Friday, July 11, 2008

Still there



Too caught up in my own small stuff of late and trying to live via Blackberry and, meantime, PACT has continued on with their remarkable and effective work in Burma.

Distributing clean water, safe delivery kits, deploying doctors, collecting and administering grants, helping to locate lost relatives and - this one gets me - we delivered 300 dignity kits containing basic clothing and undergarments for women (including personal female hygiene products).

Read reports of their progress here

A first-person account by Pact's Deputy Country Representative in Myanmar, Erica Tubbs here.

Funds are needed more than ever as PACT moves into recovery and rebuilding work...
so consider donating here.

Love to all

c

Wednesday, July 02, 2008

shift, shift again



This wasn't planned (decisions-under-fire school) but lo, there it was: the very big apartment, empty and me now bursting out of my (other, soon former) Hudson apartment. 2,500 sq. feet of STUFF, plus some barn contents were temporaruly shoe-horned into 600 sq. feet, low ceilings.

This last week has been scrubbing of many-tenants'-worth of life + cooking (Easy Off as floor cleaner), painting over previous tenant's visions of blue and preparing for second move in 30 days this Friday.



Many fine points to the new place, including a small guest room/study, 2 doors down from Mexican Radio (serving till 11), huge farmhouse kitchen sink for bathing dogs, babies?, high ceilings, back porch/deck over looking jungly garden and a carriage house...

c - still moving, soon at rest

Olana (goes) Indian

Spiked lassis + Hudson Valley views + Moorish fantasy-estate setting + sitar =

Olana Summer Indian Party.
(sign up now, ready the sari/salwaar)

Olana Summer Party Poster v3




c - anticipating

Wednesday, June 18, 2008

celtics



Raised on Bird and Mchale - never a sports person but a Boston person so impossible not to care.

c -

the journey

The trip -

leaving this

hudson river, island

arriving to this:
hudson river, gw bridge

c - space of 2 hours

Monday, June 16, 2008

stair

jeff wall photos, stair

Many small towns have auction houses - Hudson has Stair Galleries. Like a country auction, including cast of regulars (local dealers) and you can fit a preview into afternoon's errands.

set up 2

Unlike though in most other ways. No fly-bitten chipped Victorian, no cardboard box lots of campaign buttons, no farm equipment. I went by yesterday and had Stair's two floors almost to myself.

art from above

To preview for Saturday's auction: ancient persian gold arm cuffs, Doug Hall photos, Khmer buddhas, Rauschenburg collage on silk, Barcelona chairs, Bugatti cabinet (with tassles), Islamic incantation bowls (catalog: "used for casting magic spells"), dogan mali mask, zeppelin memorabilia...


c -

peacock-keepers of germantown

Can't make up:

peacock's home, 9g germantown

This man-made, hand-hewn labor of love + folly sits on route 9G, south from Hudson, just before Germantown turn-off, shy of the gas station trifecta.

An Indian husband and wife team have given us:

Indian cafe + landscaping + enormous cage of at least 5 peacocks (less on pecked to death by dominant white male), plus some fancy hens.


germantown's peacocks


c - admiring

Sunday, June 15, 2008

meantime, wedding

Sam and Laura's wedding yesterday - gorgeous and best damn dj-lp dancing by Scott Anderson.



sam and laura wedding, drew on your left



Photo: pre thunder storm


sam and laura wedding, tent people

and we're off

goodbye house (good bye chair)


No right way to say goodbye.
Have spent the last 10 days absenting myself, sweeping my footsteps from my house. Till there's no trace - that's how it's meant to hand over afterall, trace-less.

I did a decent job of that but god it's been tough. Or layered. You sweep away one and lo you're still, annoyingly, not gone from the closet, the corner.

(I sold the house, closing this last Wednesday)

More when I'm not box-battered and bat-escaped.

xx
c

Thursday, June 05, 2008

Wasp-waisted in headdresses


Mrs. Arthur Henry Paget (1853-1919), 1891 (Costume of Cleopatra originally worn to 1875 Delmonico Ball, NYC)

Two shows at The NY Historical Society running til mid-August.
ALLURE OF THE EAST: ORIENTALISM IN NEW YORK, 1850–1930
to inform and introduce some of the collectors, and the city scene that inspired the main exhibition: WOVEN SPLENDOR FROM TIMBUKTU TO TIBET: EXOTIC RUGS AND TEXTILES FROM NEW YORK COLLECTORS


Tajik Bridal Veil, 18th Cen.
Besides being beyond bling, what's intriguing (to me) is this piece contrasted with our NY lady above. The bridal veil has a small mesh cut-out in the upper part of the veil, for the bride's eyes. Otherwise, she would be - I imagine - a visually vibrant but otherwise silent spectator at her own wedding. Her voice, I guess, the piece itself which she would have helped to design and create - a visual roar of pink peacocks.

And we contrast to Mrs. Paget doing the Eastern Lady thing, NYC late 19th century style. Imagine if the lady had actually gone native? Emerged from her carriage the night of the ball just a visually stunning but shape-indeterminate Tajik lady, for the night...


The show's pieces are stunning - ikats, Bakhtiarian camel bags, Turkmen camel knee-covers, Geija baby carriers, Ottoman silks, Tibetan Tiger Pelt rugs, Persian horse covers, prayer rugs from wherever there's not enough room on the mosque floor, Uzbek felt mats, Ikat chapan robes. Riotous colors from sand-colored lands, magnificent patterns punctuated with intimate little pattern "riffs" of the lady weaver - a section of abstraction amidst the historically-informed larger piece, a woman's signature.

c - not dressed as Tajik bride, not today

Monday, June 02, 2008

Hudson town, weekend with Dad, the lady who watches over

Dad, reflected (hudson)
Dad walks Hudson shore (train below)

Dad came to visit and Saturday afternoon, after a magnificent storm, we walked the town.



IMG_0065
The lady with the view

IMG_0067
Watching over all of us, and Hudson.


c (back in the city)

greening
Union Street, greening through the window

(and this just in: Hudson in the WSJ)

Tuesday, May 27, 2008

sun's path

Manhattanhenge: the celestial wonder when the sun aligns with Manhattan's grid.
On Friday (and just after sunset Thursday), the sun will center itself on our east/west grid
so that if you stand far east on a main cross-town avenue (14th, 23rd et al)
the sun will fall from view as if cued by a divine, city-loving, God.

And the Burmese junta has agreed to give visas to allow in aid workers, (even while extending Suu Kyi's house arrest). Too slow, too cruel but there are still miracles, even in the confines of our modern world.

(look to the heavens).

c

Wednesday, May 14, 2008

Listen closely

kids by fence
Burmese boys, Palong Village, Shan State 1997

I can't understand why so many people would be hurt at one time, how the horrendous earthquake in Sichuan Province can happen even as Burma still reels from Nargis and reports of contemptible corruption and inhuman politics roll in.

Our hearts are very big. The responses I've received, the direct support that's gone to PACT, have been deeply empathetic - people desperate to help, eager to be of any service...So much compassion.

One of the cruelest things Burma's ruling junta has done is to shut the Burmese people off from the world's compassion. Reports from China are harrowing, but they are reports. In allowing foreign journalists simply to be there and report individual stories, the Chinese government has done a two fold good for its people: the world knows the extent of the damage and so can help in kind, and the Chinese people are being heard and this very basic human right to a voice is bedrock in this time of unbelievable crisis.

The Burmese people not only do not have a voice, but they have, largely, no sense at all that the world is aware, is caring.

Criminal.

An unnamed (for his safety) BBC journalist in Burma's delta region yesterday reported that the Burmese were resilient, few complaining and those that did warily, they were friendly but went about their business, resigned to surviving. He warned that the more serious trouble still lay ahead for the country - the aftermath so much worse than the storm itself - malaria, dengue, the loss of some enormous percent of Burma's rice paddies and so starvation...But he also said, with a still severity I was surprised by:

"There will be some reckoning."

Please continue to follow the news from Burma and in whatever way you can, find a means of hearing its people.

c

Tuesday, May 13, 2008

Meanwhile in McCain's camp

There's too much to take in - sleep, switch stations, choose music over news...

I almost missed this, a recent McCain hire to run his convention resigning, so quietly...

Why?

Something about his firm representing Burma's military junta/government...

"Mr. Goodyear is the chief executive and a founding partner of the DCI Group, which has offices in Washington and Phoenix. He offered his resignation after Newsweek reported that his firm had been paid $348,000 in 2002 to represent the junta."

c - trying not to lift too many rocks...

Friday, May 09, 2008

UN halts aid

Very latest c/o the AP

UN halts aid to Myanmar after junta seizes supplies

A U.N. official says the World Food Program is suspending cyclone aid to Myanmar because its government seized supplies flown into the country.

He says the WFP has no choice but to suspend the shipments until the matter is resolved.

WFP spokesman Paul Risley said Friday that all "the food aid and equipment that we managed to get in has been confiscated." The shipment included 38 tons of high-energy biscuits.

Risley said it is not clear why the material was seized.

Day 6




The Burmese government is still banning all foreign aid workers from delivering aid directly to the Burmese people. They have accepted some aid from "trusted" neighbors India and China but all other teams, trained to deal with flooding and its aftermath (contagion, poisoned drinking water, the corpses etc.) are denied visas.

Listen to any report (the BBC is doing an excellent job but depending largely on accounts from Burmese living outside Burma and receiving information from family members still there) and the impossibility of the situation is mounting, unprecedented. For a ruling government to not act in its own populations' best interests to this extent, when hundreds of thousands of lives are being lost, is beyond appalling. That level of paranoid xenophobia is criminal.

World leaders are deciding what our response will be, what our responsibilities are.

In the meantime, PACT remains one of the few aid organizations with teams in Burma, with access and directly able to deliver aid where it's needed.

So please support PACT's efforts
.
The Burmese people must know there is concern, the world has not stood by once again.

Thank you and please spread the word.

c

Thursday, May 08, 2008

Villages vanished



From: Erica Tubbs
Sent: Thu 5/8/2008 11:32 AM
To: Newhall, Sarah

Our assessment team came back from the hardest hit areas of Bogale and Laputta yesterday and immediately brought home the message that food and clean water were essential.

They cut their mission short to ensure that the response could be ramped up immediately and that supplies could begin to flow. As we sat in the dark office without electricity listening to their report- perhaps we were all half-way still reflecting on our own tragedies. No water, favorite trees and gardens destroyed, houses without roofs or in the case of many in the Yangon office entire trees in the middle of our family rooms.

But then came the quieter stories. The stories mentioned in the hall or to individuals in a whisper. Stories about entire villages vanished. About the boats that couldn't pass the small tributaries because of floating bodies. About the man who threw himself in front of the vehicle as the team was leaving Bogale shouting "please hit me! I don't want to live anymore!"

And then we began to realize... the scope of this tragedy can never be about a single sorrow. It's just too big.

Burma: photos of the impact, the impacted



More of PACT's photos from Burma are here

PACT is on the ground in Burma, please help their relief efforts with your donation.

c


The only wisdom we can hope to acquire

Is the wisdom of humility: humility is endless.

The houses are all gone under the sea.

ts eliot, from Four Quarters

Burma - help



The news from Burma, what little can get out, is appalling - it is now estimated that over 100,000 have died due to the cyclone. Rangoon is without power, many regions remain - days since the cyclone - still submerged, there isn't adequate drinking water and petrol is in short supply. Despite this, Rangoon's airport sits practically empty - most relief teams have not been issued permits and planes filled with disaster-relief experts and desperately needed supplies remain grounded, the Burmese government will not allow them to land.

Sarah Newhall
(my step-mother) runs PACT - a global community building, aid organizing and community-level impacting organization of enormous reach and integrity. PACT also happens to have been working in Burma for over a decade, with a number of development projects already flourishing including HIV/AIDS prevention and micro-lending programs specifically in the delta areas hit hardest by the cyclone. While the access of most organizations remains, for the time being, blocked by the military government, PACT is in place and so uniquely positioned to truly effect change and implement the aid immediately.

Please contribute what you can to PACT's initiative and pass this post along to friends and colleagues so that they may do the same. (For PACT's tracking purposes, please mention this blog.)




(In Burma in 1997, I trekked outside government boundaries into Shan State; I spent time in a Palong village. The Burmese were to a man/woman/child: kind, hopeful, resourceful – they stole my heart. The tragedies they've known, perpetrated by their own people - ignored by the world, have wrought a nation of all-too-human souls. Demanding aid without implementers, the Burmese government has essentially charged us as global citizens to get step in. The Burmese people must know the world cares deeply, and right the wrongs of our historical inaction.)

Monday, May 05, 2008

(the flowers)


Fields of them, hands not big enough to make the hug-span bouquet I would have liked.

Now I wish for wildflower fields adjacent to the west village.
The green market seems thin, their bundles stingy...

c - pollen 'neath my nails

(have begun a site of my photos, that will soon include writing too. It's here: www.courtneypyle.com)

big sky (out there)



Returned last night from this place, though I can't believe it.

I can be here (city, evening coming on, npr rattling away, small of super's smoke as he re-bags the trash in the courtyard),

36 hours ago have been there (uncle tommy's ranch, 1-1/2 hours from Boise where, this time in the evening, me, huffing up the hill, gathering lupine...)

c - grateful for it all

Friday, April 25, 2008

Get your poem


Another slow-to-post one, this one time-sensitive, April-specific:

Just a few days left to sign up for a poem-a-day email from Borzio press.

To tide you till that kicks in, your Friday one:

...

I sink back upon the ground, expecting to die. A voice speaks out of my ear, You are not
going to die, you are being changed into a zebra. You will have black and white stripes
up and down your back and you will love people as you do not now. That is why you
will be changed into a zebra that people will tame and exhibit in a zoo. You will be a
favorite among children and you will love the children in return whom you do not love
now. Zoo keepers will make a pet of you because of your round, sad eyes and musical
bray, and you will love your keeper as you do not now. All is well, then, I tell myself
silently, listening to the voice in my ear speak to me of my future. And what will happen
to you, voice in my ear, I ask silently, and the answer comes at once: I will be your
gentle, musical bray that will help you as a zebra all your days. I will mediate between
the world and you, and I will learn to love you as a zebra whom I did not love as a
human being.

David Ignatow from New & Collected Poems, 1970-1985

(Good prose poem place to start is Great American Prose Poems, Poe to Present, edited by David Lehman)

c - in rhyme


Wedded rocks, and not yet said

Wedded Rocks, Rolfe Horn

There's been so much going on, why not start amidst, the links will come.

This is not my photo, I saw it at a gathering of photo galleries in the city a few weeks back.

There's a story there, there are stories everywhere and their not-telling is making me anxious.

Same anxious of when I was 7 and mom and dad started me and Linds on diaries and all of a sudden it would be Sunday, last record the previous Monday, and the enormity of what needed recording paralyzed (little) me.

Bird by bird.

So - a photo from a show I've seen.

And here we go.
Birds to follow.

c - amidst the flock

Tuesday, April 22, 2008

Satyagraha


Sadhu, Pashupatinath Khatmandu feb 2005

Mostly I'm a musical ostrich these days, but this found me.

Philip Glass + Ghandi + Tolstoy + Tagore + Bhagavagita + opera (+ puppets in the current performance) = Satyagraha.

I don't think I'll be able to get a ticket to see it, the Met's run is over soon and sold out, but I've got the CD...

c - listening

Sunday, March 30, 2008

Lindsey's 35th



March 30th - Linds' birth launched spring.

She left when she was 33, two weeks after that birthday, so it's two years gone. Linds and I were a year and 10 months apart, which means (quick math) I was almost 35 when Linds died.

Which feels then like some strange circle closing.

Which means?

What I gather from the circle described by two sisters turning 35, is simply that she's still here, out there, and as constant as she ever was. Her own birth constellation of Breach Candy Hospital, Ward ___, March 30th 1973 (our constellations are neighboring, in the born-in-Bombay-in-the-early-70's celestial district) remains part of the universal memory, no more or less fixed than mine and eternal. And in a way I hadn’t expected, Lindsey is growing up with me now and we're in step except she keeps pace on a cosmic scale, her perspective vaster and so she's watching over us as she grows in lightness.

In this photo (a visit to Oyster Bay and Mimi) Linds has a sureness and a calmness I like. I imagine what more years would have brought. I think that if I listen maybe I can hear, maybe Hudson hears.

Happy happy birthday Linds. Don't fall asleep in the cake.

Love
ctp

Friday, February 29, 2008

Dad, Liberia, a school and Linds


Dad was in Liberia just now. Among other projects and reasons for being there (dad always has many), he was visiting the school far outside of Monrovia that's due to open this spring, and in the name of my sister - Lindsey.

It takes hours and a solid seat to reach the site - one of the reasons the school is so needed, so necessary there - off the grid puts it precisely where it can best serve the unserved, or under-served, school children. Liberia is building itself and schools are topping its agenda - president Ellen Johnson-Sirleaf is making them priority.



Much more to say but for now I start with introductions, and leave you with Dad's amazing album of the journey here.

C - with so many men to toast tonight (and an early flight to catch)

Scheduling (could be fine)


I leave tomorrow (so early it's a crime I'm blogging at all) for the Dominican Republic and a week with my aunt Snooze, uncle John, cousin Susanna and cousin Susanna's husband Keith.

Which I mention only because there's a lot here to be caught up and I don't know the extent of internet down there. (Or if I should even care, really, and be that person wandering with laptop aloft seeking signal by the pool bar.)

So posts may be spotty, or partial, or not at all.

C - letting you know before I go

Thursday, February 28, 2008

Visiting Grandpop


Last week I visited my Grandpop in Georgia - this 92 year old gentleman with the serious expression but smiles in him. Grandpop lives in a house at the edge of a marsh on 5 mile strip of land, connected to state +country by a causeway (guarded by gatekeepers) and called Sea Island.

Grandpop and Grandma (at his side for more than 65 of his 92 years) were the steady center around which our expanding, contracting and occasionally splintering family moved. But despite Grandpop and my shared 36 years, we'd never had the one-on-one time we did this trip.

Conversationally, we criss-crossed the familiar ground of sacred family stories (thesecond Bombay Christmas when Santa came on the camel) and re-sketched the family's characters. We talked of the present: Hillary, the elections (Grandpop, an independent centrist I suppose, will back McCain - a "Navy man"), his upcoming trip to Portugal, where to dine Monday and what kind of sandwich we'd get at Subway on the way home from the hospital (and had I noted where it was when I drove in?)

Mornings I visited the hospital with The NY Times, Brunswick Paper and mail, then left him to nap around lunch and returned by 6:30 for bedside cocktails and the news. Grandpop had sherry in a sippy cup with straw that Susanna smuggled in, I had red wine and we snacked from a tin of cocktail nuts that sat on the tray table between us. Drinks with Grandpop – I have never, yet, felt more grown up. It was heady and it was profound.

And the reason I'm only now starting to write about the visit is I haven't managed to define that "profound". Amidst my mid-life seeking stage (hearkening back to adolescent existential phase but with more empirical evidence, and in english) I'd hoped Grandpop had the meaning of it all wrapped and ready for me to take home. If I could hear it from this man I respect, have known my life, whose values are mine (but finer) - that would be something.

But we didn't get there, though I did learn a little more about Quakers, what he thinks of hospital-sent chaplains and his favorite city. When I picked up Grandpop Saturday, stopped for our Subway mixed cheese and ham sandwich and brought him home, he was a fragile thing I helped from the car. It was me - inadequate to this, not equipped for this level of responsibility, the minding of our family's don.

Grandpop napped most of the first day. He moved from the couch to the deck and fell asleep by the pool with his hands resting across his chest and his head fallen forward. I worried he'd sunburn and rustled about with my shells to wake him. I made plates of lunch for us - the sandwich split, chips and arnold palmers - then he napped some more.


And we made little patterns around one another as he gained strength, returned to his desk to sort papers, received guests and check-in with friends. Every morning I woke early and worried for as long as I didn't see him and his door remained closed. He resumed preparing his morning hot chocolate and his exercises. I went to the beach to run and collect sand dollars and Grandpop napped.

So there it is. Not a big tale and no moral. I flew out Tuesday, leaving Grandpop with Aunt Snooze and John. He now has a woman coming in a few hours a few days a week to help with errands and housework. No one could sell him on around-the-clock - to abdicate his privacy. He's toured the local nursing home but prefers (adamantly) to stay in his home and keep to his independence and patterns. I see that I would be the same, I would want to hold onto life as I lived it, the spaces familiar and still visited by memories and ghosts. I wouldn't seek group outings or meal plans.


On his wrist Grandpop wears an alert bracelet with a button that, I guess, contacts a medical team. Worrying he'd fall again (which had landed him in the hospital), one of us (delicately) asked the obvious :

"What if you fall and can't hit the button and you're alone, no one to hear?"

"Well," said Grandpop, "then that's that isn't it?"

He had a twinkle and the start of a smile when he said it. And he made us laugh.

C – sending love to my grandfather, and toasting his sippy cup

Wednesday, February 13, 2008

Mrs. Stephenson's Hot Chocolate Sauce

Because it's lousy bitter and I'm going south to see my grandfather tomorrow:
my grandmother's recipe for Hot Chocolate Sauce. Grandma would have podcasted had this had been her era.

The recipe arrived last week, like a thin blue airmail letter that folded into its own envelope - an unexpected email from an old family friend who thought to copy me.
(worrying I'd one evening sit before a large bowl, vanilla barely visible beneath its cloak of chocolate and, tasting, declare there was something uncannily familiar...)



Mrs. Stephenson's Hot Chocolate Sauce
,
Requested by Judy Manley in VT (house in this month's Martha Stewart mag)

Combine in heavy sauce pan & stir till dissolved:
1 1/2 cup sugar
3 T. butter (or oleo--from the '50s)
4 oz Chocolate (Baker's unsweetened dark)
1 cup heavy cream

Boil these without stirring for 7 minutes Add 1 tsp vanilla
Keep hot in double boiler

.....

c - wishing sweet dreams and about-face return to the era of recipe cards

Wednesday, January 16, 2008

Wild Dogs + Anatolian shepherds

Report from Diyarbarker -

Besides the good news that they're well (and so reporting), this takes you MH + Micah-side:


"The wild dogs are like anatolian shepherds
and try and herd our car.
"


C - in a land of leashes

Tuesday, January 15, 2008

Coffee in Diyarbakr




For MH + Micah in Turkey:
Men you might meet
in Diyarbakr.

(buy the first round).

Safe travels.

C

English



“Diamonds decorated jewelry,
which was majestically stirring tremors of sweetness
and pleasantries deep down in the realms
of the future brides seemed to have been transformed
into storms of unabated passions…

Thrust of foreign ladies was showing unbound curiosity
and eagerness with which they were capturing
every glimpse of glittering magic of the
jewelry and imprisoning mesmerizing power
of these sets of ornaments.”

Review of jewelry exhibition in Islamabad in The Nation (India)

This is just lightness for a gray day -
a reminder of the abundance of our tongue...

c - given to stirring tremors of sweetness

Monday, January 14, 2008

Snow Day (if)



Last night it snowed.
But not the 6-12" predicted. Just 2", a tidying blanket, the quick work of a set decorator producing maximum effect with no budget allotted for winter scenes. A little melt and we'll return to the muddiness of the weekend, of driveways tracked across roads and car windows blurred with grime.

It's still snowing but slowly now, with spaces and pauses between each flake. Not far there must be an outer edge where I can straddle a weather front.

The schools must be open. Such sad little faces over cereal this morning.

The test will happen.

The tormented meet her tormentor.

The assistant will have to discuss Macbeth's motives.

The game will be played.

The cook's least favorite menu: lasagna, veg and meat, will have to be layered.

On account of cramps the early-to-develop 5th grader will sit out the pass and dribble drill during basketball practice.

The librarian will not give a grace day.

Mrs. Ascher's class's papers on Africa's plain animals will be due.

Logistics for the Model UN Delegates' Hartford trip will be ironed out.

Mr. Evans will meet Ms. Bailey in the second floor Latin classroom, empty for the 3 weeks that Mr. Schiller's classics class are on the Ephesus dig.

The Janitor will have to face the bathrooms used during Saturday's rally.

The senior will sit before the college adviser (and foreign film coordinator) and devise a back-up list, and consider an extra year. (The senior's grandfather, a Princeton man, will be rolling over, somewhere.)

The trainer will ice the star squash player's knee, and discuss Hillary.

The papers will be graded and Rachel's will convince her to major in art history at Barnard. (Rachel will flounder in the field. Her paper was mediocre and marked blindly late Sunday night when the teacher, depressed by the bleakness of her life, was on the second bottle of red.)

The Biology teacher will stretch his department's budget by having his students work a few more days on the fetal pig's own heart rather than purchasing sheep hearts separately. (Jill will be sick.)

Mrs. Hunt's First Grader's pea sprouts in styrofoam cups will be observed in their 19th day of being in the world (a heavier snow and the day would go unremarked, and no measurements noted under Monday, Jan. 14th on the clipboards that hang below each).

Fourth Grader John will finally get the hang of tracing amphoras and finish cutting the felt design for his toga's edge (the Greek Olympics will be held in April).
(Campbell would have liked to help John, she'd finished her border of lyres in last week, but he hadn't asked and she'd been given all the ironing to do.)

Mary Katherine, mother of Brad will have to skip her Bikram class to pick up Brad from jujitsu. (She'll do the Tuesday 6am Iyengar class.)

Bailey's Dad will have to get the report printed and bound himself because his secretary (Meredith) had counted on the weather channel and embedded herself and her new boyfriend in the Catskills where they were snowed in. Bailey's Dad will Google "Xerox, nyc" and discover a Kinkos in the opposite direction of the meeting but not far from the Apple Store. He will buy a nano while the reports are collating.

And Peggy won't go in at all. She's sick.

c - liking snow

Notebooks


a page from Borges' notebook


Since 12/27 I've maintained a morning routine that's filled 51 standard-ruled spiral-bound pages with, well, writing.

I read a book for unblocking the creative "x" and liked its primary rule:
Write
Every
Morning

Do this for 12 weeks (do this for life).
If you do nothing else (in this book, in your creative pursuits, with your god-given talents), do this.

Okay, I thought,
and bought a Staples 3 pack.
I did this first and quickly (aware that I fetishize the tools, I did not go to Sam Flax). I resign myself to $1.99 ball-points, worker-pens.

(In 2008: sometimes the stamps will be plain, the reply too short, the language awkward, the gift generic. Sometimes, I won’t have anything to say.)

Now rich with a sheaf of marked pages I've begun to wonder about what's next. Wither my minutia.

...

"Don't you write every morning?" asked Able.

(I'd complained about nothing to read at Wednesday's writer's open mike.)

"Yes but it’s ramblings . What’s VALUE, how do I cut this in favor of that??"

"Aren't there people who do that for you?" Able suggests.

....

Can we say: It's not enough to create if the world doesn't see?

(So many notebooks, emails saved and hard-drives filled.)

In this fatted, unsentimental age, who publishes the ancestral love letters?

C (who'd like to leave traces too, and have a chance to stand on deck)

Monday, December 31, 2007

Wishing everyone

Cedars en route to Kalimpong
En route to Kalimpong (India)


"I can't find a single word for all that significance,
and I don't know what it was significant of,
so there it remains,
a mere boulder of impression..."

- Henry James, in a letter 1898



C - wishing all a new year of impressing signifiers and inscrutable boulders

I want to say


Haylie + Peter's barn, me in the window - this morning as I wandered away from shoveling

happy new year to all.

A few fo