Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Dylan Thomas Page
Saturday, July 25, 2009
Monday, July 20, 2009
A Painter's Pain- Mike Boone
Laurie Kader, a 28-year-old Montreal painter, lives with a rare genetic disorder that affects the bones and development of her hands and arms.Photograph by: MARIE-FRANCE COALLIER The Gazette, The GazetteLaurie Kader packs a lot of indomitable spirit in her wee battered body.
She is strong enough to overcome cruel irony: Kader, 28, has a rare genetic disorder that deforms the bones in her hands and arms - precisely the parts of the body she needs to do what she does.
But Kader copes. When the bones of her right hand began to fuse due to illness, she forced herself to become ambidextrous so she could keep on painting.
Kader has painted since she was 3 years old. And since the age of 12, she's painted through pain.
"I'm in and out of surgery," Kader says, "and in and out of painting."
Kader has Madelung's Deformity and Leri-Weill dyschondrosteosis. They are genetic disorders that cause bone deformity. The combination is extremely rare: Kader shares it with approximately 700 people in the world.
"There are four doctors who know about the condition," she says, "two of whom have worked on me."
Many have it worse than she. Dwarfism is a common symptom; but while Kader is only five feet tall, she is not a dwarf.
"I'm short," she says. "But 99.9 per cent of people who have this are 4-foot-2."
Were you to walk by Laurie Kader on the street - or visit her, as I did, in the third-floor N.D.G. walk-up she shares with her boyfriend - you'd notice nothing unusual, except for bright red hair colouring that is not commonly found in nature. But her unremarkable appearance and cheerful demeanour mask a life of surgical interventions - 11 since the age of 14, three in the last 18 months - to correct deformities.
After the most recent operation, Kader has a cast from her left elbow to the middle of her hand. There's also a bandage on her right forearm where Kader administers Lidocaine to keep her pain levels down.
"I've become accustomed to chronic pain since the age of 12," Kader says matter-of-factly. That's when her symptoms showed up, the first occurring when she was "pushed into a brick wall and my bones all popped out of their joints."
She and her father visited a succession of Montreal orthopedists, a year-long process that culminated in a referral, from a sports medicine doctor, to the Mayo Clinic. Kader has been treated at the world-famous Minnesota medical facility ever since.
"Your radius is shorter than your ulna," Kader said, explaining her bone deformity. Perceiving that I had no clue, she added "it's very complicated. ... You'd have to read up about it on the Internet."
Rather than Google "Madelung," I talked to Kader about her art.
"I started at the age of 3 and never stopped," she said. "As I grew with my genetic conditions, my art grew as well. It became a collection of work on my journey through life.
"It's difficult at times," Kader admits. "But art is my therapy. If I didn't have it, I don't know what I would do. So it's become my life."
Her work involves the layering and texturing of oil glazing and mixed media, a laborious process that can take six to eight months on pieces as large as 8 feet by 4 feet. Many of her paintings have been sold to doctors. There's something in Kader's art that speaks to them."
But when I asked her to comment on themes in her work, she declined.
"Everyone has to interpret for themselves," she said. "Some people have said it's abstract on a cellular level, Jackson Pollock Meets Alfred Hitchcock.
"It is what it is. You can call it what you want."
Kader works with Earl Pinchuk and Gary Blair of the Art for Healing Foundation, which places art in Montreal hospitals. She will have a January exhibit at the Gora gallery on Sherbrooke St.
After I summoned up the courage to ask, Kader said she didn't know how long she would live. Her conditions are not curable, and the pain is 24/7.
Through all that, Laurie Kader is, for want of a less sexist expression, a great chick. Burdened by affliction that would crush lesser mortals, she's warm, affable and good-humoured.
"Someone told me I should be 45 and dying," Kader quipped. "It would sell more paintings."
She is strong enough to overcome cruel irony: Kader, 28, has a rare genetic disorder that deforms the bones in her hands and arms - precisely the parts of the body she needs to do what she does.
But Kader copes. When the bones of her right hand began to fuse due to illness, she forced herself to become ambidextrous so she could keep on painting.
Kader has painted since she was 3 years old. And since the age of 12, she's painted through pain.
"I'm in and out of surgery," Kader says, "and in and out of painting."
Kader has Madelung's Deformity and Leri-Weill dyschondrosteosis. They are genetic disorders that cause bone deformity. The combination is extremely rare: Kader shares it with approximately 700 people in the world.
"There are four doctors who know about the condition," she says, "two of whom have worked on me."
Many have it worse than she. Dwarfism is a common symptom; but while Kader is only five feet tall, she is not a dwarf.
"I'm short," she says. "But 99.9 per cent of people who have this are 4-foot-2."
Were you to walk by Laurie Kader on the street - or visit her, as I did, in the third-floor N.D.G. walk-up she shares with her boyfriend - you'd notice nothing unusual, except for bright red hair colouring that is not commonly found in nature. But her unremarkable appearance and cheerful demeanour mask a life of surgical interventions - 11 since the age of 14, three in the last 18 months - to correct deformities.
After the most recent operation, Kader has a cast from her left elbow to the middle of her hand. There's also a bandage on her right forearm where Kader administers Lidocaine to keep her pain levels down.
"I've become accustomed to chronic pain since the age of 12," Kader says matter-of-factly. That's when her symptoms showed up, the first occurring when she was "pushed into a brick wall and my bones all popped out of their joints."
She and her father visited a succession of Montreal orthopedists, a year-long process that culminated in a referral, from a sports medicine doctor, to the Mayo Clinic. Kader has been treated at the world-famous Minnesota medical facility ever since.
"Your radius is shorter than your ulna," Kader said, explaining her bone deformity. Perceiving that I had no clue, she added "it's very complicated. ... You'd have to read up about it on the Internet."
Rather than Google "Madelung," I talked to Kader about her art.
"I started at the age of 3 and never stopped," she said. "As I grew with my genetic conditions, my art grew as well. It became a collection of work on my journey through life.
"It's difficult at times," Kader admits. "But art is my therapy. If I didn't have it, I don't know what I would do. So it's become my life."
Her work involves the layering and texturing of oil glazing and mixed media, a laborious process that can take six to eight months on pieces as large as 8 feet by 4 feet. Many of her paintings have been sold to doctors. There's something in Kader's art that speaks to them."
But when I asked her to comment on themes in her work, she declined.
"Everyone has to interpret for themselves," she said. "Some people have said it's abstract on a cellular level, Jackson Pollock Meets Alfred Hitchcock.
"It is what it is. You can call it what you want."
Kader works with Earl Pinchuk and Gary Blair of the Art for Healing Foundation, which places art in Montreal hospitals. She will have a January exhibit at the Gora gallery on Sherbrooke St.
After I summoned up the courage to ask, Kader said she didn't know how long she would live. Her conditions are not curable, and the pain is 24/7.
Through all that, Laurie Kader is, for want of a less sexist expression, a great chick. Burdened by affliction that would crush lesser mortals, she's warm, affable and good-humoured.
"Someone told me I should be 45 and dying," Kader quipped. "It would sell more paintings."
45 Mercy Street- Ann Sexton
In my dream,
drilling into the marrow
of my entire bone,
my real dream,
I'm walking up and down Beacon Hill
searching for a street sign -
namely MERCY STREET.
Not there.
I try the Back Bay.
Not there.
Not there.
And yet I know the number.
45 Mercy Street.
I know the stained-glass window
of the foyer,
the three flights of the house
with its parquet floors.
I know the furniture and
mother, grandmother, great-grandmother,
the servants.
I know the cupboard of Spode
the boat of ice, solid silver,
where the butter sits in neat squares
like strange giant's teeth
on the big mahogany table.
I know it well.
Not there.
Where did you go?
45 Mercy Street,
with great-grandmother
kneeling in her whale-bone corset
and praying gently but fiercely
to the wash basin,
at five A.M.
at noon
dozing in her wiggy rocker,
grandfather taking a nap in the pantry,
grandmother pushing the bell for the downstairs maid,
and Nana rocking Mother with an oversized flower
on her forehead to cover the curl
of when she was good and when she was...
And where she was begat
and in a generation
the third she will beget,
me,
with the stranger's seed blooming
into the flower called Horrid.
I walk in a yellow dress
and a white pocketbook stuffed with cigarettes,
enough pills, my wallet, my keys,
and being twenty-eight, or is it forty-five?
I walk. I walk.
I hold matches at street signs
for it is dark,
as dark as the leathery dead
and I have lost my green Ford,
my house in the suburbs,
two little kids
sucked up like pollen by the bee in me
and a husband
who has wiped off his eyes
in order not to see my inside out
and I am walking and looking
and this is no dream
just my oily life
where the people are alibis
and the street is unfindable for an
entire lifetime.
Pull the shades down -
I don't care!
Bolt the door, mercy,
erase the number,
rip down the street sign,
what can it matter,
what can it matter to this cheapskate
who wants to own the past
that went out on a dead ship
and left me only with paper?
Not there.
I open my pocketbook,
as women do,
and fish swim back and forth
between the dollars and the lipstick.
I pick them out,
one by one
and throw them at the street signs,
and shoot my pocketbook
into the Charles River.
Next I pull the dream off
and slam into the cement wall
of the clumsy calendar
I live in,
my life,
and its hauled up
notebooks.
drilling into the marrow
of my entire bone,
my real dream,
I'm walking up and down Beacon Hill
searching for a street sign -
namely MERCY STREET.
Not there.
I try the Back Bay.
Not there.
Not there.
And yet I know the number.
45 Mercy Street.
I know the stained-glass window
of the foyer,
the three flights of the house
with its parquet floors.
I know the furniture and
mother, grandmother, great-grandmother,
the servants.
I know the cupboard of Spode
the boat of ice, solid silver,
where the butter sits in neat squares
like strange giant's teeth
on the big mahogany table.
I know it well.
Not there.
Where did you go?
45 Mercy Street,
with great-grandmother
kneeling in her whale-bone corset
and praying gently but fiercely
to the wash basin,
at five A.M.
at noon
dozing in her wiggy rocker,
grandfather taking a nap in the pantry,
grandmother pushing the bell for the downstairs maid,
and Nana rocking Mother with an oversized flower
on her forehead to cover the curl
of when she was good and when she was...
And where she was begat
and in a generation
the third she will beget,
me,
with the stranger's seed blooming
into the flower called Horrid.
I walk in a yellow dress
and a white pocketbook stuffed with cigarettes,
enough pills, my wallet, my keys,
and being twenty-eight, or is it forty-five?
I walk. I walk.
I hold matches at street signs
for it is dark,
as dark as the leathery dead
and I have lost my green Ford,
my house in the suburbs,
two little kids
sucked up like pollen by the bee in me
and a husband
who has wiped off his eyes
in order not to see my inside out
and I am walking and looking
and this is no dream
just my oily life
where the people are alibis
and the street is unfindable for an
entire lifetime.
Pull the shades down -
I don't care!
Bolt the door, mercy,
erase the number,
rip down the street sign,
what can it matter,
what can it matter to this cheapskate
who wants to own the past
that went out on a dead ship
and left me only with paper?
Not there.
I open my pocketbook,
as women do,
and fish swim back and forth
between the dollars and the lipstick.
I pick them out,
one by one
and throw them at the street signs,
and shoot my pocketbook
into the Charles River.
Next I pull the dream off
and slam into the cement wall
of the clumsy calendar
I live in,
my life,
and its hauled up
notebooks.
Sunday, July 19, 2009
Stopping By Woods On a Snowey Evening- Robert Frost
Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village, though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.
My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.
He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there's some mistake.
The only other sound's the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.
The woods are lovely, dark and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.
His house is in the village, though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.
My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.
He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there's some mistake.
The only other sound's the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.
The woods are lovely, dark and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.
Tuesday, July 14, 2009
Buffalo Bill- e e cummings
e e cummings
Buffalo Bill's
defunct
who used to
ride a watersmooth-silver
stallion
and break onetwothreefourfive pigeonsjustlikethat
Jesus
he was a handsome man
and what i want to know is
how do you like your blueeyed boy
Mister Death
Back to Brian Nation's boppin a riff
Buffalo Bill's
defunct
who used to
ride a watersmooth-silver
stallion
and break onetwothreefourfive pigeonsjustlikethat
Jesus
he was a handsome man
and what i want to know is
how do you like your blueeyed boy
Mister Death
Back to Brian Nation's boppin a riff
Fatherhood Can be a Job- Paul Nathanson
Last Fathers' Day, U.S. President Barack Obama, so eloquent on most occasions, chose not to celebrate good fathers but to rant about "deadbeat dads." David Warren hasn't repeated that mistake. His Saturday column, "In praise of patriarchs" is excellent (and not only because of his reference to the books that I have written with Katherine Young). In the hope his article will jump-start a public discussion of fatherhood, I offer the following comments.
My father, who died two years ago, had a difficult but close and even intense relationship with me. From my perspective as a boy and young man, he seemed overly judgmental. I grew up thinking that I could never make the grade, never be good enough to satisfy his lofty expectations. And his standard for honourable manhood, which he applied to himself no less than to me, did seem unattainable. Worse, it seemed to me, his notion of manhood focused heavily on duty and sacrifice -- not things that most people, certainly not children, are eager to embrace. Worse still, perhaps, he expected me to learn skills that didn't interest me.
Dad played with me and took me to museums, sure, but he also tried to help me with my arithmetic homework -- and was visibly exasperated, night after night, by my inability to understand what he considered common sense.
To be blunt, I usually preferred my mother, who gave me uncomplicated and unconditional love. Dad confessed, many years later, that I had disappointed him at first. And I can see why.
I was an outsider for several reasons in childhood. Apart from anything else, I was both unwilling and unable to absorb prevalent but superficial (and ultimately both destructive and self-destructive) notions of masculinity. I had to invent myself, therefore, and I'm proud of my ability to do so. But it was Dad who first taught me to be independent -- that is, as I eventually understood, to think for myself but within a larger moral context. He taught me to become more fully human, in other words, not to embrace either conformity or "autonomy" (an overused and misused word these days).
Dad lived long enough to see me take my place in the world. I knew that he respected me as a scholar. One day, in the middle of some argument, he suddenly turned to me and said, "Paul, you're a learned man." Okay, I was much too old by then for those words to give me a sense of self-confidence. But we both realized immediately that this was a moment of profound fulfillment; a father had symbolically conferred manhood on his son. I never did learn arithmetic, but I had made him proud of me in other ways. This was my secular bar mitzvah.
Dad still blamed himself, however, for not pushing me hard enough to become more financially secure. Fortunately, we had time to talk about that. Having spent many years doing research in the humanities on manhood (including fatherhood), I told him that he had done exactly what every father needs to do. I didn't have to add that he had done so not by consciously adopting the approach of this or that expert but by subconsciously absorbing the legacy of human experience after countless generations.
My father, who died two years ago, had a difficult but close and even intense relationship with me. From my perspective as a boy and young man, he seemed overly judgmental. I grew up thinking that I could never make the grade, never be good enough to satisfy his lofty expectations. And his standard for honourable manhood, which he applied to himself no less than to me, did seem unattainable. Worse, it seemed to me, his notion of manhood focused heavily on duty and sacrifice -- not things that most people, certainly not children, are eager to embrace. Worse still, perhaps, he expected me to learn skills that didn't interest me.
Dad played with me and took me to museums, sure, but he also tried to help me with my arithmetic homework -- and was visibly exasperated, night after night, by my inability to understand what he considered common sense.
To be blunt, I usually preferred my mother, who gave me uncomplicated and unconditional love. Dad confessed, many years later, that I had disappointed him at first. And I can see why.
I was an outsider for several reasons in childhood. Apart from anything else, I was both unwilling and unable to absorb prevalent but superficial (and ultimately both destructive and self-destructive) notions of masculinity. I had to invent myself, therefore, and I'm proud of my ability to do so. But it was Dad who first taught me to be independent -- that is, as I eventually understood, to think for myself but within a larger moral context. He taught me to become more fully human, in other words, not to embrace either conformity or "autonomy" (an overused and misused word these days).
Dad lived long enough to see me take my place in the world. I knew that he respected me as a scholar. One day, in the middle of some argument, he suddenly turned to me and said, "Paul, you're a learned man." Okay, I was much too old by then for those words to give me a sense of self-confidence. But we both realized immediately that this was a moment of profound fulfillment; a father had symbolically conferred manhood on his son. I never did learn arithmetic, but I had made him proud of me in other ways. This was my secular bar mitzvah.
Dad still blamed himself, however, for not pushing me hard enough to become more financially secure. Fortunately, we had time to talk about that. Having spent many years doing research in the humanities on manhood (including fatherhood), I told him that he had done exactly what every father needs to do. I didn't have to add that he had done so not by consciously adopting the approach of this or that expert but by subconsciously absorbing the legacy of human experience after countless generations.
Sunday, July 12, 2009
MONKEY BUSINESS- SARAH LOLLEY
From Saturday's Globe and Mail
Last updated on Saturday, Jul. 11, 2009 04:50AM EDT
The botanical gardens in Dalat, Vietnam, were a total bust – as scrappy and uninspired as a miniature golf course, despite the inflated entry price for foreigners. My boyfriend, Jack, and I were about to leave when we spotted the monkey enclosure, where five scruffy monkeys hoped around in individual cages.
As we approached, one of them climbed up the bars of his cage to our eye level. Jack laughed in surprise and leaned in to get a better look at the monkey. The monkey leaned in to get a better look at Jack. The two stared at each other for a moment. Then, in a flash, the monkey reached through the bars, snatched the sunglasses off Jack's face, and retreated to the middle of its cage.
The sunglasses weren't expensive – we'd bought them at a gas station in the Australian Outback earlier on our backpacking trip – but Jack loved them, mainly because of the cheesy race car-esque flames down the sides. Glumly, we watched the monkey chew on one of the arms of the sunglasses.
Figuring someone might have a key to the enclosure, Jack headed off in the direction of the ticket booth. He was already out of sight when I remembered the banana in my bag.
Seeing me take it out, the monkey lost all interest in the sunglasses, dropping them in the dirt and jumping up to my level again.
“So,” I addressed the simian, in the voice of a stern librarian. “You're an intelligent animal, and what I'm proposing is a simple trade. You have something I want,” I said, pointing at the sunglasses. The monkey looked down at them, then back at me.
“And I have something you want,” I concluded, holding up the banana. I brimmed with self-confidence. This plan is brilliant, I said to myself.
A young Vietnamese couple wandered over. They watched me for a few moments, then called out to another Vietnamese couple, who came rushing over.
That's right I thought, proudly. Come see how amazing we Canadian travellers are I kept up my assertive negotiations.
A group of five Vietnamese men in business suits joined us. A rapid-fire Vietnamese exchange ensued between the couples and the businessmen. The men all looked at me, incredulous. Two started giggling.
A crack formed in the bedrock of my poise. I tried to ignore it, but nothing doing.
Suddenly, I saw myself as my audience must have. “Give me the damn glasses,” I snapped at the primate.
Over the next few minutes of fruitless, one-way conversation with the monkey, my confidence was replaced with burning shame. It became clear that I wasn't going to get the sunglasses back. Even worse, I now had a group of spectators to face up to.
It was at that exact moment that the monkey hopped down to retrieve the sunglasses, ambled over to the side of the cage, extended his little monkey arm outside the bars and let go. He then ran back up the bars to my level and reached for the banana.
There was a stunned silence. All eyes, including the monkey's, were on me.
Was it a trick? Slowly, I retrieved the sunglasses. For a brief second, I thought about leaving the monkey high and dry, but fair was fair. I placed the banana in his tiny paw.
“Sarah”
I turned to see Jack approaching, two Vietnamese groundskeepers in tow. I smiled victoriously, suddenly loving the Dalat Botanical Gardens, and held up the sunglasses for all to see.
Last updated on Saturday, Jul. 11, 2009 04:50AM EDT
The botanical gardens in Dalat, Vietnam, were a total bust – as scrappy and uninspired as a miniature golf course, despite the inflated entry price for foreigners. My boyfriend, Jack, and I were about to leave when we spotted the monkey enclosure, where five scruffy monkeys hoped around in individual cages.
As we approached, one of them climbed up the bars of his cage to our eye level. Jack laughed in surprise and leaned in to get a better look at the monkey. The monkey leaned in to get a better look at Jack. The two stared at each other for a moment. Then, in a flash, the monkey reached through the bars, snatched the sunglasses off Jack's face, and retreated to the middle of its cage.
The sunglasses weren't expensive – we'd bought them at a gas station in the Australian Outback earlier on our backpacking trip – but Jack loved them, mainly because of the cheesy race car-esque flames down the sides. Glumly, we watched the monkey chew on one of the arms of the sunglasses.
Figuring someone might have a key to the enclosure, Jack headed off in the direction of the ticket booth. He was already out of sight when I remembered the banana in my bag.
Seeing me take it out, the monkey lost all interest in the sunglasses, dropping them in the dirt and jumping up to my level again.
“So,” I addressed the simian, in the voice of a stern librarian. “You're an intelligent animal, and what I'm proposing is a simple trade. You have something I want,” I said, pointing at the sunglasses. The monkey looked down at them, then back at me.
“And I have something you want,” I concluded, holding up the banana. I brimmed with self-confidence. This plan is brilliant, I said to myself.
A young Vietnamese couple wandered over. They watched me for a few moments, then called out to another Vietnamese couple, who came rushing over.
That's right I thought, proudly. Come see how amazing we Canadian travellers are I kept up my assertive negotiations.
A group of five Vietnamese men in business suits joined us. A rapid-fire Vietnamese exchange ensued between the couples and the businessmen. The men all looked at me, incredulous. Two started giggling.
A crack formed in the bedrock of my poise. I tried to ignore it, but nothing doing.
Suddenly, I saw myself as my audience must have. “Give me the damn glasses,” I snapped at the primate.
Over the next few minutes of fruitless, one-way conversation with the monkey, my confidence was replaced with burning shame. It became clear that I wasn't going to get the sunglasses back. Even worse, I now had a group of spectators to face up to.
It was at that exact moment that the monkey hopped down to retrieve the sunglasses, ambled over to the side of the cage, extended his little monkey arm outside the bars and let go. He then ran back up the bars to my level and reached for the banana.
There was a stunned silence. All eyes, including the monkey's, were on me.
Was it a trick? Slowly, I retrieved the sunglasses. For a brief second, I thought about leaving the monkey high and dry, but fair was fair. I placed the banana in his tiny paw.
“Sarah”
I turned to see Jack approaching, two Vietnamese groundskeepers in tow. I smiled victoriously, suddenly loving the Dalat Botanical Gardens, and held up the sunglasses for all to see.
THE COW FROM MINSK
The only cow in a small town in Poland stopped giving milk. The people did some research and found that they could buy a cow from Moscow for 2,000 rubles, or one from Minsk for 1,000 rubles. Being frugal, they bought the cow from Minsk. The cow was wonderful. It produced lots of milk all the time, and the people were amazed and
very happy.
They decided to acquire a bull to mate with the cow and produce more cows like it. Then they would never have to worry about the milk supply again.
They bought a bull and put it in the pasture with their beloved cow. However, whenever the bull came close to the cow, the cow would move away.
No matter what approach the bull tried, the cow would move away from the bull and he could not succeed in his quest.
The people were very upset and decided to ask the rabbi, who was very wise, what to do. They told the rabbi what was happening. "Whenever the bull approaches our cow, she moves away. If he approaches from the back, she moves forward. When he approaches her from the front, she backs off. An approach from the side and she just walks away to the other side."
The rabbi thought about this for a minute and asked, "Did you buy this cow from Minsk?"
The people were dumbfounded, since they had never mentioned where they had gotten the cow.
"You are truly a wise rabbi," they said. "How did you know we got the cow from Minsk?"
The rabbi answered sadly, "My wife is from Minsk."
very happy.
They decided to acquire a bull to mate with the cow and produce more cows like it. Then they would never have to worry about the milk supply again.
They bought a bull and put it in the pasture with their beloved cow. However, whenever the bull came close to the cow, the cow would move away.
No matter what approach the bull tried, the cow would move away from the bull and he could not succeed in his quest.
The people were very upset and decided to ask the rabbi, who was very wise, what to do. They told the rabbi what was happening. "Whenever the bull approaches our cow, she moves away. If he approaches from the back, she moves forward. When he approaches her from the front, she backs off. An approach from the side and she just walks away to the other side."
The rabbi thought about this for a minute and asked, "Did you buy this cow from Minsk?"
The people were dumbfounded, since they had never mentioned where they had gotten the cow.
"You are truly a wise rabbi," they said. "How did you know we got the cow from Minsk?"
The rabbi answered sadly, "My wife is from Minsk."
KADDISH- PART1- ALLAN GINSBERG- EXCERPT
Strange now to think of you, gone without corsets & eyes, while I walk on
the sunny pavement of Greenwich Village.
downtown Manhattan, clear winter noon, and I've been up all night, talking,
talking, reading the Kaddish aloud, listening to Ray Charles blues
shout blind on the phonograph
the rhythm the rhythm--and your memory in my head three years after--
And read Adonais' last triumphant stanzas aloud--wept, realizing
how we suffer--
And how Death is that remedy all singers dream of, sing, remember,
prophesy as in the Hebrew Anthem, or the Buddhist Book of An-
swers--and my own imagination of a withered leaf--at dawn--
Dreaming back thru life, Your time--and mine accelerating toward Apoca-
lypse,
the final moment--the flower burning in the Day--and what comes after,
looking back on the mind itself that saw an American city
a flash away, and the great dream of Me or China, or you and a phantom
Russia, or a crumpled bed that never existed--
like a poem in the dark--escaped back to Oblivion--
No more to say, and nothing to weep for but the Beings in the Dream,
trapped in its disappearance,
sighing, screaming with it, buying and selling pieces of phantom, worship-
ping each other,
worshipping the God included in it all--longing or inevitability?--while it
lasts, a Vision--anything more?
It leaps about me, as I go out and walk the street, look back over my shoulder,
Seventh Avenue, the battlements of window office buildings shoul-
dering each other high, under a cloud, tall as the sky an instant--and
the sky above--an old blue place.
or down the Avenue to the south, to--as I walk toward the Lower East Side
--where you walked 50 years ago, little girl--from Russia, eating the
first poisonous tomatoes of America frightened on the dock
then struggling in the crowds of Orchard Street toward what?--toward
Newark--
toward candy store, first home-made sodas of the century, hand-churned ice
cream in backroom on musty brownfloor boards--
Toward education marriage nervous breakdown, operation, teaching school,
and learning to be mad, in a dream--what is this life?
Toward the Key in the window--and the great Key lays its head of light
on top of Manhattan, and over the floor, and lays down on the
sidewalk--in a single vast beam, moving, as I walk down First toward
the Yiddish Theater--and the place of poverty
you knew, and I know, but without caring now--Strange to have moved
thru Paterson, and the West, and Europe and here again,
with the cries of Spaniards now in the doorstops doors and dark boys on
the street, firs escapes old as you
--Tho you're not old now, that's left here with me--
Myself, anyhow, maybe as old as the universe--and I guess that dies with
us--enough to cancel all that comes--What came is gone forever
every time--
That's good!That leaves it open for no regret--no fear radiators, lacklove,
torture even toothache in the end--
Though while it comes it is a lion that eats the soul--and the lamb, the soul,
in us, alas, offering itself in sacrifice to change's fierce hunger--hair
and teeth--and the roar of bonepain, skull bare, break rib, rot-skin,
braintricked Implacability.
the sunny pavement of Greenwich Village.
downtown Manhattan, clear winter noon, and I've been up all night, talking,
talking, reading the Kaddish aloud, listening to Ray Charles blues
shout blind on the phonograph
the rhythm the rhythm--and your memory in my head three years after--
And read Adonais' last triumphant stanzas aloud--wept, realizing
how we suffer--
And how Death is that remedy all singers dream of, sing, remember,
prophesy as in the Hebrew Anthem, or the Buddhist Book of An-
swers--and my own imagination of a withered leaf--at dawn--
Dreaming back thru life, Your time--and mine accelerating toward Apoca-
lypse,
the final moment--the flower burning in the Day--and what comes after,
looking back on the mind itself that saw an American city
a flash away, and the great dream of Me or China, or you and a phantom
Russia, or a crumpled bed that never existed--
like a poem in the dark--escaped back to Oblivion--
No more to say, and nothing to weep for but the Beings in the Dream,
trapped in its disappearance,
sighing, screaming with it, buying and selling pieces of phantom, worship-
ping each other,
worshipping the God included in it all--longing or inevitability?--while it
lasts, a Vision--anything more?
It leaps about me, as I go out and walk the street, look back over my shoulder,
Seventh Avenue, the battlements of window office buildings shoul-
dering each other high, under a cloud, tall as the sky an instant--and
the sky above--an old blue place.
or down the Avenue to the south, to--as I walk toward the Lower East Side
--where you walked 50 years ago, little girl--from Russia, eating the
first poisonous tomatoes of America frightened on the dock
then struggling in the crowds of Orchard Street toward what?--toward
Newark--
toward candy store, first home-made sodas of the century, hand-churned ice
cream in backroom on musty brownfloor boards--
Toward education marriage nervous breakdown, operation, teaching school,
and learning to be mad, in a dream--what is this life?
Toward the Key in the window--and the great Key lays its head of light
on top of Manhattan, and over the floor, and lays down on the
sidewalk--in a single vast beam, moving, as I walk down First toward
the Yiddish Theater--and the place of poverty
you knew, and I know, but without caring now--Strange to have moved
thru Paterson, and the West, and Europe and here again,
with the cries of Spaniards now in the doorstops doors and dark boys on
the street, firs escapes old as you
--Tho you're not old now, that's left here with me--
Myself, anyhow, maybe as old as the universe--and I guess that dies with
us--enough to cancel all that comes--What came is gone forever
every time--
That's good!That leaves it open for no regret--no fear radiators, lacklove,
torture even toothache in the end--
Though while it comes it is a lion that eats the soul--and the lamb, the soul,
in us, alas, offering itself in sacrifice to change's fierce hunger--hair
and teeth--and the roar of bonepain, skull bare, break rib, rot-skin,
braintricked Implacability.
Thursday, July 9, 2009
FEAR AND TRUST
Very frequently when I enter the elevator of our apartment building, there stands a woman with a small barking dog on a leash. Most often the woman is restraining the dog and apologetically reassuring me, "don't worry he is quite harmless; he doesn't bite."
I usually respond, " ma'am, I can assure you that in an elevator, I am much more frightened by the lady than the dog."
I usually respond, " ma'am, I can assure you that in an elevator, I am much more frightened by the lady than the dog."
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