Penguin Comic

http://science.nasa.gov/science-news/science-at-nasa/2004/05mar_arctic/

www.grist.org/article/penguins
http://www.penguinscience.com/clim_change_ms.php

http://www.grist.org/article/humans-spur-worst-extinctions-since-dinosaurs
http://www.well.com/~davidu/extinction.html

Another AWP Comic

Another AWP Comic

Things I Wished after Going to AWP, another AWP comic

AWP Comic: Why Are You Afraid of AWP?

Another AWP Comic

D is for Dear . . .

yet another tale of childhood humiliation

Every year after Christmas my mother would ask me to write thank you letters to my grandmother, aunts, uncles and cousins who sent me gifts. I would always procrastinate until long after Christmas vacation was over—some time in January. By then I couldn’t remember who gave me which gift. I wouldn’t know what to write.

Thankfully, my mother had a little book that told me how to write a good thank you letter. So I would follow the directions carefully.

So I wrote the same letter to everyone:

Dear

Thank you so much for the gift. It is a very special gift, which is why I like it so very much. This gift is like no other gift. Never has there been a gift like this gift. This gift is a gift I use and appreciate every day. It was so thoughtful of you to think of me and then send along this gift, the perfect gift for me.

My mother didn’t send all of my letters. Instead she saved one for a few years and then read it aloud at the dinner table. . .

AWP comics

AWP

B for My First Bologna Sandwich

yet another tale of childhood humiliation.


When I was about 4 years old, my mom decided I needed to learn social skills. Growing up on a farm, I had never been to a friend's house. So she arranged for me to visit a girl in a nearby neighborhood: Sharon Love.

It was a short visit.

I remember Mom walking me in the back door which opened into the kitchen, and then saying goodbye, maybe wondering if I was going to cry or follow her. I was happy to stay at the Loves, though I don’t think I ever made it past the kitchen. I remember that kitchen perfectly. It was as sparkling clean kitchen as an ad for Windex. There was a Persian cat on the counter, watching us, flicking her tail.

Shortly after my mother left, Mrs. Love served a lunch of bologna sandwiches. I had never eaten lunch meat before. Or white bread. Or store-bought mayo. I remember eating it as fast as I could, trying to get it past my tongue so I wouldn’t taste it. No sooner did it go down then it came right back up. I was really impressed. Wow, I said. That sandwich tastes the same in both directions.

My parents repeated that line at cocktail parties for months or maybe years after.

And if that story is disgusting enough, here's a great recipe for bologna cake!


1 lb. Sliced bologna
2 Tbsp. Grated onion
1 pkg. cream cheese (8oz.), softened
1 Tbsp. worcestershire sauce
1 pkg. Ritz crackers
How to make it

Mix softened cream cheese, onion and Worcestershire sauce.
Beat well.
Place a slice of bologna on a plate, spread cheese mix on.
Repeat process until all bologna is used.
Ice like a cake with rest of cheese mixture.
Cool in refrigerator.
Slice in thin slices and serve on crackers.

The Physics of Flying

Okay, so I don't know how to draw a plane. But I've been wondering about the physics of flying. Last summer a friend flew on a small plane. She said that before they took off the stewardesses asked everyone if they would mind storing much of luggage from below beneath their seats and in the overhead compartments and even on their laps as "carry-on."

That way they could make their weight limit and fly safely.

So I had to ask my physics professor husband:

Does the plane change weight
when you move the suitcases?

A similar event/question--I put in one of my dear professor poems:

Dear Professor,

I wanted to ask you a question about flying.
I took a small plane from Charlotte to Richmond
and there was an extra-large man in the back of the plane.
The stewardess made him move to the middle
“to balance the plane.”

I was pretty nervous, especially
when he went to the bathroom mid-flight.
The stewardess said, Don’t worry. It’s okay.
As long as he doesn’t stay in there too long.

How long would that be?

published in Stud Duck along with several other Dear Professor poems.

Sarah Palin and the Beauty Parlor

I was at the beauty parlor, waiting for my stylist who was running late and listening to this teenager talk while she was getting a cut.


My mom? she was saying. She always wants me to be like you know, like a better student and like . . . .

Your mom is a smart lady.

Yeah, but like I told her, like smart is like over-rated, like. You know? Like take Sarah Palin. I mean she's just a redneck beauty queen. Like she can't even talk, and she has like books out, and stuff, you know? So I'm thinking I got glasses okay, but so does she. So like maybe I should like learn to shoot a moose, like. You know?

Red tennis shoes

For some reason I have been thinking of childhood humiliations lately. And my mother who is coming up on her 94th birthday. Take first grade as an example--a year of many humiliations. My mother insisted I wear red tennis shoes to school that year even though the dress code stated girls and boys were to wear brown shoes. "Girls and boys should run around at recess. Hard shoes are not good for running, so my daughter is not wearing hard brown shoes," my mom said. For the first weeks of school the teacher would phone my mother every day to complain about my red shoes. She also said my skirts were more than two inches above my knees. And my hair needed to be combed. I had a permanent cow lick that the teacher once hosed down with Aqua Net. But the worst was the day when my mom picked me up, and my teacher came to the car to tell Mom that the treads of my tennis shoes were caked with cow manure. "What cow manure?" my mother asked, looking at my shoes which were coated with brown crusts and had a little bit of hay sticking out the sides. "Well," Mom said after a moment of silence. "It looks like she's wearing brown shoes today, doesn't it?"

DMQ

www.dmqreview.com/

A is for Apple (and a post on editing)

1.
I remember first grade as the year of apples. It was the year all the kids gave shiny waxed apples to Mrs. Wallace. One day I decided I would join the apple kids. I picked an apple from our tree and brought it to school. Sadly, my apple didn't look like the others. It had specks all over it. I had asked my mom about the specks, and she just said it was the kind of apple it was. "It's a speckled apple. Not a thing wrong with it. Not all apples looked like they came from Safeway." But Mrs. Wallace wasn't so sure about my gift. Are you sure these gray specks belong on the apple? she asked. Oh yes, I told her. I was sure. My mom said so. Mrs. Wallace washed and polished my apple. Next thing I knew, the apple started to look like the other apples . . . Well, not exactly like it came from Safeway. But the specks vanished.

Mom, I said later that day. Mrs. Wallace said my apple was dirty.
She did?
Yeah. She washed it and the specks went away.
Oh. She didn't like specks.
It was dirt, Mom. You think I should eat dirty apples?
Well, what do you think the animals do? If it's fine for them, it's fine for us, too.

2. Once, when I went to the dermatologist, one of her assistants told me she'd had her freckles removed. She was really proud of it. I guess there's some new technique out there that removes freckles. I think she thought I might want to do it, too.

You did what? I asked.
I erased my freckles. I feel so much prettier!
Why did you do that? You didn't have many freckles, did you?
I hated my freckles.
You only had a few. I didn't even notice them.
Oh, but when you see your own freckles, they multiply. It's like a freckle attack.
Wow! I had no idea.

I have been wondering about my freckles ever since.

3. Sometimes I spend so much time in the last editing of a poem. It's as if tiny blemishes or specks jump off the page. I never see them until right before I am about to publish a poem.

I sometimes wonder if they are a big deal. Or if I am only making a big deal out of them.

Male and Female Models

I think the last time I drew for real was in college. It was a class in drawing nudes. I remember how the female models were so fluid and relaxed. The male models were uncomfortable and boxy. (Actually there was only one regular male model, but every now and then the art professor would try to coerce others.) One week when we were drawing moving models--when they were going from pose to pose (so we sketched quickly), the woman moved moved gracefully and happily as if she were so at home in her body. But the man (who modeled the next class) struck this one pose as if he were serving us dinner and forgot to change positions for a long time. It stuck in my memory, the imaginary server . . . He seemed to be saying, I am here, offering you everything I have on a platter.

I guess I can't generalize from the class too much. I can't say women are more at home in their bodies than men, though it's tempting. But then again, the college I attended was actually a merger of 2 colleges, an arty women's college and a conservative men's college. The latter swallowed the former. Creativity died, more or less, in the process. Or so I am told.

There's a little glass case now at the college (Hamilton College) with memorabilia of the women who once were there. It's creepy. Like a large casket. In it is a white peasant dress that some girl wore to graduation. A photograph of ballerinas leaping across the grass. And a few other relics of our once upon a time . . . way back then, when artsy folks imagined an artsy college catering to women's needs and dreams and ideas . . .

Yes, it seems to say, this is all that is left . . .

Bye

One thing I never get used to: saying goodbye to my children (who aren't children anymore). It takes me a few days to recover from the feeling of emptiness after they leave.

Dogs in snowsuits

I have to dress the dogs up in snowsuits in winter. Then I put a turtle on top of the suit and boots on their feet, esp. when the roads are salted. Jeepers. They look at me as if I'm nuts. But then, what's a dog for if you can't walk it? Even if they are the size of cats . . .

"Students Today"

I was thinking today about some of the things my children's teachers said over the years, such as:

Students today . . . I mean, they don't make them like they used to.

Well, the students were conjugating their nouns again today in Spanish class.

A student asks for some extra work in math class because she's bored, and I ask,
Why? You want me to make extra work for next year's teacher?

I don't feel like teaching Spanish today. Do you want to watch Jerry Springer instead?

I understand that students usually have to write several essays for their AP English classes. But this is a large class, and I assigned the first paper for the year. It was horrible! The students do not know how to write, and I, for one, am not going to read 35 horrible papers again.

I am sorry to tell you that I tested the entire class in math skills, and some of my students scored very well. I know this might not be popular with some of you parents and children, but what this means is that I will be asking these talented boys and girls to prepare for the math competition. I think I can take a team to Columbus this year. But I apologize in advance . . .

Praise?

I was never much of a teacher's pet. Sometimes in my dreams I still see one of my yellow-haired teachers with her arms on her hips, glaring at me. As a kid, I used to wonder what it would be like to be the pet, the good little girl, the chosen one. I wonder if little girls still bring apples for their teachers. And cookies. Like little bribes.

A friend of mine who teaches creative writing was telling me how the worst student writers always love to read their work. They get up to the microphone on open-mic night and read and read. It's torture for everyone and gives readings a bad name. The good writers are self-conscious, afraid they might suck, so they stay seated. Or they do get up, but they only read a poem or a paragraph.

That makes you like them even more, doesn't it? I asked.

Yeah. For sure. But what is it that makes talent hide its face? And the lack thereof show off?
Next time you're at a student reading, look for the person who hogs the microphone. I promise you, you will be listening to the worst student I have.

The conversation made me think. I am sure I was one of those crappy writers. Not that I liked the microphone. Or had much chance to read at length. Open readings weren't ever my thing. But I think low expectations have always helped me out. It was okay not to be a great talent . . . yet. I always feel as if I am still hoping to write the perfect poem or story. Or at least to write something I like.

I am reminded of my dad who was an artist, a very critical and self-critical artist, who wanted all of his kids to draw or paint or do something arty. Two of my sisters were what he considered very talented. (He was right. They could draw anything.) Neither one of them ever wanted to be an artist. He ruined it for them by labeling them, praising them, or so it seemed. One of my talented sisters was telling me how weird she thought it was that he would tell me everything I drew was wrong, and I would just keep drawing it the wrong way, not seeming to care. Dad would tell me I held my pencil too tightly, so the images were always too squinchy and cartoonish. They lacked dimension.

He was right. But I never really thought of myself as an artist. It's just relaxing to draw. And I did sometimes try what he said, and I loved his attention and so on. I loved the fact that he would set us up with drawing paper and pencils. But somehow the negative comments didn't seem to bother me too much. I don't know why. I haven't drawn anything for years, but my son just gave me this cool toy for Xmas, so I've been doodling and remembering what a nice way it is to pass a few minutes.

Add to that that another sister, one my father did not choose, is now a really cool artist. She does her own beautiful thing . . .

I keep wondering -- how odd it is that praise can be so problematic. And criticism might be less troubling.

C is for Christmas Concert (The Worst Day Ever)

I was in first grade. It was the Christmas concert. All the girls wore black pleated skirts and red bows in their hair. We were supposed to singing Christmas carols, but I hadn't learned the words. I remember the spot light coming on and thinking, Wow. This is like being a movie star! So I started singing whatever came into my mind at the top of my lungs. We had grits and eggs for breakfast, fa-la-la-la-la-la-la.

I was feeling pretty happy until I looked out and saw the top of my father's bald head. It was crimson, the color he got when he was what he called boiling mad. Suddenly I stopped singing. Next thing I knew I was feeling dizzy. Then I was puking all over Martha who was standing on the bleachers just below me.

As one of my sisters pointed out later that day: We all heard you!

Sometimes, when I stand up to read, I have a flashback to that day, esp. if it's a dark room, and the light is shining on my face.

At the Hair Dresser

I was at the hairdresser the other day, and the beautician asked me what I wanted her to do. She had this cool Italian hair, and if I'd been honest, I'd have said I wanted her do. Instead I said, I want an upside-down tulip. You want what? she asked.

Padding

I don't know why they usually just make snowsuits for kids. But I found one, big enough for me a few years ago. It's become my winter outfit. It's almost as necessary as feet pajamas in the Ohio winter. The minute the temperature drops down into the 20s, every other grownup in town is freezing his or her butt off. Me, I'm ready for ice fishing. No matter if I am in the mall or the grocery store. I am prepared! Blame it on Virginia blood. I believe in padding.

Oh Joy

Another AWP ahead. See how happy I am at the thought? As if I just want to get up and dance? Or maybe I should go shopping, find a body that fits, and clothes. A mind, a soul . . .

The mere mention of the event, and I think I've already evacuated my body . . .

Guess What?

I remember this game we used to play in grade school. We'd ask someone: Can you guess what I have behind my back?
You never knew if it was a candy or a daddy long legs or a tick or boogers.
But the next part of the game was--Open your hands and close your eyes, and I'll give it to you. Okay?
Yeah, okay. Sure.
No peeks!

I think of that game at the beginning of the new year. Or whenever anyone is talking about the future. As if it's a hand with something I don't really want to touch but will anyhow.

I love this

I posted this before . .. just a bit below, but I love it!

http://www.eecs.berkeley.edu/~jima/free.mov

At the College of Intelligent Design

Selected Course Descriptions

1. Climate Denial 101: Why it’s the fault of the left-wing media that many believe this is happening now.
2. Survival of the Dumbest 101: The evidence against Darwinism.
3. Alchemy 101: You too can make your own gold coins!
4. God & Your Country 101: Why free speech (and even comic strips and certainly blasphemous artwork) concerning religious icons, divinities, and practices will soon be banned. Amen.

What Happened Then

So this is a story I heard, more or less, with a few minor changes:

I’m just a middle-aged guy, a little on the heavy side, a nose like a beak, yeah okay, not your type, but I’m a nice guy, all the same, and I’m looking to meet someone. So I go to bars, and you know, say nice things to ladies. Nothing. No one’s into me. It’s bad. It’s like everyone’s saying you’re not my kind. So I put an ad in the Personals: 50 + man looking for sweet young thing. I don’t say exactly that, but I get my message across. But no one calls, so I start checking around on my own. And I see this chick . . . Well, there was more than one. But I see them in this window, and at first it’s just a glimpse. I know. I just know. This my chance So I go on in, and I try to get the girls to talk to me. The first is a total failure. You know how that goes. And the second? She doesn’t seem to mind. Too much. Not like she’s walking away, but she doesn’t answer. So I get my nerve up. I give her a pick on the cheek. Just a peck. No big deal, right? You’d have thought I killed her. What happened then . . . Yeah, okay, so someone made a little video of it. I guess he thought it was funny--watching the fat guy after the chicks. http://www.eecs.berkeley.edu/~jima/free.mov

Brown Bags and Why I Didn't Eat Wonder Bread

I was cleaning up the kitchen, and I came across these brown paper bags I used ages ago for packing lunches. Every time I see brown paper bags, I think of first grade. The first day of first grade when Lisa D, who was sitting across from me, started eating her brown paper bag.

What are you doing? I asked.
I'm eating my bag, she said.
Why are you eating your bag?
Do you dare me to eat the whole bag?
Yeah.
Okay.

Lisa ate her bag, piece by piece, wadding it up and showing me as she chewed until Mrs. Wallace took her half-eaten bag away.

On the way home Mom asked me how my day went.
Lisa ate her bag, I said.
She ate her bag?
Yep. Her brown paper bag.
Oh well. It's a good thing it was a BROWN paper bag. She probably got some good fiber in that bag. A brown bag, you know, is so much better than a white bag. More natural. Because they bleach the paper to make it white, just like they bleach flour to make it white. That's why I don't let you eat Wonder Bread.

Judging Poetry Contests and . . .

Last week a poet-friend of mine said she didn’t understand the economic crisis. It was “like way too complicated.” But she justified her ignorance on the grounds that she was a poet. So what did it have to do with her? Maybe she’s right. But I want to tell this story about the judge of a poetry contest. A true story. It happened a while ago . . .

1. It began with a poetry press that was struggling a bit, and it really wanted to survive. It needed to make some money fast.

2. The press decided to run a contest. The editor-in-chief thought that the more people it could entice to enter its contest, the more profit it could make. One way to ensure many entries and lots of attention was to ask a famous poet to judge. He had his heart set on one famous poet.
But the famous poet didn’t want to be a judge. (Who can blame him? Really, reading manuscripts for contests sucks!)

Oh please! You will give this contest credibility, the editor said to the famous poet. And we will make a more money off of the contest because everyone will want to be the poet chosen by a famous poet.

3. So the famous poet made a secret a deal.

The deal was that he would “judge” the contest if he could be assured that his poet-friend would enter the contest, and that the poet-friend’s manuscript would be among the finalists.

4. The deal was made. Many folks entered the contest. The famous poet judged the contest. And his poet-friend was selected. And the press, the famous poet, and the famous poet’s friend were all very happy. And unapologetic.

5. The famous poet said that his friend was much smarter and more talented than anyone else. He said he knew his friend’s book was the winner without even reading the other entries. (Never mind that there are rules against selecting books by friends, relatives, former students, etc. )

What if the story went like this?

1. There was once an investment bank that wanted to make a ton money.

2. The bank decided that the fastest and easiest way to make money was to sell crap to buyers. The more people the bank could entice into buying real crap, the more money it could make

But the bank was unhappy because that there were regulations about selling real crap.

3. So the bank made a secret deal with the government that was supposed to regulate the selling of crap. Or better yet, the bank’s own top people became treasury secretary (for one administration after another)! And soon there were no regulations stopping the bank from selling crap! Ta-dah!

4. So the investment bank sold crap. Lots and lots of crap!

5. And the bank and all its own people made tons and tons of money. And the bank and the government keep saying nothing is wrong with this picture. It’s not their fault that the people keep buying crap. No one meant for the crap-buying to happen like that.

I have heard some on the media say how smart those Wall Street bankers are. (At least certain ones, the ones with the closest link to the politicians.) They’re so smart in fact, they deserve to make billions.

And we're dumb enough to buy that crap, right?

And to think, the dance between bankers and the government just keeps going on.

The Difference between Prose Poetry and Poetry, Truth and Bullshit

I am often asked the following questions, and I always forget my own answers. Of course the real answers would be ERF or BERAP, as defined in other blog posts, but in the absence of ERF and BERAP, I decided to compose a few answers that might prove useful at a later date.

Question 1: Can you tell me the difference btw fiction and poetry?

It’s sort of like the difference between potato fritters and crème brule. While potato fritters and crème brule are both food, both made of edible ingredients, both meant to nourish the body, one wouldn’t want to be served one when ordering the other.

Question 2. Can you tell me the difference btw prose poetry and just, you know, poetry?

It’s sort of like the difference btw night and day. I mean, you might think at first glance they are very different. But of course they are both just times of the day. The only real difference is the absence of sunlight, which is rather a relief from time to time. But you are the same person, whether it is night or day, and a poem can still be a poem whether it is in prose or in verse.

Question 3. But what’s the difference btw flash fiction and prose poetry then?

It’s sort of like the difference between life and death. Of course they are very different, life and death, but you are still a body, whether you are alive or dead, right? (Assuming one is only recently passed.) In this way, there can be elements of flash fiction in prose poetry and prose poetry in flash fiction, just as there are elements of life in death and death in life. And one can see life in death and perhaps life in death (or so the faithful say). So just as the apparent structure of you is still you, dead or alive, so it is with prose poetry and flash fiction.

Question 4. So which is more alive, prose poetry or flash fiction?

As noted above, the differences between the dead and the living might seem self-evident but are not necessarily. So it is really a matter of taste. What do like more? What faith or party do you belong to? Are you Christian or Buddhist? Democrat or Republican? Do you believe in the afterlife? Eternal damnation? Or heavenly bliss?

Again, these might seem to be polar opposites, but upon closer observation you might note that soon the collection plate will be passed . . . and you, my dear, must give your heart and soul. But at what price?

Question 5. Do you see any difference between truth and bullshit?

It's sort of like the difference between salt and pepper. While at first taste, they do seem quite different, and while one is deemed healthful and can be used in excess, and the other is not, they are both flavor-enhancing additions to any meal. And I would advise ample use of both.

Why I love FACEBOOK

I really love Facebook. Don't you?

But I think they should add some options below the posts. Something besides LIKE. Again I am thinking of ERF and BERAP. The erf being "I can stand this post, but only barely." The berap being something between a burp and a splat.

Here's how FACEBOOK usually works for writers. And why it's so great . . . for writers. (Are writers the only ones who do this?)

Entry 1.

Wanna be my friend?

Entry 2.

We're friends! You can even look at me now! WOW! Check it out!

Entry 3:

Look at me, friend!

Here I am looking FABULOUS!!

Entry 4:

Look at me, friend!

Here I am with all the literary magazines I was published in this year! Can you believe how big the stack is! What a year! I mean, that's me on the cover of The Paris Review!

Entry 5:

Look at me, friend!

Here I am giving a reading in New York! And here I am in Seattle! And oh, here I am in LA! And here I am in Tulsa! And here I am in London!


Entry 6:

Look at me, friend! Here I am with FAMOUS POETS. I love this photo of me and the FAMOUS POETS!

Entry 7:

Look at me, Friend! I have just won a HUGE award! I AM SO GREAT! I mean, wow!!!! It's me! Me! Me!!!

Entry 8:

Look at me, friend! Here I am celebrating my BIG AWARD! Yep, that's me, looking 20 years younger in that little black dress! I know, I know. Hard to believe how fabulous I look. (Good thing you can doctor photos before you post them, but hey!)

Entry 9:

Look at me, friend! Here I am in my own new reality TV show! Living the life of a FAMOUS POET!!! See me write! See me give readings! See me with my new books! See me with my awards! See me! See me! See me! It's all about me!

I just love Facebook so much. Don't you, friend?

Erf and Berap

I have been thinking more about the need for an erf or a berap. Especially for a writer. First I am still trying to define the terms. I am thinking . . .

An erf :
1. A polite, sometimes longwinded way of saying I have no good answer for that question.
2. An eloquent bit of bullshit, best spoken with a British accent, which often translates into I don't really have an answer for this question. Or: Hell no.
3. A verbal burp or splat ( contents vary depending on the extremity of the circumstances)

A berap: an extreme erf


Another Q and A moment where the erf might come in handy:

Question: Which of your books of poems has spiritual pieces that I could read aloud at the end of yoga class?

Erf

Question: Do you have any poems that are sweet? Like you know, greeting cards?

Berap.

Question:

Do you think writers are more spiritual? Especially poets?

Berap! Berap! Berap!

Q & A

I know I probably shouldn't say this, but there are certain questions you always get in Q & A. And in interviews. Certain questions I never answer honestly. If I did, the answer would be either (a) no, or (b) I have no clue, or (c) . . .

I really think there should be another answer: (c) Something between a burp and a splat.
A kind of erf or berap.

So the interview might go:

Question 1: Do you have a certain routine or program you stick to? Do you always write in a certain way? At a certain time?

Berap! (Oh do excuse me) Berap!

Question 2: Why do you write prose poems?

Erf

Question 3: What do you think about the fact that no one reads poetry, much less prose poetry?

Berap! Berap! Berap!

Question 4:

When did you first know you would be a writer?

Erf

Question 5:

What did your parents think of your poetry?

Berap! Berap! Berap! Berap! (Oh, my insides really are a problem.)

Question 6:

Do you consider yourself a Midwestern poet?

Erf (though I have noticed how many writers are very careful to say that they are transplants to the Midwest. Unless they live in Chicago.)

Question 7:

How/why did you get published? Can you get me published too? Will you read my manuscript? My girlfriend's manuscript? My dead mother's manuscript?

Erf, Brap, Erf, Brap, Erf, Brap, Erf! BRRRRRRAAAAAAAPPPPPPPPPP!!!


Yeah, yeah. I know. It's an honor to be interviewed, questioned. So why am I complaining? How dare I? And really, what would I want to be asked?

How about: Did you eat your grits today?

Well, did you?

Sex, Violence and the Female Voter

Sex, Violence and the Female Voter

Socialist Doctrine?

Okay, so I know this has nothing to do with writing, though it does have to do with personal faith, the creation of meaning, logic, etc.. Maybe. But as a former religion and philo student,

I've often wondered, how does one mix capitalism with the teachings of the New Testament? (Are the meek somehow translated to mean the CEOs?) It sometimes seems that the more Christian the radio, the more capitalist the preachers and the talk . . . And yet, how does one reconcile so many of the passages? I'll paste a few below, but they sound more socialist to me . . . and yes, it just baffles me. Not that it's worth the time to baffle over, but hey.


Luke.4.18 The Spirit of the Lord is upon me, because he has anointed me to proclaim good news to the poor. He has sent me to proclaim liberty to the captives and recovering of sight to the blind, to set at liberty those who are oppressed,

Matt.19.21 Jesus said to him, “If you would be perfect, go, sell what you possess and give to the poor, and you will have treasure in heaven; and come, follow me.”

Luke.14.13 But when you give a feast, invite the poor, the crippled, the lame, the blind,
And thou shall be blessed for they cannot recompense thee;

Mark.14.7 For you always have the poor with you, and whenever you want, you can do good for them. But you will not always have me.

Writer's Almanac

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Lucky day! (Though I have to admit to cringing every time I hear my name, my poem, read on the air. At least I don't have to hear it in my own voice.)

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Reading

Tomorrow Night I read at Hamilton College with Jo Pitkin, another Hamilton graduate. Or maybe I should say Kirkland College graduate. Hamilton swallowed the women's college, Kirkland, and Jo was a few years ahead of me . . . In any case, Jo is amazing, and I am looking forward to hearing her read.

I was interested to read in Newsweek that Hamilton is now rated as one of the top 20 suburban schools. But I wonder how they define suburban. After all, it's in Clinton, New York, which has about 1000 residents, if that. But maybe it has changed. Maybe I will find out today that Clinton is now an expanding town, filled with new shops, hotels, businesses . . .

Truth or Consequences

1. Scam Artists

I was talking with a friend yesterday who told me a story about his mother . . .

His mother, always a frugal, hard-working woman, is getting older, and at some point (he doesn’t know when it started), she started to lose touch with reality. The first symptom?

She started writing checks out to strangers. In a matter of months she went through $60,000. She would write checks for hundreds of dollars and mail them off to scam artists, and then wait for her million dollar check to arrive in the mail.

How long would she wait? I asked.

Oh, he said, she’s still waiting. Sometimes they even call her and tell her the check is the mail. Once when he was visiting, someone phoned to say they were in the neighborhood. They would arrive at her doorstep in a matter of minutes.

And she always believes them?


Yes! Sometimes a check does arrive. She takes it to the bank and tries to cash it. Of course it isn’t a real check.

Now my friend is her guardian. His mother is livid. It’s my money, she insists. I worked hard for it, and I can do with it as I please.

She also says those men who call her to tell her the check is coming are so nice. You have no idea how nice they are.

2. Writers

Another friend, Mary, is an aspiring author of creative nonfiction. She’s always asking me how much of her essays can be creative, and how much nonfiction. What is the balance?

Ever since James Frey’s fiasco with Oprah, writers have been worried about the line between fact and fiction.

I suggested she call it fiction, and say whatever she wants, but she says she doesn’t know how to create a story, make up a plot. Life, she says, lacks plot.

But isn’t that where the creativity comes in? I ask. You have to shape whatever life you’ve experienced into a little boat people want to sail around in for a while.

Maybe, she says. Maybe that’s why I can’t publish my work. I can’t make up a story that sells.

Do you think truth is dull? she asks.

3. The Media

Why is it that writers of memoir and fiction worry more about the truth these days when the media and the advertisers seem to care less and less?

4. Climate Change

I read this morning on grist.org that now all the GOP senators deny global warming.

It’s not a story that wins elections.

Yes, the last GOP senator to admit the simple truth, that climate change is real,was beaten by Christine O’ Donnell.

O’Donnell who speaks out not only against climate change legislation but also against masturbation.

Masturbation, she seems to be saying, is against God’s will.

I can’t help picturing it. With all the problems in the world, God is not worried one bit about the consequences of climate change. Floods, famine, war, hurricanes, etc..

Instead God is peeping into your windows at night . . .

September Readings

Sept. 20 at 7:30 PM
Miami Dade College
Gallery Diet
174 Northwest 23rd Street
Miami, FL 33127
Contact: English Dept. 305-284-2182

Sept. 21
Valencia Community College
Details TBA

Sept 22 at7:00 PM
Flagler College
G a m a c h e - K o g e r T h e a t e r , R i n g h a v e r S t u d e n t C e n t e r
contact: Jim Wilson: 904-819-6339

Sept. 23 at 7:00 PM
UNIVERSITY OF TAMPA
Scarfone-Hartley Gallery,
Contact: Richard Mathews
727-244-0205

Sept. 24 at 6:00 PM
University of South Florida
Graphicstudio.
Contact: Ira Sukrungruang: isukrung@usf.edu

Sept. 25 at 6:30 PM
Edison State College, Charlotte Campus
The Edison Auditorium 6:30
Contact John Pelot ThreeTop@aol.com

September 27 at 6:30 PM
Eckerd College
Bininger Theater Studio
Contact: Scott Ward, wards@eckerd.edu

September 30 at 6:00 PM (reception at 5:30)
Penn State Erie, The Behrend College
The Smith Chapel
Erie, PA 16563
George Looney, GOL1@psu.edu, (814)898-6281