About your blogger:
Favorite novelists: Faulkner (William), Eliot (George), Roth (Philip), Wright (Richard)
Favorite poets: Dickinson, Frost, Eliot (T.S.), Stevens (Wallace)
Least teachable novelist: F. Scott Fitzgerald
Favorite career: teaching
Least favorite job: selling and delivering auto parts (I was fired after roughly six hours much to the humiliation of my father, who had gotten me the job)
Favorite teaching moment: having an American lit. class file in with thirteen dozen roses on the last day of class
Least favorite teaching moment: having a panic attack while teaching an Anne Sexton poem on the next-to-last day of class in the summer of 1989
Most important teachers: Mrs. Lester (8th grade English), Loren Taylor (undergraduate intro to lit teacher, who chain smoked and coughed as he lectured but taught me how to read), David Levy (American intellectual history) and Roy Male (19th century American lit.) in graduate school at OU
Most important "intellectual" influences: Pauline Kael, Stanley Fish
Favorite quotes: "Coming to know is the liveliest pleasure" (Aristotle, Poetics), "We must be patient with the makeshift of human understanding" (George Eliot)
Worst character trait (or at least one of them): impatience
Favorite Bible quote: "As a dog returns to its vomit, so a fool returns to his folly" (Proverbs 26:11)
Favorite all-time singer: Nina Simone
Favorite opera: The Magic Flute
Favorite food: BC (before cancer): duck; PC, sushi (obviously)
Favorite all-time meal: At Gordon Ramsey's restaurant Verre in Dubai
Favorite city: Paris
Favorite reasonably priced restaurants in Paris: A la Biche aux bois, Chez Nanesse, Le Coude fou, L'Escargot
Favorite all-time movies: La Regle du jeu (Jean Renoir 1939), Nashville (Robert Altman), The Godfather, Parts I & II (Coppola)
Favorite (current) TV personalities: Chris Hayes, Jon Stewart, Stephen Colbert
All-time favorite TV show: As the World Turns (1956-2010). R.I.P., Bob, Lisa, and the family
Guilty pleasure: see above
Worst vice: see above; smoking (not necessarily in that order)
Today's morning routine with variation: Stumble downstairs, clothes in hand; put on clothes in dark; let Kimber out; put out dog food; lay out eleven pills, let Kimber back in and listen to her snarf down the food, swallow eleven pills--and then this morning, throw up (a dog? vomit? is there a theme here?). Sorry today's entry isn't more interesting, but after the last event, I wasn't exactly feeling inspired.
Saturday, September 29, 2012
Wednesday, September 26, 2012
To give Emily Dickinson her due, one of my favorite poems by her is #510:
It was not Death, for I stood up,
And all the Dead, lie down--
It was not Night, for all the Bells
Put out their Tongues, for Noon.
It was not Frost, for on my Flesh
I felt Siroccos--crawl--
Nor Fire--for just my Marble feet
Could keep a Chancel, cool--
And yet, it tasted, like them all,
The Figures I have seen
Set orderly, for Burial,
Reminded me, of mine--
As if my life were shaven,
And fitted to a frame,
And could not breathe without a key,
And 'twas like Midnight, some--
When everything that ticked--has stopped--
And Space stares all around--
Or Grisly frosts--first Autumn morns,
Repeal the Beating Ground--
But, most, like Chaos--Stopless-cool--
Without a Chance, or Spar--
Or even a Report of Land--
To justify--Despair.
Of Dickinson's 1775 poems, 42 begin with the word 'It' or 'It's'; another 14 begin with ''Twas.' And the 'it' is almost never an explicative anticipating a nominal that will make explicit what the 'it' refers to. No, it's a personal pronoun (those of us who are English teachers would write "unclear reference" in the margin) that Dickinson is going to struggle to define. When she's successful, it's not that the reader will leave the poem with a clear sense of the pronoun's reference but rather will have briefly and intensely experienced the "zero at the bone" that is so often both the subject of and the response to her poetry.
The first two quatrains rule out four possibilities, symmetrically balanced with two lines each. Dickinson begins with the most obvious choice, death, but eliminates it on what seems the most trivial of grounds: the dead lie down (in coffins, in graves), but she is still standing. And then comes night, and the poem begins its darker shift. As so often in Dickinson's work, she reverses or twists the standard poetic device of personification. While the human personae in her poems are often mechanized or inorganic ("marble feet" in the second quatrain), the non-human world is personified, but in a grotesquely startling way; here, the bell's metal clapper becomes a tongue--a tongue that's being, as it were, stuck out at the world.
In stanza two, Dickinson rules out frost (again the hot winds don't blow or waft, but crawl) and fire. Her feet are reduced to marble, and they alone could keep the entire front of a cathedral, where one might find marble statues of the saints, cool. The persona may not be dead, but she is already like a memorial statue. Still, 'cool' is hardly the word one wants to apply to her emotional state.
In 105 of her poems, the shift (usually at the exact mid-point; here earlier) to the darker tone is signaled by the word 'and.' (In 84 more, the turning point comes with the word 'but.') Here with 'any yet,' the poet tries a different strategy for defining her subject: having ruled out four possibilities, she now suggests comparisons based on taste, of all the senses the one most associated with fear ("I was so frightened I could almost taste it"). But unlike the balance in the first two quatrains, here death gets seven lines; night, three; frosts, two; and fire is squeezed out altogether. The comparison with death begins calmly, if trivially: recalling the first two lines, the persona now realizes that the dead do sometimes stand, when they're set on end in preparation for burial. And then, more eerily, it's as her life were shaven and fitted to a frame. Don't they normally shave the planks of the coffin to fit the body? And worse, it's as if she couldn't breathe without a key, as if she's been buried prematurely. (Imagine how hysterical Poe would be at this point.)
And then it's like night (indeed, like midnight). The earth, once more less organic than mechanical, no longer 'ticks." Space, as happens more than once in Dickinson's poems, is dispassionately observing her--more than observing 'staring' as if at the scene of an accident. When morning comes, it's the morning of autumn and of frosts, which 'repeal' the once beating, then ticking, now silent ground. 'Repeal' both reminds us by its sound of the bell in lines three and four and more strongly suggests, for what are most commonly repealed but laws, that the laws of the living natural world are no longer operative.
And finally in the last stanza, the comparison becomes more abstract: the 'it' is like Chaos. It's 'stopless' and 'cool,' now used quite differently than in line eight. And finally a metaphor for the simile. The chaos is like a ship lost at sea. For Crane in "The Open Boat," the ultimate irony of the potential death of the four men at sea (and the actual death of one of them) is that they are so close to land that they can see the shore, the life-saving station, the people on the beach. The irony is quite different in Dickinson. If there were a chance or if the boat had a spar or if there was even a report of land (to say nothing of an actual sighting), then a precise emotion--despair--would be justified. But here there is nothing even to despair of.
Negation and simile haven't made the 'it' any more precise. They have, however, demonstrated to and perhaps even created in the reader Dickinson's persistent emotion: zero in the bone.
It was not Death, for I stood up,
And all the Dead, lie down--
It was not Night, for all the Bells
Put out their Tongues, for Noon.
It was not Frost, for on my Flesh
I felt Siroccos--crawl--
Nor Fire--for just my Marble feet
Could keep a Chancel, cool--
And yet, it tasted, like them all,
The Figures I have seen
Set orderly, for Burial,
Reminded me, of mine--
As if my life were shaven,
And fitted to a frame,
And could not breathe without a key,
And 'twas like Midnight, some--
When everything that ticked--has stopped--
And Space stares all around--
Or Grisly frosts--first Autumn morns,
Repeal the Beating Ground--
But, most, like Chaos--Stopless-cool--
Without a Chance, or Spar--
Or even a Report of Land--
To justify--Despair.
Of Dickinson's 1775 poems, 42 begin with the word 'It' or 'It's'; another 14 begin with ''Twas.' And the 'it' is almost never an explicative anticipating a nominal that will make explicit what the 'it' refers to. No, it's a personal pronoun (those of us who are English teachers would write "unclear reference" in the margin) that Dickinson is going to struggle to define. When she's successful, it's not that the reader will leave the poem with a clear sense of the pronoun's reference but rather will have briefly and intensely experienced the "zero at the bone" that is so often both the subject of and the response to her poetry.
The first two quatrains rule out four possibilities, symmetrically balanced with two lines each. Dickinson begins with the most obvious choice, death, but eliminates it on what seems the most trivial of grounds: the dead lie down (in coffins, in graves), but she is still standing. And then comes night, and the poem begins its darker shift. As so often in Dickinson's work, she reverses or twists the standard poetic device of personification. While the human personae in her poems are often mechanized or inorganic ("marble feet" in the second quatrain), the non-human world is personified, but in a grotesquely startling way; here, the bell's metal clapper becomes a tongue--a tongue that's being, as it were, stuck out at the world.
In stanza two, Dickinson rules out frost (again the hot winds don't blow or waft, but crawl) and fire. Her feet are reduced to marble, and they alone could keep the entire front of a cathedral, where one might find marble statues of the saints, cool. The persona may not be dead, but she is already like a memorial statue. Still, 'cool' is hardly the word one wants to apply to her emotional state.
In 105 of her poems, the shift (usually at the exact mid-point; here earlier) to the darker tone is signaled by the word 'and.' (In 84 more, the turning point comes with the word 'but.') Here with 'any yet,' the poet tries a different strategy for defining her subject: having ruled out four possibilities, she now suggests comparisons based on taste, of all the senses the one most associated with fear ("I was so frightened I could almost taste it"). But unlike the balance in the first two quatrains, here death gets seven lines; night, three; frosts, two; and fire is squeezed out altogether. The comparison with death begins calmly, if trivially: recalling the first two lines, the persona now realizes that the dead do sometimes stand, when they're set on end in preparation for burial. And then, more eerily, it's as her life were shaven and fitted to a frame. Don't they normally shave the planks of the coffin to fit the body? And worse, it's as if she couldn't breathe without a key, as if she's been buried prematurely. (Imagine how hysterical Poe would be at this point.)
And then it's like night (indeed, like midnight). The earth, once more less organic than mechanical, no longer 'ticks." Space, as happens more than once in Dickinson's poems, is dispassionately observing her--more than observing 'staring' as if at the scene of an accident. When morning comes, it's the morning of autumn and of frosts, which 'repeal' the once beating, then ticking, now silent ground. 'Repeal' both reminds us by its sound of the bell in lines three and four and more strongly suggests, for what are most commonly repealed but laws, that the laws of the living natural world are no longer operative.
And finally in the last stanza, the comparison becomes more abstract: the 'it' is like Chaos. It's 'stopless' and 'cool,' now used quite differently than in line eight. And finally a metaphor for the simile. The chaos is like a ship lost at sea. For Crane in "The Open Boat," the ultimate irony of the potential death of the four men at sea (and the actual death of one of them) is that they are so close to land that they can see the shore, the life-saving station, the people on the beach. The irony is quite different in Dickinson. If there were a chance or if the boat had a spar or if there was even a report of land (to say nothing of an actual sighting), then a precise emotion--despair--would be justified. But here there is nothing even to despair of.
Negation and simile haven't made the 'it' any more precise. They have, however, demonstrated to and perhaps even created in the reader Dickinson's persistent emotion: zero in the bone.
Sunday, September 23, 2012
Four out of the last six days were good ones. Monday, Tuesday, Thursday, Friday--each day I had a good appetite and few stomach problems. We went out for steak on Monday night, and if I didn't exactly clean my plate, at least I ate all the protein. And I indulged myself at lunch on Friday with Topeka's best chicken tenders (fried food isn't usually the wisest choice) and suffered no ill effects. I needed a two-hour sleep every afternoon, but then generally had a good energy level. Wednesday and yesterday weren't so good (and I got progressively grumpier yesterday, especially as I watched OU fumble a victory away), but I'll take 4 out of 6 days any time.
I've read my way through four Thomas Hardy novels in a row in this order: Far from the Madding Crowd, Jude the Obscure, Return of the Native, and Tess. Hardy isn't exactly feel good reading. All of the novels are set in the countryside, and there is no romanticization of the "pastoral" life. There are no cities; London is a distant world. The novels feel pre-industrial; the land (and always the weather) is unforgiving, and the work is still backbreaking, though there is a frightening scene at the end of Tess where she is standing on a giant, shivering threshing machine; she is exhausted, and I expected her to fall into the iron blades at any minute (she doesn't). Dreams and aspirations are inevitably frustrated, and both social institutions and nature are indifferent at best. Hardy's style is old-fashioned (third-person omniscient and intrusive) and often clunky. Both Jude and Tess are marred by grotesquely melodramatic scenes near the end. Hardy loves to show off with esoteric references to myth and poetry and with obscure vocabulary. (My favorite word was 'pachydermatous,' which I'm sure I can work into a subsequent discussion of Republican politics.) And yet I read my way through all four without a break and enjoyed every page (or screen since I was reading on a Kindle). Far from the Madding Crowd, which I had never read before, fit my preconceived, but ill-informed notions of Hardy's work. What kept me reading perhaps was how different each of the next novels was, despite their underlying similarities. Jude I found the most fascinating, especially in the portrait of Sue Bridehead, who is at least as interesting as Jude. Indeed, all four of the novels are marked by strong and willful female characters. If I were teaching a course in 19th century novels, I'd feel fairly comfortable teaching Far from the Madding Crowd; I don't think I'd have the courage to tackle Jude. Equally intriguing was Tess, a novel with really only one main character. We're in Tess's consciousness from page one till the end, and despite the infrequency of dramatic incident, Tess commands our attention at every turn.
After Hardy, I thought I needed a complete change: non-fiction certainly and perhaps something upbeat. I succeeded on the first count, but failed miserably on the second. Amazon, which of course has a complete profile of my likes and dislikes, recommended The Price of Inequality by the Nobel prize winning economist Joseph Stiglitz. It was on sale for $3.77. How could I, a member of the 47% who feels entitled to his social security and Medicare and bargain books, resist? It's the most discouraging book I've read in a long time as Stiglitz describes the relentless increase in inequality that has marked the last three decades of American life--the unconscionable concentration of wealth at the top, the hollowing out of the middle class, the indifference to the poor, the end of the American dream, and the general 'immiseration' (Stiglitz uses this word a lot) of the 99%. The data are frightening, and Stiglitz is very good at analyzing them. He's also good at analyzing why so many of the 99% cling to the belief that the middle class is strong, and if they're not there yet, it's still a clear possibility, that is, why so many vote against their own self-interest. Although the description and analysis are clear and sophisticated, Stiglitz could have used a good editor. There is sadly too much evidence that the book was rushed to print so that it could appear before the election. There is a lot of repetition. I don't know, as just one example, how many times Stiglitz tells what the term "median income" means, as if we didn't get it the first time (or his editor didn't notice that he'd already explained it two or three times earlier). There's way too much "as we saw in chapter three" with a repetitive summary or "as we'll see in chapter seven" with an anticipatory summary. Stiglitz's prescriptions for change are also disappointing. It's not that they're wrong from a liberal's point of view; it's that there is little new and little sense of how politically they could be accomplished. Those quibbles aside, however, the book is a clear-headed look at the state of American economic, social, and political life during the last thirty years Not all of the data will be surprising, but some of them will be, and their integration into a purposeful pattern is alarmingly convincing.
Now, Amazon, how about a cheerful recommendation? I'm counting on you.
I've read my way through four Thomas Hardy novels in a row in this order: Far from the Madding Crowd, Jude the Obscure, Return of the Native, and Tess. Hardy isn't exactly feel good reading. All of the novels are set in the countryside, and there is no romanticization of the "pastoral" life. There are no cities; London is a distant world. The novels feel pre-industrial; the land (and always the weather) is unforgiving, and the work is still backbreaking, though there is a frightening scene at the end of Tess where she is standing on a giant, shivering threshing machine; she is exhausted, and I expected her to fall into the iron blades at any minute (she doesn't). Dreams and aspirations are inevitably frustrated, and both social institutions and nature are indifferent at best. Hardy's style is old-fashioned (third-person omniscient and intrusive) and often clunky. Both Jude and Tess are marred by grotesquely melodramatic scenes near the end. Hardy loves to show off with esoteric references to myth and poetry and with obscure vocabulary. (My favorite word was 'pachydermatous,' which I'm sure I can work into a subsequent discussion of Republican politics.) And yet I read my way through all four without a break and enjoyed every page (or screen since I was reading on a Kindle). Far from the Madding Crowd, which I had never read before, fit my preconceived, but ill-informed notions of Hardy's work. What kept me reading perhaps was how different each of the next novels was, despite their underlying similarities. Jude I found the most fascinating, especially in the portrait of Sue Bridehead, who is at least as interesting as Jude. Indeed, all four of the novels are marked by strong and willful female characters. If I were teaching a course in 19th century novels, I'd feel fairly comfortable teaching Far from the Madding Crowd; I don't think I'd have the courage to tackle Jude. Equally intriguing was Tess, a novel with really only one main character. We're in Tess's consciousness from page one till the end, and despite the infrequency of dramatic incident, Tess commands our attention at every turn.
After Hardy, I thought I needed a complete change: non-fiction certainly and perhaps something upbeat. I succeeded on the first count, but failed miserably on the second. Amazon, which of course has a complete profile of my likes and dislikes, recommended The Price of Inequality by the Nobel prize winning economist Joseph Stiglitz. It was on sale for $3.77. How could I, a member of the 47% who feels entitled to his social security and Medicare and bargain books, resist? It's the most discouraging book I've read in a long time as Stiglitz describes the relentless increase in inequality that has marked the last three decades of American life--the unconscionable concentration of wealth at the top, the hollowing out of the middle class, the indifference to the poor, the end of the American dream, and the general 'immiseration' (Stiglitz uses this word a lot) of the 99%. The data are frightening, and Stiglitz is very good at analyzing them. He's also good at analyzing why so many of the 99% cling to the belief that the middle class is strong, and if they're not there yet, it's still a clear possibility, that is, why so many vote against their own self-interest. Although the description and analysis are clear and sophisticated, Stiglitz could have used a good editor. There is sadly too much evidence that the book was rushed to print so that it could appear before the election. There is a lot of repetition. I don't know, as just one example, how many times Stiglitz tells what the term "median income" means, as if we didn't get it the first time (or his editor didn't notice that he'd already explained it two or three times earlier). There's way too much "as we saw in chapter three" with a repetitive summary or "as we'll see in chapter seven" with an anticipatory summary. Stiglitz's prescriptions for change are also disappointing. It's not that they're wrong from a liberal's point of view; it's that there is little new and little sense of how politically they could be accomplished. Those quibbles aside, however, the book is a clear-headed look at the state of American economic, social, and political life during the last thirty years Not all of the data will be surprising, but some of them will be, and their integration into a purposeful pattern is alarmingly convincing.
Now, Amazon, how about a cheerful recommendation? I'm counting on you.
Thursday, September 20, 2012
I realized yesterday that I had forgotten one significant change in my Rip Van Winkle ruminations. No, I don't mean the price of a new car in 1987 or the best-selling novel or album or movie; anyone can google those facts in 2012 for him- or herself. This was a more Freudian seeming omission: what if the person who fell asleep in 1987 had been diagnosed with stage IV kidney cancer? There was no targeted chemotherapy for kidney cancer in those days. The med that I take, Votrient, wasn't approved by the FDA till 2009. Xgeva, the shot I take to maintain the strength of my cancer-infected bones, wasn't approved until the next year. Even now, the prognosis for stage IV kidney cancer is 10-11 months. With the help of the meds that I often complain about, I've doubled that. So someone who was diagnosed in 1987 and woke up in 2012 might be baffled by many things, but ought to feel mighty happy that s/he could benefit from 25 years of medical advances.
For two reasons, I was also thinking about the comments on the change in acceptable language on TV. One was that on last night's "Daily Show," the word 'shit' must have been used 40 or 50 times: first, on Jon Stewart's funny and very angry "Chaos on Bullshit Mountain" comments on Romney's 47% remarks, then during Pink's performance of "Blow Me (One Last Kiss)" where the word is a staple of the lyrics (they did bleep out 'dick' in the phrase "whiskey dick"), and finally three more times in the closing conversation between Stewart and Pink. My parents would have turned bright red--in anger and embarrassment. And then I got two e-mails from a 70-year-old friend and his wife in France, both containing humorous, but unfettered illustrations and jokes. It has always struck me that the concept of a dirty word doesn't exist in France, at least not as it does here. I once heard an elderly woman affectionately calling her dog on a city sidewalk "mon petit trou de cul" (my little asshole), and my friend Frederic often called his dog, "ma petite crotte" (my little turd). I used to have a complete collection of the French hard-cover "comic books" Les Bidochon. "Bidochon" entered the French vocabulary as a synonym for the blundering, uncultured, and mockable--the Simpsons taken down a notch or two. When I retired, I gave my collection to the French department, though I realized that the jokes and the illustrations were so graphic that they'd be x-rated in the U.S. I remembered a big dinner party in Metz several years ago in which we discussed offensive words. The best the French could come up with was pourri, which just means spoiled. When I offered my example of the most offensive word in English (Naomi Wolf's favorite), the only other English speaker, an Irish Catholic (who had abandoned his wife and children to live with his French mistress), was shocked that I'd say the word in mixed company, even though none of the French speakers knew it and it carried no connotations of any sort.
As I type this, one of innumerable Romney spokesmen is trying to deflect attention from Romney's latest major gaffe to Obama's 1998 statement favoring redistribution of wealth. One of the many things that the Right is disingenuous about is that they must know that every monetary or fiscal decision has distributive consequences. It's just that the Right, especially Reagan, Bush 43, and now Romney, wants the money to flow to the top, an effort they've been remarkably successful at over the last three decades. Yesterday, for example, I got the statement from BCBS for the last time I had the full battery of tests at the Cancer Center. The total for the six hours I was there was $23,000. Of that, $13,200 was for one injection of Xgeva. When I began this blog, the shot was $11,000; a couple of months later that had jumped to $12,000, and now, all within a year, the price has gone up by another $1200. The increase can't be caused by research, since the drug is already developed, and anyway Big Pharma now spends more money on marketing than on research. Because I get this shot in the hospital as opposed to at home, 100% of the cost is covered by Medicare Part A or B. The anti-coagulant shot Mohamed gives me every morning ($100 per shot) is like other medication (chemo $6,000+ per month), covered by Medicare Part D. Since I quickly move to the "catastrophic stage" (after having paid a little over $5,000), I now pay only 5% of those costs. When in 2003 the Republicans added Part D coverage, the drug companies made sure that there was a provision that the government could not bargain for lower prices. Those who have get even more. This is unlike the VA program, which can bargain and thus has much lower drug prices than Medicare. Who pays? Why, obviously, the 47% of freeloaders. Who profits? Big Phama.
Also yesterday this year's Forbes list of the richest 400 Americans came out. The combined weatlh of the six Walton heirs (four of whom are in the top 10) is greater than combined wealth of the entire bottom 20% of Americans. Two of the top 10, the ultra-conservative Koch brothers, are from Kansas. I actually know the couple at #218 ($2.2B), though so far that doesn't seem to have done me any good except to get me in to a high-class bash for their son in Hollywood. And I see there's a Judy Faulkner just slightly farther down the list. I'm sure there must be a family connection there someplace, so maybe I should stop typing and start searching on ancestry.com. I'm an unabashed supporter of redistribution (from the top down), and why not start with her?
For two reasons, I was also thinking about the comments on the change in acceptable language on TV. One was that on last night's "Daily Show," the word 'shit' must have been used 40 or 50 times: first, on Jon Stewart's funny and very angry "Chaos on Bullshit Mountain" comments on Romney's 47% remarks, then during Pink's performance of "Blow Me (One Last Kiss)" where the word is a staple of the lyrics (they did bleep out 'dick' in the phrase "whiskey dick"), and finally three more times in the closing conversation between Stewart and Pink. My parents would have turned bright red--in anger and embarrassment. And then I got two e-mails from a 70-year-old friend and his wife in France, both containing humorous, but unfettered illustrations and jokes. It has always struck me that the concept of a dirty word doesn't exist in France, at least not as it does here. I once heard an elderly woman affectionately calling her dog on a city sidewalk "mon petit trou de cul" (my little asshole), and my friend Frederic often called his dog, "ma petite crotte" (my little turd). I used to have a complete collection of the French hard-cover "comic books" Les Bidochon. "Bidochon" entered the French vocabulary as a synonym for the blundering, uncultured, and mockable--the Simpsons taken down a notch or two. When I retired, I gave my collection to the French department, though I realized that the jokes and the illustrations were so graphic that they'd be x-rated in the U.S. I remembered a big dinner party in Metz several years ago in which we discussed offensive words. The best the French could come up with was pourri, which just means spoiled. When I offered my example of the most offensive word in English (Naomi Wolf's favorite), the only other English speaker, an Irish Catholic (who had abandoned his wife and children to live with his French mistress), was shocked that I'd say the word in mixed company, even though none of the French speakers knew it and it carried no connotations of any sort.
As I type this, one of innumerable Romney spokesmen is trying to deflect attention from Romney's latest major gaffe to Obama's 1998 statement favoring redistribution of wealth. One of the many things that the Right is disingenuous about is that they must know that every monetary or fiscal decision has distributive consequences. It's just that the Right, especially Reagan, Bush 43, and now Romney, wants the money to flow to the top, an effort they've been remarkably successful at over the last three decades. Yesterday, for example, I got the statement from BCBS for the last time I had the full battery of tests at the Cancer Center. The total for the six hours I was there was $23,000. Of that, $13,200 was for one injection of Xgeva. When I began this blog, the shot was $11,000; a couple of months later that had jumped to $12,000, and now, all within a year, the price has gone up by another $1200. The increase can't be caused by research, since the drug is already developed, and anyway Big Pharma now spends more money on marketing than on research. Because I get this shot in the hospital as opposed to at home, 100% of the cost is covered by Medicare Part A or B. The anti-coagulant shot Mohamed gives me every morning ($100 per shot) is like other medication (chemo $6,000+ per month), covered by Medicare Part D. Since I quickly move to the "catastrophic stage" (after having paid a little over $5,000), I now pay only 5% of those costs. When in 2003 the Republicans added Part D coverage, the drug companies made sure that there was a provision that the government could not bargain for lower prices. Those who have get even more. This is unlike the VA program, which can bargain and thus has much lower drug prices than Medicare. Who pays? Why, obviously, the 47% of freeloaders. Who profits? Big Phama.
Also yesterday this year's Forbes list of the richest 400 Americans came out. The combined weatlh of the six Walton heirs (four of whom are in the top 10) is greater than combined wealth of the entire bottom 20% of Americans. Two of the top 10, the ultra-conservative Koch brothers, are from Kansas. I actually know the couple at #218 ($2.2B), though so far that doesn't seem to have done me any good except to get me in to a high-class bash for their son in Hollywood. And I see there's a Judy Faulkner just slightly farther down the list. I'm sure there must be a family connection there someplace, so maybe I should stop typing and start searching on ancestry.com. I'm an unabashed supporter of redistribution (from the top down), and why not start with her?
Monday, September 17, 2012
If I'd have fallen alseep in September 25 years ago, it would have been at 10, rue Chambiere, 57000 Metz, France. I'd bought the house where I still live the year before, but rented it out to spend a year teaching in Metz. I had left Topeka a couple of months before the French school year began in the mistaken assumption that if I stayed out of the country for 11 months, my French income wouldn't be taxable in the U.S. The apartment itself was beautiful and roomy; it was an easy walk from both the city center and the university. The main drawback was that it was unfurnished--and that included having no applicances or cabinets in the kitchen. I made many trips to Carrefour and Conforama to make the apartment livable (when I left, I sold almost everything I bought, so it ended up not being as expensive as it seemed). I also had to pay first and last month's rent, a month's rent to the agency, and another month's rent to the French official who came and inventoried the condition of the apartment. At the time, I was so excited to be living in France in a great apartment that I ignored the expenses. A month later, on October 19, when the stock market crashed and lost nearly 23% of its value in one day, I wouldn't have been so nonchalant.
Most of the students I taught my last year at Washburn wouldn't have been born yet. Mohamed would have just turned eight.
If I'd fallen asleep then, Ronald Reagan would have been President, and Margaret Thatcher would have been elected to her third term as British Prime Minister. The Berlin Wall wouldn't have fallen, and the USSR would still seem our number one threat (although Mitt Romney still appears to believe this in 2012). I wouldn't have heard of Bill Clinton. And, of course, if you had told me that a black man named Barack Hussein Obama would be President when I awoke, I would have thought you were joking. One of my friends in Metz was Shaheen, an Afghan refugee, who had been part of the mujahadeen and imprisoned by the Russian occupiers. I had never heard of the Taliban. Shaheen was small-framed and the most modest of men, but once when I was going to offer him a drink and asked him whether he drank alcohol, he said that he didn't because the last time he drank, he had killed a man. I never knew whether to believe him.
In 1987, the Fox network started broadcasting. There wouldn't have been "The Simpsons" or (my favorite) "Family Guy"; on the other hand, there wasn't Sean Hannity or Bill O'Reilly. Oprah had just begun her daily talk show. Even on cable TV, the vocabulary was far more restrained that it would be 25 years in the future. The first time I ever heard anyone say "pissed off" on TV was on "As the World Turns." I couldn't believe what I'd just heard. By 2012, even Lenny Bruce would have to shorten his list of words that are verboten. How many people in 2012 would get that reference.
If I'd fallen asleep in 1987, I might have known that Prozac had just been introduced in the U.S., but Big Phama wouldn't yet be inundating TV with ads for prescription drugs. What percentage of drug costs are related to the barrage of advertising for drugs in 2012? If I woke up in 2012 and saw a commercial for, say, Cymbalta, with beautiful, soothing images and a rapid voice-over listing all its terrible side-effects (potentially fatal events--how's that for a euphemism?), I'd think I was watching an SNL skit. In the LGBT community (a term that wasn't used yet), the big issue was still AIDS. It wasn't until 1995 that I stopped losing friends to AIDS. But it was also in 1987 that AZT was approved by the FDA. I would never have believed in 1987 that gay characters would be staples on American television--not only as comic sidekicks but as the main characters, as in "Will and Grace" and "Modern Family." I certainly would never have thought that gay marriage would be legal in some parts of America, including my home state of Iowa. Who would have thought I'd wake up to a world in which the Democratic election platform endorses gay marriage or where gays could serve openly in the military? Or that many of the speakers at the Democratic convention talked about the latter in terms of those who wanted to serve the country they love being allowed to do so no matter who(m) they loved? (The speakers were about evenly divided between the traditional 'whom' and the more conversational 'who.') Or that the President would support gay marriage and talk about it in his acceptance speech? Or that for most Americans, the Republicans' hardline against even contraception, to say nothing of gay marriage, would seem bafflingly anachronistic?
So if I fell asleep in 2012 and woke up in 2037, although I'd like to think that I'd easily be up to speed, if the few changes I've mentioned in the last two blogs are any indication, I'd be even more lost than Rip Van Winkle. It was a nice thought--a free-floating consciousness that followed technology and politics and culture. But it's not one I believe in, and now it doesn't seem very practical either.
Speaking of time, L'shanah tovah! to all those who are beginning a new year.
Most of the students I taught my last year at Washburn wouldn't have been born yet. Mohamed would have just turned eight.
If I'd fallen asleep then, Ronald Reagan would have been President, and Margaret Thatcher would have been elected to her third term as British Prime Minister. The Berlin Wall wouldn't have fallen, and the USSR would still seem our number one threat (although Mitt Romney still appears to believe this in 2012). I wouldn't have heard of Bill Clinton. And, of course, if you had told me that a black man named Barack Hussein Obama would be President when I awoke, I would have thought you were joking. One of my friends in Metz was Shaheen, an Afghan refugee, who had been part of the mujahadeen and imprisoned by the Russian occupiers. I had never heard of the Taliban. Shaheen was small-framed and the most modest of men, but once when I was going to offer him a drink and asked him whether he drank alcohol, he said that he didn't because the last time he drank, he had killed a man. I never knew whether to believe him.
In 1987, the Fox network started broadcasting. There wouldn't have been "The Simpsons" or (my favorite) "Family Guy"; on the other hand, there wasn't Sean Hannity or Bill O'Reilly. Oprah had just begun her daily talk show. Even on cable TV, the vocabulary was far more restrained that it would be 25 years in the future. The first time I ever heard anyone say "pissed off" on TV was on "As the World Turns." I couldn't believe what I'd just heard. By 2012, even Lenny Bruce would have to shorten his list of words that are verboten. How many people in 2012 would get that reference.
If I'd fallen asleep in 1987, I might have known that Prozac had just been introduced in the U.S., but Big Phama wouldn't yet be inundating TV with ads for prescription drugs. What percentage of drug costs are related to the barrage of advertising for drugs in 2012? If I woke up in 2012 and saw a commercial for, say, Cymbalta, with beautiful, soothing images and a rapid voice-over listing all its terrible side-effects (potentially fatal events--how's that for a euphemism?), I'd think I was watching an SNL skit. In the LGBT community (a term that wasn't used yet), the big issue was still AIDS. It wasn't until 1995 that I stopped losing friends to AIDS. But it was also in 1987 that AZT was approved by the FDA. I would never have believed in 1987 that gay characters would be staples on American television--not only as comic sidekicks but as the main characters, as in "Will and Grace" and "Modern Family." I certainly would never have thought that gay marriage would be legal in some parts of America, including my home state of Iowa. Who would have thought I'd wake up to a world in which the Democratic election platform endorses gay marriage or where gays could serve openly in the military? Or that many of the speakers at the Democratic convention talked about the latter in terms of those who wanted to serve the country they love being allowed to do so no matter who(m) they loved? (The speakers were about evenly divided between the traditional 'whom' and the more conversational 'who.') Or that the President would support gay marriage and talk about it in his acceptance speech? Or that for most Americans, the Republicans' hardline against even contraception, to say nothing of gay marriage, would seem bafflingly anachronistic?
So if I fell asleep in 2012 and woke up in 2037, although I'd like to think that I'd easily be up to speed, if the few changes I've mentioned in the last two blogs are any indication, I'd be even more lost than Rip Van Winkle. It was a nice thought--a free-floating consciousness that followed technology and politics and culture. But it's not one I believe in, and now it doesn't seem very practical either.
Speaking of time, L'shanah tovah! to all those who are beginning a new year.
Friday, September 14, 2012
Tuesday we went to the KU Cancer Center, just for blood tests and a consultation with Jennifer, the physician assistant. The waiting room seemed more depressing than usual; there were several people there who were so emaciated that they clearly were at the end stage of their fight. The results of my blood work were all good. My blood is as healthy as a horse('s). Jennifer gave me a new prescription to fight the nausea. After a consultation with Dr. Van, we decided that it was better to continue at 600 mg. of the Votrient, taking occasional three- or four-day breaks if needed than to reduce the dosage to 400 mg. Although I get tired of the side effects, I'm long past the initial prognosis. Reducing the chemo may (or may not) reduce the negative side effects, but I'm not eager to take the risk that it would also reduce the positive benefits. I also got a new prescription for Percocet even though I still have a nearly full bottle of them. But these scripts can't be phoned in, so I'm either stocking up before my next visit in six weeks to the Med Center or contemplating a new career as a drug dealer. Rush, are you listening?
When I first started this blog, I wrote more about death and dying than I have lately because they seemed more imminent. I've always thought the worst thing about death (not about dying) was that I would no longer know what was happening. I hate being left out! Of all the poets I've quoted, for some reason I've never mentioned an obvious choice, Emily Dickinson, a poet I love, whom I loved teaching, and writes often about death. Her poem 280 ["I felt a Funeral, in my Brain"] ends with this quatrain:
And then a Plank in Reason, broke,
And I dropped down, and down--
And hit a World, at every plunge,
And Finished knowing--then--
The last line is ambiguous. Is 'knowing' a gerund that's the direct object of 'Finished'? That's the reading that connects with my lament about the end of consciousness. Or is 'knowing' a participle modifying 'Finished' and suggesting that the question that ends poem 414 ["'Twas like a Mealstrom, with a notch"]--"Which Anguish was the utterest--then-- / To perish, or to live?"--has been answered?
One problem with my desire to continue knowing (other than its impossibility since my consciousness will have finished) is that the world would soon become unrecognizable. In, say, 25 years, how many of the people and events would still resonate with me? I often think of a Rip Van Winkle scenario. What if someone fell asleep 25 years ago (I've fudged the length a bit) and woke up in 2012? How much of today's world would he or she comprehend. The most obvious changes are technological: it's not just that the TV screen is vastly bigger but the set is so thin. The newly awakened would search the front of the TV for buttons to push or knobs to turn. Where are they? And with HD, imagine the surprise at the clarity of the picture. And all this is to say nothing of the content.
I did have a computer in 1987. It was a KayPro, pre-MS/DOS. The operating system was on a large floppy disk that went into one slot, while the information was written on another removable floppy. There was a tiny screen, as small as the screen on the first TV my family ever owned in the early 1950s. The keyboard was snapped onto the CPU so that it all looked like a suitcase. And it did nothing but word processing. I remember how baffled I was the first time I tried to use it and every time I hit the backspace key it erased the letters behind my current position. The computer was indestructable, though. It survived an airplane trip to France in the cargo section, a reconfiguration to work on European current, and later a bus trip to Oregon. It would be nearly a decade before there was an Internet.
And cars. My last two cars haven't had keys for entry or for the ignition. How would someone who woke up from 1987 get in the car? Start it? And the dashboard is like a computer and telephone combined. What would someone make of the fact that I push a button, say "Call Mohamed," and I'm suddenly talking into thin air, while Mohamed's voice appears out of somewhere? Imagine the surprise when I put the car into reverse and a screen shows where the car is backing.
And phones. Our sleeper would search in vain for a landline (he wouldn't even know the term). Instead, there's a tiny phone that is a computer, a camera, and a videocam, as well as a phone. It sends and receives e-mail (another term that would baffle someone from 1987). But who's using e-mail (or often even phones) when we're all texting?
And so if I awakened suddenly 25 years from now, I think I would be as lost as someone from 1987 would be now. And those are only a few of the tech changes. Culturally? I think I'll save my observations on those changes till the next blog.
When I first started this blog, I wrote more about death and dying than I have lately because they seemed more imminent. I've always thought the worst thing about death (not about dying) was that I would no longer know what was happening. I hate being left out! Of all the poets I've quoted, for some reason I've never mentioned an obvious choice, Emily Dickinson, a poet I love, whom I loved teaching, and writes often about death. Her poem 280 ["I felt a Funeral, in my Brain"] ends with this quatrain:
And then a Plank in Reason, broke,
And I dropped down, and down--
And hit a World, at every plunge,
And Finished knowing--then--
The last line is ambiguous. Is 'knowing' a gerund that's the direct object of 'Finished'? That's the reading that connects with my lament about the end of consciousness. Or is 'knowing' a participle modifying 'Finished' and suggesting that the question that ends poem 414 ["'Twas like a Mealstrom, with a notch"]--"Which Anguish was the utterest--then-- / To perish, or to live?"--has been answered?
One problem with my desire to continue knowing (other than its impossibility since my consciousness will have finished) is that the world would soon become unrecognizable. In, say, 25 years, how many of the people and events would still resonate with me? I often think of a Rip Van Winkle scenario. What if someone fell asleep 25 years ago (I've fudged the length a bit) and woke up in 2012? How much of today's world would he or she comprehend. The most obvious changes are technological: it's not just that the TV screen is vastly bigger but the set is so thin. The newly awakened would search the front of the TV for buttons to push or knobs to turn. Where are they? And with HD, imagine the surprise at the clarity of the picture. And all this is to say nothing of the content.
I did have a computer in 1987. It was a KayPro, pre-MS/DOS. The operating system was on a large floppy disk that went into one slot, while the information was written on another removable floppy. There was a tiny screen, as small as the screen on the first TV my family ever owned in the early 1950s. The keyboard was snapped onto the CPU so that it all looked like a suitcase. And it did nothing but word processing. I remember how baffled I was the first time I tried to use it and every time I hit the backspace key it erased the letters behind my current position. The computer was indestructable, though. It survived an airplane trip to France in the cargo section, a reconfiguration to work on European current, and later a bus trip to Oregon. It would be nearly a decade before there was an Internet.
And cars. My last two cars haven't had keys for entry or for the ignition. How would someone who woke up from 1987 get in the car? Start it? And the dashboard is like a computer and telephone combined. What would someone make of the fact that I push a button, say "Call Mohamed," and I'm suddenly talking into thin air, while Mohamed's voice appears out of somewhere? Imagine the surprise when I put the car into reverse and a screen shows where the car is backing.
And phones. Our sleeper would search in vain for a landline (he wouldn't even know the term). Instead, there's a tiny phone that is a computer, a camera, and a videocam, as well as a phone. It sends and receives e-mail (another term that would baffle someone from 1987). But who's using e-mail (or often even phones) when we're all texting?
And so if I awakened suddenly 25 years from now, I think I would be as lost as someone from 1987 would be now. And those are only a few of the tech changes. Culturally? I think I'll save my observations on those changes till the next blog.
Tuesday, September 11, 2012
I had planned on beginning this entry about 90 minutes earlier, but the live coverage from eleven years ago of the 9/11 attacks is almost as compelling today as it was then. Like most of us, I can remember exactly where I was on that date. I had turned on the news, but then gone upstairs to grade papers from an online composition course I was teaching. I finished the grading and was feeling good because I had been productive and because the papers had been generally well written. I came downstairs, probably to get more coffee, and at first wasn't sure what I was seeing. I watched the replays of the planes hitting the towers, and then suddenly I saw the collapse of the south tower. And now, as I write today, at 9:29 a.m. central time, I relive the unbelievable sight of the north tower collapsing.
This afternoon we go to the KU Med Center for a six-week check-up. This time, it's just blood work and a consultation with Jennifer, the physician assistant. I have a long list of questions to ask. As everyone counsels, it is really good to have someone with you because it's too easy for the patient (i.e., me) to forget some of what he wants to ask or while listening to the answer to a second or third question to lose focus and revert to thinking about a previous answer. As I said six weeks ago, I don't usualy get nervous or worried about these meetings, but then I had had to revise that observation since I had awakened at 5 or 5:30 a.m. This morning, I woke up at 5 a.m., thought about the blog and having to admit that perhaps I wasn't as calm about the consultations and tests as I had wanted to believe. And the next thing I knew, it was 7 a.m., and the alarm was going off, so perhaps my first opinion was correct.
In the current New York Review of Books, Michael Chabon (Wonder Boys) has a brief reflection on dreams: "I hate dreams," it begins. At his house, he says, breakfast table recountings of dreams have to be limited to one sentence: "Better just skip it, and pass the maple syrup." I agree entirely. My heart sinks when someone wants to narrate a dream. I realize, of course, that I've told a couple of dreams here, and now I'm going to indulge myself and tell you last night's, not in one sentence, but as concisely as possible. I was staying with my American friends, John and Eric, who live in Paris. Instead of an apartment, they had a three story house, crammed not only with their belongings, but with mine as well--my pants and shirts and suits and outerwear, my books (shelves and shelves of these), my dishes and pots and pans. We were all flying permanently back to America at 4 in the afternoon, and nothing was packed. I was panicked. All the boxes were too small to hold much. There wasn't time to sell or give things away. What would the new owners think if I left all my stuff behind? And every time I thought I had one bag packed, I remembered another closet full of clothes. I don't think the dream is very hard to interpret: France "symbolizes" France. My reluctance to get ready equals, well, my reluctance to be ready to say goodbye to France. Sometimes a suitcase is only a suitcase.
I've subscribed to the NYR for probably forty years now. I usually read it front to back, skipping maybe one or two articles. One idea appeared in two articles in this issue related to the theme of Why Nations Fail, a book I blogged about a couple of months ago. That book made its argument in terms of politically and economically inclusive institutions versus politically and economically extractive ones, ruling out the relevance of such factors as geography (fertility of the land, prevalence of natural resources, etc.). Its main thesis was that politcal factors precede and trump economic ones. Two reviews in this NYR echo that argument. The first is a review of Paul Krugman's End This Depression Now! and Joseph Stiglitz's The Price of Inequality. Both Krugman and Stiglitz are Nobel prize winning economists. But as the reviewers point out, the most striking feature of the two books is their emphasis on politics: "Only in recent years . . . has there been a turn to politics to explain America's distinctive economic challenges--a reorientation that brings economics back toward its original conception as the science of political economy."
Later in the issue, Ian Johnson reviews three books on the Chinese economy and its "lost decade." Despite the common belief in China's inexorable economic rise, the books under review make clear that the economy has actually stalled, that the leadership is desperately trying to orient itself to new realities while clinging to power, and that divide between those who have profited and those who have been left behind is creating rising tensions. Johnson writes that all three books "make clear that most of all, China's economic challenges are political." It's impossible to think about these books and reviews without considering America's current problems--and the solutions, or the lack thereof, that mark the current campaign: political and economic inclusivity on the one hand, the 1% and an extractive political and economic prescription on the other.
This afternoon we go to the KU Med Center for a six-week check-up. This time, it's just blood work and a consultation with Jennifer, the physician assistant. I have a long list of questions to ask. As everyone counsels, it is really good to have someone with you because it's too easy for the patient (i.e., me) to forget some of what he wants to ask or while listening to the answer to a second or third question to lose focus and revert to thinking about a previous answer. As I said six weeks ago, I don't usualy get nervous or worried about these meetings, but then I had had to revise that observation since I had awakened at 5 or 5:30 a.m. This morning, I woke up at 5 a.m., thought about the blog and having to admit that perhaps I wasn't as calm about the consultations and tests as I had wanted to believe. And the next thing I knew, it was 7 a.m., and the alarm was going off, so perhaps my first opinion was correct.
In the current New York Review of Books, Michael Chabon (Wonder Boys) has a brief reflection on dreams: "I hate dreams," it begins. At his house, he says, breakfast table recountings of dreams have to be limited to one sentence: "Better just skip it, and pass the maple syrup." I agree entirely. My heart sinks when someone wants to narrate a dream. I realize, of course, that I've told a couple of dreams here, and now I'm going to indulge myself and tell you last night's, not in one sentence, but as concisely as possible. I was staying with my American friends, John and Eric, who live in Paris. Instead of an apartment, they had a three story house, crammed not only with their belongings, but with mine as well--my pants and shirts and suits and outerwear, my books (shelves and shelves of these), my dishes and pots and pans. We were all flying permanently back to America at 4 in the afternoon, and nothing was packed. I was panicked. All the boxes were too small to hold much. There wasn't time to sell or give things away. What would the new owners think if I left all my stuff behind? And every time I thought I had one bag packed, I remembered another closet full of clothes. I don't think the dream is very hard to interpret: France "symbolizes" France. My reluctance to get ready equals, well, my reluctance to be ready to say goodbye to France. Sometimes a suitcase is only a suitcase.
I've subscribed to the NYR for probably forty years now. I usually read it front to back, skipping maybe one or two articles. One idea appeared in two articles in this issue related to the theme of Why Nations Fail, a book I blogged about a couple of months ago. That book made its argument in terms of politically and economically inclusive institutions versus politically and economically extractive ones, ruling out the relevance of such factors as geography (fertility of the land, prevalence of natural resources, etc.). Its main thesis was that politcal factors precede and trump economic ones. Two reviews in this NYR echo that argument. The first is a review of Paul Krugman's End This Depression Now! and Joseph Stiglitz's The Price of Inequality. Both Krugman and Stiglitz are Nobel prize winning economists. But as the reviewers point out, the most striking feature of the two books is their emphasis on politics: "Only in recent years . . . has there been a turn to politics to explain America's distinctive economic challenges--a reorientation that brings economics back toward its original conception as the science of political economy."
Later in the issue, Ian Johnson reviews three books on the Chinese economy and its "lost decade." Despite the common belief in China's inexorable economic rise, the books under review make clear that the economy has actually stalled, that the leadership is desperately trying to orient itself to new realities while clinging to power, and that divide between those who have profited and those who have been left behind is creating rising tensions. Johnson writes that all three books "make clear that most of all, China's economic challenges are political." It's impossible to think about these books and reviews without considering America's current problems--and the solutions, or the lack thereof, that mark the current campaign: political and economic inclusivity on the one hand, the 1% and an extractive political and economic prescription on the other.
Saturday, September 8, 2012
Just some random thoughts on a beautiful Saturday morning: the heat has finally broken, and last night was the first time in many months that we could sleep with the windows open and cool breezes blowing across the room. I'd forgotten about the neighbors' two yappy dogs that start barking the moment they're let outside, but after a moment's irritation I feel back to sleep. By the start of the week, it's going to warm up again, but I'll take the comfortable Saturday and Sunday.
The blog has reached well over 6,000 pageviews. That's a gratifying number, and I still seem to have some faithful readers in Russia.
My health seems to have settled into a pattern of ups and downs that doesn't make for the most exciting reading. The last half of the week wasn't great. Yesterday, after eight full hours of sleep, I was energetic till 11 when I absolutely had to go back to bed. I slept for ninety minutes, thought about food, but nothing seemed appetizing, and then went back to bed for another ninety minutes. I had another decent few hours, but the hours between 5 and 7 seem to have become my worst time. My stomach cramps, my energy sags, and the thought of food (reinforced by all the ads for restaurants on TV) is nauseating. We needed to go to the grocery store, but I suddenly found myself with my head in the sink (it was closer than the toilet), and Mohamed went out alone. I honestly don't know what I would do without sushi and the sushi bar at the grocery store. It's the only food that is consistently appealing--small portions that I can eat at my own pace, rice, which seems to be okay with my stomach, and cool fish. I can't help thinking of my mother before her cancer was diagnosed. She had moved to Topeka--the same apartment complex, but on the other side--and every morning we'd drop Ryder, our cocker, off to keep her company. Over a couple of months, my mother was getting thinner and Ryder was getting larger. It took us a while to understand exactly why.
I feel guilty writing a paragraph like the one above because it makes things seem worse than they are. Basically, my health is stable. The ups and downs have continued for over a year now, and most of the time, I can live with them. I'm not in any real pain. I have incredible and unstinting support. I sometimes feel frustrated, but that's a small price to pay.
Thursday was Mohamed's 33rd birthday. I was a bad husband, and for the second year in a row, I didn't get him a present. Sure, I have excuses: in his culture, they don't celebrate birthdays, we have every electronic gizmo imaginable, we had just gone clothes shopping, he doesn't wear jewelry, and I usually strike out when I do buy him gifts. The power of the human mind to rationalize is amazing. We were at least going to go out for a nice dinner, but neither Thursday night nor last night was I in the mood for food. Tonight for sure! In-sha'allah.
We did watch a couple of hours of the Democratic convention each night. There were some great moments: Deval Patrick, Julian Castro, and of course Michelle, Bill (he does love to talk, but no one explains things better), Joe, and the President. This is hardly an original observation, but the conventioneers looked like America--every color, every ethnic and religious group, and a vibrant LGBT representation. What struck me was that while most of us looked at the convention and felt proud, I have a feeling that many Republicans who tuned in saw only their worst fears confirmed.
The blog has reached well over 6,000 pageviews. That's a gratifying number, and I still seem to have some faithful readers in Russia.
My health seems to have settled into a pattern of ups and downs that doesn't make for the most exciting reading. The last half of the week wasn't great. Yesterday, after eight full hours of sleep, I was energetic till 11 when I absolutely had to go back to bed. I slept for ninety minutes, thought about food, but nothing seemed appetizing, and then went back to bed for another ninety minutes. I had another decent few hours, but the hours between 5 and 7 seem to have become my worst time. My stomach cramps, my energy sags, and the thought of food (reinforced by all the ads for restaurants on TV) is nauseating. We needed to go to the grocery store, but I suddenly found myself with my head in the sink (it was closer than the toilet), and Mohamed went out alone. I honestly don't know what I would do without sushi and the sushi bar at the grocery store. It's the only food that is consistently appealing--small portions that I can eat at my own pace, rice, which seems to be okay with my stomach, and cool fish. I can't help thinking of my mother before her cancer was diagnosed. She had moved to Topeka--the same apartment complex, but on the other side--and every morning we'd drop Ryder, our cocker, off to keep her company. Over a couple of months, my mother was getting thinner and Ryder was getting larger. It took us a while to understand exactly why.
I feel guilty writing a paragraph like the one above because it makes things seem worse than they are. Basically, my health is stable. The ups and downs have continued for over a year now, and most of the time, I can live with them. I'm not in any real pain. I have incredible and unstinting support. I sometimes feel frustrated, but that's a small price to pay.
Thursday was Mohamed's 33rd birthday. I was a bad husband, and for the second year in a row, I didn't get him a present. Sure, I have excuses: in his culture, they don't celebrate birthdays, we have every electronic gizmo imaginable, we had just gone clothes shopping, he doesn't wear jewelry, and I usually strike out when I do buy him gifts. The power of the human mind to rationalize is amazing. We were at least going to go out for a nice dinner, but neither Thursday night nor last night was I in the mood for food. Tonight for sure! In-sha'allah.
We did watch a couple of hours of the Democratic convention each night. There were some great moments: Deval Patrick, Julian Castro, and of course Michelle, Bill (he does love to talk, but no one explains things better), Joe, and the President. This is hardly an original observation, but the conventioneers looked like America--every color, every ethnic and religious group, and a vibrant LGBT representation. What struck me was that while most of us looked at the convention and felt proud, I have a feeling that many Republicans who tuned in saw only their worst fears confirmed.
Wednesday, September 5, 2012
Pride and Principle. Sunday night we watched a wonderful Iranian film, A Separation, winner of the 2012 Academy Award for Best Foreign Language Film. It's a domestic drama about two families: an upper-middle-class Persian family (Simin, Nader, their daughter Termeh, and Nader's father who has Alzheimer's) and a lower-class family, the wife of which, Razieh, is hired to take care of the father. Simin has a visa and wants to leave the country for the West with her husband and daughter, but Nader refuses to go because he feels he must care for his father. As the film opens, Simin is prepared to leave without him; they are before an unseen judge, as she asks for a divorce so that she and her daughter (who hasn't agreed to go) can leave. The judge will allow Simin to leave, but not with their daughter, so Simin moves out to live with her family. Nader is, as Simin tells the judge, a "good and decent man," and he struggles with the care of his father and daughter. Razieh, too, is a good and decent person, but once hired, with problems of her own, she is caught by her overwhelming responsibilities, and everything is rapidly complicated as events (and motives) slide out of control.
One of the pleasures of watching foreign films is the glimpse we get into another culture, and no culture at the moment would seem more foreign than that of Iran. The portraits of the women are especially fascinating. Simin's world is secular: she wears a hijab (head scarf) rather than the chador (the umbrella-like garment that covers the whole body). She teaches English and wants to leave Iran. The only political moment in the movie is at the very beginning when the judge asks her why she wants to leave, and she replies that she wants her daughter to live in different conditions. The judge asks her what exactly she means by that, and Simin remains silent. In one very brief scene, we see her stubbing out a cigarette on the balcony. In America, that would mean that she isn't allowed to smoke in the house, but here we're surprised that a woman is smoking and, moreover, doing it where she can be seen by others. Razieh, on the other hand, is extremely devout. On her first day, the father soils himself. She hopes that he can wash and change on his own, but he's unable to do so, so she calls a religious hotline to see whether it would be a sin for her to wash him. (She's told that it's not.)
There are also a few details that were tantalizingly inexplicable to me. There are many scenes of women suddenly having to adjust their chadors as men enter. Once, the moment is beautiful as a woman descends the stairs and the chador sails outward in the breeze. It seems like a motif in the film, but perhaps for an Iranian, it would simply be an unremarkable commonplace act. At one point we see Termeh studying for an exam; she's learning the Farsi words for certain concepts. But since everyone is speaking Farsi, why she is having to learn these words and what language is she translating from? It's not Arabic, nor French (Iranians use merci, as well as the Farsi mamnoun for thank you). Are Razieh and her hot-headed husband Hojjat not only from a different economic class, but also from a different, non-Perisan ethnic group? Is the 'us' vs 'them' mentality that permeates Hojjat's outlook based on more than economic differences? At the end of the film, when we last see the family (and Termeh is about to tell the judge whether she will live with her mother or her father, a question that remains unanswered as the movie ends) does the black garb that all the family is wearing mean that Nader's father has died?
What is amazing about the film, however, is, despite the cultural differencs, how universal it is, how few details would need to be changed to adapt this film as an American story. It's about good people, all with their own needs, desires, and values, whose views of what is necessary and right are incompatible. And inflexible. They act out of pride and principle. But as the action unspools, principle begins to apply more to others than to themselves. Each begins to allow him- or herself small exceptions--small lies, sometimes of omission (as Razieh's failture to tell Nader that she is pregnant), but often overt. The falsehoods complicate themselves, and for stretches, the viewer becomes uncertain about where the truth lies--not in the Rashomon sense of the instability of truth, but simply in knowing whom, among these characters that we like, to believe.
A Separation is a marvelous film, all the more interesting for its insight into a culture that suddenly reveals itself as not all that different from our own.
One of the pleasures of watching foreign films is the glimpse we get into another culture, and no culture at the moment would seem more foreign than that of Iran. The portraits of the women are especially fascinating. Simin's world is secular: she wears a hijab (head scarf) rather than the chador (the umbrella-like garment that covers the whole body). She teaches English and wants to leave Iran. The only political moment in the movie is at the very beginning when the judge asks her why she wants to leave, and she replies that she wants her daughter to live in different conditions. The judge asks her what exactly she means by that, and Simin remains silent. In one very brief scene, we see her stubbing out a cigarette on the balcony. In America, that would mean that she isn't allowed to smoke in the house, but here we're surprised that a woman is smoking and, moreover, doing it where she can be seen by others. Razieh, on the other hand, is extremely devout. On her first day, the father soils himself. She hopes that he can wash and change on his own, but he's unable to do so, so she calls a religious hotline to see whether it would be a sin for her to wash him. (She's told that it's not.)
There are also a few details that were tantalizingly inexplicable to me. There are many scenes of women suddenly having to adjust their chadors as men enter. Once, the moment is beautiful as a woman descends the stairs and the chador sails outward in the breeze. It seems like a motif in the film, but perhaps for an Iranian, it would simply be an unremarkable commonplace act. At one point we see Termeh studying for an exam; she's learning the Farsi words for certain concepts. But since everyone is speaking Farsi, why she is having to learn these words and what language is she translating from? It's not Arabic, nor French (Iranians use merci, as well as the Farsi mamnoun for thank you). Are Razieh and her hot-headed husband Hojjat not only from a different economic class, but also from a different, non-Perisan ethnic group? Is the 'us' vs 'them' mentality that permeates Hojjat's outlook based on more than economic differences? At the end of the film, when we last see the family (and Termeh is about to tell the judge whether she will live with her mother or her father, a question that remains unanswered as the movie ends) does the black garb that all the family is wearing mean that Nader's father has died?
What is amazing about the film, however, is, despite the cultural differencs, how universal it is, how few details would need to be changed to adapt this film as an American story. It's about good people, all with their own needs, desires, and values, whose views of what is necessary and right are incompatible. And inflexible. They act out of pride and principle. But as the action unspools, principle begins to apply more to others than to themselves. Each begins to allow him- or herself small exceptions--small lies, sometimes of omission (as Razieh's failture to tell Nader that she is pregnant), but often overt. The falsehoods complicate themselves, and for stretches, the viewer becomes uncertain about where the truth lies--not in the Rashomon sense of the instability of truth, but simply in knowing whom, among these characters that we like, to believe.
A Separation is a marvelous film, all the more interesting for its insight into a culture that suddenly reveals itself as not all that different from our own.
Sunday, September 2, 2012
Correction and mea culpa. I'm very sorry to have maligned Francois by making the erroneous assumption that he is a Republican. As Laura points out in her comment on the last blog, one reason I should have known better is that I went to their party celebrating Obama's victory. No one should have his/her reputation sullied by implications of supporting the Greedy Oligarchs' Party.
We had a lovely two-hour brunch with good food and great conversation despite my gaffe.
We had a lovely two-hour brunch with good food and great conversation despite my gaffe.
Friday I resumed the chemo at the same dosage as before. The four-day hiatus was a good and, I think, necessary break, though it didn't lead to the abrupt changes that I had hoped for. The stomach problems abated most, but not all, of the time, and my appetite improved. The nausea disappeared entirely. But the fatigue continued with 7-8 hours of sleep at night plus two rather long "naps" every day. (The word 'naps' seems somehow inadequate. A nap sounds like a happy and harmless indulgence, rather than a forced cessation of mental and physical energy.) I have to say that I wasn't overjoyed after the telephone consultation with the doctor on Friday when we decided to stay at the previous 600 mg. level, and I unscrewed the cap on the bottle of pills and swallowed three of them. I have to be grateful for what the chemo does: it's been almost two years since the cancer metastasized from the kidney into the bones. And it's been 15 months (see? I really can't stop counting) since the oncologist said the prognosis for stage IV kidney cancer was less than a year. Although the quality of my life has been diminished in some ways, I'm still alive and kicking (more strongly with my left leg than with my titanium and plastic laced right one). I'm not in any kind of serious pain. I'm still engaged with people and books and issues. So the "new normal" resumes with three Votrient pills every morning and a sense of promise mitigated only slightly by the sight of those small blue pills.
I had the teaching dream again last night. This time, the class had already begun, and at least I did know where we were meeting: in the stacks of the basement of a library, an arrangement that meant I couldn't see the entire class at the same time. It was the first day of the last semester I was going to teach, and several retired colleagues had come to visit the class. There was also another class meeting in the same space, so I had to compete for attention. What I didn't have were the right books. For some reason, I had decided (and then forgotten my decision) to change both texts for my last semester. When I held up what I thought were the texts, the students all whispered, "Those aren't the books you listed." I had never seen the two texts I had chosen before and didn't have copies. The reader was called "Jury Double" or "Double Jury," and as soon as the rather disastrous first class was over, I went scrambling through the library (which was under reconstruction with plastic sheets and dust everywhere) to try to find a copy. Luckily, I woke up before having to face the class a second day.
I've generally avoided talking about politics in the blog in part because I'd just be preaching to the choir--and an intelligent and well-informed choir at that. (I think, however, we're having brunch with an actual Republican today.) I couldn't bring myself to watch even one minute of the Republican convention, though of course I've read lots of commentary (most of it irreverent) and seen several clips. Part of what seemed to be interesting was who wasn't there, most significantly the last Republican President and Vice-President. An exception was made for Condi Rice, since a black woman was a coup. And when even Sarah Palin is banished, something weird is going on. Yet having turned their backs on representatives of their last eight years in power, the Republicans advocate returning to the same old policies. The dominant (and mendacious) narrative seemed to be that we pulled ourselves up by our bootstraps, and if you can't, that's your problem. I saw clip after clip of speakers talking about how poor their childhoods were, and how through their own initiative ("we built it") they triumphed. Does anyone believe that Mitt and Ann lived in a basement apartment and ate pasta and tuna off an ironing board? Probably no more than that Paul Ryan ran a marathon in less than three hours. Ryan seems to have gotten the most attention for the sheer number of lies in his speech. Clint Eastwood (the father of seven children with five different women, and thus clearly a spokesman for family values) obviously got the most attention for the sheer spectacle of his performance. So Mitt was upstaged by Ann, Paul, and Clint. And the party has alienated African-Americans, Hispanics, gays, many women, and, I would think, many older voters. I can't imagine what my life would be like now if the Ryan voucher program were in place for health insurance. Who would insure me? At what price? And yet somehow the endless polls tell us that the race is close. How can this be?
We're going to Lawrence today for a buffet brunch with our friends Laura and Francois in a historical hotel there. The food is always good at the brunch, and since what I find appealing is unpredictable, a buffet sounds like a good choice. Should I bring up politics with Francois? It's so rare that I talk to a Republican, let alone one that I like, that I think I'll violate the proscription about talking politics and religion at social occasions. It could be fun.
I had the teaching dream again last night. This time, the class had already begun, and at least I did know where we were meeting: in the stacks of the basement of a library, an arrangement that meant I couldn't see the entire class at the same time. It was the first day of the last semester I was going to teach, and several retired colleagues had come to visit the class. There was also another class meeting in the same space, so I had to compete for attention. What I didn't have were the right books. For some reason, I had decided (and then forgotten my decision) to change both texts for my last semester. When I held up what I thought were the texts, the students all whispered, "Those aren't the books you listed." I had never seen the two texts I had chosen before and didn't have copies. The reader was called "Jury Double" or "Double Jury," and as soon as the rather disastrous first class was over, I went scrambling through the library (which was under reconstruction with plastic sheets and dust everywhere) to try to find a copy. Luckily, I woke up before having to face the class a second day.
I've generally avoided talking about politics in the blog in part because I'd just be preaching to the choir--and an intelligent and well-informed choir at that. (I think, however, we're having brunch with an actual Republican today.) I couldn't bring myself to watch even one minute of the Republican convention, though of course I've read lots of commentary (most of it irreverent) and seen several clips. Part of what seemed to be interesting was who wasn't there, most significantly the last Republican President and Vice-President. An exception was made for Condi Rice, since a black woman was a coup. And when even Sarah Palin is banished, something weird is going on. Yet having turned their backs on representatives of their last eight years in power, the Republicans advocate returning to the same old policies. The dominant (and mendacious) narrative seemed to be that we pulled ourselves up by our bootstraps, and if you can't, that's your problem. I saw clip after clip of speakers talking about how poor their childhoods were, and how through their own initiative ("we built it") they triumphed. Does anyone believe that Mitt and Ann lived in a basement apartment and ate pasta and tuna off an ironing board? Probably no more than that Paul Ryan ran a marathon in less than three hours. Ryan seems to have gotten the most attention for the sheer number of lies in his speech. Clint Eastwood (the father of seven children with five different women, and thus clearly a spokesman for family values) obviously got the most attention for the sheer spectacle of his performance. So Mitt was upstaged by Ann, Paul, and Clint. And the party has alienated African-Americans, Hispanics, gays, many women, and, I would think, many older voters. I can't imagine what my life would be like now if the Ryan voucher program were in place for health insurance. Who would insure me? At what price? And yet somehow the endless polls tell us that the race is close. How can this be?
We're going to Lawrence today for a buffet brunch with our friends Laura and Francois in a historical hotel there. The food is always good at the brunch, and since what I find appealing is unpredictable, a buffet sounds like a good choice. Should I bring up politics with Francois? It's so rare that I talk to a Republican, let alone one that I like, that I think I'll violate the proscription about talking politics and religion at social occasions. It could be fun.
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