Wednesday, August 30, 2006

Bricks and Mortar

I fell into a brown study today at lunch. I cannot explain this as it seemed to precede the moment I began reading the fiction piece by Richard Ford in last weeks New Yorker, but it definitely presaged the punishment inflicted on me by that story. Fiction is always so unhappy I stay away from it. It's like the complaint people often wage against the news on television, that it is so concerned with violence, tragedy and unhappiness that it entirely skews reality. Novelists and writers seem to find the depths, compleixites and myriad shadings of unhappiness more fascinating than the brighter side of life (whatever brighter side might actually exist.) One could make the argument that reporters are simply presenting the news as it happens and that happiness is not an event to be chronicled but a stasis providing little external action or incident. Writers may make the same claim but at least possess a clearer choice. They are actors rather than reactors.

The short story recounted in first person the tale of a man in a second marriage. His wife's first husband, disappeared and long thought dead, reappears and she leaves the narrator to reunite with him. The narrator, struggling for coolness and detachment, comes off as an unpleasant person who is overly satisfied with the complacency of his life and perplexed and angered by people who make other choices. But his description of the differences between first and second marriages rang true to me as far as I can perceive such things. And this caused me, logically, to reflect on my marriage and ideas of healing and the passage of time, issues I continually try to unravel, tease apart, worry at, and reconcile with how I feel.

The following might be instructive as to knowing how my brain works. I thought first of a cracked and split open heart and metaphors of repair. As we speak of mending a broken heart one rarely hears descriptions of how a heart might be broken in a physical sense, of what material it might be made of that it is so apparently frangible, fissile, and fragile. Without describing its material we can hardly begin to describe the process of repair. For instance, the heart does not seem to be such a thing that it can be sewn back together; neither do I think glue or paste would work, so already many materials are ruled out for the heart's composition.

My mind seemed to settle on an idea of ceramic or pottery or brick. I recall that I may have composed this thought before. One image I had was of a person struggling to collect potsherds off the ground, as one might struggle to pick up bruised apples without a basket. Eventually, one's arms are so full of items that the act of reaching down to gather another one in makes one or more bits fall back to earth. Like a gleaner, but without a skirt hem to draw up and use as a makeshift satchel.

But that was a digressive thought. A heart made of brick implies the presence of mortar. Repairing a brick or stone wall is a rich, active metaphor for "rebuilding" a life, making a "house" or container for one's self. Masonry has a storied history (the pyramids, the cathedrals, etc.) and a great accumulation of terminology and tools full of allusiveness (the hod, the quicklime, the trowel) and mortar has the additional meaning of the cup or bowl paired with a pestle, the receptacle within which things are ground, atomized or dispersed, a nice inversion of the material which holds things together.

As I was thinking of these things my mind turned (again, quite logically, I assert) to stories by Edgar Allen Poe. It seems to me that if we reflect on the story "The Cask of Amontillado" we can interpret it not as a simple tale of cruel revenge inflicted by one man on his unwitting nemesis (by inebriating him and then walling him into a niche in a deep medieval catacomb) but as an internal narrative of an act of healing conducted by a man on himself. This is not to say that it is a successful act or healthful. I mean that it is not uncommon for me (and others, I'm sure) to feel as if we have betrayed ourselves, that one part of us has undermined or negated the actions of another part. Is it not fair that, to ensure this ceases, we take action against ourselves? Can we not reasonably imagine that Poe's story is of a man who loathes a part of himself so much that he murders that part through calculated deceit? I think the story is more interesting that way even if the psychological interpretation ends up not having any textual basis.

I thought next of "The Tell-Tale Heart" and imagined that perhaps the shuttered, boarded-up heart belong not to a man killed by the narrator, but to himself. That embedding the heart beneath his floorboards was an attempt to erase a crime but the crime was in fact another misguided act of healing. Does not the bible say "And if thy right hand offend thee, cut it off"? (Matt. 5:30). Can an offense of the heart not be solved the same way? (You might ask whether this is a good example of cutting off the nose to spite the face; I will leave that point unanswered.) So perhaps in Poe's story the narrator suffers from the impossibility of removing his own heart; that we cannot ignore for long its beating, that such an attempt makes us criminal even as if we have killed another.

I wish here I could recall the exact plot of "The Fall of the House of Usher." I am not sure if I could analyze it the same way. Another favorite story, "The Masque of the Red Death," does not apply. But I enjoy that story very much for it's similarities to both the Marquis de Sade's 100 Days of Sodom and Boccacio's Decameron. (Again, this is a digression, but I enjoy considering how all three stories focus on an escape from a city as a representation of legality, order, morality and societal structure. Out in the country, the characters in the stories nonetheless feel a greater security, safety and are able to unbridle their imaginations. In the Decameron this results in the telling of stories. In Sade it is expressed as unrestrained licentiousness. And in Poe as a costumed ball, though his ends with the note of futility of escape. One could include other books, such as The Cantebury Tales or Huckleberry Finn in this analysis, but neither involve the demonification of the physical city as a place of strictures and requisite dangers be they physical [the plague], legal, or moral. The more I think about it, the more I should include Huckleberry Finn except that it seems to involve less an idea of going from one place to another and more is about simply being on; and besides, I think in Finn all of society, not simply cities, are demonized, and society is represented by any land, not by a particular mode of habitation.)

You see how far my thought wandered in the space of less than a half hour while reading a short story. I have the image of a man rebuilding a wall stuck in my head like a bad song. I need to go read Frost's "Mending Wall" and see if it bears upon this issue. But I will leave you with this:

"Pass your hand," I said, "over the wall ; you cannot help feeling the nitre. Indeed it is very damp. Once more let me implore you to return. No ? Then I must positively leave you. But I must first render you all the little attentions in my power."
"The Amontillado !" ejaculated my friend, not yet recovered from his astonishment.
"True," I replied ; "the Amontillado."
As I said these words I busied myself among the pile of bones of which I have before spoken. Throwing them aside, I soon uncovered a quantity of building stone and mortar. With these materials and with the aid of my trowel, I began vigorously to wall up the entrance of the niche.


There is no Amontillado, or if there is, it is not his to ever taste. What other quests do I lead my heart on from which it can never return.








Note to self: drink less coffee.

Okay, okay I confess...

Polygamists are funny too. I can't explain it.

Police: Throbbing artery gave polygamist away

I think the arresting officers need to take a refresher course in anatomy; that was no artery....

Tuesday, August 29, 2006

Two more things today

Firstly, I came across an unbelievably cool last name while sorting some papers. the name is "Paleologos," obviously Greek in derivation and meaning "Old words." (paleo=old as in paleolithic, and logos=word as in logo, logorrhea, dialog, monologue, etc.)

Secondly, something reminded me today of a phrase, a mot, I thought of years ago and have never been convinced I thought of it myself rather than reading or hearing it someplace else. It's not extremely clever but it confuses me as to how or why I would have thought it up.

It is the crack that makes the vase.



I remember now, it's called an aphorism. I can never remember that term. I think there are synonyms for aphorism that I also can never remember.

In the news

'Most Wanted' polygamist captured

I think his defense is that he only married so many times because the women wouldn't take no for an answer. It's like being "The world's most eligible polygamist." Now that he's captured, everyone can marry him. It's like some old story about being abducted and held captive by Amazonians for breeding purposes.

Turkey bombs: 'Police hunt two'
Description of suspects: Toms, plump breasts, fully-fledged. Pose risk of flight.
This reminds me that yesterday I was thinking about cockroach and bug bombs and how those terms make it sound as if our various pests are waging their own jihad against society. Kind of like a "six legs good, two legs bad" scenario.

I like the rain and the autumn wind...

So, in honor of the onrushing season I present three songs:

Who Loves the Sun by the immortal Velvet Underground

Who loves the sun
Who cares that it makes plants grow
Who cares what it does since you broke my heart
Who loves the wind
Who cares that it makes breezes
Who cares what it does since you broke my heart

Pa Pa Pa Pa. who loves the sun
Pa Pa Pa Pa who loves the sun
Pa Pa Pa Pa not everyone
Pa Pa Pa Pa who loves the sun

Who loves the rain
Who cares that it makes flowers
Who cares that it makes showers since you broke my heart
Who loves the sun
Who cares that it is shining
Who cares what it does since you broke my heart

Pa Pa Pa Pa who loves the sun
Pa Pa Pa Pa who loves the sun
Pa Pa Pa Pa not everyone
Pa Pa Pa Pa who loves the sun

Next is the first song I ever remember listening to on top forty radio (well, this and "Ring my Bell") and it absolutely mesmerized me when I was 7 or 8 or 9:

I love a Rainy Night by Eddie Rabbit

Well, I love a rainy night
I love a rainy night
I love to hear the thunder
Watch the lightning
When it lights up the sky
You know it makes me feel good
Well, I love a rainy night
It's such a beautiful sight
I love to feel the rain
On my face
Taste the rain on my lips
In the moonlight shadow
Showers washed
All my cares away
I wake up to a sunny day
'Cos I love a rainy night
Yeah, I love a rainy night
Well, I love a rainy night
Well, I love a rainy night
Ooh-ooh
I love a rainy night
I love a rainy night
I love to hear the thunder
Watch the lightning
When it lights up the sky
You know it makes me feel good
Well, I love a rainy night
It's such a beautiful sight
I love to feel the rain
On my face
To taste the rain on my lips
In the moonlight shadows
Puts a song
In this heart of mine
Puts a smile on my face every time
'Cos I love a rainy night
Yeah, I love a rainy night
Ooh, I love a rainy night
Yeah, I love a rainy night
Ooh-ooh

Showers washed
All my cares away
I wake up to a sunny day
'Cos I love a rainy night
Yeah, I love a rainy night
Well, I love a rainy night
I love a rainy night
Well, I love a rainy night
You can see it in my eyes
Yeah, I love a rainy night
Well, it makes me high
Ooh, I love a rainy night
You know I do, yeah, yeah
I love a rainy night
I love a rainy night
You can see it in my eyes..

And finally, one of my favorite standards of all time:

Autumn leaves, english lyrics by (my favorite) Johnny Mercer

The falling leaves drift by my window
The autumn leaves of red and gold
I see your lips, the summer kisses
The sun-burned hands I used to hold

Since you went away the days grow long
And soon I'll hear a winters song
But I miss you most of all my darling
When autumn leaves start to fall

A last note to that song. It's autumn and the singer is reminiscing about summer; he's lonely and apprehensive about the approach of winter. So why is it that the days are growing long? In the fall it's the nights that grow longer and it's also nighttime when we are most likely to be lonely, nostalgic and dreamy which is clearly the song's tone. This has never made sense to me so when I sing it to myself I change the lyric to "Since you went away, the nights grow long." Unless someone can otherwise justify the original to me.

Friday, August 25, 2006

In the news

Depression may become Ernesto

But mourning most certainly becomes Electra



It's true, I find hurricanes almost as funny as NASA. And speaking of space, while I have been following closely the demotion of Pluto as a planet, I haven't really seen any funny sides to the issue. I would have expected lots of good humor but nothing has sprung to mind. Everything can't be funny, I guess.

Wednesday, August 23, 2006

In the news

National Lampoon co-founder dead at 59

This is almost as funny as "National Lampoon's Dorm Daze" (2003) and "National Lampoon's Senior Trip" (1995)


Hundreds of body parts recalled

Fondly, they were recalled fondly. In a national day of remembrance yesterday, amputees and victims of disfigurement waxed nostalgiac on their lost limbs. Lepers told touching stories of their last moments with various extremities, and a few fortunate individuals proudly displayed their preserved parts in elgant cases. Special atention was given to internal organs and other "forgotten parts"--their loss often overlooked by the wider publice due to their low profile. Livers, kidneys, hip joints seemed to be some of the most common lost parts among this crowd. A minority came out to repesent their lost uvulas, appendices, and third nipples. But these were considered the lunatic fringe.


Conservatives ask FBI to investigate hotel porn

It's really sordid to admit, but I love it when the Hyatt takes it all off and goes at it with Marriott Courtyard. Or maybe a three-way between Motel 6, Days Inn, and Red Roof Inn. If you're into "mature" porn, you can catch the Plaza go down on the Palmer House. And next week we'll see hot man-on-man action with the release of "Room Services" featuring the Soho Grand and W Union Square.

Monday, August 21, 2006

back from vacation

So my major vacation this year, the only occasion for leaving town for no specific purpose, just ended. This one was a rather obligatory family vacation on a lake that I can sum up in a few statements:

  • My family is great and fun to be around.
  • Conversation (regardless of subject) between people having babies and owning houses can become remarkably tedious and dispiriting.
  • Finding a New York Times and an iced coffee required more than a twenty mile drive, round-trip.
  • I am now the only person in my family not in a relationship. This is not counting my nephews.
  • Being on a lake would be a lot more fun if there was a boat you had full possession of and knew how to drive/paddle. Or had a driver's license.
  • I think the indigestion and sense of perpetual overindulgence I feel when with my family might be mental.


I suppose more could be said but it would probably get a little too bitter and untrue. Now that I am back the city's weather has a distinctly autumnal tinge and I am looking forward to leaving this muddy rut of a summer. And playing trivia. And looking up.

Friday, August 11, 2006

Again with the space...

Shuttle countdown test goes smoothly

10, 9, 8...all the numbers were present in the proper order and functioning smoothly.

Tuesday, August 08, 2006

And I thought I was kidding...

A few days ago I posted this:

"My first war zone, Now with "safe" rubber bullets" which was actually an article about a reporter's first time in a real war, in this instance the Israeli/Lebanese conflict.

But today comes this headline:

C'mon kids, let's go to Army World!

Which is actually about plans for a military theme park. Or maybe CNN has secretly entered the payroll of the military to help promote the armed forces to the next generation.

Sunday, August 06, 2006

yeah I know, serial killers aren't funny...

Accused 'Serial Shooter' described as 'really sweet'

His co-conspirator was referred to by a neighbor as "really salty."

"He doesn't even look like he would know which end of the (gun) barrel the bullet would come out of."

Apparently he made a really good guess.



And in other news:

NASA joins search for elusive woodpecker

The woodpecker, known because of it's impressive size as the "Good God" bird, is so rare that scientists now hypothesize it has left orbit for the colder climes of other planets. NASA, stepping into the research vacuum, seems perfectly suited to testing this novel idea.

and in kid's news:

My first war zone

Now with "safe" rubber bullets

Tuesday, August 01, 2006

My favorite illness...

While Castro's exact illness remains unknown, a recent poll taken in Miami shows an overwhelming preference for general nausea/vomiting; diarrhea/intestinal distress/colitis; and broken hip.
A surprising number of votes were cast in favor of shingles, especially with permanent nerve damage; psoriasis, or simpy crotch itch, was also a strong minority favorite. Two voters said they wouldn't cheer unless it was the "biggest zit ever." Overall, the city concurred that if the illness turned out to be an ingrown toenail, impacted molar, or infected boil, they would stop cheering, because those are "just gross."