3 pieces of foolishness: on sports

 3 pieces of foolishness 

Ignored in the U.S. Women's Hockey Team brouhaha (also ignored by

Coach K.

almost all sports fanatics always): Sports is entertainment. You are worth what your fanatics are willing to cough up. (Where my faint, shallow libertarian streak becomes visible: If it's professional sports, let's get government out of it.)

My friend, the former theologian, says: "A 'meaningful game' is a contradiction in terms. Think about it."

No one is quite sure who said (something like) this first, that "acdemic politics is the most vicious and bitter form of politics, because the stakes are so low." Damn fools, right? Then, coaches yelling at referees? Damner foolsers.

                                                            03.26.17

Esphyr Slobodkina

 Esphyr Slobodkina 

Another case of dog (or monkey) wagged by tail -
Your serious abstracts, and Caps for Sale.

         





             03.25.17

Toy car

 Toy car 

I have spent my day as one spends money on shoddy goods. A toy car that breaks down. You paste it back together. And again. It breaks down. And again. And you put it on a shelf somewhere to gather dust, because you are loath to throw it away. And the dust floats free, gets in your nose. And attaches itself to your mucus and runs down into your throat.

My plans for the weekend: To get the car off the shelf if I can find it. To clean it off. To try to get it running again. And to fail.

                                                        03.24.17

The poetry of delirium

 The poetry of delirium  

The return trip - our expulsion from Paradise, with the clothes on our backs, two medium-sized suitcases, and Uncle Albert 's steamer, and the way south and east, from snow on the ground to sixty degrees - is unclear to me, though I drove most of the way, if in a vehicle that knew where it was going and how to get there and mostly seemed to drive itself.
     It arrived, not entirely by itself, but assisted by a guy named Mike, who apparently owed Uncle Albert a favor, if one for which he was being paid. He had driven the five hours to Flint, rented the vehicle, and brought it back up. He was coming back early in the morning to help us load - his son would bring him and help with the trunk. Then he'd drive us back to Flint, and pick up his truck: he'd drive back to Paradise. We'd be on our way.

That seems to have been what happened. We went on our way.
     I remember the loading. I remember signing papers in Flint. We stopped that night in Ann Arbor - Uncle Albert gave the address to the car, and it told us how to get there.We stayed with a former student of his. I think her name may have been Julia, or April. A woman in her sixties, who called him Al-bare. They spoke entirely in French.

I'm not sure where we spent the next night, or the one after that, but we would eat breakfast, drive a few hours, head into a town to eat lunch; then drive a few hours more. We stayed with people Uncle Albert knew. Everyone spoke French - even at lunch. It was the third night after the first in Ann Arbor that we got home, I think. And a man named Dom came to pick up the vehicle. This was after two other men, Mike - though not the Mike from Paradise - and Gabe, were by to pick up Uncle Albert 's trunk; they put it in the back of a blue pick-up truck.
    Where they were taking it I don't know. I went to bed.

 03.11.17 

Crash

Crash

That's it. I crashed. Then my box: it crashed. This was right after Uncle Albert and I got back from Paradise. One, then the other.

Dr. Feight actually made a house call, "Not by any means the first," he told Roz, "and likely not the last." He asked me how I felt. I said I didn't know really. He asked when I thought I might be able to get out of bed. "Next time I have to go to the bathroom," I said.
     "You'll eat something tomorrow," he said. This wasn't a question. "You'll get up at eight. You'll go downstairs. You'll eat a slice of toast with jam. You'll drink a cup of coffee. Albert is going to be here."
     "Okay," I said.
     "Okay," he said. "You can have another cup of coffee at two in the afternoon, if you eat lunch."
     "What's for lunch?"

He didn't know what was for lunch, but he said he'd find out, and Roz would tell me after he left. He must have, because not long after the front door closed behind him, she stuck her head in and said, "Egg salad sandwiches."

The box was another story. It had to be taken in. And it couldn't be fixed: it was dead. But some of its organs could be extracted and put into another box. Only they weren't sure how many until they got another box and tried.
     "They're hopeful though," Roz said.

I'm not though.

03.21.17 

Lutherans in Paradise

to listen, click here

 Lutherans in Paradise 

Sunday morning.

     Uncle Albert has piles in every room, piles of clothes, piles of books, piles of bric-à-brac; but all the piles are small: everything he has out will fit easily into his steamer trunk.

     I’m awake. I’m dressed, lying on top of my cold bed. I hear him get up. He sticks his head in as he maneuvers toward the bathroom: “You could go to church, if you want,” he says. I say, “I don’t know.”

     “I’m not going,” he says, “but one of us ought to.” “Okay,” I say. He plans instead to spend the morning on the john. “Go to the Lutheran,” he says. “Then tell me about it, when you get home.”

at the corner of Uriel and Pichon

The john flushes. I roll off the bed. I straighten the bedclothes. Uncle Albert sticks his head in again. “The service starts at eleven,” he says. “It’s on the corner of Uriel and Pishon.” Do I want to shave before he takes a shower and gets back on the john?

One of the problems of depression – even at this low level that has its hands only lightly around my neck – it isn’t squeezing so I can’t breathe at all, but its face is thrust up so close to mine that I have to breathe its reechy breath – one of the problems of even this mild “case” is it turns the depressed inside out: he shuts his eyes not to see the face; he tries to breathe from his lungs into the air instead of taking air into his lungs.

The service begins with confession and pardon. Then we sing and we pray. The Scriptures are read. The sermon is preached: The Fall is fortunate if it leads to salvation, but some are not saved. (I think: For them, it can’t be so fortunate, then; but it is all the more fortunate for those that get to point and shake their heads: “There but for the grace of God . . . .”)

Since Ash Wednesday service was canceled for snow, there are ashes for those that wish them.

     I decide I do, but then not wishing to wear my ashes home, to arrive my face disfigured like the hypocrites do, I will stop on my way at the school, a place to pull out of the road, and wash them off with snow.

The “sending song” is “On Eagle’s Wings,” and I can sing the verses, but I cannot, I find – for tears – sing through the refrain:

And he will raise you up on eagle’s wings,

Bear you on the breath of dawn,

Make you to shine like the sun.

And hold you in the palm of his hand.

This happens often that I cannot sing for weeping and often of that often with these evangelical songs that are not part of my childhood, little part of my religious experience at all. Whence the spring that feeds this well of tears – much less the source of the spring – I have no idea.

     Nor, am I pretty sure, do I want one.

After lunch - I heat up some chicken noodle soup out of a can and make lettuce and tomato sandwiches with mustard and mayo – after lunch, we begin putting the piles into the trunk. Or I put them in at Uncle Albert’s direction.

     He doesn’t ask me about church.

03.05.17

posted 03.10

Eat me.

 Eat me. 

Fate’s arrow, anticipated, travels slow. – Dante*

We were hardly out of bed. We were barely dressed. We were sitting down to coffee at his kitchen table. Uncle Albert leaned back in his chair, said, “Shit” the moment before the doorbell rang. He looked at me. I got up and went to answer.

Gentle lap the winter waves onto Paradise’ shores.

    There was a rangy woman with long straight gray hair, pulled into a pony tail. She wore a tight, purple down-filled jacket, jeans, hiking boots. She looked over my shoulder toward the kitchen. She raised the grocery bag she held in her right hand in front of her.

     “I’ve brought breakfast,” she said – over my shoulder.

     “Come in, Iris,” Uncle Albert said. “Ask Iris to come in, Ted.”

     “Come in, Iris,” I said and stepped aside. She walked before me into the kitchen. She put the grocery bag on the table, unrolled it, took out an aluminum pan covered with aluminum foil. She went to the cupboard to the right of the stove, took out three plates. She pulled open the drawer to the right of the sink, pulled out a knife and three forks. She found a small spatula in another drawer. She took off her jacket, hung it on the back of my chair, and sat down in it.

     “Fix Iris a cup of coffee, please Ted,” Uncle Albert said, “one sugar, lots of cream.”

She was older than I am by at least ten years but younger than Uncle Albert by that and more. She had brought a breakfast casserole with eggs, sausage, onions, cheese, almost as sweet as salty. And she’d brought oranges. She cut us each a square of the casserole; she peeled three oranges.

     We ate. She asked Uncle Albert where he’d been, but she didn’t wait for him to answer. “Never mind,” she said. “I know.

     “I know,” she said again. “This is Ted,” she said, looking at me.

     “Yes,” Uncle Albert said, “Mad Ted.”

     “So I hear,” Iris said.

After she left, I stuck out my tongue at Uncle Albert. I lay my head on my left shoulder and rolled my eyes.

03.04.17

________________

*chè saetta previse vien più lenta – Paradiso XVII.27

Et in Arcadia nos.

 Et in Arcadia nos. 

Lede: The notoriously frugal Uncle Albert didn’t turn off his cable when he left Paradise to keep an eye on me, when I was expelled from Bedlam.

At the creation of man: The whine of snowmobiles replaces
birdsong in Paradise. Inside, the whine of CNN replaces
quiet music from the radio of the spheres.

So, when we return to pack a steamer trunk to ship the things he has decided he needs to spend another month or two with us, we can pick up with CNN right where he left off. Not the least of Fox News’ successes is that it has turned CNN into a pale-blue imitation of itself (of Fox!), a series of talking heads talking to talking heads, saying the same things about the same thing over and over again. (CNN is not a pale imitation of what it used to be – it looks nothing like it used to when it was trying to be a true news network with stringers all over and camera crews ready to go anywhere in the world.)

03.03.17

Left Behind

to listen, read aloud

 Left Behind 

I was supposed to go back to work today, but I didn’t because I was flying to the Upper Peninsula with Uncle Albert, but I didn’t fly to the Upper Peninsula with Uncle Albert because our flight out of Seeville was postponed which meant we’d miss our connections in Albuquerque. So we rescheduled: we fly out tomorrow on an early morning flight via Boise. (Instead of Seeville-Albuquerque-Minneapolis-Sault Ste. Marie, we fly Seeville-Boise-Ugol’nyy-Windsor-the Soo. There are more connections to make, but it actually takes less time, 21 hours instead of 22:30.)

on leave for madness or other mettle defect

I’m not going back to work now until April 3, the day after my birthday. Until then I am still on “leave for madness or other mettle defect.” And I have to check in with Dr. Feight at least twice weekly.

Uncle Albert bore the change in plans well. A friend of his had emailed asking about Sundstrøm’s yesterday’s rant.

I write to you because I understand your mad nephew has something to do with this “blog.” But I also understand both that you are keeping an eye on him and that you know this Sundstrøm character. Madness excuses much. Still, maybe you can intervene; and I can at least get an answer to the most pressing unanswered question. I’m not saying that Mr. Sundstrøm’s  argument will be sustained by a cogent answer, but it certainly falls without one.

Uncle Albert said, “Cincinnatus is not a patient man. It’s good that we’re here and not traveling today – I can write him back right away. Call Sundstrøm.” I needed to call Sundstrøm because Axel’s is one of those voices that Uncle Albert can’t hear well on the phone (those that belong to people he doesn’t want to talk to at the time).

     “And what do I need to ask him?” I said.

     “What year is the microbus?”

    

“What did he say?” Uncle Albert asked when I’d hung up.

     “1958.”

     “That should satisfy,” Uncle Albert said. “What’s for lunch?”

03.01.17

Posted 03.03.