Charlie K

Love these additions! Lou, did someone die?

Re: Updike: I have avoided him for years, just never thought he was for me, and just started getting into him recently. I started with the first Rabbit novel, which was good, but what really sold me on him was Couples, a masterpiece, about a circle of friends in an early 1960s Boston bedroom community and their adulterous affairs with each other. So good - what endears me to Updike is the prose, prose, prose. Such a master.

So, I picked up a book of his poetry and loved it. Didn't know he may have been a poet first and then a novelist and story writer. It shows - and, dogpoet, I think he's got a helluva lot more novels than that! Like 20 or so. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/John_Updike_bibliography

Try this: "Ex-Basketball Player," by John Updike.

Pearl Avenue runs past the high-school lot,

Bends with the trolley tracks, and stops, cut off

Before it has a chance to go two blocks,

At Colonel McComsky Plaza. Berth's Garage

Is on the corner facing west, and there,

Most days, you'll find Flick Webb, who helps Berth out.

Flick stands tall among the idiot pumps—

Five on a side, the old bubble-head style,

Their rubber elbows hanging loose and low.

One's nostrils are two S's, and his eyes

An E and O. And one is squat, without

A head at all—more of a football type.

Once Flick played for the high-school team, the Wizards.

He was good: in fact, the best. In '46

He bucketed three hundred ninety points,

A county record still. The ball loved Flick.

I saw him rack up thirty-eight or forty

In one home game. His hands were like wild birds.

He never learned a trade, he just sells gas,

Checks oil, and changes flats. Once in a while,

As a gag, he dribbles an inner tube,

But most of us remember anyway.

His hands are fine and nervous on the lug wrench.

It makes no difference to the lug wrench, though.

Off work, he hangs around Mae's Luncheonette.

Grease-gray and kind of coiled, he plays pinball,

Smokes those thin cigars, nurses lemon phosphates.

Flick seldom says a word to Mae, just nods

Beyond her face toward bright applauding tiers

Of Necco Wafers, Nibs, and Juju Beads.

Red, I'm with you on that one except for a few quibbles. Keep in mind I'm a huge admirer of Nordic socialistic capitalism, but there definitely is, in my mind, a penalty for taking time off work. In my opinion, in the 21st century, so much of the work involves non-linear activity, creative thinking, and working with a group or groups to accomplish the work. This relies heavily on group dynamics. If you're away from your colleagues for an extended period of time, your role in the group is diminished, not because you're not contributing, but because you're going to be out of step with them, no longer conscious of the group dynamic and non-linear system needed to get things done. At any rate, returning to work, you'll need to get back into alignment with the rest of your colleagues, and that takes time - like, months!

So, I agree this is admirable and admire the European examples but I do definitely feel there's a detriment. If Norway is succeeding with this, there's something else cultural there that is helping overcome the detriment, in my opinion.

That's fucking great! Other poets I am enjoying lately, and I'll drop some in here: Yusef Kumounyakaa and John Updike.

You know what could be fun? Look at Ecclesiastes in both the modern New International Version and the King James.

Ecclesiastes 12, NIV:

Remember your Creator

in the days of your youth,

before the days of trouble come

and the years approach when you will say,

“I find no pleasure in them”—

² before the sun and the light

and the moon and the stars grow dark,

and the clouds return after the rain;

³ when the keepers of the house tremble,

and the strong men stoop,

when the grinders cease because they are few,

and those looking through the windows grow dim;

⁴ when the doors to the street are closed

and the sound of grinding fades;

when people rise up at the sound of birds,

but all their songs grow faint;

⁵ when people are afraid of heights

and of dangers in the streets;

when the almond tree blossoms

and the grasshopper drags itself along

and desire no longer is stirred.

Then people go to their eternal home

and mourners go about the streets.

⁶ Remember him—before the silver cord is severed,

and the golden bowl is broken;

before the pitcher is shattered at the spring,

and the wheel broken at the well,

⁷ and the dust returns to the ground it came from,

and the spirit returns to God who gave it.

⁸ “Meaningless! Meaningless!” says the Teacher.^[a]

“Everything is meaningless!”

Not only was the Teacher wise, but he also imparted knowledge to the people. He pondered and searched out and set in order many proverbs. ¹⁰ The Teacher searched to find just the right words, and what he wrote was upright and true.

¹¹ The words of the wise are like goads, their collected sayings like firmly embedded nails—given by one shepherd.^[b]12 Be warned, my son, of anything in addition to them.

Of making many books there is no end, and much study wearies the body.

¹³ Now all has been heard;

here is the conclusion of the matter:

Fear God and keep his commandments,

for this is the duty of all mankind.

¹⁴ For God will bring every deed into judgment,

including every hidden thing,

whether it is good or evil.

KJV:

Remember now thy Creator in the days of thy youth, while the evil days come not, nor the years draw nigh, when thou shalt say, I have no pleasure in them;

² While the sun, or the light, or the moon, or the stars, be not darkened, nor the clouds return after the rain:

³ In the day when the keepers of the house shall tremble, and the strong men shall bow themselves, and the grinders cease because they are few, and those that look out of the windows be darkened,

⁴ And the doors shall be shut in the streets, when the sound of the grinding is low, and he shall rise up at the voice of the bird, and all the daughters of musick shall be brought low;

⁵ Also when they shall be afraid of that which is high, and fears shall be in the way, and the almond tree shall flourish, and the grasshopper shall be a burden, and desire shall fail: because man goeth to his long home, and the mourners go about the streets:

⁶ Or ever the silver cord be loosed, or the golden bowl be broken, or the pitcher be broken at the fountain, or the wheel broken at the cistern.

⁷ Then shall the dust return to the earth as it was: and the spirit shall return unto God who gave it.

⁸ Vanity of vanities, saith the preacher; all is vanity.

⁹ And moreover, because the preacher was wise, he still taught the people knowledge; yea, he gave good heed, and sought out, and set in order many proverbs.

¹⁰ The preacher sought to find out acceptable words: and that which was written was upright, even words of truth.

¹¹ The words of the wise are as goads, and as nails fastened by the masters of assemblies, which are given from one shepherd.

¹² And further, by these, my son, be admonished: of making many books there is no end; and much study is a weariness of the flesh.

¹³ Let us hear the conclusion of the whole matter: Fear God, and keep his commandments: for this is the whole duty of man.

¹⁴ For God shall bring every work into judgment, with every secret thing, whether it be good, or whether it be evil.

A Woman Waking

Philip Levine

She wakens early remembering

her father rising in the dark

lighting the stove with a match

scraped on the floor. Then measuring

water for coffee, and later the smell

coming through. She would hear

him drying spoons, dropping

them one by one in the drawer.

Then he was on the stairs

going for the milk. So soon

he would be at her door

to wake her gently, he thought,

with a hand at her nape, shaking

to and fro, smelling of gasoline

and whispering. Then he left.

Now she shakes her head, shakes

him away and will not rise.

There is fog at the window

and thickening the high branches

of the sycamores. She thinks

of her own kitchen, the dishwasher

yawning open, the dripping carton

left on the counter. Her boys

have gone off steaming like sheep.

Were they here last night?

Where do they live? she wonders,

with whom? Are they home?

In her yard the young plum tree,

barely taller than she, drops

its first yellow leaf. She listens

and hears nothing. If she rose

and walked barefoot on the wood floor

no one would come to lead her

back to bed or give her

a glass ofwater. If she

boiled an egg it would darken

before her eyes. The sky tires

and turns away without a word.

The pillow beside hers is cold,

the old odor of soap is there.

Her hands are cold. What time is it?

I'll start.

After Rain

Yue Fu

After rain, the forest's sleek,

Between the pines, the moon startles my heart.

I smile and think of home,

A foreign guest in a foreign land.

Charlie K has been

Gone for many a winter

Not enough syllab

legit lol

I just downvoted Pook's post. Just to be fair.

CHAAAAAAARLIEEEEEEEEE!!!!!

Get back, get back, get back to where I once belonged! I mean it, I been meaning to get back here and I'm sticking to it. You can't get rid of me that easy!

But, I, too, want out of a garden just a place to drink coffee, tea or booze and swing my swords.

 

And just like that, ou forum is ice once more.

 

I have a Wendy house out there, which is storing a ride on tractor, a baby garden chair, more ball pool balls than you can shake a stick at, various active play stuff, birds are coming in droves, plants are growing & two fairy doors have been spotted on an ivy covered stump.

 

Still havent had a beer out there, but I've wheeled out the barbecue so hopefully soon.

Oh, tell me about it. Every time I go out there and sit down with a drink and a book it's, "Daaaaaaad? I need you for something?"

I'ma bookmark this thread for this weekend. You lushes.

Who the fuck is this dickhead?

 

On a skiff I meet an honoured guest,

Slowly, slowly, it comes across the lake.

Facing at the railing, we drink a cup of wine,

On all sides, lotus flowers are in bloom.

 

-Wang Wei

 

I thought by the last line you would have tastefully slit my throat or something

Who says

I didn't?

Lou K nods and the head falls...

Bitch, you are supposed to offer me a cup of wine! I'm the honored guest, dammit! Has that loss of sleep gone to your brain? Where is my wine and jade pipe?!

So... Liam Neeson could find a hasta... and kill it...?

Right? Perfect plant for me!

Who the fuck is this dickhead?

On a skiff I meet an honoured guest,

Slowly, slowly, it comes across the lake.

Facing at the railing, we drink a cup of wine,

On all sides, lotus flowers are in bloom.

-Wang Wei

I declare my love for Tang-era Chinese poetry. While I've always loved it, it's really resonating with me lately. I feel a great deal of kinship with the poets, who like me were busy professional men of middle age contemplating their lives and place in the universe, the beauty and sorrow around them, their meaning and identity. So many of these guys that wrote these poems were mid-level bureaucrats with careers and families to manage, but also warriors and strategists, lovers of literature, art and the classics - and drinkers, btw!

I bought a house! Or, more to the point, a flat, together with my girlfriend. Yay!

So you're a landowner, eh?

I've been sorting out the garden. An already chaotic space virtually untouched for two years, it's become hellaciously overgrown and nettle infested. So lots of pulling up weeds, cutting down trees, clearing a skipful of general crap & planting things the dog digs up once my back's turned. But now I've a space that accommodates a restless toddler, two dogs, grows fruit and veg, attracts wildlife & allows me to potter in the sun or just chill with a beer. There's still lots of prettifying to be done- needs more plants & get the slide and sand pit out but it's getting there.

I've got a delightful garden that's in the same kind of shape. It's a lot more work than I planned on. The big thing is the weeding - you get it all cleared and then the little shits keep coming back. A green thumb friend of mine suggested i dig up everything, bomb all the ground, and then replant, but who has time for that? But, I, too, want out of a garden just a place to drink coffee, tea or booze and swing my swords. Needs to be low maintenance. I'm having the most luck with my hastas - hard to kill those! I'll find some pics.

Congrats Lou! Does this make Charlie a grandfather? ;)

 

Not quite but it makes my lesbian SIL his godfather

What?! Is she even Catholic!

...could I be the godmother, then?

If you think about it, you could open the blog to sooo many bands of that era. Can you imagine Linus suggesting we "have a black celebration" or Charlie admitting "In a world full of nothing, though it's not love it means something."

By the way, sitting in Pasquale's the other night took me back. You know, Royal Oak (suburb of Detroit) has changed so much, that when you go into a place that has been there for 40+ years you feel like you're in "the old" Royal Oak. Driving on Woodward almost always gives me an experience of looking for the ghosts of old buildings or memories. And sometimes I imagine memories that aren't mine - like imagining a streetcar running down the middle of Woodward or what it must have been like when the soda fountain at 9 and Woodward was still open.

I would not be shocked if we were cousins, CC. At all.

 

Strolling through the Intranet, ensuring my digital footprint is pretty small, I came upon a few pictures of said high school girlfriend. And I. In my old room. In my old car in front of her apartment. An old letter. I can't say it instantly took me back in time but I was mesmerized for the rest of the day.

Wow.

Aki, tell me more about growing up in India. To an American it seems very baffling, like it's all like Slumdog Millionaire.

I love this thread.

The other day me and my mom were trying to remember what caused my grandma's house to smell the way it did. I think it was a combination of food, excessive cleanliness and cigarette smoke - actually made the house smell, good, to me. My mom was trying to figure out what cleaning products my grandma used to get that certain smell. I think it was Ajax on the linoleum floor and steel sinks and Murphy's oil soap on the walls. My grandma used to wash the walls, both because she was a smoker and, my mom said, she'd gotten used to that growing up in coal mining towns in Pennsylvania.

In which the words are replaced by lyrics from The Smiths.

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