I plan to avoid unnecessary shopping again this year. I'm aiming for 6 months of no shopping and my husband has agreed to join me. This will probably be harder for him because he loves to shop more than I do. I seldom shop on line, for example, while little boxes come in the mail for him all the time. We can do this. We will have to find other forms of entertainment besides hanging out at the malls. We can still go out to eat, and we can stay home and play with the toys we already own. My daughter has said she will try to take the no-shopping pledge as well. I hope she can. We all have way too much stuff. Not adding to it is refreshing.
Naturally I found the perfect poem. I heard this on the Writer's Almanac on Christmas Eve morning. The line about the closet full of shoes particularly hit home.
Oniomania
Not so much the desire
for owning things
as the inability to choose
between hunter or emerald
green, to buy
just roses, when there are birds
of paradise, dahlias,
delphinium, and baby's breath.
At center an emptiness
large as a half-off sale table.
What could be so wrong
with a little indulgence?
To wander the aisles of fresh
new good things knowing
any of them could be hers?
With a closet full of shoes
unworn back home,
she's looking for love
but it's not for sale —
so she grabs three of
the next best thing.
By Peter Pereira
Tuesday, January 06, 2009
Monday, December 29, 2008
Christmas Day
I spoke to my father on Christmas Day. He remembered who I was. He doesn't always. But he seemed puzzled to hear that it was Christmas Day. He said, "Is it really Christmas? It can't be. None of the kids came up to see me. Not even Alan." I asked about Christmas decorations, and he said he hadn't noticed any. I asked about what he had for Christmas dinner and he said he didn't remember, it wasn't anything special. He lives in a very nice nursing home and I know that the staff will have tried hard to make the holidays festive for the residents. I'm sure there were decorations and a good dinner. My Dad just didn't notice any of that. "None of the kids came up to see me," he said again. "Not even Alan."
My husband pointed out, not unkindly, that people may have gone up to see him, but my Dad hadn't remembered they were there. I hope that's true, although the thought carries its own kind of sadness.
I wasn't there. But I remembered to call.
Forgetfulness
The name of the author is the first to go
followed obediently by the title, the plot,
the heartbreaking conclusion, the entire novel
which suddenly becomes one you have never read, never even heard of,
as if, one by one, the memories you used to harbor
decided to retire to the southern hemisphere of the brain,
to a little fishing village where there are no phones.
Long ago you kissed the names of the nine Muses good-bye
and watched the quadratic equation pack its bag,
and even now as you memorize the order of the planets,
something else is slipping away, a state flower perhaps,
the address of an uncle, the capital of Paraguay.
Whatever it is you are struggling to remember
it is not poised on the tip of your tongue,
not even lurking in some obscure corner of you spleen.
It has floated away down a dark mythological river
whose name begins with an L as far as you can recall,
well on your own way to oblivion where you will join those
who have even forgotten how to swim and how to ride a bicycle.
No wonder you rise in the middle of the night
to look up the date of a famous battle in a book on war.
No wonder the moon in the window seems to have drifted
out of a love poem that you used to know by heart.
Billy Collins
My husband pointed out, not unkindly, that people may have gone up to see him, but my Dad hadn't remembered they were there. I hope that's true, although the thought carries its own kind of sadness.
I wasn't there. But I remembered to call.
Forgetfulness
The name of the author is the first to go
followed obediently by the title, the plot,
the heartbreaking conclusion, the entire novel
which suddenly becomes one you have never read, never even heard of,
as if, one by one, the memories you used to harbor
decided to retire to the southern hemisphere of the brain,
to a little fishing village where there are no phones.
Long ago you kissed the names of the nine Muses good-bye
and watched the quadratic equation pack its bag,
and even now as you memorize the order of the planets,
something else is slipping away, a state flower perhaps,
the address of an uncle, the capital of Paraguay.
Whatever it is you are struggling to remember
it is not poised on the tip of your tongue,
not even lurking in some obscure corner of you spleen.
It has floated away down a dark mythological river
whose name begins with an L as far as you can recall,
well on your own way to oblivion where you will join those
who have even forgotten how to swim and how to ride a bicycle.
No wonder you rise in the middle of the night
to look up the date of a famous battle in a book on war.
No wonder the moon in the window seems to have drifted
out of a love poem that you used to know by heart.
Billy Collins
Saturday, November 29, 2008
Strike Dispair into the Heart
Geraldine Brooks wrote a wonderful review about "The Jewel of Medina" by Sherry Brooks. I read it recently in the Washington Post Book World. The book itself sounds dreadful, but the review was a riot, and it reminded me of some of my daughter's reviews of books and television shows. The review starts out:
It's shocking that Random House got cold feet about Muslim reaction and refused to publish Sherry Jones's The Jewel of Medina. But what's even more shocking is that they paid good money to acquire such a dreadful novel in the first place.
And it ends up:
Not everyone has responded to this book negatively. Some respected Muslim feminists such as Irshad Manji and Asra Nomani have written in support of The Jewel of Medina. So perhaps the fairest thing is to let the book speak for itself. Aisha's crush, Safwan, is described as: "Tall, handsome Safwan, with the chiseled face of a purebred steed and hair as thick and glossy as a horse's mane." There are words that strike despair into the heart of a reader. "Steed" is one of them. "Loins" another: "Desire burned like a fire in Muhammad's loins, unquenchable in one night, or two, or three." On almost every page, similes jostle each other for room: "Terror snatched at my throat like the teeth of a crazed dog and hammered the city like a hailstorm." And words strain for meaning in sentences such as this: "Outside, a vulture's cry impaled my waning hopes."
Finally, there's the matter of Aisha's vital signs. Her pulse does some very odd things: "My pulse raced like that galloping horse I'd dreamt so often of riding on with him." "My pulse reared like a spooked horse." "I ignored the whirling of my pulse." "My pulse clipping my throat. . . ." "My pulse surged." "My pulse sped." "I willed my fluttering pulse to calm down." Someone clearly needs to find that girl a cardiologist. Given the other anachronisms in this book, I wouldn't have been surprised had one turned up.
My daughter will remember that I once stopped reading a novel about the childhood of King Arthur's Guinevere because the author kept referring to her as a "fosterling".
And there is that memorable sentence in one of the last "Clan of the Cave Bear" books that says, "Jondalar awoke with a desire to make some tools". I seem to remember some "loins" and "steeds" in those books, too. By her second book, Jean Auel was sadly in need of an editor.
It's shocking that Random House got cold feet about Muslim reaction and refused to publish Sherry Jones's The Jewel of Medina. But what's even more shocking is that they paid good money to acquire such a dreadful novel in the first place.
And it ends up:
Not everyone has responded to this book negatively. Some respected Muslim feminists such as Irshad Manji and Asra Nomani have written in support of The Jewel of Medina. So perhaps the fairest thing is to let the book speak for itself. Aisha's crush, Safwan, is described as: "Tall, handsome Safwan, with the chiseled face of a purebred steed and hair as thick and glossy as a horse's mane." There are words that strike despair into the heart of a reader. "Steed" is one of them. "Loins" another: "Desire burned like a fire in Muhammad's loins, unquenchable in one night, or two, or three." On almost every page, similes jostle each other for room: "Terror snatched at my throat like the teeth of a crazed dog and hammered the city like a hailstorm." And words strain for meaning in sentences such as this: "Outside, a vulture's cry impaled my waning hopes."
Finally, there's the matter of Aisha's vital signs. Her pulse does some very odd things: "My pulse raced like that galloping horse I'd dreamt so often of riding on with him." "My pulse reared like a spooked horse." "I ignored the whirling of my pulse." "My pulse clipping my throat. . . ." "My pulse surged." "My pulse sped." "I willed my fluttering pulse to calm down." Someone clearly needs to find that girl a cardiologist. Given the other anachronisms in this book, I wouldn't have been surprised had one turned up.
My daughter will remember that I once stopped reading a novel about the childhood of King Arthur's Guinevere because the author kept referring to her as a "fosterling".
And there is that memorable sentence in one of the last "Clan of the Cave Bear" books that says, "Jondalar awoke with a desire to make some tools". I seem to remember some "loins" and "steeds" in those books, too. By her second book, Jean Auel was sadly in need of an editor.
Sunday, November 02, 2008
Do I Dare Disturb the Universe?
My youngest sister got a tattoo. She used a quote from an Emily Dickinson poem the says "It's all I have to bring today, this and my heart besides" along with a small heart and a clover. You can't go wrong with Emily Dickson, she says. She likes that poem because she puts her heart into everything she does. So her tattoo represents how she sees herself, and how others know her to be.
This got me thinking about what poem I might use if I decided to get a tattoo. My favorite Emily Dickinson poem starts out "It was not death, for I stood up" and that's not exactly what I would want to put on my shoulder blade.
I love Emily Dickinson, but my favorite poem may be "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock" by T.S. Eliot. My mother read that poem to us kids when I was about 12 years old, and I've loved it ever since. The poem starts with "Let us go then, you and I" and this is a phrase that my husband and I have used repeatedly to each other since our first date. At the start of that date, one of us said "Let us go then" and the other responded "You and I" and I was hooked. Here was guy who actually read poetry! Awesome. We still say that to each other when we are leaving the house. So I could have that tattooed on my body, or better yet my husband and I could each have half of the phrase immortalized on our flesh.
But, there is another line from Prufrock that I like even better. If you've never read the poem, I need to explain. Prufrock is going to make a visit to someone, and his intentions are to speak out, probably to a young woman, maybe make some kind of declaration. He wants to change his life, but he's afraid he will be misunderstood. He's afraid people will laugh at him. I get the feeling his life is not necessarily happy, but it's comfortable. He wants to change things, but he's frightened. He says "Do I dare disturb the universe?" Later comes one of the saddest lines in poetry - "And would it have been worth it after all?" and you know that Prufrock has chickened out. His moment has passed. He's not going to speak. He's going to get old and be alone because he didn't dare disturb the universe.
So the line I would get on a tattoo is "disturb the universe" - a statement, not a question. It doesn't necessarily represent who I am, but who I want to be. I want to be a person who is not afraid to take a chance. I want to be willing to disturb the universe.
Will I get a tattoo? Maybe some day. So far, I'm still afraid.
By Emily Dickinson
It's all I have to bring today--
This, and my heart beside--
This, and my heart, and all the fields--
And all the meadows wide--
Be sure you count -- should I forget
Some one the sum could tell--
This, and my heart, and all the Bees
Which in the Clover dwell.
From "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock"
And indeed there will be time
To wonder, ‘Do I dare?’ and, ‘Do I dare?’
Time to turn back and descend the stair,
With a bald spot in the middle of my hair—
[They will say: ‘How his hair is growing thin!’]
My morning coat, my collar mounting firmly to the chin,
My necktie rich and modest, but asserted by a simple pin—
[They will say: ‘But how his arms and legs are thin!’]
Do I dare
Disturb the universe?
In a minute there is time
For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.
For I have known them all already, known them all—
Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons,
I have measured out my life with coffee spoons;
I know the voices dying with a dying fall
Beneath the music from a farther room.
So how should I presume?
This got me thinking about what poem I might use if I decided to get a tattoo. My favorite Emily Dickinson poem starts out "It was not death, for I stood up" and that's not exactly what I would want to put on my shoulder blade.
I love Emily Dickinson, but my favorite poem may be "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock" by T.S. Eliot. My mother read that poem to us kids when I was about 12 years old, and I've loved it ever since. The poem starts with "Let us go then, you and I" and this is a phrase that my husband and I have used repeatedly to each other since our first date. At the start of that date, one of us said "Let us go then" and the other responded "You and I" and I was hooked. Here was guy who actually read poetry! Awesome. We still say that to each other when we are leaving the house. So I could have that tattooed on my body, or better yet my husband and I could each have half of the phrase immortalized on our flesh.
But, there is another line from Prufrock that I like even better. If you've never read the poem, I need to explain. Prufrock is going to make a visit to someone, and his intentions are to speak out, probably to a young woman, maybe make some kind of declaration. He wants to change his life, but he's afraid he will be misunderstood. He's afraid people will laugh at him. I get the feeling his life is not necessarily happy, but it's comfortable. He wants to change things, but he's frightened. He says "Do I dare disturb the universe?" Later comes one of the saddest lines in poetry - "And would it have been worth it after all?" and you know that Prufrock has chickened out. His moment has passed. He's not going to speak. He's going to get old and be alone because he didn't dare disturb the universe.
So the line I would get on a tattoo is "disturb the universe" - a statement, not a question. It doesn't necessarily represent who I am, but who I want to be. I want to be a person who is not afraid to take a chance. I want to be willing to disturb the universe.
Will I get a tattoo? Maybe some day. So far, I'm still afraid.
By Emily Dickinson
It's all I have to bring today--
This, and my heart beside--
This, and my heart, and all the fields--
And all the meadows wide--
Be sure you count -- should I forget
Some one the sum could tell--
This, and my heart, and all the Bees
Which in the Clover dwell.
From "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock"
And indeed there will be time
To wonder, ‘Do I dare?’ and, ‘Do I dare?’
Time to turn back and descend the stair,
With a bald spot in the middle of my hair—
[They will say: ‘How his hair is growing thin!’]
My morning coat, my collar mounting firmly to the chin,
My necktie rich and modest, but asserted by a simple pin—
[They will say: ‘But how his arms and legs are thin!’]
Do I dare
Disturb the universe?
In a minute there is time
For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.
For I have known them all already, known them all—
Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons,
I have measured out my life with coffee spoons;
I know the voices dying with a dying fall
Beneath the music from a farther room.
So how should I presume?
Saturday, October 04, 2008
Don't Ever Wink at Me Again
To me the most telling moment of the Vice Presidential debate came when Biden talked about being a single parent after his wife and daughter died in a car accident that also severely injured his two young sons. I've twice ridden in an ambulance with a child of mine, so when Biden choked up, I started to choke up, too.
How did Palin react? She didn't. No murmur of sympathy, no kind look, not even a respectful moment of silence. She launched pertly right into her favorite talking point: "...and John McCain is a maverick..."
So, a poem for Biden, and for those who care.
Rispetti: On the Death of a Child
I thought I heard a knock on the door,
And I jumped up as if you were here again,
Speaking to me, as you so often did,
In a coaxing tone; “Daddy, may I come in?”
When at eventide I walked along the steep seashore
I felt your small hand quite warm in mine.
And where the tide had rolled up stones,
I said aloud; “Look out that you don’t fall!”
Paul Heyes
How did Palin react? She didn't. No murmur of sympathy, no kind look, not even a respectful moment of silence. She launched pertly right into her favorite talking point: "...and John McCain is a maverick..."
So, a poem for Biden, and for those who care.
Rispetti: On the Death of a Child
I thought I heard a knock on the door,
And I jumped up as if you were here again,
Speaking to me, as you so often did,
In a coaxing tone; “Daddy, may I come in?”
When at eventide I walked along the steep seashore
I felt your small hand quite warm in mine.
And where the tide had rolled up stones,
I said aloud; “Look out that you don’t fall!”
Paul Heyes
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