Precious as comedy

I've just come from watching "Precious" in West Philly, in a full house that was 90% black. Interesting audience responses, so different from my own. For the first half of the film, the theater was raucous, as folks talked among themselves and laughed at people, situations and lines they could (I imagine) relate to. But the second half played very differently, as the horror and triumph of Precious became clear. The audience seemed held spellbound; at least, there was no noise, none. Afterwards, I heard three 20+ black women debating the emotional realism of the film. I was too stunned to get that kind of distance.

If you haven't yet, go see it.

Poetry helps me through my normal existential angst, connects me to others in a deep way, and gets the brain neurons associating in some unfamiliar ways. The more difficult the poem, the better it helps me to be fully in the moment, so I was delighted but not surprised to hear Karen Armstrong (check out the November 8th podcast of Speaking of Faith on NPR) say that theology is poetry.

Last Wednesday, our little group of poetry buffs took a close look at Elizabeth Bishop's "In the Waiting Room." If you haven't read it in a while, please do so online before reading Bishop's prose version, below:

After New Year's, Aunt Jenny had to go to the dentist, and asked me to go with her. She left me in the waiting room, and gave me a copy of the National Geographic to look at. It was still getting dark early, and the room had grown very dark. There was a big yellow lamp in one corner, a table with magazines, and an overhead chandelier of sorts. There were others waiting, two men and a plump middle-aged lady, all bundled up. I looked at the magazine cover--I could read most of the words--shiny, glazed, yellow and white. The black letters said: February 1918. A feeling of absolute and utter desolation came over me. I felt---myself. In a few days it would be my seventh birthday. I felt I, I, I, and looked at the three strangers in panic. I was one of them too, inside my scabby body and wheezing lungs. "You're in for it, now," something said. How had I got tricked into such a false position? I would be like that woman opposite who smiled at me so falsely every once in a while. The awful sensation passed, then it came back again. "You are you," something said. "How strange you are, inside looking out. You are not Beppo, or the chestnut tree, or Emma, you are you and you are going to be you forever." It was like coasting downhill, this thought, only much worse, and it quickly smashed into a tree. Why was I a human being? --1961, from The Collected Prose

My question for you is, do any of you remember when you discovered that you were you, or that you were human?

say what? a whole year has passed?

And here the Phillies are in the World Series again, though this time seems tougher. The Yanks possess an arrogance that Philadephians match with an inferiority complex of our own, all the more reason for the team to stay tough!

Obama? Presidents have less power than people seem to think. Some days, I wish that Hillary had won. Most days, though, I admire the courage he shows in not reacting too quickly. It takes a real man to take the time to think before acting.

Stay tuned: I'd love to reflect on poems I'm reading, on the rise in urban anxiety (is there more crime or only more anxiety about it?), on getting older (does anyone even mention the intermittent terror of it?).

One week ago tonight, the Phillies won the World Series.  Last night, the whole of the country got to share the euphoria that comes from winning after hardly daring to hope.  After thirty-six years (I turned 21 in 1970), my internal hope machine feels a bit rusty; while I was happy when Carter was elected (the Democrats' first win in my voting life), the earnest peanut farmer from Georgia did not inspire us the way Obama does.  And while Bill Clinton brought some familiar music and boomer glamour to the White House, his tenure was not without some deep embarrassments (for his family and for his supporters). Whatever failures Obama experiences, let's hope that they're not personal.  

For this man has the ability to move us all--political leaders and plain citizens--to act for our country and for the common good.  He embodies the first principle of Unitarian-Universalism, which is to affirm and respect the dignity and worth of every individual.  And he can build on his empathy and ambition both--to become a great leader who carries the legacy of some great leaders before him: Abraham Lincoln, Mohatmas Ghandi, JFK, Malcolm X and Martin Luther King.  May it be so.

Long Island Blues

We're just home from a manic drive through Long Island.  OMG--how do people live there?  Crazy drivers going 40 in the middle lane while other crazies zig-zag around them.  Did stop to see the Gilbert and George exhibit at the Brooklyn Museum of Art--the young Latina woman in the gift store supporting the show asked me if I like them and seemed both surprised and pleased when I said "yes."  She likes that they're unafraid to tackle topics that most people won't; I like that they formed a basis for their lives (life?) as artists way back in the early 70s and have stuck to it, suits and all.  I also approve their refusal to do Abstract Expressionism, especially now that I know that they were the first to do so.  Some of their epic pictures are beautiful, some are ugly, much like the world is right now.  A worthwhile stop.

On the dark/downside, our new Tom-tom gps routed us through lower Manhattan, a total nightmare.  We drove right past ground zero, which continues to look like a ground up mess.  

Frazzled?  Indeed, although we do have an Abyssinian kitten picked out, and we did have a great night full of sidecars and steaks and great baseball.  And the drive up Jones Beach wasn't bad either.

Sara meets Al Bundy and Bill Clinton.  Toddy prophesies Armageddon, the end times for the earth without a rapture.  Shauna writes of daily miracles in coffee shops.  How did we get so lucky?  Blogs have done what no writing teacher has ever mastered: they've got people hooked on writing with passion on topics that matter to them.  Fortunately, for most of us, there seems to be an audience of one or two or seven, certainly enough to keep the juices flowing (not in a sexual way, mind you).  

So today I lift up for your consideration the Phillies, a team that's only won a World Series once, 28 years ago, a team whose fans are legion.  While it's true that the Tampa Bay team has never won a Series, they've only been trying for a mere decade.  Let's root together for the one-time miracle to repeat itself.

inspired by sara

Sara is setting off on a quest to find sanity in the heartland (without losing her own).  I know this because I read her blog about it.  How great is that?

Michigan is a good place to go, especially when one has roots there.  In fact, I'm tempted to go, too, except that I already live in a swing state.  Guess the work can be done at home, eh?  Except that my home is blue, surrounded by red.  So to work at getting Obama elected, I'll have to use the dreaded telephone or take a bus out where I can staunch some blood.

Vote Obama: he may not be your first choice, but he's the only choice.  At least if you care about the constitution and the country's welfare.