Pantoum for Raoul Dufy

The snow has gone and uncovered our displeasure with objects
A flashing light with its malevolent power signals a right turn
The store has sold itself robbing the blind giving Peters change to Paul
Passing cars drive by people trying to scare one another

A flashing light with its malevolent power signals a right turn
Do down things have to be put up
Passing cars drive by people trying to scare one another
I doubt the love that left me here to rot in my own right

Do down things have to be put up
No matter where she looks she has misplaced her mind
I doubt the love that left me here to rot in my own right
Allergic to things that once were saddened by light frightened by dark

No matter where she looks she has misplaced her mind
When distinct differences are the same as narrow talk
Allergic to things that once were saddened by light frightened by dark
Axons in the night dully twinkling

When distinct differences are the same as narrow talk
Cat curled on the line between fast cars
Axons in the night dully twinkling
Here I am! I have danced the level stairs

A late Valentine's day post!

"...still in peaceful dreams I see the road leads back to you."

Down the up chimney

Carving to see
Starving
Patterns plain as smoke
Ethereal as dreams
Of smoke
Shrieking
waking
daunting
shaking

Camera obscura
On the nerve
Repetition
harmony
hollow light
Dull and blurred
A bird in the sky
Going nowhere

And in the room
No one goes
An empty plate
On the table
Painting of fruit
Fork
knife
spoon
cup

Bad eyes
Starry night
A sense of blur
Hands jerk
And in the corner
A record skips
skips
skips

Lives like smoke
Looking for patterns
Love me

Gnome

I’m dancing a dance,
Absolutely tame,
No viable chance,
Always the same.
It's a shame,
It’s not exceptional!

(dark stumblings
lurch
knee aches
swearword
cant
crawl
home)

I’m dancing a dance
I taught myself.
Knew better:
Born that way
And hated it.

Either way
To hate what’s new
About you
Is natural.

Too sensitive.

wolf pups

no rage only passion
from mothers dance
no milk only passion
as mother dances around us

she dances around brother now
he barely raises his head
and is dead

she dances with me
am i to die
ill be stronger next time

Glorious Quiche Lorraine, home-style, a la Bocuse; I wish you could smell this! 

Who says life is only difficulty?  

It is a struggle and blessing to convey our surroundings when so much of them are internal; how interestingly we color our external reality with our internal one. It is not a filter, no, much more than that, it is a bright painting spread confusingly on top of another one. For me it is so interesting that I step outside to see what is inside and in writing about it I learn, more or less, to gracefully align them both.

These are Blini (Central Asian style). They are served my favorite way with vareniya (CA style jam, in this case from apricot trees in front of my dacha) and sour cream. They are hot, buttered and folded in quarters.

oak lullaby

snowing now
almost defying gravity
a heavy burden
tumbling down a
light lazy blanket of water and air
dull soft inverted world
sky cant be seen
dark above
brightness falling
cold stardust
precipitating locally
in a small
still living part
of the cosmic killing jar
a hint of coming
the smell of ice

don’t fear
little acorn
sense
a clue to stupidity
limiting the world to only
what can be seen

trees sleep hope
and talk to god in
warm rivulet dreams

Cup's Corner 5

The street and the fresh air did only little to steady Sidney. He continued to be in a preoccupied state and Mr. Lorry was satisfied, for the most part, to walk along with him silently. When he got to the neighborhood where the wine bar was, he became visibly more agitated and was trying t figure out what to say so he could take his leave and head off to calm himself. It was then that Mr. Lorry rather abruptly said something that caught his attention.

“You’ve been struggling with it lately, haven’t you,” he asked?

It was as if he had been listening to the raging that was going on in Sidney’s head and the sudden question was very embarrasing. Sidney, momentarily at a loss for words, struggled to put a line of thought together that was worth communicating with normal company but before he could staunch the dammaged flow, Mr. Lorry spoke again.

“You’ve been to that bar a thousand times but that has only led you to this frustration your having now,” he said. He quietly added, “you’d be better off to go back to the Manette’s, even in this state, then to go back in there again.”

With that a volcano of words erupted from Sidney’s mouth without his even thinking about them. “Am I just following old patterns? I know where those lead and I am tired of not being where I want to be. Can I start something new? Do I have to always be flawed with this terrible weakness as I have always been? Can hope be found or am I always to be something which might have been noble and happy but is now to be nothing more than a prisoner of these chains. I am wretched in these shackles watching the world go happily by the window of my self made cell. Can I not crush these walls just as I have made them,” he asked?

“There is hope,” was Mr. Lorry’s taciturn response and he took Sidney’s arm as the headed off in the direction of Sidney’s rooms. A wellspring of emotion gushed forward in Sidney and, constantly having to dry his eyes, he allowed himself to be led home. Mr. Lorry doctored him with some laudinum, when they had arrived, and Sidney found himself drifting stupidly on some happy fog. With this, he allowed himself to be put to bed and placidly began to drift out from shore on the placid waters of lake sleep. He remembered seeing Mr. Lorry leave but he seemed to have drifted so far from the scene that saying anything was rather less valuable than talking to a painting of a person. In the ensuing darkness, he watched with detached amusement, many slow and happy scenes.

Until Mr. Lorry awakened him (apparently he had spent the night in a chair in the next room), he wasn’t sure wether he had slept or had gone off on a journey to some strange, placid, new land. That strange fog seemed to be clearing somewhat but he found himself irritatingly sluggish. They had coffee together and Mr. Lorry excused himself, saying that duties at the bank required his presence. It wasn’t until after he had bathed and dressed in crisp fresh clothes that a sense of seamlessness was replaced by the awarenessof things having definable edges, such as the starched collar of his shirt and the hems of his cuffs. Creases and gathers sewn into the cloth of his suit seemed to be satisfyingly precise and the cut of the gem in his ring was pleasantly sharp. It wouldn’t be until early afternoon of a long day in court before he would sense the hunger for more of the opiated calm that he was now so glad was passing.
****

Yuckelbel's Canon

Yuckelbel's Canon
OPEN LETTER TO AMBASSADOR LEE OF MALAYSIA (in Kazakhstan):

Dear Mr. Ambassador,

The simple people of the world, like me, have no voice with which to express their feelings. I would like, for a moment, to have the temerity to attempt to be that voice. What is crying out to be said is that we understand that a swift and sudden disaster of unparalleled proportions has done irreparable damage and disruption to the lives of the people who were hit by that tsunami. We watch in anguished silence and bow our heads. Please accept our heartfelt condolences in this time of great sorrow. Accept it on behalf of the good people of your country who were so suddenly and indiscriminately made victim to savage forces beyond human agency. Accept it from the hundreds of millions of faceless, nameless people whose hearts reach out to your people and all others in your region who were touched by this giant tragedy, in this time of great sorrow. Know that they will support all that can be done to help now! Nothing anyone could ever do would be enough, of course, for the scores of thousands who have died. Our silent, wet faces now offer a sea of tears with which to bathe the wounds of loss for the survivors in the hope that healing will eventually occur.

Yours respectfully,
Russell Ragsdale

Cup's Corner -- part 4

The evening at the Manette’s was a delight. Lucie was bright and entertaining but the interplay between Mr Lorry and Charles Darnay was the most interesting aspect of the night’s conversations. Something always seemed to stay unsaid between them, no matter how much they talked with one another and no matter what subject about which they talked. Sidney’s trained lawyer ear picked it up right away as he was the kind of person on whom no little detail could be wasted. He was having trouble being jolly and comunicative, however, as he found himself struggling with the old habit of much drink. He did not need drink because he was bored by less than pleasant company, in fact, it was quite the contrary situation. He did not struggle with his demon because he was sad or lonely or in need of a change of mood. He struggled with it because it was his habit, it was what he did and he did not know how to not do it!

As he thought about it (and the discomfort he was experiencing) he was wishing he would not think about it but suddenly the jarring superficiality of not using his insight and intellect struck him in all of its terribleness. Was this what he was struggling with, not to be aware of things? The answer was yes and no. Perhaps he would think less about things if he medicated himself with drink and, perhaps he would feel better about those things which did cross the threshold of his consciousness in the altered mood state of inebriation. What was bothering him most was that he was spending all his time thinking about drinking and that was becoming a distraction from his thoughts about other things and from being his normal entertaining self.

Then another insight crashed into his awareness. He was now really aware of many of his feelings, they weren’t hidden from him now by that customary blanket of alcohol under which he hid much of himself from himself. He discovered that much that he could know about himself made him feel uncomfortable. It had always made him feel uncomfortable and he found himself feeling, in the worst way, that he wished to drown this monster and watch its corpse float away down a frothy, lazy river of wine.

Suddenly, Lucie was stroking his arm and he realized he had been distracted and agitated by his thoughts. Moreover, he saw that they were all aware of and concerned about how uncomfortable he had obviously become. He was deeply embarrassed by the concern and confusion that showed on the faces by the fire and in the lamp light. Although he sometimes felt he would relish the attentions of others, this situation was anything but something he would have desired. He seemed to be at a loss at how to put on his old character (Sidney the cynical, obnoxious drunk) because everything had become too real and facades and charactures seemed so out of place to him at the moment. He only barely was able to gather himself enough to make his appologies to all for his lack of social graces this evening. Doctor Manette, who had risen and was hovering behind his left shoulder rested a reassuring hand on that shoulder. Lucie spoke some soothing politenesses which, for the life of him, he wasn’t able to translate back into words and phrases. Amid all these kindnesses and concessions, Mr. Lorry arrose and said that it was time for him to go home. He asked Sidney if he would prefer a little air and would agree to accompany him along the way as they both lived in the same general direction. Sidney shakenly said his adieu and the company got up to see them off.
****

Midnight welder in a snow storm

Softly crunching feet
In black and white world
Small dog watching as
Soft cold freckles dot my face

Incongruity of Russian billard balls
Streaking and smacking
Behind fooley facade
Of colored spotlights
(Like a night time star
With a neon "Eat at Joe's" on it)

Ghost crane
Fifteen stories high
Hanging paralized
In the frenzied blur
Of soft and quiet

Collapse of universe
Suddenly growing large
As briliant silent thunder
Reveals the giant spider web
in the dark sky

Vulcan's nearby
Using an electric ice pick
To weld steam
And frost

Cup's Corner -- part 3

Court went well the next day and the prosecution could do nothing to stave up their erroding case. The jury found no need for a lengthy deliberation but came back quickly with a verdict of not guilty. The young fellow, so speedily rescued from yesterday’s frightening precipice of disaster, was so apreciative of the freedom he feared he had lost, that he couldn’t stop thanking John and Sidney. Effusive gratitude turned to dinner and drinks and Sidney succumbed without a whimper to what would become two weeks of inebriation without a break.

The path of stumbling is irregular in the extreme, and at one of its jerky twists, Sidney had the good fortune to fall away from it. Love is such a powerful thing that, even in one’s weakest moments, it struggles in the breast, surging about and looking for some way to work its transforming magic. Love between people is the force of vision that can see beneath the debris of life and find the good that lurks there. It not only finds it but cherishes it with such enabling force that it can grow and even shine brightly at times. The appearance made by it is that of transformation --- from debris pile to something as miraculous as the burning bush. The agent of this transformation in Sidney was the tear in Lucie’s eye on their chance meeting on the street, coupled with her invitation for him to visit the house and spend some time with her and her circle of Family and friends.

He went home immediately feeling the need to clean himself. As he hovered above the hot bowl of water and looked in the mirror at himself, he was reminded of that moment somewhere off in the vague past where he he had lingered in the cold of night across the street from her house and seen clearly some of the self inflicted wounds of weakness and dissolution that were now so visable in the wavering image of the pale visage in the mirror in front of him. If he could have, he would’ve scrubed away that lazy self-indulgence lurking beneath the grime but, as he was beginning to realize, that would require another soap and much fresh new water. He striped to the waist, girded himself with a towel and washed his hair next. As if freed of the considerable weight of much invisable grime, he freely now looked after himself in ways that showed a level of self respect he had earlier derided as superficial and pretentious. A much more careful pattern of self attention was beginning to assimilate him and the damaging pattern of self indulgence seemed to be starting to melt away. The raucous wildness of his appearance of just an hour ago looked as if it had been water soluble. Although it still waited, lurking just beneath that more careful surface, it was momentarily in abeyance which was very satisfying indeed.

Considerably changed in appearance, he emerged from his rooms and went down to the street. He determined to go to the chambers now to look in on some new clients John would be interviewing and, in the evening, pay a visit to the Manette house. Surprisingly, he felt rather good about this new appearance of his and resolved to make it a more disciplined practice in his toilet routine. He hadn’t yet realized how out of place he was going to seem in his old haunts. He also hadn’t realized how less bored he had become and how much less desperate he was to cross the disapointing collapse of moments that would pass with this day and night.

The day, for all its mundane aspects, passed relatively swiftly into the evening and, when Sidney went for supper, he treated himself to somewhat more elegant environs than usual. It was a bit of great luck that he should occasion to meet an old school chum of his (along with his family and realitives from the country) whom he hadn’t seen for many years. He was promptly invited to join them at their table where a pleasant repast and delightful reunion was accompanied by making several new acquaintances. This included a particularly enjoyable young lady, slightly younger than Lucie, possessed of an admirable character, clear mind and an entertaining sense of humor. Time simply flew so that it was already time to go to spend the rest of the evening at the Manette’s and Sidney made his appologies for having another engagement. Before leaving, araingements were made to get together with them again before the country relatives had to return to their home. Surprisingly, Sidney was still almost perfectly sober!
****

Cup's Corner -- part 2

From the moment he had knocked on the door at John’s house, everything had taken a turn from bad to worse. Within three minutes of his arival, the door had been slamed shut and he had stomped drunkenly off into the deep dark of the night. Like a moth he had gone to the streetlight on the corner across from Lucie’s house. A light remained on in the house, perhaps the doctor was up reading, but the house was mainly draped in the dark windows of slumber. Feeling ever more incomplete than usual, he receded into the shadows at the corner of the building by the lamp and watched the house and thought.

The night’s wet hours had seeped into his bones and the lone light at the Manette house had long been extinguished before he was startled out of reverie by the sound of a policeman on foot patrol. His mind was feeling unusually weary and he headed off toward his flat for a few hours rest before court. Yet, his mind was still full of the analysis, a rather self-revealing one, that he had untertaken as he stood on that corner across from her house. The thoughts lingered like confused phantasms accidentally left behind after death. Once home, he fell fully clothed on the bed, pulling the covers around him, and was asleep immediately. Love, dressed in the form of a young woman, flitted in and out of his dreams. She was not beautiful to look on, however, as she was wretched with starvation and poverty and was continually sorting through the garbage in order to find anything edible.

The day in court didn’t go well, lacking a solid basis of strategy on which to attack the prosecution’s well crafted assertions. He had retired for lunch to his usual haunt close to the court and a bevy of drinks with which to medicate his now severly unhappy body. The taste of those wines and brandies, although aleviating his physical discomfort, lacked the usual ardor of appreciation. The mental fog that came with them now became a real force to be fought with for the benefit of the poor young man whose future was in their hands. He had subsequently sluggishly missed a couple of good opportunities at possible weak areas of the prosecutions afternoon presentation and the day ended looking rather unhappily on this poor, and he believed innocent, young man. He was resolved that they would be better prepared to help him the next day!

That evening Sidney went for supper at a place near his house and only had a couple of glasses of wine with his dinner. He was already beginning to feel much better, the fog had cleared and the discomfort of his body had melted away during the rigors of the day. He was assembling the case again in his mind as he drank tea after dinner. Suddenly he realized the essence of the weakness in the prosecution’s case and knew how they could attack it. He paid his bill and left immediately for John’s house. That evening’s session was exceptionally fruitful and, by its end, they had planned a startling turn of events that would shatter the prosecution’s attack and prove the innocence of their client. After leaving John’s house, he found himself at the door of the wine bar without really realizing how he had gotten there. Something was impeading his feet from crossing that familiar threshold but all the rest of him was already spiritually inside. As he stood there struggling with himself, even the gates of Troy had never seen such a battle. In what seemed like a turn in the tide, he stepped back from the door. He weakly turned and walked away. With an unsteady tread, he walked home and fell on the bed, this time with the sober exhaustion resulting from the end of several months of debauchery and dissolution.
****

A Snowy Day

The snow has shown
The cold has come
The children laugh
The adults hum.

Grey skies threaten
The real short day
To festooned fragments
In purest white.

The snow has shown
The cold has come
The children laugh
The adults hum.

Asian eyes and wrinkled smiles
Gather happy laughter and shrieked delight.
Children slide and roll,
Tirelessly sensual.

The snow has shown
The cold has come
The children laugh
The adults hum.

Winter play, warm fires,
Happy laughter, bright eyes
Never strain their welcome.

Cup's Corner 1

Sidney, who had just come back from the Manette house in Soho, checked in at the wine bar he frequented and recieved a round of greetings from his little gang at the 'lost and found,' as he liked to refer to the place. He felt he required a bottle or two before showing up at his partner's house. This chore was being scheduled earlier and earlier lately as John's marriage had resulted in the cessation of the after midnight planning sessions for the next day's trials and his bachelor digs had given way to this voluble estuary scheduled in and among the artifacts of marriage. John's wife, of course, hated Sidney Carleton with a disgusted passion and only barely managed to tollerate his drunken but necessary intrusion into her happy family life. Sidney, for his part, found her trite and the two of them oriented to some of life's most superficial values. He was sure this was driving him to drink, he suggested loudly and in a rather flippant way, and was furthermore positively inclined to cooperate in that endeavor with a fervor, currently. As his friends laughed, drank, and encouraged his wise decision (as he had so eloquently stated it), Sidney discovered his mood had turned sour and taciturn suddenly.

Another force was playing in Sidney. He found that he suddenly was remembering the time, an unusual time, when Lucie had persuaded him to have a cup of tea (before he’d even had his first brandy for the day) with her as they sat in the weakining afternoon sun under the plane tree in her yard. They had laughed and talked, just the two of them as two lovers or a brother and sister would. It was such a simple pleasure, one filled with warmth and pale sunlight but it had flooded into the shadowy places where he spent most of his life and rendered plainly for his view what it illuminated there as if he had brought light into the room where a tuberculosis patient sat. What he saw, hiding in the dark recesses of his life, was pale and sickly and troubled – a mere characture of something healthy and living. He looked around him at the loud talking, drunken men as if he were watching from another room and the sound had been muted by the distance. He saw a bunch of people whom he little knew or cared for and, as he watched from this imaginary distance, he realized that they likewise neither knew nor cared for him. How convenient, he thought, and draind his glass. Suddenly he was back amid the noise and laughter and he called to the bar for another bottle.

One bottle became several and soon the earnest drinking became a series of semi-conscious, decidedly slovenly individuals who could not be roused for even the most trivial of amusing banter. Sidney’s still surprisingly active mind sat sulking in a corner like some unhappy child as the chagrin of how late it had become (and what an unpleasant confrontation it would be at John’s door) flooded over him. He found that he was starting to feel sorry for himself and hated himself for that indulgence in such unworthy behavior. So he adorned himself again in his best ‘Sidney the arrogant, obnioxious, cynical drunk’ costume and began to struggle with a decision. He wondered if he should just go home and simply show up for court in the morning or brave the confrontation with John in order to have the pre-trial planning session which should have taken place several hours ago.

Again, unbidden thoughts of Lucie came to him. Should he go over to see her? Even at this unlikely hour he would be welcomed (somewat sleepily) at that door. No, he thought, that would be a meaningless disaster as well. Everything seemed to have turned into a disaster! He was now quite angry! He arose and paid his bill. His mind made up, he stumblingly stomped off to John’s.
* * * *

Cup's Corner

Sidney, who had just come back from the Manette house in Soho, checked in at the wine bar he frequented and recieved a round of greetings from his little gang at the 'lost and found,' as he liked to refer to the place. He felt he required a bottle or two before showing up at his partner's house. This chore was being scheduled earlier and earlier lately as John's marriage had resulted in the cessation of the after midnight planning sessions for the next day's trials and his bachelor digs had given way to this voluble estuary scheduled in and among the artifacts of marriage. John's wife, of course, hated Sidney Carleton with a disgusted passion and only barely managed to tollerate his drunken but necessary intrusion into her happy family life. Sidney, for his part, found her trite and the two of them oriented to some of life's most superficial values. He was sure this was driving him to drink, he suggested in a flippant way, and was positively inclined to cooperate in that endeavor with a fervor, currently. As his friends laughed, drank, and encouraged his wise decision after he so eloquently stated it, Sidney's mood turned sour and taciturn suddenly.

Save Sidney Carlton

In A Tale of Two Cities, Dickens gives us a whole handful of paper doll characters who behave in heroic ways. They are moved to behave by motivations which seem to be regulated by something unseen and noble. Faithful and honorable would seem to describe Mr. Lorry, Miss Pross, Lucie, Monsieur Defarge, Dr. Manette, and Charles Darnay, at least in a general and superficial way. Another couple of characters we meet are the lawyers at the trial of Charles Darnay in England. Sidney Carlton, the perceptive, dissipated, hard drinking one of them emerges, by the end of the book, to become a central figure, at least in the sense of plot, to the happy/sad and romantic resolution of the story.

It would not have been within the scope of Dickens or any of his Victorian contemporaries to have focused on the Carlton character in the modern way of a psychological novel. He, at any rate, needed Carlton to stay locked in his dissipation so that the sacrifice he makes at the end wouldn’t overwhelm the rescue of the rest of the characters and turn the story into an out and out tragedy. Wouldn’t it have been interesting, however, to find out what kinds of activities would have been necessary for that character to grow out of and beyond his self inflicted emotional wounds!

What kind of depth of character might we have been able to discover if that insightful and clever creation of Dickens’ fruitful imagination had worked on a process to cure the self-imposed laziness with which he was painted? Also, it must be readily confessed, we must get Carlton past the sugar sweet and the stylized painted on tarnish before we can take him much further beyond the pages of that venerable novel. I do acknowledge that I find him an unusually large and realistic character for that novel, which makes me suspect something of the author beyond his ingenious creativity, is present here.

So shall we have a go at Sidney?

Too Familiar Senryu

Thoughts over and over
an old room.
I don't want to go in there!

Weather Report

An empty park
With cold air falling
Through rounded arms
Of the statue's empty embrace.

Crisp, pale, brittle sky
Impossibly distant and cloudless,
Still I see the rain is falling.

Weather forcast: lonely.

Transcendent Haiku

Dark mumbles in the hall
door locked
windows wide fresh blue

So that's why its called serious!

Enjoyed a classical concert very much last night. A chamber orchestra from Moscow performed pieces by Mozart, Bach, and Greg. Also there were a couple of local violinists (one couldn't have been more than twelve years old) who did the solo work for a few pieces and were very talented. I noticed what an effort it is to listen to such music and relax. It was sometimes peaceful but music is so sensuous you feel it in your body and your body does not respond by going to sleep! Quite the opposite! You want to move to the rhythm and your body wants to respond to the musical patterns just as the artists are doing as they are performing.

I noticed that the Greg piece was difficult in spite of the fact that it was beautiful and well performed. The tonal orientation of his work is naturally dark and he uses it to take us, as comfortably as possible, into sorrow, dissatisfaction, tension, and turmoil. After that descent, we can better define the climb into elation and the conquest, at least momentarily, of the darkness and despair in our lives. We (and, of course, he) must transcend the natural darkness of the tonal orientation to do this. This all is serious work, and we, the audience, must sit still and quietly throughout. The audience has a really tough job to do at these concerts!

Seeking (an) Asylum!

It is fun to behave in a crazy way sometimes! We love it and seem to have a special place in our hearts for amusing manic behavior and its associated high energy and humor. Anyone who would tell you about having been incarcerated in an institution for the insane, however, would not speak so glibly. Still we have characters who check in them, such as Alan Arkin's character in King of Hearts, or craftily avoid the worst, such as Anthony Hopkins' character in Silence of the Lambs, by checking in one. We frequently use the concept metaphorically to convey our impressions of things as large as goverment bodies or as small as our homes or those of our neighbors. Our great fondness and use, if you will, of insanity seems to not be dependant on reality and seems to be quite pervasive.

I wonder what it is about the escape into insanity that we find it, in a metaphorical or stylized way, so appealing?