“We don’t read and write poetry because it’s
cute. We read and write poetry because we
are members of the human race. And the
human race is filled with passion. And
medicine, law, business, engineering, these
are noble pursuits and necessary to sustain
life. But poetry, beauty, romance, love,
these are what we stay alive for. To quote
from Whitman, ‘O me! O life!… of the
questions of these recurring; of the endless
trains of the faithless — of cities filled with the
foolish; what good amid these, O me, O
life?’ Answer. That you are here — that life
exists, and identity; that the powerful play
goes on and you may contribute a verse.
That the powerful play goes on and you may
contribute a verse. What will your verse
be?”
Though it is now officially known as Veteran’s Day, I prefer to call this day of remembrance by its original and much more poetic title: Armistice Day.
This morning I woke, made some good, strong coffee and sat in front of the television with my husband, both of us too young to have ever feared a draft. We watched C-SPAN while an endless parade of senators (all Republicans, for reasons I still haven’t figured out) made four-minute speeches honoring the veterans and war dead of this, arguably the greatest nation on earth.
They stepped solemnly to the podium — many wearing red poppies of remembrance on the lapels of their dark, finely tailored suits — and spoke with great awe and reverence of the veterans of World Wars I and II. They spoke with gratitude and respect of the veterans of the conflict in Korea. And they spoke with a sense of renewed pride and profound regret regarding the treatment of the veterans of the war in Vietnam.
The manner in which we sent thousands of young men to the jungles of southeast Asia to fight and die for supposed American ideals — and then mercilessly turned our backs on them when (or if) they returned home — is perhaps one of the most shameful chapters in this country’s history. We offered them nothing, except our contempt. We broke first their bodies, then their minds, and finally, their spirits. Today is a day set aside to perhaps try and begin to reverse and heal the unspeakable damage that has been done. As has been said and written before — by writers far greater than I — there is a time for every purpose under heaven.
Today is a time for embracing.
And, of course, the fact that our country is currently at war was perhaps the main focus of most of their speeches, many of them quite eloquent and moving. One after the other, they invoked the spirit of the current generation of brave, young Americans stationed in the Middle East — who are courageously defending the security and honor of our people. These elder statesman spoke graciously of sacrifices made and liberty upheld. They told of a new generation of Americans who — without a moment’s hesitation — are following in the honorable footsteps of their military forebearers by answering the call of a grateful nation. These modern-day warriors of freedom were offered up the highest honors and accolades that these men of great power could muster — they were called heroes.
However moving as it all may have been, while I listened to genteel men like Senator John Warner from Virginia waxing poetic about patriotism and duty and honor and the sacrifices being made by these young men and women…all I could think about was one thing — and it had nothing at all to do with freedom, liberty, or a war being waged a half a world away.
My one thought was this:
Visit the homes, apartments, and base housing of many of those soldiers that you spoke of today, Senator Warner — those who are stationed over there right now, risking their lives for us all — and open their refrigerators, cabinets, cupboards, and pantries…and tell me what you see.
Or, rather, tell me what you don’t see.
Carefully examine the check registers, bank statements, pocketbooks, piggybanks, and wallets of their remaining spouses. Grasp the reality of the concept “hand to mouth” — and sometimes not even that. See — perhaps for the very first time — what food stamps look like.
Note the year and condition of their vehicles.
Look at the shoes on their children’s feet, Sir. Feel the chill in the air of their playrooms, bedrooms, and nurseries. As you and the current administration surely know firsthand, oil can be quite costly — in more ways than one.
Though it is far from the glamour and triumph of military victory, for most, this is where the truest sacrifice lies. Not on some bloody, glorious battlefield in Iraq — but back at home…in a simple bottle of twice-cut, watered-down baby formula being fed to an infant son by a young mother who is doing her best to keep the home fires burning…while desperately trying to make ends meet on an enlisted man’s salary that is certainly at or below poverty-level.
Let us talk about courage in the face of insurmountable odds, shall we?
You say you sincerely desire to honor our nation’s courageous armed forces on this Armistice Day 2003, Senator Warner? Then start by better providing for the families that they have left behind. Introduce bold and insistent legislation that will immediately ensure that while these men and women are away risking their lives to provide us with security and to preserve the freedoms we hold so dear — that there is generous providence and preservation of what they hold so dear, too. See to it that while they are gone — fighting the Good Fight for us all — that we are here, fighting it for them, as well. Failing to do so is a profound betrayal of everything that they are supposedly fighting for.
As a truly grateful nation…we should now answer their call — and without a moment’s hesitation.
They should never have needed to ask in the first place, Sir.
Robert Zimmerman and I must be on the same wavelength today — this first day of November, 2003. I have been listening to Bob Dylan all afternoon…and marveling, all over again, at the sheer genius of the man — as both a poet AND a songwriter. Some of his lyrics are literally stunning — they verily take my breath away. Even the fact that he now inexplicably wears FULL ON Kabuki make-up and looks like an iron-deficient Fran Leibowitz cannot diminish the reality of his early brilliance.
I came back here, profundities jangling in my head, to post one of those songs for posterity — as a way of perhaps capturing, for all time, the way the light tumbled into the house today…the way the smell of my homemade vegetable soup filled every corner of the place…and the way my sweet husband smiled at me from across the room, and looked nothing short of a beautiful, beatific, green-eyed, curly haired god — as he patiently put together three tall wooden bookcases to hold our CD collection. He looked almost like a young Bob Dylan, now that I think about it — almost Dionysian, sensually moving about his IKEA forest primeval. It is a picture I will carry with me, in my head, forever.
I signed on and found that had beat me to the Dylan punch, goddamnit.
It’s Alright, Ma (I’m Only Bleeding)
Darkness at the break of noon Shadows even the silver spoon The handmade blade, the child’s balloon Eclipses both the sun and moon To understand you know too soon There is no sense in trying.
Pointed threats, they bluff with scorn Suicide remarks are torn From the fools gold mouthpiece The hollow horn plays wasted words Proved to warn That he not busy being born Is busy dying.
Temptation’s page flies out the door You follow, find yourself at war Watch waterfalls of pity roar You feel to moan but unlike before You discover That you’d just be One more person crying.
So don’t fear if you hear A foreign sound to your ear It’s alright, Ma, I’m only sighing.
As some warn victory, some downfall Private reasons great or small Can be seen in the eyes of those that call To make all that should be killed to crawl While others say don’t hate nothing at all Except hatred.
Disillusioned words like bullets bark As human gods aim for their marks Made everything from toy guns that sparks To flesh – colored Christs that glow in the dark It’s easy to see without looking too far That not much Is really sacred.
While preachers preach of evil fates Teachers teach that knowledge waits Can lead to hundred – dollar plates Goodness hides behind its gates But even the President of the United States Sometimes must have To stand naked.
An’ though the rules of the road have been lodged It’s only people’s games that you got to dodge And it’s alright, Ma, I can make it.
Advertising signs that con you Into thinking you’re the one That can do what’s never been done That can win what’s never been won Meantime life outside goes on All around you.
You loose yourself, you reappear You suddenly find you got nothing to fear Alone you stand without nobody near When a trembling distant voice, unclear Startles your sleeping ears to hear That somebody thinks They really found you.
A question in your nerves is lit Yet you know there is no answer fit to satisfy Insure you not to quit To keep it in your mind and not forget That it is not he or she or them or it That you belong to.
Although the masters make the rules For the wise men and the fools I got nothing, Ma, to live up to.
For them that must obey authority That they do not respect in any degree Who despite their jobs, their destinies Speak jealously of them that are free Cultivate their flowers to be Nothing more than something They invest in.
While some on principles baptized To strict party platforms ties Social clubs in drag disguise Outsiders they can freely criticize Tell nothing except who to idolize And then say God Bless him.
While one who sings with his tongue on fire Gargles in the rat race choir Bent out of shape from society’s pliers Cares not to come up any higher But rather get you down in the hole That he’s in.
But I mean no harm nor put fault On anyone that lives in a vault But it’s alright, Ma, if I can’t please him.
Old lady judges, watch people in pairs Limited in sex, they dare To push fake morals, insult and stare While money doesn’t talk, it swears Obscenity, who really cares Propaganda, all is phony.
While them that defend what they cannot see With a killer’s pride, security It blows the minds most bitterly For them that think death’s honesty Won’t fall upon them naturally Life sometimes Must get lonely.
My eyes collide head – on with stuffed graveyards False gods, I scuff At pettiness which plays so rough Walk upside – down inside handcuffs Kick my legs to crash it off Say okay, I have had enough What else can you show me ?
And if my thought – dreams could been seen They’d probably put my head in a guillotine
My fantasy job has always been to be the person sitting in a room somewhere making up all the names for lipsticks and eyeshadows and nail polish.
I ask you…how brilliant and extraordinary is THAT for a fantasy job?
Though not nearly as FAB as seide’s, I have two:
1) I have just always wanted to be a Librarian. Since early childhood, I have been obsessed with their marvelously cloistered asses, and all that they do. A few years ago, I even wrote a poem (that was published in a frighteningly respectable lit journal, come to think of it) exploiting and turning on its head the “mythology” of the Librarian (or MY idea of the mythology of the Librarian, rather…) *eyebat*
and secondly…
2) Lemme tell you, I would shamelessly kick the plug outta the wall on my own mother’s life support system if I could be one of those cute, liederhosen hostesses on the Storybook Boats ride at Disneyland. You know…the ones who give you a canal tour of that enchanting little land of miniature buildings — and who ALWAYS ALWAYS ALWAYS sound like they are holding their noses whilst doing so? (methinks Uncle Waltie either needs to spring for a new sound system on those fucking boats…or start hiring dames whose septums are not completely destroyed from too much goddamned baggy.)
But baggied-out, leiderhosen-wearing broads, and fucked-up sound systems or not — I adore that ride. It is my spiritual and cultural mecca. I would SO rule at that job.
I am helplessly, hopelessly in love…with Johnny Knoxville.
There is just something about that Capuchin monkey body and that wicked, impish, boyish grin that melts my heart and makes me go moist in places better left unsaid.
Hark! What is that ominous Patchouli odor and pierced-tongue-tsking noise I hear off in the distance? Might it be the sound of me losing Hash-Brownie points with WAY HAPPENIN’ Hipsters everywhere?
Aside from workers and citizens publicly takin’ names and kickin’ ass on the bastard grocery moguls, I have noticed a few other benefits directly related to the grocery workers strike here in Southern California:
1) Unswerving social and political convictions or not, people still gotta eat — so, what could be better than maintaining your ethics AND doing better by your colon whilst doing so? How, you ask? Well, one of the results of the strike is that by honoring the picket lines, and thereby being forced to seek their cannolis elsewhere, people are flocking to smaller, healthier, alternative organic grocery stores (i.e., Whole Foods, Trader Joe’s, and Henry’s Marketplace), as well as food co-ops and local farmer’s markets — places, I might add, in which they might never have stepped a ponderous, puffy, preservative-laden foot, otherwise.
I was in Trader Joe’s a few days ago, and their shelves looked like they had been descended upon by ravenous, tabouli and hummus-seeking locusts. In many places the cupboard was bare-ass bare due to the ever-increasing numbers of first-time shoppers gracing their granola-laden aisles since the strike officially got underway on October 11th. I talked to the manager, and he informed me they were immediately WAY upping their usual weekly orders to accomodate said crossover locusts — and he delivered this information unto me with the highly satisfied and beatific smile of a preacher reaching new converts. Colons would be saved this day, he seemed to be saying.
Hmmm…could it be that perhaps a few of those Count Chocula and deep-fried Twinkies acolytes might even be persuaded to change their wicked, wicked ways? Only time, and their cholesterol and blood sugar levels, will tell.
and
2) On Monday night, my 12 year old daughter was working on a school science project that involved an experiment which required the presence of blue food coloring. Being the domestic slugabed that I admittedly am, I, of course, had NONE. Mother Muffy’s cupboard was bone-dry of the blue-stuff. So, while she carried on with other aspects of her project, my husband and I walked over to the two local pharmacies to see if, by some miracle of the blue god Krishna, they might have food coloring in stock. They did not. So, we came home, and explained the situation to Anne — and told her that under no circumstances would we cross the picket line at either Von’s or Albertson’s (the only two grocery stores on the island) — even if it meant heading off into the wild, blue yonder…well, without any of the blue.
We were in a conundrum, to be sure. And then it hit me: Wait a minute, goddamnit — wait just one no-muff-is-an-island minute. What would someone in our shoes have done 30 or 50 or even a 100 years ago?
They would have turned to their neighbor for assistance, of course — a neighbor whom they actually knew, and with whom they would have undoubtedly interacted on a regular basis… and perhaps even felt great affection towards. In the times in which we live, not only are we frequently hesistant about turning to a neighbor for help, it usually doesn’t even occur to us to do so in the first place — as we probably have NO goddamned idea who our neighbor even is. We are so far from any notion — much less any reality — of true community. And what a damned shame it is.
So, being that we just moved out here to the island two months ago, we don’t yet know our neighbors — and by virtue of that, and by the sheer necessity of my daughter’s scientific situation, we decided to do a little something about it.
That’s right, kids — we strode next door, knocked on the door, introduced ourselves…and asked if we might borrow their bottle of blue food coloring for about an hour.
The elderly lady, Barbara, was positively DELIGHTED to find us on her doorstep — and not only did she lend us the blue food coloring we required, as a gesture of welcoming she handed us a little plastic tub of cherry tomatoes she had picked off her very own vines that morning…”the last of what was a glorious crop…” she told us.
After hearing her wax proud and poetic about her grandson, who writes for the paper here, we offered to bring in her garbage cans on Fridays after the weekly pick-up (as she has a difficult time doing so herself), gave her our contact information, thanked her profusely, said good-bye, and turned to leave.
But, before closing the door and returning to Pat Sajak — probably the closest thing she has to a man around the house since the death of her husband — she smiled sweetly, waved a surprisingly still-graceful hand in the air at us, and called out, “Welcome to the neighborhood! And if you ever need anything — anything at all — don’t hesitate to come ask. After all, what are neighbors for?”
About 7 or 8 years ago, I read a really fascinating article in Rolling Stone that polled something like 500 musicians from all walks of life — including the likes of Sting, Bono, Bruce Springsteen, David Bowie, Iggy Pop, Elvis Costello, et al — and asked them the following question:
All things considered, in your opinion, what is the most perfect rock song ever written and performed?
Of course, when you have that many diverse voices and musical backgrounds chiming in with their opinions, you are going to end up with just as many unique and varied answers — and they did. However, all things being considered and personal taste aside, there simply does exist a strata of sublime art that just fucking transcends all else — as evidenced by the answer I read that was most often uttered, over and over and over again, from the mouths of what can only be described as the musical deities of our time.
But before I tell you, I feel compelled to add…that I wholeheartedly concur with them — and would like to ask you what you consider to be the most perfect rock song ever written and performed.
Dig deep…and let ‘er rip, kids.
Oh…and their overwhelming choice? With its message of almost sacred devotion and its perfect, otherworldy, empyrean harmonies, it obviously resonates with the most ancient part of our brains — that part that fully acknowledges what it is that compells us as human beings, and why we are here in the first place:
God Only Knows
by The Beach Boys
I may not always love you
But long as there are stars above you
You never need to doubt it
I’ll make you so sure about it
God only knows what I’d be without you
If you should ever leave me
Though life would still go on, believe me
The world could show nothing to me
So what good would livin’ do me
God only knows what I’d be without you
God only knows what I’d be without you
(repeat verse 2)
If you should ever leave me
Though life would still go on, believe me
The world could show nothing to me
So what good would livin’ do me
As I am sure you are well aware, here in sunny Southern California there is a grocery workers strike underway, and I cannot tell you how proud I am of the way my fellow San Diegans are turning out — or rather, NOT turning out — in favor of these union workers who are courageously and audaciously standing up to the management of the big three chains down here: Von’s, Ralph’s, and Albertson’s.
The United Food and Commercial Workers Union went on strike October 11th after contract negotiations with the three major supermarket chains broke down. The stores are now using managers and replacement workers to keep their doors open and, in theory, the cucumbers and cannolis flying off their shelves.
With the holidays well upon us – unquestionably the busiest food shopping season of the year – the stakes climb even higher, and the urgent need for some sort of a resolution looms large.
Here in San Diego, regular citizens, in large droves, are honoring and supporting the union and their strike by taking their cupcake money elsewhere — myself, of course, staunchly included. Despite having no personal or familial union affiliations whatsoever, I have always found myself fascinated by their cause. Whatever meagre knowledge I may possess of the actual history of the modern union movement can be directly attributed to rapt viewings of both “Reds” and “Norma Rae”, as well as those oddly profound television commercials from the 1970’s touting the strength and unity of ILGWU — the International Ladies Garment Workers Union. Even as a small child, I was enthralled by the images of all those working class women in their garment factories — a blue-collar chorus singing their unifying anthem, which contained the unforgettable line, “So we work hard, but who’s complaining?”
Most of these women — the same women who, it must be remembered, created with their own hands a large portion of the clothing that has dressed this nation — were far from young, and even farther from svelte, glamorous, or even fashionable. But standing there amongst their prep tables, sewing machines, bolts of fabric, and fellow workers — sweetly yet defiantly belting their union anthem — I so clearly recognized them for what they were: American Pioneer Women…powerful, substantial, and most of all, beautiful.
So, it is that spirit that compells me to honor their kind now by refusing to cross any picketline ANYWHERE. Money talks, baby — and it is my fervent hope (as well, I am sure, the hopes of all those striking workers out there in the hot sun or the pouring rain, their family bank accounts clicking ever downward, even as we speak) that by withholding our money, and hitting these caustic, greedy bastards where it hurts — right in the pocketbook — that management can literally be starved out of their own food-filled markets and humbly and reasonably forced back to the bargaining table, where they will have learned the harsh lesson that enough pissed-off people — and their pennies — CAN affect change.
I have, of course, taken the opportunity to use the presence of the strikers as a medium to further educate my children on the social and political power of those people. I explained to them that the reason we would not cross those picket lines is that by honoring them, and taking our money elsewhere, we are supporting workers who are ultimately trying to make things better for ALL workers — not just themselves and their families. I also told them of the sacrifice and the courage necessary to undertake such a quest — to stand up in the face of threats and subjugation…even when to do so could mean your very livelihood.
I told them that these people are trying to do something good, and right, and true — at a time when there isn’t nearly enough of that going around. And lastly, I told them these people need our support — and more importantly, they deserve it.
Imagine, then, how my fierce, radical, motherly pride overflowedeth when my nine year-old son, Hunter, walked up to one of the picketers and proudly and defiantly announced to him, “My family and I will NOT cross your picket line, Sir.”
The guy stopped dead in his tracks, knelt down, looked into my son’s small face, shook his hand, and thanked him — and appeared so moved by the gesture that he looked as though he might cry.
Three things that scare me:
1: a june bug flying into my hair
2: harm coming to one of my little trio of darling larvae
3: the current and very real threat to women’s reproductive rights
Three Things I love:
1: the smell of my son’s head (smells like a buddhist temple)
2: reading the life stories of celebrated people (in either distinguished biographies OR the national enquirer — either one will do)
3: “the monkey face”
Three Things I hate:
1: going to bed; sleeping
2: when people refer to montgomery wards and las vegas…as “monkey wards” and “lost wages”
3: my now non-perky titties
Three things I don’t understand:
1: income tax
2: insurance
3: how a bowl of standard pancake batter — left on the counter for about an hour — can smell so much like load
Three things on my desk:
1: a cute picture of my sweet piglet, gregory, wearing my yale sweatshirt…that i received in 1997 — in gratitude for having had phone sex with a high-ranking yale alumnus
2: biographies of eugene o’neill, george bernard shaw, truman capote, and alec woollcott
3: a roughdraft treatment for a screenplay on which i am currently working
Three things I’m doing right now:
1: ovulating
2: typing ever-so-quietly so as not to wake the wicked ‘sleep nazi’ slumbering not five feet away from me
3: listening to the foamy ocean mambo in the moonlight…two blocks behind my house
Three things I want to do before I die:
1: get rid of the 99.5 — 104 degree temp i have been running…for the past TWENTY MOTHERFUCKING MONTHS
2: savagely scour the bins and amvets with ms. bee lavender by my side
3: something for which i am tragically and regrettably already five years too late: to meet, fuck, and collaborate with the brilliant poet and writer, ted hughes
Three things I can do:
1: pee standing up
2: innately sense when two people in a room have had secret sex that no one else knows about, or would even believe
3: obsessively watch, without break, an entire 48 hour “behind the music” marathon on vh-1 (i do, however, always take one hour to bathe and defecate — usually during the “poison” or “lenny kravitz” episodes. a social statement? perhaps)
Three ways to describe my personality:
1: fuzzy and chinchilla-like (my husband’s description)
2: wry
3: curious
Three things I can’t do:
1: fill out applications or paperwork of any kind
2: keep my lips and nose off of my children’s faces and hair
3: take a dump in a public restroom…or worse, take a dump without the sublime hygienic advantage of baby wipes
muffy bolding 