Leap Day 2012

I was watching Modern Family, and Phil Dunphy said exactly what I think, that Leap Day is a bonus day! And it should be celebrated. I like having parties! Or making something special of the day. After seeing the movie Leap Year last year, I looked up the tradition of asking a man to marry to me to see if it was really so. I will take any lead to make a plan for something. And what I found, is that sure enough it has been a tradition since the Middle Ages that on Leap Day, women have the opportunity to ask a man out, or ask him to marry her. Bam! Who the heck am I going to ask out? That is all I need.

I thought about it, and I did have someone in mind. I did some research. I thought that a nice dinner would be appropriate. I pick the place. I pick him up. I pay the bill. Lovely company, a good cocktail, a nice dinner ... what better way to spend an extra day of the year?!

Well, it didn't happen. Guys are weird. I didn't ask. I knew what the answer would be.  I've heard no from this particular fella for longer than I would like to own up too. His loss, right?



March 1st Roar



Instead I found myself wandering around the neighborhood. The weather went from good to blustery in 5. I turned west, and had a hard time pushing against the wind. Now, I'm hardy girl, but it was windy, and I had to fight it several blocks to get back home. I was glad to turn the corner and move south. A little sad, but I was able to move my thoughts from the failed Leap Year opportunity that I won't get for another 4 years, to the idea that March, tomorrow, is coming in like a lion. No lamb in this town. I don't remember if the Groundhog saw its' shadow or not, but there may be some snow tonight in what has been a relatively mild winter. Winter may come roaring back.

Maybe I should plan something special for 'in like the lion....' It's an idea!

Alouette, gentille Alouette

Alouette, gentille Alouette

Alouette, je te plumerai

Je te plumerai la tête

(Je te plumerai la tête)

Et la tête

(Et la tête)

Alouette

(Alouette)

O-o-o-oh

The Target commercial is transcendent. As soon as the hot air balloon hits the ground, the bright happy people jump out and change the world around them. What is better than that. It reminds me of the French film, Window to Paris. In it, characters discover a portal in their communal apartment in Moscow that transports them to Paris. The sad music teacher who has recently moved in, brings his children with him, and they dance and sing in the same semi-spastic way as the dancers in the commercial do through the cobbled streets of the City of Light. Their lives are dull and cramped living in the former communist state, and when on the streets of Paris, voila, transcendence. Of course the newly capitalist, curmudgeon'd couple who control the apartment also find the window, transport to France, and dismantle a car to bring back through. Does Target sell cars, too?!

The ad also reminds me of Yeats' poems, The Lake Isle of Innisfree, which addresses transcendence. He (Yeats) 'will arise and go now, and go to Innisfree ... There midnight's all a glimmer, and noon a purple glow.' The balloon has landed, the window found, and all is well. Color and rhyme pull him, and us, out of the drudgery of normal day-to-day life, and spiffen us up. We're popping with what's possible. It's been turned on its head.

Brilliant. This version of the song is so catchy ... I wonder if I can buy it at ITunes?! I love it! It immediately brightens my day, and sticks to my heart.

Sir Paul

from Rolling Stone Magazine

Sir Paul in concert 2011

I was excited to see Sir Paul on the cover of Rolling Stone this week. I went straight to the article and plowed in. He is recording a rockin' album to follow up this year's 'Kisses on the Bottom.' Sir Paul is 70 this year! And that's why he says that he's going right back to rockin'. I saw him this summer and it was an amazing three hour show on a very hot summer night. He played all of my favorite Beatle and Wings songs, and left some of his lesser known solo work at the turnstile. Magic.

Yeah but ... ooh, I don't know about Kisses on the Bottom.  I was really looking forward to listening to it, and knew that it would be my 'album' of the moment. I have skipped the whole Rod Stewart thing with the standards ... there's something perverse about him singing those songs ... especially the arrangements. It did not work for me. He, Rod, should have retired or gone the Robert Plant route. Reinvent himself (there goes that Madonna creeping in again!)

But Paul sang this genre as a Beatle ... 'When I'm 64,' 'She's Leaving Home,' 'Eleanor Rigby' ... these are like Frank or Bing or Nat. When I first listened to Kisses on the Bottom, I thought, oh maybe I'm hearing something wrong here ... these songs seem so ... flat. So I listened again. Flat. Listened again .... really flat. Oh Paul, what have you done? I know that it is being reviewed really well, and I must say the music is delightful and Diane Krall is excellent, but Paul's singing ... boring. He isn't his usual bubbly self, and maybe the hushed tone is meant to be ... sexy?! I don't know ... it's not cool.

Then I read the Rolling Stone article. The read was fine, and you may think that the quote I include above is meant as a testament to what I think is right about Paul, but it isn't that. When I got to the end and he talked about how 'Yesterday' came to him in a dream, and he didn't rule out God's role in it. But then the journalist said, "McCartney always seemed to be the least spiritually inclined Beatle ... There's no "My Sweet Lord" in his repertoire- not even and "Across the Universe." I wondered about whether God really is in his vernacular.

That's it. It isn't just about being 'cool.' Cool has to be supported with something more ... soul. A belief in more than dreams. Paul admits in the article that he's done with weed (pot), and I wonder if he isn't still in the fog of that ...his pronouncement is stoner-like. I want more from him. I expect more from him. And though 'Obladi Oblada' is a great ditty, it isn't 'Happiness is a Warm Gun." Paul isn't worried about anything ... that's why he looks so good at 70. Or maybe he looks so good because he's been stoned for so long ... mellow. Mellow doesn't draw lines on one's face or character, I suppose.

Paul isn't ready to sing the standards. He's got to live more. Grab it and all that it means to its core and heights, and then maybe he can do it.

The Iron Lady

Meryl Streep.

The lady, who at award shows always dresses like a house-Frau, and seems a little loopy and pretty boozy, is a bloody good actress. Oh, don't get me wrong, she looks like she is A LOT of fun. And then she does a movie ...

She was divine in The Iron Lady. I haven't seen all of the movies or actors that are nominated for this year, and probably won't by the time the Oscars air, but I know that she should win. She is transformative. In the opening scenes, knowing full well that she is playing Margaret Thatcher, I wondered ... is that really her? The make-up and hair person for her was phenomenal, but even without that, or she may need that, she is the character. She is the person. The last scene as she walks away from her husband's leaving toward eternity, she is exactly as an old woman would walk away from her life. Shoulders shifted forward, a shuffling of slippered feet, a shove of a chair squeezed by, and then on down the hall.

The movie itself played out like a news reel of sorts. I rather liked it. More than once, which I don't have habit of doing, I remarked to my friend who saw the movie with me. First there was the footage of old Thatcher give it to the unions ... hello Billy Elliott! Having seen the movie and stage musical of BE, I find that the musical captured the time much better than the movie. As the reel played, I expected to see Billy tap around the blockades and angry mobs of miners.

Then there was the war against Argentina over the Falklands. I don't remember much of that from real time, but it's there in a fuzzy kind of way. Of course more remarkably is that Prince William is there now, and poor Catherine must do without her man for 6 long weeks as he helicopters around.

The other story that really caught my attention was the time that Thatcher let the Irish political prisoners die in their hunger strike. They demanded to be treated as political prisoners, and not criminals. I began a poem in high school about this topic, and finished when I went to college. I was walking to the Student Center one day, and this big guy in his blue puffy coat that I always saw around, was holding up a sign, 'give Ireland back to the Irish.' I tried to imagine what that was all about without really having any knowledge of it. A few years ago, an excellent film was released, Hunger, which told the story of those prisoners and the leader in the strike, Bobby Sands. I remembered him especially from that time. The film is gruesome and captivating ... sublime.

Meryl made me think of this ....


Give Ireland Back to the Irish

a brightly coloured wrapper
explodes
on a deserted street
as the victim's profile
is fused
to the standing wall of a church.

a man lays motionless
in a guarded after-life
as black masked soldiers mourn,
setting-off
more coloured wrappers.

mimicking his brothers,
a red freckled child
follows
the splinters of colour
whirling in the smoky air.

a lonely man,
smiles lustfully
as he stands on a cement block,
a thousand miles away
holding a limp piece of cardboard reading,
'give Ireland back to the Irish.'

(1981)

Ash Wednesday

the finish line

40 days. 40 nights.

I imagine the desert sun. A linen tunic. Rope sandals.

I remember walking along the Camino de Santiago, not too far from the finish line. Yes, I realize that a pilgrimage should probably end at an arrival at the religious destination, or whatever, but I like sport analogies. It's halftime during a play, not intermission. One gets up, goes to the bathroom, and gets a drink, right? How is that different than at a football game?! And since I hiked the last one hundred miles for my Pilgrim's Certificate, I saw the church as the finish line!

the camino

For most of the hike, I wandered through evergreened forests, along cobbled roads, and along stony brooks up the side of the mountain. I ran into a herd of cows (yes, my sister was there, but that is for another post), a flight of deer across a nettled floor, and into the same Roman Ruins that pilgrims have walked passed or sat on for over a thousand years. It was a wonder ... all of it.

the camino

But then near to the end, I hit an airport that I had to walk around. It was at the end of the day, and I had already walked maybe twelve or thirteen miles. I turned the corner out of a wood and hit it. Where it had been cool and scented for miles, it became unbearably hot and dirty. I didn't think that I would make it round. I felt like I was melting into the grass that surrounded the runways. I had a kerchief that I had used to be pilgrim-y, so I tied four corner knots and made a delightful make-shift hat. My legs felt heavier and heavier with each step. And all I could think about was, not the Coca-Cola that Claire, my Australian teammate, always welcomed me with at the end of the race ... she was always five minutes ahead, no matter what I did, or how fast I walked. Of course, those that know me, know that that can be pretty slow. And my slow arse, couldn't wait for an ice-cold BEER. I made it to the end. And Claire and our guide were seated at a restaurant ready to eat a big meal, and I grumbled through parched lips, no thanks, give me a cerveza ... a big one, and keep 'em coming.

Jesus had wine. But I doubt he had any on his journey.  I wonder if he had much water. I've been thinking about this today, and trying to identify what I should do to honor this commitment. I'm not much for 'giving up' something. I'd rather do something that would be good for me ... and something that I'm not doing, so it could be called a hardship. I don't think that is such an original concept. And so today, I began my journey through 40 days. I will do some kind of active behavior everyday. I will not define. Limit it. I will just do it. And make a calendar to mark off the days because I like to check off a list.

I also abstained from meat today. And will for Fridays. It's good to eat fish. I came home today from a tour of the neighborhood, and am making potato soup for dinner. I remember my mother making it when we were young, and it was always so yummy. Also wanting to clean out my fridge a little, I've tossed in a few extras from my mom would have done.

Here's the recipe ....

1 onion
4 celery stalks
2 carrot sticks

I food processed these because I'm not always the best chopper, and since I will infusion blend the soup, I thought that this would be a good idea. I sauteed the above in olive oil and smidge of butter.

4 peeled potatoes

I added water to the pot. Cubed the potatoes and threw them in to boil. I added some seasonings:

Sea Salt
Pepper (lots)
Herbs de Provence ('cause I like it)

Once the potatoes were soft, I added a little (1/8 cup) heavy cream that I had left over from some chocolate sauce I had made for a friend, and skim milk. And then infusion blended it.

The result ... YUMMY. I've got to remember this for the future when I have other foodstuffs aging on the shelf.

40 days. We can all do it, if we are purposed.

Downton Abbey

If you heard my screams last night, it was because the last installment of the second season of Downton Abbey came to an end. I am not a band wagoner on this, and I've hesitated to even address this officially, but I have found that I must. The story that has warmed my heart now during two wintry Januarys, and this year's February, puts into action all that I've ever learned of the period. And I write now to reveal that it is poetry that introduced me to the drama, not the show's creator, Julian Fellowes.

While in graduate school, I took a wonderful class of Modern Poetry. Several evenings were spent discussing the work of the World War I poets, and it is here that the story unfolds.

First we have Wilfred Owen. A young man, who after having met Siegfried Sassoon (another war poet) during a brief return from the front, returned to the front with a renewed zeal to capture his experiences in verse. He died in France before the Armistice, and his poems were published posthumously. One of my particular favorites of his is the sonnet:

Anthem for a Doomed Youth (1920)

What passing-bells for these who die as cattle?

       - Only the monstruous anger of the guns.

       Only the stuttering rifles' rapid rattle

Can patter out their hasty orisons.

No mockeries now for them; no prayers nor bells;

       Nor any voice of mourning save the choirs, -

The shrill, demented choirs of wailing shells;
And bugles calling for them from sad shires.

What candles may be held to speed them all?

       Not in the hands of boys, but in their eyes

Shall shine the holy glimmers of good-byes.

       The pallor of girls' brows shall be their pall;

Their flowers the tenderness of patient minds,

And each slow dusk a drawing-down of blinds.

Typically, sonnets are meant to be beautiful, and I suppose Owen locked up the horrors of the war in the structure of it, an English sonnet (abab cdcd efef gg). The 'Anthem' from the title lends a religious connotation ... a funeral service. The 'passing -bells, ' signal death, by the 'guns' and 'rifles' rapid rattle.' The alliteration of 'rifles' rapid rattle' is hard and fast. The war is loud and frenzied. The prayers, 'orisons,' are 'hasty,' as I would expect them to be in the trenches. No voices are heard except for the 'choirs' of shells, and the 'bugles calling for them from sad shires.' The bugle would play out taps, the angels call, and the 'shires' are the homes that the boys fighting have left behind. The second section of the poem moves to the domestic front. The quiet of the funeral. The 'girls' brows shall be their pall,' the pall being the death cloth/shroud. The 'slow-dusk' is death coming slowly. And the alliteration of 'drawing-down' slows the pace even more so, indicating that death is drawn out in little deaths every day. As one can imagine it to happen in the trenches at the front.

While studying these poems, the professor showed scenes from the film All's Quiet on the Western Front to illustrate the brutality of trench warfare. Downton Abbey also showed in its war episodes the trenches, and the heir to the estate was wounded in a scene very similar to what Owen describes in his poem. At the end of the last episode, Julian Fellowes was shown on set for the war scenes and he even yelled out, 'I want it loud ...'

One of the other story lines in the show is that of the Irish chauffer. He is into politics, in love with one of the daughters, and he has the desire to marry her and move back to Ireland to fight what will become the Irish War of Independence. So of course, I couldn't help but be reminded of Yeats' poem:

An Irish Airman Foresees His Death (1919)

I know that I shall meet my fate

Somewhere among the clouds above;

Those that I fight I do not hate,

Those that I guard I do not love;

My country is Kiltartan Cross,

My countrymen Kiltartan's poor,

No likely end could bring them loss

Or leave them happier than before.

Nor law, nor duty bade me fight,

Nor public men, nor cheering crowds,

A lonely impulse of delight

Drove to this tumult in the clouds;

I balanced all, brought all to mind,

The years to come seemed waste of breath,

A waste of breath the years behind

In balance with this life, this death.

One thing that wasn't shown in the Downton Abbey's war scenes was airplanes. WWI was the first war where airplanes were used in battle. The average live expectancy of a pilot was three weeks.  Yeats' good friend was fellow Irishwoman, Lady Gregory, and her only son died in WWI, as many only sons died. The title of this poem is very important to understand. It is an 'Irish' airman, not a British one, though he is Irish-Anglo. Let's look at the poem.

The pilot will meet his 'fate,' because he is a flier, and has a life expectancy of three weeks. He does not fight his enemy, 'those that I fight I do not hate.' Nor does he fly to protect Britain, 'those that I guard I do not love.' He says, 'my country is Kiltartan Cross,' which is a small town near Coole, which was one of Lady Gregory's residences in Ireland. His countrymen are 'Kiltartan's poor,' who are the Irish Catholics. He explains that his involvement, his fighting, does not affect them as they have nothing to lose ... it isn't their war either, 'No likely end could bring them loss/ or leave them happier than before.'

So why does he fly? It is not for patriotism, that has been established, 'nor law, nor duty bade me flight; for public men, nor cheering crowds.' Rather, it is 'a lonely impulse of delight.' 'Lonely' is a key here. Yeats is political and he surely sees the Irish-Anglo as being as isolated as the Catholics were in Ireland. The airplane is certainly above the trenches that Owen talks to, so it could be delightful. There's no rapid firing; instead, it is only a 'tumult in the clouds.' He is rather ambiguous as to his role in the war, the 'waste of breathe' repeated demonstrates this feeling. Perhaps in his mind, the only thing that matters is right now, 'in balance with this life, this death.' His end is a balance of life and death, which is actually anyone's at any given moment, I suppose.

And the last poem that comes to mind is T.S. Eliot's The Waste Land. And for the sake of my reader's consideration, I will only address several lines, as it has taken me more readings than I can possibly remember to get a handle on this master work. It is a poem that I think of often, probably because it is so challenging, and well, brilliant. While watching the last several episodes, I wasn't really very happy with the story line of Lord Grantham carrying on with the maid when he'd been very in love with his wife all along, but I suppose as Eliot writes, the war ruined what was of England. It had to reinvent itself, and since Madonna wasn't around yet, they didn't know how to do that! Oh goodness, forgive me, we need a little levity as I move through this ....

I. THE BURIAL OF THE DEAD APRIL is the cruellest month, breeding
Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing
Memory and desire, stirring
Dull roots with spring rain.
Winter kept us warm, covering	5
Earth in forgetful snow, feeding
A little life with dried tubers.
Summer surprised us, coming over the Starnbergersee
With a shower of rain; we stopped in the colonnade,
And went on in sunlight, into the Hofgarten,	10
And drank coffee, and talked for an hour.
Bin gar keine Russin, stamm’ aus Litauen, echt deutsch.
And when we were children, staying at the archduke’s,
My cousin’s, he took me out on a sled,
And I was frightened. He said, Marie,	15
Marie, hold on tight. And down we went.
In the mountains, there you feel free.
I read, much of the night, and go south in the winter.    (1922)

The poem, as whole, is one of fragments. The title shows that it is not only the 'land' that is a 'waste.' 

By separating the normally compound word, Eliot points this out to the reader. The poem is also a questpoem. The first line of the first section begins, 'April is the cruelest month.' April is the month that the 

pilgrims began their quest to reach Canterbury. To read Eliot, one needs a very strong background in 

the Bible, all literature, and everything else because he makes constant allusions to the past. The man 

dug the past. He also was not English. He was born in America. And his crazy wife? Well, she was 

institutionalized for what we now know to be a hormone imbalance. He wasn't great with the ladies ... he didn't get them. Just read The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock. And the first lines of this poem.

Eliot continues with 'breeding/ Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing/ Memory and desire, stirring/ Dull 

roots with spring rain.' Egads! Sexy, sexy, sexy. But he wants none of it. Spring is universally 

recognized as the symbol of birth and beginnings. It is lustful.The bulbs are pushing up out of the dead ground (England after the war) because that is what nature does. It is painful. And it is wanting. The Earth is reborn, but can England be born again? Eliot would rather forget and writes, 'Winter kept us war, covering/ Earth in forgetful snow, feeding/ A little life with dried tubers.' He likes numb. The worst has passed, let's not move, and have only what we need to survive. The next lines of the poem speak to before the war, childhood memories 'staying at the arch-duke's.' Of course, it was the assassination of said duke that started WWI.

At the end of Season II, we are in this time after the war. Characters have died in the war and others aredead from the outbreak of the Spanish Flu that killed millions of Englishmen. The story has faithfully followed my poetic education, and I look forward to Season III and more evidence of the idea that I have that life is poetry.