My cousin Shirley had her funeral last sunday. Amongst her chief mourners were five caregivers who worked around the clock looking after her. I read that when Queen Elizabeth, the British Monarch, was hospitalized she had only three caregivers.
Cousin Shirley was obscenely rich .
Which reminds me of an old Jewish Proverb.
If the rich could hire the poor to die for them, the poor would make a very nice living.
Sunday, January 31, 2010
Saturday, July 25, 2009
DO NOT GO GENTLE INTO THAT GOOD NIGHT
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
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
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.
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