I meant Diana Rigg. Even better.
Wednesday, January 31, 2007
And Potter on Extras
Forgot to add that Daniel Radcliffe was on "Extras" last Sunday, the HBO comedy series by the guy who made The Office, Ricky Gervais. Radcliffe played himself as Harry Potter, but off-stage he was trying to pick up older women, bragging about owning cigarettes, and flaunting the condom he owned, which he accidentally snapped and which landed on the head of nearby Diana Rigg. "Oh, Daniel, go away," she said at one point. Quite funny.
Naked Potter
http://theblemish.com/2007/01/daniel-radcliffe-loves-horses/
A little back story perhaps. I think Equus was the first play I ever saw on Broadway. The run had been on for some time and the psychiatrist role was played at that time by Tony Perkins. I bought one of the half-price tickets at the TKTS booth and found out upon arriving that the seat was actually on the stage itself. (They're using the same staging device in London, and those tickets are going to be the hardest to get, I'd imagine. Also, Richard Griffiths is playing the psychiatrist. He's the portly -- ok, fat -- man who won such acclaim in The History Boys in the role of the overaffectionate teacher. Jotto ran screaming at the thought.) Equus is such a good play; Mennonite boys probably can relate to it, the complications of coming to terms with sexuality, the repressed sexuality of the father, etc. At the time, it was a a more vivid representation of sexuality than anything I'd seen. And when the red-haired girl came on stage topless, right in front of my face more or less, well... I didn't know such things were done. I was completely unprepared. I am writing up something about the films of 2006 that I'm going to post on ebertfest.blogspot.com in the next day or so. I've been relishing all the Mexican movies, on the screen and on DVD. Saw an Arturo Ripstein movie from 2006 today, Perdicion de los Hombres, that knocked it out of the park, IMHO, to categorize a movie that is nominally about baseball. And he's virtually unknown in the U.S., although he worked with Buñuel. Cuaron (Children of Men -- best Mexican movie out now, although Pan's Labyrinth is also good) acknowledges his debt to Ripstein. Sorry to bore you with this. Just thinking aloud. Carry on.
A little back story perhaps. I think Equus was the first play I ever saw on Broadway. The run had been on for some time and the psychiatrist role was played at that time by Tony Perkins. I bought one of the half-price tickets at the TKTS booth and found out upon arriving that the seat was actually on the stage itself. (They're using the same staging device in London, and those tickets are going to be the hardest to get, I'd imagine. Also, Richard Griffiths is playing the psychiatrist. He's the portly -- ok, fat -- man who won such acclaim in The History Boys in the role of the overaffectionate teacher. Jotto ran screaming at the thought.) Equus is such a good play; Mennonite boys probably can relate to it, the complications of coming to terms with sexuality, the repressed sexuality of the father, etc. At the time, it was a a more vivid representation of sexuality than anything I'd seen. And when the red-haired girl came on stage topless, right in front of my face more or less, well... I didn't know such things were done. I was completely unprepared. I am writing up something about the films of 2006 that I'm going to post on ebertfest.blogspot.com in the next day or so. I've been relishing all the Mexican movies, on the screen and on DVD. Saw an Arturo Ripstein movie from 2006 today, Perdicion de los Hombres, that knocked it out of the park, IMHO, to categorize a movie that is nominally about baseball. And he's virtually unknown in the U.S., although he worked with Buñuel. Cuaron (Children of Men -- best Mexican movie out now, although Pan's Labyrinth is also good) acknowledges his debt to Ripstein. Sorry to bore you with this. Just thinking aloud. Carry on.
Why Spanish is easier than English
Pronounce these words:
beard, bowl, cave, come, food, gone, wand, watch, weight.
Pronounce these words:
heard, howl, have, home, hood, hone, hand, hatch, height.
beard, bowl, cave, come, food, gone, wand, watch, weight.
Pronounce these words:
heard, howl, have, home, hood, hone, hand, hatch, height.
Saturday, January 27, 2007
Friday, January 26, 2007
A Fine Madness
I can watch.
Old movie reviewer habit.
Experience and process at same time.
Don't know about "best minds of my generation" label.
(Won't dispute the plural, though.)
No "angry fix at dawn."
But the howl returns.
The Return of the Howl.
Watching the madness sink in.
Seeing the American lies.
Unable to go along, fit in.
Unable, or maybe -- I admit it -- unwilling, to remain silent.
Have to write that review.
It's a calling, without reprieve, until I can relocate
Someplace where I won't understand,
Where the syllables are too new, too foreign,
To carry implication or inflection.
Not that there won't be lies.
But I can watch again,
Like a child
And almost believe.
Old movie reviewer habit.
Experience and process at same time.
Don't know about "best minds of my generation" label.
(Won't dispute the plural, though.)
No "angry fix at dawn."
But the howl returns.
The Return of the Howl.
Watching the madness sink in.
Seeing the American lies.
Unable to go along, fit in.
Unable, or maybe -- I admit it -- unwilling, to remain silent.
Have to write that review.
It's a calling, without reprieve, until I can relocate
Someplace where I won't understand,
Where the syllables are too new, too foreign,
To carry implication or inflection.
Not that there won't be lies.
But I can watch again,
Like a child
And almost believe.
Thursday, January 25, 2007
The report
They straggled in, one by one. The Admiral, bearing root beer and manna, was punctual. TW brought grandchild pictures, extra Michigan hoodoo (ineffectual) and tales of Earlopia's holey ears. PG, distracted and distraught as usual, revealed a new deck of cards made of tissue paper. Spike came next, late but enthusiastic, having told his wife he was "at work."
The games began without JD, who seemed to have ditched out, but was later revealed to be singing tenor in a band of heavenly hosts in the hopes of coming late to the game and wiping up. This proved to be accurate. With music still ringing in his ears, he arrived with only 20 minutes left to play and he plowed ahead, taking many pots and even betting heavily in the anarchy round! Which he won, besting PG's somewhat salacious explanation of the Lesbian Queens.
Before JD arrived, he was much the object of discussion. Were there castrati in his choir? Was he trying to steal the game away from 206 Wood? Had he called the IRS about the gambling winnings?
Giving JD the benefit of the doubt, the Admiral dealt all of JD's usual favorite games: lo-ball, best flush, hi-ball... It turns out, the game missed JD... up until he actually showed up.
All the new games were attempted again. Black Mariah was disappointing, as was any game in which the pot had to be split. Spike expressed contempt for Midnight Baseball, claiming that no skill was involved, but probably just because he lost.
There were many interesting combinations of cards revealed, many hands of great coincidence (which all slip PG's mind at the moment), and new attempts at bluffing. It would seem bluffing skills are finally being honed, although at one point Spike completely lost his poker face once again.
The many other tales of the evening will be hidden away in PG's heart (or failing memory), unless someone wants to add stories to this report. As it turned out, PG did not teach the following morning, but was given other complications and exasperation to contend with in the chilly morning, tales to be recounted next Thursday, God and weather willing.
Wednesday, January 24, 2007
In the classroom
I smell moth balls, the girl snapping gum says upon seeing me.
She and the red-haired guy discuss their alphabetical afflictions and related medications, outdoing each other: ADHD, OCD, ODD, things I'd never heard of. No one listens to the teacher, who patiently taps the chalkboard.
Later, crying, knocking over the desk, the red-haired guy is taken from the room.
As a substitute aide in the room, I barely glance up from my crossword puzzle. It being Tuesday, there was nothing to it.
Tuesday, January 23, 2007
Nothing works
January 22 is the most depressing day of the year, a scientist claims.
I'm pretty sure I fit the description of clinically depressed right now. Apart from the time spent thinking about how I want to be buried (green, in the backyard, absolutely no casket or embalming, or cremation if legally necessary, ashes in ceramic urns), I guess I'm handling it pretty well.
A looming dread hovers over everything. Maybe if I figure out how to file my taxes from last year, I'll be OK. I still haven't recovered from the four months and counting that the IRS and IDES have been snooping and wreaking upheaval in my life.
Today, I found someone to sub for me on my daily delivery route. If it works out, it will be the first time in more than a year. I'll spend most of today sitting in my office, worrying about how things are going on the route, so it probably doesn't count as time off exactly. But maybe it is setting things up for future relief.
Our dog died last week, suddenly and without warning. I stopped using nicotine. That really depressed me.
I woke up in the middle of the night last night, in the middle of a dream about San Francisco. Someone was taking money out of my wallet. I felt sorry for the person more than for myself. It depressed me to catch someone doing something so sad.
April will soon come. Then I can start sneezing again. My eyes will water. But, for a change, it won't be tears, just allergies. Not sure if that, or anything, really matters.
Prayer? Well, let's just say I googled the Time Magazine cover from 1967 and made it my desktop wallpaper.
I'm pretty sure I fit the description of clinically depressed right now. Apart from the time spent thinking about how I want to be buried (green, in the backyard, absolutely no casket or embalming, or cremation if legally necessary, ashes in ceramic urns), I guess I'm handling it pretty well.
A looming dread hovers over everything. Maybe if I figure out how to file my taxes from last year, I'll be OK. I still haven't recovered from the four months and counting that the IRS and IDES have been snooping and wreaking upheaval in my life.
Today, I found someone to sub for me on my daily delivery route. If it works out, it will be the first time in more than a year. I'll spend most of today sitting in my office, worrying about how things are going on the route, so it probably doesn't count as time off exactly. But maybe it is setting things up for future relief.
Our dog died last week, suddenly and without warning. I stopped using nicotine. That really depressed me.
I woke up in the middle of the night last night, in the middle of a dream about San Francisco. Someone was taking money out of my wallet. I felt sorry for the person more than for myself. It depressed me to catch someone doing something so sad.
April will soon come. Then I can start sneezing again. My eyes will water. But, for a change, it won't be tears, just allergies. Not sure if that, or anything, really matters.
Prayer? Well, let's just say I googled the Time Magazine cover from 1967 and made it my desktop wallpaper.
Monday, January 22, 2007
The Wire
Yesterday, I left to deliver papers around 3:30 am. I had coffee, some cake, music, movies. It took me less than an hour to get stuck. Last summer, a customer had paved an elevated asphalt drive to their place and my tires -- which slipped over to deliver the paper -- couldn't overcome the ridge to get back on the road. AAA put me on hold, wore down the phone battery, and then told me it would take six hours to reach me. The News-Gazette wasn't in the office. The neighbors nearby were on vacation in Hawaii. The policeman I finally reached was off-duty and couldn't help me either.
At least I had my DVD player. I watched The Wire.
It is the best television program of all time, I think. I've now seen all four seasons, although I watched them out of order, which made them even more entrancing.
If Six Feet Under was essentially a melodramatic comedy, The Wire is Shakespearean tragedy. Each season has been devastating, rich and real, unlike anything else I've ever seen on television. Watching a season is like becoming immersed in a great novel, a Dostoevsky, philosophical, moral, complex, searing. Some teachers have had to stop watching the fourth season; the heartbreak and the recognition of the middle school system was entirely too real, too hopeless. No happy endings for these kids you come to know and root for. No, that would be too easy, too Hollywood.
I don't know how many times I've felt like Charlton Hesston at the end of Planet of the Apes, pounding the sand with my fists and cursing what humanity has done, whether in the war or in the public school system. Damn them to hell.
I finished the third season yesterday, the season during which a police major decides to do something about the drug problem by moving the traffic to "free zone" corners, making the old neighborhoods safe again. The areas he creates, which the dealers call "Hamsterdam," essentially legalize drugs, and when the politicians and captains find out, of course it cannot last. Not that it is ideal. The free zones are a perfect vision of hell.
Anyway, eventually I found a neighbor after dawn -- a UI professor who lives in the country and doesn't know how to use the four-wheel drive on his SUV -- willing to drive me back to Urbana, where I rounded up another car, a chain, and Miles and Lee to accompany me. I pulled the car out myself, then let Lee and Miles return home while I continued delivering newspapers. I got done around 1 p.m.
Long shift. I broke a side mirror when I slid into another mailbox and I got stuck another couple of times, but I managed to maneuver my way out. One could say it is a daily effort, extracting myself from the abyss.
At least I had my DVD player. I watched The Wire.
It is the best television program of all time, I think. I've now seen all four seasons, although I watched them out of order, which made them even more entrancing.
If Six Feet Under was essentially a melodramatic comedy, The Wire is Shakespearean tragedy. Each season has been devastating, rich and real, unlike anything else I've ever seen on television. Watching a season is like becoming immersed in a great novel, a Dostoevsky, philosophical, moral, complex, searing. Some teachers have had to stop watching the fourth season; the heartbreak and the recognition of the middle school system was entirely too real, too hopeless. No happy endings for these kids you come to know and root for. No, that would be too easy, too Hollywood.
I don't know how many times I've felt like Charlton Hesston at the end of Planet of the Apes, pounding the sand with my fists and cursing what humanity has done, whether in the war or in the public school system. Damn them to hell.
I finished the third season yesterday, the season during which a police major decides to do something about the drug problem by moving the traffic to "free zone" corners, making the old neighborhoods safe again. The areas he creates, which the dealers call "Hamsterdam," essentially legalize drugs, and when the politicians and captains find out, of course it cannot last. Not that it is ideal. The free zones are a perfect vision of hell.
Anyway, eventually I found a neighbor after dawn -- a UI professor who lives in the country and doesn't know how to use the four-wheel drive on his SUV -- willing to drive me back to Urbana, where I rounded up another car, a chain, and Miles and Lee to accompany me. I pulled the car out myself, then let Lee and Miles return home while I continued delivering newspapers. I got done around 1 p.m.
Long shift. I broke a side mirror when I slid into another mailbox and I got stuck another couple of times, but I managed to maneuver my way out. One could say it is a daily effort, extracting myself from the abyss.
Bourgeois
I'm looking through you, the Beatles sang. Where did you go? Without intending to, somehow getting snared on the Sixties notions of "plastic" and "phony," (Mothers of Invention: "Are you hung up?"), I boho'd myself over decades into a veritable no-game plan. Some ass recently cursed me by calling me "bourgeois." Hmm. Took me by surprise. Bit of a chuckle really, a pot-kettle-black encounter. I should have taken it as a compliment, but one I could never live up to. Yes, the emperor is transparent. No mindreading necessary. You may not think you are your clothes, but everything is there upon your sleeve. Your disguise is your revelation. Costumes are nakedness. In my lack of appropriate visual representation, I can look back upon years and years of short-term positions and a dearth of professional employment. Nobody wants to be around someone who will not or cannot play the game. Curse or blessing? I haven't yet decided, but I'm leaning toward blessing. At least, if I can get through winter. Contrary to popular belief, some people really don't dress in drag. They don't have a social face. They may be as much game-playing, lying to themselves, egomaniacs as anybody else. Or they may be society's odd jesters, seeing through the masks and unable to resist popping bubbles. In the long run, though, doesn't this sad lot usually have their heads chopped off by those, the bourgeoisie, who can't bear to see themselves in the highly polished reflecting glass?
Sunday, January 21, 2007
Tuesday, January 16, 2007
Chat in Alemania
5:28 AM Andres : hola
me : hola, andres
que haces hoy?
5:31 AM Andres: no mucho
escribiendo ami familia.
5:33 AM me: tengo ganas de mover. hay empleo en ciudad guatemala y espero que puedo ganarlo.
Andres: guatemala.
muy bueno.
5:34 AM me: pero no se si es posible
Andres: te deceo mucha suerte
espero q lo logres
me: no empieza hasta el mayo. la posicion dura tres años.
5:35 AM gracias
Andres: denada!
me: te gusta el empleo en alemania?
Andres: si
pero el tiempo pasa muy rapido.
5:36 AM y ya solo faltan 8 meses
me: cuando regreses a colombia, que vas a hacer? escuela? una boda?
5:37 AM Andres: jaja
boda aun no
me: jaja
Andres: pero si estudiar.
si puedo ago la ingenieria de mi carrera.
y claro, empieso a estudiar englisch
5:38 AM me : entiendo de que leandro no sabe que debe hacer en estos dias... debo escribir en English ahora un poco?
Would you like it if I wrote in English?
Andres: un no, aun no.
5:39 AM me: jaja
Andres: nose si en tiendo.
pero creo q preguntas como esta mi ingles?
me: Vamos a experimentar
Andres: jajja.
me: She has a pretty face. Que quiere decir?
Andres: aver
5:40 AM quiero decir.
quiero aprender ingles.
me: She has a pretty face.
???
5:41 AM Andres: ? es asi?
eso traduce, quiero aprender ingles!
me: No.
She has a pretty face.... Ella tiene cara bonita.
Andres : si por q she es ella.
me: si
Andres: aaaaaaaaa
me: otro?
5:42 AM Andres: si
me: My stomach hurts.
Andres: tengo ambre?
me: Pues, puede ser...
Andres: o mi estomago, ruje?
me: Duele el estomago.
Andres: u casi.
me: Hurts ---> duele.
5:43 AM Andres: gut
me: I hurt my thumb.
???
Andres: u
noentiendo ninguna palabra
solo mi.
mi= my
me: Tengo dolor en la pulgada.
5:44 AM Andres: a
me: Thumb --> pulgada.
Pulgada es el dedo gordo, verdad?
Andres: casi
pulgar.
pulgada, es una medida.
5:45 AM q se hace con el pulgar.
me: Mi español no es el mejor del mundo tampoco.
Andres: jajaja
me: si, claro.
Andres: pero entiendes
me: usualmente
Andres: y eso es lo importante.
no, siempre entiendes.
5:46 AM puedeser q no con detalles pero entiendes bien
me: gracias
Andres : tu hablas un buen espanol.
5:47 AM sabes de ingles recuerdo, los pronombres personales.
y los numeros.
y tal cual palabra.
pero nose como se pronuncia.
me: por eso, quiero vivir donde se habla español. donde puedo nadar en un mundo de español. me gustaria vivir en colombia tambien.
Andres: tambien dedusco siertas palabras por q tienen parecido al aleman
5:48 AM jaja
eso seria super bueno.
me: para mi, es dificil el aleman
Andres: por q?
tiene la misma raiz q el ingles
5:49 AM son muy similares
u.
estarde. devo irme.
fue sabrosa hablar con tigo.
me: las palabras van en un orden que no entiendo. los nombres al final, los verbos al principio, o algo asi... no lo entiendo
Andres : jaja
me : si fue bien sabroso. hasta luego, andres....
Andres: si.
me: ciao
5:50 AM Andres: chao.
o
esmejor decir.
bey
me: bye
Andres: yo me conecto un rato. mas tarde.
como alas 6:00 pm de aqui.
5:51 AM espero encontrarte. para hablar mas.
me: no se lo que pasa aqui. te buscare sin embargo
Andres : a bueno.
bey
me: es
bye
es "bye"
5:52 AM Andres: o gracias.
bye
me: perfecto
--
God is best known in not knowing Him. -- St. Augustine
Monday, January 15, 2007
The Audit is Dead, Long Live the Audit
I can't work. When they call me to teach, I say "no." I can't write. No concentration. I can't play. I don't want to go out or visit anyone. Systematically, like poring over old gasoline receipts, I withdraw my involvement with other people. I sleep alone.
After four months of being scrutinized in detail by the IRS and the State of Illinois IDES (two separate audits, curiously simultaneous), I was right in my reporting of my income and expenses all along. But I had to fight for it. It took them four months to agree with what I had said all along. My accountant screamed at me, then resigned, and finally she herself was found to be the cause of any errors on the returns.
I am boring you. It is how my mind has grinded down to a pebble for the last third of a year, repeating the same llines, telling myself the same things, going over and over rules and laws and fine print so many times, the rut has left no possibility of alternative, of joy.
Nothing is left. A lonely walk down a long, narrow-walled rut. I was right. But they won.
And now, no, it isn't over. My wife screams at me, hates me, wants to escape. It is January. This thing has barely begun. I have two weeks before I have to file more papers, more 1099s to independent contractors, one month before I have to file the same papers to the federal govermnent, two weeks to sift through the 2006 papers, to decide whether to dissolve the corporation, to keep giving that little lecture/demonstration side project or just give it up, throw it away, be poorer than ever, try to earn so little they don't even care... wait, I had already done that, hadn't I?
It goes on and on. And it is all money, meaningless, ruinous. I don't even care about the money. I should have just let them take the $5,400 they originally demanded and smiled and said, "See you next year." and gone home and payed the minimum on my Visa bills and watched "24" and eaten popcorn. But, no, I had to try, at least, to be right, to understand, to give a fuck.
And it has left me with nothing.
Maybe it was random, as they kept insisting, but whatever it was, it would seem to be eternal.
Clear the table. It's time to look at the receipts. The accountant has resigned. She has Alzheimer's, I think. I'll bumble through. And then wait, wait, wait for the letter, telling me they're coming again. Maybe this time, they'll bring their waterboarding tools. They may as well go for my body. My mind and soul? Already gone.
After four months of being scrutinized in detail by the IRS and the State of Illinois IDES (two separate audits, curiously simultaneous), I was right in my reporting of my income and expenses all along. But I had to fight for it. It took them four months to agree with what I had said all along. My accountant screamed at me, then resigned, and finally she herself was found to be the cause of any errors on the returns.
I am boring you. It is how my mind has grinded down to a pebble for the last third of a year, repeating the same llines, telling myself the same things, going over and over rules and laws and fine print so many times, the rut has left no possibility of alternative, of joy.
Nothing is left. A lonely walk down a long, narrow-walled rut. I was right. But they won.
And now, no, it isn't over. My wife screams at me, hates me, wants to escape. It is January. This thing has barely begun. I have two weeks before I have to file more papers, more 1099s to independent contractors, one month before I have to file the same papers to the federal govermnent, two weeks to sift through the 2006 papers, to decide whether to dissolve the corporation, to keep giving that little lecture/demonstration side project or just give it up, throw it away, be poorer than ever, try to earn so little they don't even care... wait, I had already done that, hadn't I?
It goes on and on. And it is all money, meaningless, ruinous. I don't even care about the money. I should have just let them take the $5,400 they originally demanded and smiled and said, "See you next year." and gone home and payed the minimum on my Visa bills and watched "24" and eaten popcorn. But, no, I had to try, at least, to be right, to understand, to give a fuck.
And it has left me with nothing.
Maybe it was random, as they kept insisting, but whatever it was, it would seem to be eternal.
Clear the table. It's time to look at the receipts. The accountant has resigned. She has Alzheimer's, I think. I'll bumble through. And then wait, wait, wait for the letter, telling me they're coming again. Maybe this time, they'll bring their waterboarding tools. They may as well go for my body. My mind and soul? Already gone.
Monday, January 08, 2007
Dreams, God, and the IRS
I dreamed Susie, Beth, and I were in San Francisco, no Los Angeles, free from children, running through the seaside markets, I was dancing and singing with everybody, we were buying yogurt for breakfast and kicking up the sand, Susie and Beth left to go downtown, but couldn't find their way, I found them hours later and they were tired and had not gone far, we were trying to find a place to live in LA, I was free and blissful, but disappointed that my sisters were less happy and disoriented, unable to enjoy the freedom.
later some falling, bouncing satellite like things on parachutes landed in the sand. i told everyone to run to them, they would be filled with prizes. there were people distributing trinkets, toys, plastic bagatelles, and opening drawers, i watched carefully, and opened the right drawer, one of the workers in the satellite put his hand over my mouth so I wouldn't spoil the surprise, i barely glimpsed the piece of paper that said $20,000.
they took us inside the craft, Lee was there, they pulled money out of the vault and gave it to us. then they said we'd also get tickets in the grey zone to see the rolling stones on their next tour and i was excited, repeatedly saying "that's the best part", Iggy pop was one of the people handing out the money. Lee and i walked home,
Dream within a dream interlude: Betty, our auditor, and i had prepared a skit for her church. i added a song for our troupe to sing and i wanted them to sing it in four-part harmony, i woke her up at home, where she was grumpy and her nephew was staying, she obviously didn't want to do it, the song was #2 in the book and was about Frank Rich, it was a real song in the hymnal. The skit would involve the chorus starting to sing, then realizing the song was in the "green" book instead, then singing the Frank Rich song. She still didn't want to do it. End of dream interlude.
Lee and I walked toward home. A fancy nightclub with multiple tiers and walls open enough in slits to watch the whole show was presenting elegantly dressed singers, but most were almost naked, a tall beautiful black woman with sequins and spray-on lines was singing. she was perfectly full figured. Others in bizarre hairpieces, a gay couple walking with orange hair-like plastic strips. Tuxedos. Lee and i watched a while, I was more interested than she.
"Should we get a taxi? I asked, thinking of all the bills in my pocket. The town was a combination of Fisher and Chicago's Lakeshore; Betty had lived in Fisher; we lived in Chicago. We took the cab, I think.
When I woke up, I thought about how insignificant the money was. I would have to give half of it to taxes, I already owe apparently nearly $6000 in back taxes and penalties to the IRS, which would leave me something like $4000, which might cover my existing credit card debt. So the prize of $20,000 really was nothing.
If I object to the IRS report of what we owe, nothing is stopping them from auditing more years and finding more technicalities and fining us more and more money. It is the implied threat. Waterboarding seems like a walk in the park. Either way, we will be broken down. They have already doubled the amount they said we owe, according to the accountant. The fault lies with the accountant, who did not tell us obscure filing dates for 1099s and the like. It is all technicalities. So we could sue Betty, but rather than continue this fight, I am going to pretend I won tickets to the Rolling Stones -- or remember that I did see them on their first American tour, with Brian Jones, back in 1964 -- and I am going to recall the freedom on the beaches, freedom from responsibilities, and how that felt, before children, before money was even a consideration.
Having more and more money doesn't buy back that feeling of freedom. Maybe it gives a superficial sense, a Disneyland version of freedom. Money mostly compounds responsibility and burden, while surrounding you with trinkets. Being homeless on the beach would not be the worst fate in the world.
I'm not going to work if they call me today. I almost never turn down work or take a day off, mostly because I like to work. But I'm taking today off, just to sit and read and drink tea and recover from the three days I spent in Rockford training medical students, my annual effort. I got food poisoning, the substitute driver I had hired to cover my route failed me and caused long-distance stress, it was not a vacation.
Before going to bed last night I read Sam Harris's new book about how destructive Christianity (and all religion) is, "Letter to a Christian Nation." None of it was surprising or disturbing to me, although I realize more and more how much of a toll this presidency has taken on my mind, how the equation of Christianity with Republican politics has come to destroy any small claim to morality or good that the church might have gained over the years. People like to say they respect Mennonites, because they know the historical attempt to live up to what they themselves feel is an impossible standard of selflessness and nonviolence. But my family and my home church congregation of Mennonites have relinquished that standard. They supported the Republican policies and allowed or even encouraged the war and fell into lockstep with the Republican agenda. So I am put in a place where I no longer have an unqualified defense for my religion.
Sam Harris made me ask myself, do I have faith? And I have to say, yes, I do. But it is a faith not based in fear or even belief in God. I realized God was dead years ago, probably in 1969. Harris's book perhaps gave me more reason to fear Muslims, but only because their dogmatism equals that of Christians, their willful ignorance is violent and even the truth cannot combat it. George W. Bush has taken "truth" out of the equation. Truth doesn't count any more and that attitude permeates society today. There is no value placed on it.
Whenever truth and reason are clear, there is no reason to maintain a "belief" in some religious historical notion. The literal Bible is insanity. Arguing over lines in the text -- an effort that uses up entire lives -- is absurd. Quoting scripture can only be comforting or useful if it is taken out of context. As a whole, the book is sheer absurdist poetry. Arguing against evolution or insisting the world is 6,000 years old is a way of shirking one's obligation to serve others, is how I see it.
Losing one's Christianity -- at least for me and at my age -- is a means of recovering my sense of awe, of mystery, of recognizing the humanity of Jesus, of how man became God and how God became human. The question of eternity, or the time-space continuum, becomes wonderful, mystical, conceivable, only after losing the dead scales of religious dogma, the tired retread verses of debatable Bible text. I'll still read the Bible. But no one can tell me what it means.
I did spend more than a few years dosing myself with Prozac, but I haven't taken LSD now for some quarter of a century. I think I am capable of recognizing how both drugs worked in me, but that is no more schizophrenic than any other writer reporting on himself, is it? Could Aldous Huxley describe his out-of-mind experience in "The Doors of Perception"? Well, only after the fact obviously, and any reportage is woefully inadequate. Ask any interviewee. That said, my visions and perceptions of reality, of time, of meaning, of eternity, of love, are indebted -- not to drugs, but to my willingness to pursue any means whatsoever in search of the truth.
And money is not it.
--
God is best known in not knowing Him. -- St. Augustine
later some falling, bouncing satellite like things on parachutes landed in the sand. i told everyone to run to them, they would be filled with prizes. there were people distributing trinkets, toys, plastic bagatelles, and opening drawers, i watched carefully, and opened the right drawer, one of the workers in the satellite put his hand over my mouth so I wouldn't spoil the surprise, i barely glimpsed the piece of paper that said $20,000.
they took us inside the craft, Lee was there, they pulled money out of the vault and gave it to us. then they said we'd also get tickets in the grey zone to see the rolling stones on their next tour and i was excited, repeatedly saying "that's the best part", Iggy pop was one of the people handing out the money. Lee and i walked home,
Dream within a dream interlude: Betty, our auditor, and i had prepared a skit for her church. i added a song for our troupe to sing and i wanted them to sing it in four-part harmony, i woke her up at home, where she was grumpy and her nephew was staying, she obviously didn't want to do it, the song was #2 in the book and was about Frank Rich, it was a real song in the hymnal. The skit would involve the chorus starting to sing, then realizing the song was in the "green" book instead, then singing the Frank Rich song. She still didn't want to do it. End of dream interlude.
Lee and I walked toward home. A fancy nightclub with multiple tiers and walls open enough in slits to watch the whole show was presenting elegantly dressed singers, but most were almost naked, a tall beautiful black woman with sequins and spray-on lines was singing. she was perfectly full figured. Others in bizarre hairpieces, a gay couple walking with orange hair-like plastic strips. Tuxedos. Lee and i watched a while, I was more interested than she.
"Should we get a taxi? I asked, thinking of all the bills in my pocket. The town was a combination of Fisher and Chicago's Lakeshore; Betty had lived in Fisher; we lived in Chicago. We took the cab, I think.
When I woke up, I thought about how insignificant the money was. I would have to give half of it to taxes, I already owe apparently nearly $6000 in back taxes and penalties to the IRS, which would leave me something like $4000, which might cover my existing credit card debt. So the prize of $20,000 really was nothing.
If I object to the IRS report of what we owe, nothing is stopping them from auditing more years and finding more technicalities and fining us more and more money. It is the implied threat. Waterboarding seems like a walk in the park. Either way, we will be broken down. They have already doubled the amount they said we owe, according to the accountant. The fault lies with the accountant, who did not tell us obscure filing dates for 1099s and the like. It is all technicalities. So we could sue Betty, but rather than continue this fight, I am going to pretend I won tickets to the Rolling Stones -- or remember that I did see them on their first American tour, with Brian Jones, back in 1964 -- and I am going to recall the freedom on the beaches, freedom from responsibilities, and how that felt, before children, before money was even a consideration.
Having more and more money doesn't buy back that feeling of freedom. Maybe it gives a superficial sense, a Disneyland version of freedom. Money mostly compounds responsibility and burden, while surrounding you with trinkets. Being homeless on the beach would not be the worst fate in the world.
I'm not going to work if they call me today. I almost never turn down work or take a day off, mostly because I like to work. But I'm taking today off, just to sit and read and drink tea and recover from the three days I spent in Rockford training medical students, my annual effort. I got food poisoning, the substitute driver I had hired to cover my route failed me and caused long-distance stress, it was not a vacation.
Before going to bed last night I read Sam Harris's new book about how destructive Christianity (and all religion) is, "Letter to a Christian Nation." None of it was surprising or disturbing to me, although I realize more and more how much of a toll this presidency has taken on my mind, how the equation of Christianity with Republican politics has come to destroy any small claim to morality or good that the church might have gained over the years. People like to say they respect Mennonites, because they know the historical attempt to live up to what they themselves feel is an impossible standard of selflessness and nonviolence. But my family and my home church congregation of Mennonites have relinquished that standard. They supported the Republican policies and allowed or even encouraged the war and fell into lockstep with the Republican agenda. So I am put in a place where I no longer have an unqualified defense for my religion.
Sam Harris made me ask myself, do I have faith? And I have to say, yes, I do. But it is a faith not based in fear or even belief in God. I realized God was dead years ago, probably in 1969. Harris's book perhaps gave me more reason to fear Muslims, but only because their dogmatism equals that of Christians, their willful ignorance is violent and even the truth cannot combat it. George W. Bush has taken "truth" out of the equation. Truth doesn't count any more and that attitude permeates society today. There is no value placed on it.
Whenever truth and reason are clear, there is no reason to maintain a "belief" in some religious historical notion. The literal Bible is insanity. Arguing over lines in the text -- an effort that uses up entire lives -- is absurd. Quoting scripture can only be comforting or useful if it is taken out of context. As a whole, the book is sheer absurdist poetry. Arguing against evolution or insisting the world is 6,000 years old is a way of shirking one's obligation to serve others, is how I see it.
Losing one's Christianity -- at least for me and at my age -- is a means of recovering my sense of awe, of mystery, of recognizing the humanity of Jesus, of how man became God and how God became human. The question of eternity, or the time-space continuum, becomes wonderful, mystical, conceivable, only after losing the dead scales of religious dogma, the tired retread verses of debatable Bible text. I'll still read the Bible. But no one can tell me what it means.
I did spend more than a few years dosing myself with Prozac, but I haven't taken LSD now for some quarter of a century. I think I am capable of recognizing how both drugs worked in me, but that is no more schizophrenic than any other writer reporting on himself, is it? Could Aldous Huxley describe his out-of-mind experience in "The Doors of Perception"? Well, only after the fact obviously, and any reportage is woefully inadequate. Ask any interviewee. That said, my visions and perceptions of reality, of time, of meaning, of eternity, of love, are indebted -- not to drugs, but to my willingness to pursue any means whatsoever in search of the truth.
And money is not it.
--
God is best known in not knowing Him. -- St. Augustine
Wednesday, January 03, 2007
he loses
he supposes if they had really broken him down, he wouldn't be disposed to announce it. he would just retreat into silence and solitude. even so, it seems to have occurred in some temporary measure. the irs audit that has been ongoing since september has complicated his life beyond repair. he has been shut up. doubt penetrates every crevice. money is the least of it, hardly a concern. but it is impossible for him to feel legal, no matter what he does, no matter how many papers he signs, impossible to feel correct or have confidence or remember a transaction or an odd figure from three years ago in october or august, impossible to do the right thing.
the stultification, the debilitation, the horror
he hesitates to speak for fear of being judged
never trusting himself
they win
the stultification, the debilitation, the horror
he hesitates to speak for fear of being judged
never trusting himself
they win
Monday, January 01, 2007
El año y el ano
It isn't the war per se that has driven me mad. It is the miasma of lies that now permeates the world. We enter a new year with an empty execution, with no feeling of relief or hope. Even anger is wasteful of what little energy remains.
I wrote a new novel this morning as I drove for four hours through the countryside. I tried to see how language emerges when it is spoken aloud, composed in audible, solo vocalization. It took a moment to get started. I didn't force it. I waited, as in meditation when the mantra manifests of its own accord. Dictation is how Richard Powers writes his books, at least in part. But he has learned how to tap into the stream of genius.
That stream is out there. I've slipped and fallen into it from time to time. Few there be who find it.
As I drove and dictated, I found that the novel shifted, not only in style and tone and purpose but also in language. For a full half-hour, the novel, taking itself in a more philosophical bent, turned out to be composed in Spanish. This was a refreshing change, stripping away the lax and unnecessary connotations and limiting underlying echoes of meaning. The voice began to take on its own life. The composition began to write itself in the third person. All questions were stripped away, consciously.
The language flowed until dawn. And he became his own audience, his only audience, a novel disappearing at the moment of its manifestation, nothing recorded, nothing reclaimed, nothing transcribed, a novel as valid and final as any other lost on dusty library shelves.
He came home. He ate breakfast and read the New York Times, page by page, doing the crossword puzzle in his head. It was Monday after all. Parker Posey was an answer. He wondered if she knew yet, that her name was a New York Times puzzle answer, if anyone called her, if she was proud, or if it wasn't the first time, or if she felt miffed because it was only in an easy Monday puzzle, or perhaps pleased that she was well enough known to be in a Monday, rather than a difficult Saturday puzzle.
There were a thousand pictures of dead American soldiers inside, tiny postage-stamp snapshots. Lots of people are dead. Lots of families will never be repaired.
He read through the list of Broadway plays and musicals, noting that most of them he had already read or downloaded cast recordings. There was no need to travel to actually see the plays. Just the day before, he had read David Hare's new play, The Vertical Hour, imagining how Julianne Moore and Bill Nighy would perform the roles. No need to attend that. He had listened to Spring Awakening and Grey Gardens.
Today, perhaps, he would start the second play in Tom Stoppard's Russian historical trilogy of the 19th century, Shipwreck. He looked out the window, the view blurred through the insulating plastic that puffed out when the wind gusted. There was some promise of sunshine and little traffic for the holiday.
He should sleep, perhaps. He had changed the name of his new book to East Bend Must Die. It would have to be a comic novel, perhaps a collection of emails. Somewhere he would have to use the chapter heading or subtitle Nineteenth Century Nervous Breakdown, a title he was too fond of to throw out.
Most things got thrown away, falling not in a forest but in the middle of a flat and deserted country road, no ears to hear them, save his own, but even of that, he could not be sure that the sounds made held meaning or that he had even uttered anything at all.
I wrote a new novel this morning as I drove for four hours through the countryside. I tried to see how language emerges when it is spoken aloud, composed in audible, solo vocalization. It took a moment to get started. I didn't force it. I waited, as in meditation when the mantra manifests of its own accord. Dictation is how Richard Powers writes his books, at least in part. But he has learned how to tap into the stream of genius.
That stream is out there. I've slipped and fallen into it from time to time. Few there be who find it.
As I drove and dictated, I found that the novel shifted, not only in style and tone and purpose but also in language. For a full half-hour, the novel, taking itself in a more philosophical bent, turned out to be composed in Spanish. This was a refreshing change, stripping away the lax and unnecessary connotations and limiting underlying echoes of meaning. The voice began to take on its own life. The composition began to write itself in the third person. All questions were stripped away, consciously.
The language flowed until dawn. And he became his own audience, his only audience, a novel disappearing at the moment of its manifestation, nothing recorded, nothing reclaimed, nothing transcribed, a novel as valid and final as any other lost on dusty library shelves.
He came home. He ate breakfast and read the New York Times, page by page, doing the crossword puzzle in his head. It was Monday after all. Parker Posey was an answer. He wondered if she knew yet, that her name was a New York Times puzzle answer, if anyone called her, if she was proud, or if it wasn't the first time, or if she felt miffed because it was only in an easy Monday puzzle, or perhaps pleased that she was well enough known to be in a Monday, rather than a difficult Saturday puzzle.
There were a thousand pictures of dead American soldiers inside, tiny postage-stamp snapshots. Lots of people are dead. Lots of families will never be repaired.
He read through the list of Broadway plays and musicals, noting that most of them he had already read or downloaded cast recordings. There was no need to travel to actually see the plays. Just the day before, he had read David Hare's new play, The Vertical Hour, imagining how Julianne Moore and Bill Nighy would perform the roles. No need to attend that. He had listened to Spring Awakening and Grey Gardens.
Today, perhaps, he would start the second play in Tom Stoppard's Russian historical trilogy of the 19th century, Shipwreck. He looked out the window, the view blurred through the insulating plastic that puffed out when the wind gusted. There was some promise of sunshine and little traffic for the holiday.
He should sleep, perhaps. He had changed the name of his new book to East Bend Must Die. It would have to be a comic novel, perhaps a collection of emails. Somewhere he would have to use the chapter heading or subtitle Nineteenth Century Nervous Breakdown, a title he was too fond of to throw out.
Most things got thrown away, falling not in a forest but in the middle of a flat and deserted country road, no ears to hear them, save his own, but even of that, he could not be sure that the sounds made held meaning or that he had even uttered anything at all.
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