360noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6257262298792796331.post-31969243764729102732021-03-27T23:19:00.000-07:002021-03-27T23:19:14.434-07:00Subtle, He Says<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjI0_7PQ8hFBTKe9ZDlGubFVc6PmStdtHwyS2ZXg5tWTxVlt4BzyNKZVZ4fzk7b7rO5WZyVj_MvtvHvVMXr-ULWdf9ARzp8Lv1BcaF5os09fMVPw64kwvU618B0iHfJ-56D7NaebXSs9KK2/s2048/subtly+sensuous.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1636" data-original-width="2048" height="512" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjI0_7PQ8hFBTKe9ZDlGubFVc6PmStdtHwyS2ZXg5tWTxVlt4BzyNKZVZ4fzk7b7rO5WZyVj_MvtvHvVMXr-ULWdf9ARzp8Lv1BcaF5os09fMVPw64kwvU618B0iHfJ-56D7NaebXSs9KK2/w640-h512/subtly+sensuous.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKYSv9rredGI-f2rIyXZ3TyWcQOi3QiEbQmirXDNzhH6mH7_XaB2G8JJsKiPVljCdJUXl8kSUEjL-3i7OmH3fOK52-nr4-mNIVBmftGZ3pMWDLNXfI-1rpDEYz77FbElAHmMiYFn9ksRvl/s2048/no+duh.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKYSv9rredGI-f2rIyXZ3TyWcQOi3QiEbQmirXDNzhH6mH7_XaB2G8JJsKiPVljCdJUXl8kSUEjL-3i7OmH3fOK52-nr4-mNIVBmftGZ3pMWDLNXfI-1rpDEYz77FbElAHmMiYFn9ksRvl/s320/no+duh.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><br /><p>Another day to miss my beloved and hilarious husband, the late Walter Maya. This earnest artist believes that his creations subtly suggest our various sexual parts. I found it difficult to think of anything else, except maybe what I have heard about acid trips. Walter would have sniggered himself silly over these pieces, the more so as the artist believes his creations to be evocative. Right. Like the rude rocks of Joshua Tree National Monument.</p>Karen G-Mhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06691978985320143360noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6257262298792796331.post-55103025806532917582020-09-16T17:32:00.004-07:002020-09-16T17:33:36.587-07:00Psychology Meets Politics, part 4: Not with a bang, but a whimper<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDMFAZttS6b2_MkxzZ3gHkH7FuMP_HsvqjwQB5dlQ47qZR6kwz2hVRfI4HvSt-onRTn9B3cThpBT_vTCeKITXkZ65RelVcrakI_JFwQ7MBEKMHUFXk8SuojhGFPVTU8s3VGeL2pR955VS7/s576/45+tnn.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="372" data-original-width="576" height="447" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDMFAZttS6b2_MkxzZ3gHkH7FuMP_HsvqjwQB5dlQ47qZR6kwz2hVRfI4HvSt-onRTn9B3cThpBT_vTCeKITXkZ65RelVcrakI_JFwQ7MBEKMHUFXk8SuojhGFPVTU8s3VGeL2pR955VS7/w691-h447/45+tnn.jpg" width="691" /></a></div><br /><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>
<p style="margin: 0px;"> </p>
<p style="margin: 0px;">Actions like separating children from their immigrant
parents, with no records kept by which the children and parents might be
reunited, certainly could be characterized as attacking the relational bonds,
the more so as the children’s suffering and decompensation are well documented.
Other executive orders leading to withdrawing funding for remedying the
situations of people who are vulnerable, certainly are not impeded by concern
for that vulnerability. If anything, 45 seems easily willing to characterize
these vulnerable people as having brought their situations on themselves—by
being poor, by living in the vicinity of environmental hazards, by working
while studying at universities, by being born with disabilities—or at the least
being deserving of mockery.</p>
<p style="margin: 0px;"> </p>
<p style="margin: 0px;">I believe also that many of 45’s well-known practices can be
characterized as attacks on linking. Consider his pattern of hiring contractors
and stiffing them on the agreed payment after the work has been completed. He
has reneged on contracts with everyone from plumbers to lawyers to venues for
events. He is so well-known for this pattern that he has encountered increasing
difficulty hiring lawyers to represent him. Isn’t a contract a sort of
relationship, even if a transactional one? Isn’t our entire capitalistic system
predicated on payment received for work performed? To claim many many times
that the work is always substandard makes me think of the (grown) enraged child
finding a caretaker disappointing, inadequate. (There is also the issue of
feeling entitled to receive anything and everything for free, but that is not
my focus here.)</p>
<p style="margin: 0px;"> </p>
<p style="margin: 0px;">Fred Trump kept 45 afloat financially to flaunt as a puppet,
albeit an implausibly successful one. Mary Trump’s examination of her family’s
finances establishes that 45 has never made money in any of his ventures, and
that Fred’s ‘loans’ were outright gifts. In this light, The Art of the Deal
seems more like The Art of Being Born Into a Mob Family. Could 45 ever become a
real boy? Becoming a reality TV success was not enough to reassure him. A
ghost-written autobiography, whose author has been vocal about his profound
regret for legitimizing Trump, was not enough. Literal golden walls and toilets
were not enough. Becoming President would strike some people as a high success,
but 45 has found his fantasies often thwarted. No military parade to coopt July
4—no invulnerable wall to keep out dangers—no Nobel Peace Prize—not even the
cover of Time. Only what I imagine to be an indefinable unease, a haunting
suspicion that he is getting stroked to be put to use by cold and powerful men.
Still. Again.</p>
<b></b><i></i><u></u><sub></sub><sup></sup><strike></strike><br /></div>Karen G-Mhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06691978985320143360noreply@blogger.com0