Art

My friend Drew (aka agolaski as in the above distinctively printed signature), here with his close friend Patti, poses in a photo booth.  Later he dolled-up one of the set of four portraits with color and gave it to me.  Drew's head bursts with great ideas and originality and quests for perfection --  which, in my opinion, he usually achieves.  I'd be envious except that sometimes he shares something perfect with me.  I remember one time sitting across a table from him as he was printing a postcard in his beautiful style.  For perfection's sake he was proceeding painstakingly slowly.  Towards the end he made a teensy mistake.  He tore the card into small pieces and started anew.

Pies

Time to make grocery list of things needed to bake Thanksgiving pies.  Summer before last I made the above pie for my friend Jane Shields who picked the blueberries for it ... and I customized it with the initials JS in the crust.  When I'm done thinking about pies I'll think of staying up an hour past my bedtime to watch the PBS special on John Lennon in New York. 

Party at Work for Veterans

For Veterans who are employees of the park and Veterans who are relatives of park employees; delicious home-made apple pie, cider, and coffee, and applause.  Great collection of pictures of guys from peacetime, WWI, WWI, Korean War, and Iraq.  Mrs. Roderick's pie was so delicious that I had four pieces.  Fun gathering!   (Click on image below to read article.)

Below, all veterans at the party.

Below, currently employed veterans (not all could attend).

Marcel Proust - Died November 18, 1922

New Treasures

Today a packet came in the mail; Karen Kukil, with whom I shared my photos of the induction of Sylvia Plath into The Poets' Corner, and who is Associate Curator at the Mortimer Rare Book Room at Smith College, gifted me with the handsomely bound (handsome inadequately describes it) and exquisitely printed catalog of an excellent exhibition I attended in 2005 at The Grolier Society in New York City; this exhibition, called "No Other Appetite - Sylvia Plath, Ted Hughes, and the Blood Jet of Poetry" consisted of documents, photographs, and other items, including a Royal manual typewriter which Plath had owned.  Seeing these things was, as my Irish friends say, grand.

(As I looked at the poster advertising the exhibit on the way out, it occurred to me that vastly much more had been delivered than I'd expected ... I'd already seen so much Plathiana -- most thrills had been experienced.  Wrong.  This exhibit was beyond beyond.

And then, as I stepped out onto East 60th, thinking of posters, and drenched as I am in pop culture, I thought of John Lennon's lyrics for "Being for the Benefit of Mr. Kite" -- lyrics whose inspiration was a vintage poster advertising a circus; excitement upon excitement was promised by the poster, and promised, too, in the lyrical-genius's lyrics: "The Hendersons will all be there/Late of Pablo Fanque's fair/What a scene!"  I improvised: "The manuscripts will all be there/And photos of her favorite chair/What a dream!")

Also in the packet: four cards with envelopes; on the card's front: a quote from Plath's journals and a picture of Plath.

I'm blessed.  In a note of thanks to the curator I said, "For someone who likes to think he eschews possessions as a Buddhist might, I'm holding these items very close."

Treasures

One of my favorite places is the Mortimer Rare Book Room at the Smith College's Neilsen Library.  In the nineties, when I lived in Keene, New Hampshire, I would visit the Rare Book Room each year on Sylvia Plath's birthday, October 27th; sometimes I pored over the Plath material held there -- letters, manuscripts, diaries, photographs -- wearing thin white gloves lest the oils of my skin damage the treasures; other times I sat in the handsome reading room reading from Plath's copy of Remembrance of Things Past.

One time the librarian, who'd always been welcoming and friendly, always a pleasure to see, gave me a copy of a booklet the library had published containing 13 pages of Plath's poem "Stings" in successive revisions in both manuscript and typescript.  It's a treasure.

Sylvia Plath - Part XII - Induction Ceremonies

The Cathedral Church of Saint John the Divine on Manhattan's Upper West Side, the setting, the home of The American Poets' Corner, is magnificent.  It is said to be the largest Gothic cathedral in the world, but it is not merely large ... it is gigantic, it is mammoth, it is enormous, it is colossal.  It also is awesomely beautiful.  The organ therein is stupendous ... I have never been so sumptuously enclosed and transfixed within sound as I have been when hearing it. 

On November 4th, the Thursday evening program, "A Celebration of Sylvia Plath", consisted of speeches and readings of her poems -- Karen Kukil, an Associate Curator at the Smith College Rare Book Room, where much Plath material is held, spoke about passages from Plath's journals (which journals, in the unabridged edition, Kukil edited).  Marilyn Nelson, distinguished in scholarly gown, the Poet in Residence at the Cathedral, spoke of her personal appreciation of Plath's work.  Poet Annie Finch spoke about Plath's magic with our language.  Several Plath poems were read by members of louderARTS, a Lower East Side consortium which refers to itself as "the home for all things performance poetry in New York City."  They were beautiful and they were professional and they were excellent.  Irish-born poet Paul Muldoon recited "Daddy".  A pianist, a clarinetist, and a soprano performed three Plath poems which had been set to music by composer Ned Rorem.  All in all, a beautifully dignified ceremony ... nothing more could be wished for except that Sylvia Plath herself could have been there to soak up the deep admiration she earned with her astonishing poetry ... and I hope that there is a life after death and that she was seeing all.

Performer-Readers from louderARTS

Program from Thursday evening ceremony.

The November Seventh Sunday late-afternoon ceremony, the formal induction, was incorporated within the Episcopalian Evensong.  Three additional Plath poems were spoken -- poet Major Jackson's recitation of "Daddy" was especially eloquent, his voice a special gift.

Program from Sunday Evensong

At the end of Evensong all were invited to gather at The Poets' Corner in the cathedral for the unveiling of Plath's stone:

I was lucky at this segment of the ceremony ... Karen Kukil, to whom I had introduced myself on Thursday evening because I wanted to tell her how much I love The Rare Book Room at Smith College, where she is Associate Curator, asked me if I would take a few pictures for her.  Thus I was able to photograph some distinguished people:  Karen on the left; to her right, Susan Plath Winston, Sylvia Plath's niece, the beautiful daughter of Sylvia's only sibling, Warren; and, on the right, Emily Cook, a Smith College student and friend of Karen's; and Robert Shaw, a British Director who recently, in New York City, directed a staged version of Sylvia Plath's "Three Women: A Poem for Three Voices". 

Following the unveiling, we were treated by the Cathedral and organist James Kennerley to an amazingly uplifting soul-filling recital.  Swoonable sound.


What more can I add except many thanks to my friend, Ellen Miller; she provided me a bed in her apartment on St. Mark's Place on the Lower East Side -- New York City's most exciting block in my opinion -- after all, W.H. Auden once lived just across the street from Ellen; and Ellen subway-guided me here and there over the long weekend and didn't mind terribly, or so it seemed, that I wanted to get to both cathedral events at least an hour early lest I miss something.


It was a rich, rich weekend.  There is no promise of a crowning moment to anything, but being at these ceremonies felt like a crowning moment to my life-long obsession with the poems and the biography of the woman who is my favorite poet and America's most amazing poet.


If indeed, Sylvia, you are somewhere with a vantage to see all, I offer a reverential kiss; I lift my hands from the keyboard to blow the kiss across the palms, aiming it toward a high pedestal in my mind.  You have enriched my life tremendously.

Yuk Politicians

When this photo appeared in the Cape Cod Times some years back it looked like Romney was thinking, "Ha! You have to work for a living whereas I've never had to work a day in my life!"

Veterans Day

Though I am a veteran (U.S. Army, Aug. 1958- June 1961), my respect and honor goes to those veterans who served in wars, on battlefields, who perhaps slogged through mud, who perhaps scooted forward on their stomachs knowing they could be in the sighting crosshairs of the rifle of the enemy, who perhaps watched a buddy be mortally wounded, who witnessed horror upon horror, and to those whose futures were stolen from them.


I was fortunate; I did what my British friend recently called my "national service" during a period of peace.


At the Brockton Veteran's Hospital, where I've had physical exams, huge letters in the lobby say: "Those who have long enjoyed such privileges as we enjoy forget in time that men have died to win them."


I don't forget.

Sylvia Plath - Part XI - Poets' Corner, St. John's the Divine Cathedral

Day After Halloween

Last year, living on Gull Pond, Mark took Jodie Dog into the woods the day after Halloween.  He reported that at a cleared spot off the path, where there was often the residue of a bonfire, they discovered the scene of a massacre.  The following morning, like a detective, I took the dog back to the scene.  Must have been quite a spirited party.  Twenty, thirty, forty years ago, I'd have wanted to be there!

Halloween

Oct. 31, 2003 - First thing today I discover that, overnight, Jodie got into the trash can under the sink. Strewn across the kitchen and living room floors are used tea bags, wrappings, plastic crap, chicken bones, and so forth. She was, as always, charmingly contrite. I told her it was okay and scratched her ears. It was after all my fault since I’d had ice cream last night while she was out to fetch Émigré, the cat (Jodie barks to let me know when the cat shows up) and I’d thoughtlessly tossed the empty container into the trash. But Jodie evidently was enticed by the scent of cream from beneath the sink and couldn’t resist getting to the source.


I stopped at Hole-in-One Doughnuts on my way to work, as I’ve done every single work day since I started this job last March. My unvarying order is: a small coffee with cream and sugar, one glazed and one cinnamon doughnut. Though the crew there has always been super friendly it was only about a month ago that Howard – the one man behind the counter, he’s nice looking, dark blue-eyed, and maybe forty- or forty-five – asked me my name and introduced himself. He’s very funny and witty. As one instance, he owns a stupendous variety of peculiar hats, including many ladies’ hats, as well as many of those billed caps fashioned into various things … a lobster, a bunny, a hot air balloon, whatever. This man of many hats wears a different hat every day. Yesterday it was an imitation pumpkin, its color a horrible nuclear-blast orange, that sheathed his head, making him resemble those hysteria-prone fans at hoops games who wear cut-out basketballs on their heads – a style very popular in Indiana, of course, but not as eye-catching as the chunks of cheese the fans of the Green Bay Packers wear on their heads.

Since mine is an unremarkable life for the most part I look forward each workday morning to seeing Howard’s chapeau du jour. I walk in this morning and Howard’s in full friggin’ drag! He actually looks great! A long blonde tight-curls wig flows over his shoulders and down his back. He’s expertly eye-lined, mascara-ed, lip-sticked, and pancaked. He’s wearing a yellowish sleeveless silk evening gown. I am blasted away at the sight of him. I simply bust out guffawing, cracking up so bad, and I can’t stop. I can’t look at him and I can’t not look at him. Now everyone in the place is laughing at my being so helplessly broken apart that I can’t even speak. Of course, I don’t need to speak … by this point my regular order has been memorized by all the four or five members of the staff.

Finally I manage to say, “I must say, Howard, you’re absolutely gorgeous!”

“I’m not Howard,” Howard says. “I’m Howard’s sister, and he warned me about you!”

“Believe me, you’re absolutely safe with me!”

“Sure … that’s what all you guys say!”

Howard’s made my day. Plus it’s unseasonably beautiful, Indian Summer, warm, and sunny. I drive to the beach nearest my worksite as … creature of habit again … I’ve also done every workday since I started this job. I sit in the car, listening to “Imus in the Morning” or, on exceptionally fine days, sit out in the sun on a bench at an overlook, gazing at the Atlantic, ingesting sugar and caffeine for my blood flow.

This morning though, on Marconi Site Road, headed for the overlook, there is in the bright sunshine, walking towards me in the oncoming lane, a coyote. I slow the car and stop quite near him (his size indicates maleness). He casually veers himself off the macadam and stops about ten feet from me. For a good fifteen or twenty seconds he stares at me impudently. He is a handsome coyote, not emaciated looking as they often are, and with a rich-thick blond black coat with streaks of dark here and there. In the end he ambles into the forest. Just before disappearing he turns back to give me a who-the-fuck-do-you-think-you-are glance.

While several of us were in the break room, a young colleague named Will told a hilarious story about going with three friends to the Goodwill store in Hyannis last evening to buy costuming. They took forever picking through things, and it was nearing time for the joint to close, and so they felt rushed, but each finally found something. As they were heading toward the counter to pay, one of them noticed about ten brand-new identical dresses, all the same style, all hideous, all the same large size. “They looked like something Raggedy Ann would wear,” Will said. The four of them abruptly decided that instead of what they’d already chosen, it’d be cool if they all dressed alike in these atrocious dresses. A sign above the rack said $8.00. They put back the their earlier selections, each grabbed one of the dresses from the rack, and they proceeded again for the check-out.

The line in front of them was long, and meanwhile the line behind them grew long. When at last the first of Will’s coterie was being rung up it was noticed that the cashier rang up $14.99 for the dress. Will’s friend said, “Isn’t that supposed to be $8.00?”

The clerk – a harried-looking woman in her fifties -- had had a long day, apparently, and she had had enough. At this questioning of a price she went ballistic. “Look!” she yelled, loud enough that everyone in the store could hear, “I’m the one who makes the signs around here and I don’t need anyone coming up here and telling me what the signs say! If you’da looked careful you’da seen that below the $8.00 it says “Unless Marked Otherwise” -- but, no, you read only what you want to read! And believe me, I don’t care whether you but this or not – I don’t care if you buy anything or not -- but you’re not getting this for eight bucks! Take it or leave it! Either way I’m sick of your type coming in here once a year and thinking you can prance out of here without spendin’ nothin’ but a few pennies!”

Will’s friend was practically speechless but gathered himself to say, “I’m sorry … I’ll take it anyhow.”

Will was red-face humiliated! He’s sort of self-effacing, sweet, politically good, always kind, and possesses an admirable social conscience; what most humiliated him was having this sort of attention drawn to himself and his friends, fearing that others in line would think they were cheapskates even in a place known for bargain prices. “And to think,” he said he thought to himself, “that this is a charitable organization and the last thing I would want anyone to think is that we would quibble about the cost of anything in such a place!”

To say nothing of the your kind slur!