Language Games
I went mad in your house of words,
purposely mad, so you would
give me asylum.
I went mad to undergo
a therapy of syllables.
But you prescribed crosswords,
anagrams for sleeping pills.
That didn't work.
You bought a Scrabble game.
I juggled the white pieces,
maybe a hundred times.
But my seven letters
were all vowels.
When you spoke again,
my sorrow turned deaf:
I couldn't hear you smile.
...
Words never evade you,
you can build anything.
You can build a whole hour
with only seven seconds.
Framed with consonants,
we resumed play, no vowels
in my seven letters.
I saw you do wonders without vowels.
Let's give up, I said,
but you cried: Truth AND Consequences!
I rocked shut to sounds.
You challenged me to Charades.
I agreed. This
would be my syllable-cure.
Tableau One: I licked a saucer of milk.
You cried: CAT!
Tableau Two: I was stubborn as a mule.
You cried: ASS!
Tableau Three: I gave you my smile, like a prize.
You cried: TROPHY!
You cried: CAT-ASS-TROPHY?
You cried: CATASTROPHE!
~Agha Shahid Ali, from A Walk Through the Yellow Pages
Monday, September 26, 2011
Tuesday, July 19, 2011
Clinton and Pitt save 9th Ward in 40 minutes or less
Clinton and Pitt save 9th Ward in 40 minutes or less
The rumors had been building for weeks. Some speculated there would be two hundred individuals, then the number grew to three, then four. By the time that March 17th, 2008 rolled around there were estimates of six hundred College aged students who would be delivered to the Lower 9th Ward of New Orleans to perform cleanup and mowing in a disaster area which still had upwards of four square miles with only a dozen inhabited houses. The area in the path of the levee breach on August 30th 2005 was leveled by a 23 foot storm surge of water risen from the Gulf of Mexico. After homes were washed off their foundation, the area sat underneath 13 feet of toxic water for two weeks. Of those homes that had not floated like boats to be dropped blocks away from where they had witnessed sometimes 100 years worth of birthdays and breakfasts, nothing was salvageable. All possessions, all pets and around 1200 people had been swallowed by the water.
Fast forward two and a half years and the houses which had come to rest in the middle of Tennessee and Deslonde Streets were gone, leaving the area a landscape of toothy foundations and tombstone slabs. At night and in the rain the ghosts are never far from this place. Even though much work had been done to date, there were still large chunks of concrete, refrigerators to move. A local ordinance had resulted in resident's property being repossessed for lawns with a height in excess of 18 inches and the resultant fines of $300 a day. Enter into this some scene six hundred college age students, arrived as part of the Clinton Global Initiative partnering with Brad Pitt's Make it Right Project. We in the volunteer sector had heard the kids would be working for around eight hours that day, and with such an amount of work to do still in the Lower 9th Ward, we were genuinely excited about. The area had become overgrown with the swamp that was here before the people and with the summer not far off their presence was welcome help that our group of less than 30 unpaid volunteers could scarecely manage alone.
At 7:30 the work crew coordinators began to drop off equipment. CNN and other news outlets were assembling their cameras and stationing their people on Tenessee Street. The excitement building, around 9 o'clock the groups of students started arriving, all wearing matching blue shirts. They got off the buses and by 9:15 had begun moving concrete debris out of the yards and closer to the street for disposal as well as mowing lawns. I and a fellow volunteer named Sarah walked around with a camera to capture some of the work for the relief organization, snatching a shot of four people lifting an especially heavy piece of concrete or using shovels to clear ground so that an open gush of water was diverted to the street drain rather than pooling on the ground. The City of New Orleans had taken two years to replace the street signs in the Lower 9th Ward, so the neglect of seeing unrepaired water lines spewing was not an uncommon sight.
Walking a little further, there was a quiet spot where Sarah & I rested underneath one of the oak trees which flank Tenessee street. After a minute a man with a weed wacker and an orange vest gestured to us that this tree was next in line for his tool. We moved six feet away and he yanked the cord to start the gasoline motor. He cleared about a quarter of the grass which was at the bottom of the tree, then switched the tool off, held his right hand to his right ear, and listened. I looked to Sarah and said, "Secret Service." and she, "I didn't know they were given orange to wear."
At 10:00 Brad Pitt and Bill Clinton began walking south on Tenessee street. Any remaining whir of weed wackers stopped. The hands lifting wood or chunks of debris ceased. All feet walked to Tenessee to watch Bill Clinton's ashen head and Brad Pitt's signature golf hat greet students working. I started taking photos and noticed quickly that I was able to either correctly expose Bill Clinton's face or his hair, but if I correctly exposed his face his hair would flare and over expose his head like a halo. If I correctly exposed for his hair, his face would appear sunken in shadows. I kept shooting. I saw that despite the fact that students were on both the east and west side of the street, Clinton & Pitt were only greeting those on the east side. The obvious answer was of course lighting. The kids on the East side were able to shake hands or joke with Clinton and Pitt because they provided the better exposure for the photographers. Those on the West side got to watch with mere reverence rather than engagement.
As I snapped photos of the back of Bill Clinton's head, a woman ran up to me and said, "Hello. Yes. Hi. I need you to stand over there. Yes. Over there. I'll get a shot for you later if you want. But today its all about the kids. Yes. Thank you. Please move." My face was exasperated by such a strange demand. Though I had lived in New Orleans only 5 months, I considered it, and the Lower 9th Ward my home, and felt as though a stranger was asking me to leave an area I not only lived in, but worked in, loved in and was striving to make habitable. Because of my bewilderment, I was unable to find the words to say, "The kids? Its been two years since the storm. What about the residents?"
A teenage boy with Indian features wore one of the blue Clinton Global Initiative t-shirt looked across the street longingly.
"I wish I could be over there." He said.
"You should head over there. Have a good time."
"I don't know." He responded.
"Look, in life, some days you have the shirt and some days you don't. Today you have the shirt. Go enjoy it."
He smiled and left. A woman from CNN said,
"Somedays you have the shirt." to which another said,
"Story of my life."
To be frank, I was getting tired of this mockery. For a full hour and a half Clinton and Pitt had been walking down the street and no one thought it was important to be clearing lots or mowing lawns. If this was for the kids, then the kids weren't doing squat to help the people trying to move back to the Lower 9th Ward, an area with 65% home ownership before the storm. If this was for the kids, what about the kids of the homeowners who were almost exclusively black who were now at risk of having their land repossessed because the city was fining people $300 a day for having grass over 18 inches. If this was for the kids, whose kids was it for? The Lower 9th Ward is an area that many former residents want to move back to, despite the violence that occurred before the storm, where gunshots sometimes would break the humid nightime air. Those who would like to move back though have been unable to do so by the megalithic bureaucracy that surrounds their being reimbursed for Federal Disaster Assistance funds appropriated by the US Congress. FEMA, HUD, all had funds that had been promised to people to help them move home, and the stark reality was that there were no houses built. None. Or rather, maybe 1 house for every 40 lots per city block. So the Lower 9th Ward still lay almost entirely empty two and a half years after the storm. There is a distance between the nuanced complexity demanded by large Federal agencies, and the reality that people had wished to return and had been conintuously thwarted by nothing more corporeal than paperwork. Residents of Florida are routinely reimbursed millions of dollars for beachfront property from the same Federal Disaster Assistance.
No one claimed that the financially poor residents of the Lower 9th Ward held the same sway politically, but the disparity between Florida, or even other sections of New Orleans where residents of the Garden District had been reimbursed a month after the storm, to the tune of $1,000 per window, was startling and appalling. There were rumors that 2 billion dollars was stuck in Baton Rouge and yet couldn't be publicly distributed for some stated or unstated reason. Still the morning was picking up heat. Still the cameras were feeding the illusion that work was happening with lots of multi-racial kids assisting the beleagured people of the Lower 9th Ward. I stood in a line of reporters busily documenting the regal procession. A little exasperated and not without a little bile, I looked to one who was filming anxiously and said, "You should come back tomorrow." She smiled and asked "What's happening tomorrow?" I paused and looked up and said, "Not this." She looked sad and said, "We were here yesterday."
By this point the two hour mark of their walk was nearing and the thousand or so people who flanked Tennessee street were now watching as Bill Clinton walked toward a CNN Tent to do an interview. As I walked back to where I slept a block away and saw Clinton wrestling himself into an interview chair, then begin to clean his teeth. I wondered if there was something around to eat. I grabbed a paper bag from the Make It Right folks who were serving Po-boy lunches with Zapps chips. At least we were being fed. The kids began to grab lunches and make their way to the buses they had borne them here. One by one the buses pulled out and headed back over Claiborne Bridge. So the sum-total of work was forty five minutes. They got a good amount done in that time, but as I looked north from the house where I and my fellow volunteers slept towards the desolate and empty space left vacant by so many homes I wondered if they could get that much done in forty five minutes, what might have been done with eight hours? Sarah asked me to go pick up cigarettes. I hopped on one of the repaired bicycles and started off.
The store was about a mile away and within the first two minutes of my journey the sounds of the remaining crowds and cameras lessened, after five I was biking by shattered shotgun houses with the Xs still painted on them to mark how many bodies were found inside after the floodwaters receeded. My left pedal started to come loose and then fell off in the street. I knew I couldn't reattatch it without a wrench, and pedaling with one foot didn't work, so I then pushed myself forward with my left foot as my right foot kept balance. I was about half way to the store and this method was still faster than walking. Nobody was around to steal the pedal, and no cars passed by that might run it over. I picked up the cigs from the store and turned around. The pedal was where I had left it and I held onto it with my left hand as I pushed my way back toward "The Block", the housing where I and my fellow volunteers were housed. By nightfall, all the journalists and students and former Presidents and movie stars would all be gone. A few would return, in a month, a year's time. Maybe some would even linger more than a day to help.
The irony was hitting me like the heat. I thought, "If anyone saw CNN today, they would think that Bill Clinton and Brad Pitt are rebuilding New Orleans and that there is plenty of help for them to do it. If they actually came down here they would see one of the lead coordinators of a volunteer relief organization, those who actually are doing the work on the ground day in and day out, gutting houses, helping repair homes with unpaid volunteers, pushing himself around on a one pedaled bicycle."
Somewhere between these two realities, the people for whom this story should really be about are waiting in Houston, in Dallas, in Seattle for God's sake. Waiting in rooms in Baltimore, in Atlanta, in Phoenix. Waiting for someone to set some of the usual political considerations aside. Waiting for someone to say its ok to come home. Waiting for someone to stop treating their lives as nothing more than a media backdrop.
--afterword
out of the wreckage of the Lower 9th Ward, Brad Pitt has made himself into nothing short of a miracle for many residents there. To date, The Make It Right Project has built 14 homes, with another 19 in progress. They are making a genuine difference in the lives of many families who have been collectively abandoned by the Local, State and Federal Government. The preceding is meant to illustrate the very tenuous connection in our modern world that images have with reality, and the very real difference between show business and the actual needs of people, between the image of someone helping, and the idea that images ingender, as well as the very real and very hard work that is necessary for our current moment.
--october 2010
The rumors had been building for weeks. Some speculated there would be two hundred individuals, then the number grew to three, then four. By the time that March 17th, 2008 rolled around there were estimates of six hundred College aged students who would be delivered to the Lower 9th Ward of New Orleans to perform cleanup and mowing in a disaster area which still had upwards of four square miles with only a dozen inhabited houses. The area in the path of the levee breach on August 30th 2005 was leveled by a 23 foot storm surge of water risen from the Gulf of Mexico. After homes were washed off their foundation, the area sat underneath 13 feet of toxic water for two weeks. Of those homes that had not floated like boats to be dropped blocks away from where they had witnessed sometimes 100 years worth of birthdays and breakfasts, nothing was salvageable. All possessions, all pets and around 1200 people had been swallowed by the water.
Fast forward two and a half years and the houses which had come to rest in the middle of Tennessee and Deslonde Streets were gone, leaving the area a landscape of toothy foundations and tombstone slabs. At night and in the rain the ghosts are never far from this place. Even though much work had been done to date, there were still large chunks of concrete, refrigerators to move. A local ordinance had resulted in resident's property being repossessed for lawns with a height in excess of 18 inches and the resultant fines of $300 a day. Enter into this some scene six hundred college age students, arrived as part of the Clinton Global Initiative partnering with Brad Pitt's Make it Right Project. We in the volunteer sector had heard the kids would be working for around eight hours that day, and with such an amount of work to do still in the Lower 9th Ward, we were genuinely excited about. The area had become overgrown with the swamp that was here before the people and with the summer not far off their presence was welcome help that our group of less than 30 unpaid volunteers could scarecely manage alone.
At 7:30 the work crew coordinators began to drop off equipment. CNN and other news outlets were assembling their cameras and stationing their people on Tenessee Street. The excitement building, around 9 o'clock the groups of students started arriving, all wearing matching blue shirts. They got off the buses and by 9:15 had begun moving concrete debris out of the yards and closer to the street for disposal as well as mowing lawns. I and a fellow volunteer named Sarah walked around with a camera to capture some of the work for the relief organization, snatching a shot of four people lifting an especially heavy piece of concrete or using shovels to clear ground so that an open gush of water was diverted to the street drain rather than pooling on the ground. The City of New Orleans had taken two years to replace the street signs in the Lower 9th Ward, so the neglect of seeing unrepaired water lines spewing was not an uncommon sight.
Walking a little further, there was a quiet spot where Sarah & I rested underneath one of the oak trees which flank Tenessee street. After a minute a man with a weed wacker and an orange vest gestured to us that this tree was next in line for his tool. We moved six feet away and he yanked the cord to start the gasoline motor. He cleared about a quarter of the grass which was at the bottom of the tree, then switched the tool off, held his right hand to his right ear, and listened. I looked to Sarah and said, "Secret Service." and she, "I didn't know they were given orange to wear."
At 10:00 Brad Pitt and Bill Clinton began walking south on Tenessee street. Any remaining whir of weed wackers stopped. The hands lifting wood or chunks of debris ceased. All feet walked to Tenessee to watch Bill Clinton's ashen head and Brad Pitt's signature golf hat greet students working. I started taking photos and noticed quickly that I was able to either correctly expose Bill Clinton's face or his hair, but if I correctly exposed his face his hair would flare and over expose his head like a halo. If I correctly exposed for his hair, his face would appear sunken in shadows. I kept shooting. I saw that despite the fact that students were on both the east and west side of the street, Clinton & Pitt were only greeting those on the east side. The obvious answer was of course lighting. The kids on the East side were able to shake hands or joke with Clinton and Pitt because they provided the better exposure for the photographers. Those on the West side got to watch with mere reverence rather than engagement.
As I snapped photos of the back of Bill Clinton's head, a woman ran up to me and said, "Hello. Yes. Hi. I need you to stand over there. Yes. Over there. I'll get a shot for you later if you want. But today its all about the kids. Yes. Thank you. Please move." My face was exasperated by such a strange demand. Though I had lived in New Orleans only 5 months, I considered it, and the Lower 9th Ward my home, and felt as though a stranger was asking me to leave an area I not only lived in, but worked in, loved in and was striving to make habitable. Because of my bewilderment, I was unable to find the words to say, "The kids? Its been two years since the storm. What about the residents?"
A teenage boy with Indian features wore one of the blue Clinton Global Initiative t-shirt looked across the street longingly.
"I wish I could be over there." He said.
"You should head over there. Have a good time."
"I don't know." He responded.
"Look, in life, some days you have the shirt and some days you don't. Today you have the shirt. Go enjoy it."
He smiled and left. A woman from CNN said,
"Somedays you have the shirt." to which another said,
"Story of my life."
To be frank, I was getting tired of this mockery. For a full hour and a half Clinton and Pitt had been walking down the street and no one thought it was important to be clearing lots or mowing lawns. If this was for the kids, then the kids weren't doing squat to help the people trying to move back to the Lower 9th Ward, an area with 65% home ownership before the storm. If this was for the kids, what about the kids of the homeowners who were almost exclusively black who were now at risk of having their land repossessed because the city was fining people $300 a day for having grass over 18 inches. If this was for the kids, whose kids was it for? The Lower 9th Ward is an area that many former residents want to move back to, despite the violence that occurred before the storm, where gunshots sometimes would break the humid nightime air. Those who would like to move back though have been unable to do so by the megalithic bureaucracy that surrounds their being reimbursed for Federal Disaster Assistance funds appropriated by the US Congress. FEMA, HUD, all had funds that had been promised to people to help them move home, and the stark reality was that there were no houses built. None. Or rather, maybe 1 house for every 40 lots per city block. So the Lower 9th Ward still lay almost entirely empty two and a half years after the storm. There is a distance between the nuanced complexity demanded by large Federal agencies, and the reality that people had wished to return and had been conintuously thwarted by nothing more corporeal than paperwork. Residents of Florida are routinely reimbursed millions of dollars for beachfront property from the same Federal Disaster Assistance.
No one claimed that the financially poor residents of the Lower 9th Ward held the same sway politically, but the disparity between Florida, or even other sections of New Orleans where residents of the Garden District had been reimbursed a month after the storm, to the tune of $1,000 per window, was startling and appalling. There were rumors that 2 billion dollars was stuck in Baton Rouge and yet couldn't be publicly distributed for some stated or unstated reason. Still the morning was picking up heat. Still the cameras were feeding the illusion that work was happening with lots of multi-racial kids assisting the beleagured people of the Lower 9th Ward. I stood in a line of reporters busily documenting the regal procession. A little exasperated and not without a little bile, I looked to one who was filming anxiously and said, "You should come back tomorrow." She smiled and asked "What's happening tomorrow?" I paused and looked up and said, "Not this." She looked sad and said, "We were here yesterday."
By this point the two hour mark of their walk was nearing and the thousand or so people who flanked Tennessee street were now watching as Bill Clinton walked toward a CNN Tent to do an interview. As I walked back to where I slept a block away and saw Clinton wrestling himself into an interview chair, then begin to clean his teeth. I wondered if there was something around to eat. I grabbed a paper bag from the Make It Right folks who were serving Po-boy lunches with Zapps chips. At least we were being fed. The kids began to grab lunches and make their way to the buses they had borne them here. One by one the buses pulled out and headed back over Claiborne Bridge. So the sum-total of work was forty five minutes. They got a good amount done in that time, but as I looked north from the house where I and my fellow volunteers slept towards the desolate and empty space left vacant by so many homes I wondered if they could get that much done in forty five minutes, what might have been done with eight hours? Sarah asked me to go pick up cigarettes. I hopped on one of the repaired bicycles and started off.
The store was about a mile away and within the first two minutes of my journey the sounds of the remaining crowds and cameras lessened, after five I was biking by shattered shotgun houses with the Xs still painted on them to mark how many bodies were found inside after the floodwaters receeded. My left pedal started to come loose and then fell off in the street. I knew I couldn't reattatch it without a wrench, and pedaling with one foot didn't work, so I then pushed myself forward with my left foot as my right foot kept balance. I was about half way to the store and this method was still faster than walking. Nobody was around to steal the pedal, and no cars passed by that might run it over. I picked up the cigs from the store and turned around. The pedal was where I had left it and I held onto it with my left hand as I pushed my way back toward "The Block", the housing where I and my fellow volunteers were housed. By nightfall, all the journalists and students and former Presidents and movie stars would all be gone. A few would return, in a month, a year's time. Maybe some would even linger more than a day to help.
The irony was hitting me like the heat. I thought, "If anyone saw CNN today, they would think that Bill Clinton and Brad Pitt are rebuilding New Orleans and that there is plenty of help for them to do it. If they actually came down here they would see one of the lead coordinators of a volunteer relief organization, those who actually are doing the work on the ground day in and day out, gutting houses, helping repair homes with unpaid volunteers, pushing himself around on a one pedaled bicycle."
Somewhere between these two realities, the people for whom this story should really be about are waiting in Houston, in Dallas, in Seattle for God's sake. Waiting in rooms in Baltimore, in Atlanta, in Phoenix. Waiting for someone to set some of the usual political considerations aside. Waiting for someone to say its ok to come home. Waiting for someone to stop treating their lives as nothing more than a media backdrop.
--afterword
out of the wreckage of the Lower 9th Ward, Brad Pitt has made himself into nothing short of a miracle for many residents there. To date, The Make It Right Project has built 14 homes, with another 19 in progress. They are making a genuine difference in the lives of many families who have been collectively abandoned by the Local, State and Federal Government. The preceding is meant to illustrate the very tenuous connection in our modern world that images have with reality, and the very real difference between show business and the actual needs of people, between the image of someone helping, and the idea that images ingender, as well as the very real and very hard work that is necessary for our current moment.
--october 2010
Friday, July 1, 2011
Juanita
— People of the Inca believed the most perfect pattern to be the female/male relationship, that of nearly identical, but slightly differing synonomies.
1. - Birth
Imagine being chosen, imagine not being chosen.
Your birth was beautiful, like many,
but the dark blood those hands caught you from held your gods
as well, as well a noble nose by standards,
a fetus cord that fed you healing as you grew
and again, beauty, shining in the faces of those in the room.
Your exhausted mother, who, weeping, kissed your equal
and even eyelids shut, first your right, then your left.
2. - Leaving
The days continue, after each your mother thinks
she will choose the day of your going, then does not choose.
Her friends say the choice has good fortune, lessons
from high priests. Steps assured as ever finer for your kin.
To be received by the hands of the Inca. What greater
gift to the daughter of nobility? Your mother sees.
You take life or death as a ripe fruit, weighed only by its own weight.
She fears you loveliest; the unlikely honor, your right eye closed sooner than her left.
3. - Role of the Incan Doubter
Weathers change, so do men! The great
predictors who speak to the ground, the highest mountains
cannot imagine being chosen, cannot imagine not being chosen.
Their orders flow as rivers, never touching the mountain lake
and another six winters will hear hands clapping for another
youth to be left in a ditch on a mountainside, fine trinkets
at their frozen feet. Tell me, how long after the news comes back
will they continue to speak of her right eye, fairer than her left?
4. - Role of the Incan Believer
We call you our child, and so you are for now.
As you walk, your steps among the streets, gods glide
by in your aspect, and our work is honored. My hands,
not as fine as yours, do not choose the task, they are chosen.
They weave your gown. The colors, numbers; some even, some not.
Beauty that only your beauty could lift.
I only hope they do justice to your lovely
eyes, the way you turn your right eye to Inti always before your left.
5. - Role of Reinhard
I dropped a rock down the crater to see
which way the body rolled. When Sabancaya blew
it's top again my steps rushed up that fresh sand seeing sun
for the first time in five centuries. So little air on Ampato
your hands can't wonder if they've been chosen or not chosen
to find the conquest journal's sacrifice. But that day,
September, lightning flecked llamas of bronze and gold, sets of twos,
and she, frozen through, her right eye smaller than her left.
6. - Ascent
Each step you took was closer to the god chosen for you.
Each step higher among, above, gods, on paths
smoothed by worker's hands before your arrival.
Only your feet in sandals were numb.
Near the god, you watched 2 boys, cold, brave,
neither could imagine being chosen, having not been chosen,
as they were fed the liquor, strong for their age and one by one
had their right eyes smashed in, but not their left.
7. - Role of the Present Day Observer
It's still illegal for my hands to unearth a body
and I'm not sure I'd want to. If you buried your good wishes in dirt, how
to see the shepherd who shied from public, ceremonial
blood, but walked the steps of blood and dug up your dreams? Seeing you,
your Spanish grafted name, your double paned plastic box,
seems like feeling the indecent texture of Vermeer's curtains.
I can choose to look, but you now have no choice.
The ice saved your guts, not your eyes, neither right nor left.
8. - Juanita
It is no longer dirt, it is air. They've spread a carpet
to soften the walls and beside me have lain the
finest works from the hands of people, paired across the circle
around me. The liquor was strong. My shivers on my skin
seem a great distance away. And above me, music, each note
higher, clearer than the last. My pins are fastened, here with the gods
the minute to come, the music will cease and my light will shine.
One chosen to be with the god, never not chosen,
as this man's mace now makes my right eye smaller than my left.
--
a piece i wrote several years ago, following travels in Peru, regarding human sacrifice and the type of society that could construct flawless walls with 200 ton stones. this same society felt that it was necessary to sacrifice human beings in ritualized manners. all of this and a visit to Arequipa made me very curious to explore what i felt the dynamics were between such a civilization and the current iteration of society at large in america.
— People of the Inca believed the most perfect pattern to be the female/male relationship, that of nearly identical, but slightly differing synonomies.
1. - Birth
Imagine being chosen, imagine not being chosen.
Your birth was beautiful, like many,
but the dark blood those hands caught you from held your gods
as well, as well a noble nose by standards,
a fetus cord that fed you healing as you grew
and again, beauty, shining in the faces of those in the room.
Your exhausted mother, who, weeping, kissed your equal
and even eyelids shut, first your right, then your left.
2. - Leaving
The days continue, after each your mother thinks
she will choose the day of your going, then does not choose.
Her friends say the choice has good fortune, lessons
from high priests. Steps assured as ever finer for your kin.
To be received by the hands of the Inca. What greater
gift to the daughter of nobility? Your mother sees.
You take life or death as a ripe fruit, weighed only by its own weight.
She fears you loveliest; the unlikely honor, your right eye closed sooner than her left.
3. - Role of the Incan Doubter
Weathers change, so do men! The great
predictors who speak to the ground, the highest mountains
cannot imagine being chosen, cannot imagine not being chosen.
Their orders flow as rivers, never touching the mountain lake
and another six winters will hear hands clapping for another
youth to be left in a ditch on a mountainside, fine trinkets
at their frozen feet. Tell me, how long after the news comes back
will they continue to speak of her right eye, fairer than her left?
4. - Role of the Incan Believer
We call you our child, and so you are for now.
As you walk, your steps among the streets, gods glide
by in your aspect, and our work is honored. My hands,
not as fine as yours, do not choose the task, they are chosen.
They weave your gown. The colors, numbers; some even, some not.
Beauty that only your beauty could lift.
I only hope they do justice to your lovely
eyes, the way you turn your right eye to Inti always before your left.
5. - Role of Reinhard
I dropped a rock down the crater to see
which way the body rolled. When Sabancaya blew
it's top again my steps rushed up that fresh sand seeing sun
for the first time in five centuries. So little air on Ampato
your hands can't wonder if they've been chosen or not chosen
to find the conquest journal's sacrifice. But that day,
September, lightning flecked llamas of bronze and gold, sets of twos,
and she, frozen through, her right eye smaller than her left.
6. - Ascent
Each step you took was closer to the god chosen for you.
Each step higher among, above, gods, on paths
smoothed by worker's hands before your arrival.
Only your feet in sandals were numb.
Near the god, you watched 2 boys, cold, brave,
neither could imagine being chosen, having not been chosen,
as they were fed the liquor, strong for their age and one by one
had their right eyes smashed in, but not their left.
7. - Role of the Present Day Observer
It's still illegal for my hands to unearth a body
and I'm not sure I'd want to. If you buried your good wishes in dirt, how
to see the shepherd who shied from public, ceremonial
blood, but walked the steps of blood and dug up your dreams? Seeing you,
your Spanish grafted name, your double paned plastic box,
seems like feeling the indecent texture of Vermeer's curtains.
I can choose to look, but you now have no choice.
The ice saved your guts, not your eyes, neither right nor left.
8. - Juanita
It is no longer dirt, it is air. They've spread a carpet
to soften the walls and beside me have lain the
finest works from the hands of people, paired across the circle
around me. The liquor was strong. My shivers on my skin
seem a great distance away. And above me, music, each note
higher, clearer than the last. My pins are fastened, here with the gods
the minute to come, the music will cease and my light will shine.
One chosen to be with the god, never not chosen,
as this man's mace now makes my right eye smaller than my left.
--
a piece i wrote several years ago, following travels in Peru, regarding human sacrifice and the type of society that could construct flawless walls with 200 ton stones. this same society felt that it was necessary to sacrifice human beings in ritualized manners. all of this and a visit to Arequipa made me very curious to explore what i felt the dynamics were between such a civilization and the current iteration of society at large in america.
Thursday, May 26, 2011
Navajo Corn from david grefrath on Vimeo.
part 1 of an interview conducted last week with Katharine Jolda, who spent 6 years farming and working with sheep among the Navajo people.
Sunday, May 8, 2011
Ezra Pound's Proposition - Robert Hass
ROBERT HASS
Ezra Pound's Proposition
Beauty is sexuality, and sexuality
is the fertility of the earth and the fertility
Of the earth is economics. Though he is no recommendation
For poets on the subject of finance,
I thought of him in the thick heat
Of the Bangkok night. Not more than fourteen, she saunters up to you
Outside the Shangri-la Hotel
And says, in plausible English,
"How about a party, big guy?"
Here is more or less how it works:
The World Bank arranges the credit and the dam
Floods three hundred villages, and the villagers find their way
To the city where their daughters melt into the teeming streets,
And the dam’s great turbine, beautifully tooled
In Lund or Dresden or Detroit, financed
by Lazard Freres in Paris or the Morgan Bank in New York,
enabled by judicious gifts from Bechtel of San Francisco
or Halliburton in Houston to the local political elite,
Spun by the force of rushing water,
Have become hives of shimmering silver
And, down river, they throw that bluish throb of light
Across her cheekbones and her lovely skin.
Friday, January 14, 2011
Point Omega - Don DeLillo
following is a passage from Don DeLillo's 'Point Omega'
--
We sat out late, scotch for us both, bottle on the deck and stars in clusters. Elster watched the sky, everything that came before, he said, there to see and map and think about.
I asked him whether he'd been to Iraq. He needed to consider the question. I didn't want him to believe that I knew the answer and was asking the question in order to challenge the breadth of his experience. I didn't know the answer.
He said, "I hate violence. I fear the thought of it, won't watch violent movies, turn away from news reports on television that show dead or wounded people. I had a fight, I was a kid, I went into spasms," he said. "Violence freezes my blood.
He told me he had all-source clearance, or access to every sensitive sliver of military intelligence. I knew this wasn't true. It was in his voice and face, a bitter wistfulness and I understood of course that he was telling me things, true or not, only because I was here, we both were here, in isolation, drinking. I was his confidant by default, the young man entrusted with the details of his makeshift reality.
"I talked to them one day about war. Iraq is a whisper, I told them. These nuclear flirtations we've been having with this or that government. Little whispers," he said. "I'm telling you, this will change. Something's coming. But isn't this what we want? Isn't this the burden of consciousness? We're all played out. Matter wants to loose its self-consciousness. We're the mind and heart that matter has become. Time to close it all down. This is what drives us now."
He refilled his glass and passed me the bottle. I was enjoying this.
"We want to be the dead matter we used to be. We're the last billionth of a second in the evolution of matter. When I was a student I looked for radical ideas. Scientists, theologians, I read the work of mystics through the centuries. I was a hungry mind, a pure mind. I filled notebooks with my versions of world philosophy. Look at us today. We keep inventing folk tales of the end. Animal diseases spreading, transmittable cancers. What else?"
"The climate," I said.
"The climate."
"The asteroid," I said.
"The asteroid, the meteorite. What else?"
"Famine, worldwide."
"Famine," he said. "What else?"
"Give me a minute."
"Never mind. Because this isn't interesting me. I have no use for this. We need to think beyond this."
I didn't want him to stop. We sat drinking quietly and I tried to think of further workable prospects for the end of human life on earth.
"I was a student. I ate lunch and studied. I studied the work of Teilhard de Chardin," he said. "He went to China, an outlaw priest, China Mongolia, digging for bones. I ate lunch on open books. I didn't need a tray. The trays were stacked at the beginning of the line in the school cafeteria. He said that human thought is alive, it circulates. And the sphere of collective human thought, this is approaching the final term, the last flare. There was a North American camel. Where is it now?"
I nearly said, In Saudi Arabia. Instead I passed the bottle back to him.
"You told them things. Were these policy-board meetings/ Who was there?" I said. "Cabinet-level people? Military people?"
"Whoever was there. That's who was there."
I liked this answer. It said everything. The more I thought about it, the clearer everything seemed.
He said, "Matter. All the stages, subatomic level to atoms to inorganic molecules. We expand, we fly outward, that's the nature of life ever since the cell. The cell was a revolution. Think of it. Protozoa, plants, insects, what else?"
"I don't know."
"Vertebrates."
"Vertebrates," I said.
"And the eventual shapings. The slither, crawl, biped, crouch, the conscious being, the self-conscious being. Brute matter becomes analytical human thought. Our beautiful complexity of mind."
He paused and drank and paused again.
"What are we?"
"I don't know."
"We're a crowd, a swarm. We think in groups, travel in armies. Armies carry the gene for self-destruction. One bomb is never enough. The blur of technology, this is where the oracles plot their wars. Because now comes the introversion. Father Teilhard knew this, the omega point. A leap out of our biology. Ask yourself this question. Do we have to be human forever? Consciousness is exhausted. Back now to inorganic matter. This is what we want. We want to be stones in a field."
--
I talked to Elster about an essay he’d written a few years earlier, called “Renditions.” It appeared in a scholarly journal and soon began to stir criticism from the left. This may have been his intention but all I could find in those pages was an implied challenge to figure out what the point was.
The first sentence was, “A government is a criminal enterprise.”
The last sentence was, “In future years, of course, men and women, in cubicles, wearing headphones, will listen to secret tapes of the administration’s crimes while others look at salvaged videotapes of caged men being subjected to severe physical pain and finally others, still others, behind closed doors, will ask pointed questions of flesh-and-blood individuals.”
What lay between these sentences was a study of the word rendition, with references to Middle English, Old French, Vulgar Latin and other sources and origins. Early on, Elster cited one of the meanings of rendering—a coat of plaster applied to a masonry surface. Form this he asked the reader to consider a walled enclosure in an unnamed country and a method of questioning, using what he called enhanced interrogation techniques, that was meant to induce a surrender (one of the meanings of rendition—a giving up or giving back) in the person being interrogated.
I didn’t read the piece at the time, knew nothing about it. If I had known, before I knew Elster, what would I have thought? Word origins and covert prisons. Old French, Obsolete French and torture by proxy. The essay concentrated on the word itself, earliest known use, changes in form and meaning, zero-grade forms, reduplicated forms, suffixed forms. There were footnotes like nested snakes. But no specific mention of black sites, third-party states or international treaties and conventions.
He compared the evolution of a word to that of organic matter.
He pointed out that words were not necessary to one’s experience of the true life.
Toward the end of the commentary he wrote about select current meanings of the word rendition—interpretation, translation, performance. Within those walls, somewhere, in seclusion, a drama is being enacted, old as human memory, he wrote, actors naked, chained, blindfolded, other actors with props of intimidation, the renderers, nameless and masked, dressed in black, and what ensues, he wrote, is a revenge play that reflects the mass will and interprets the shadowy need of an entire nation, ours.
I stood in a corner of the deck, out of the sun, and asked him about the essay. He waved it away, the entire subject. I asked him about the first and last sentences. They seem out of place in the larger context, I said, where crime and guilt don’t get mentioned. The incongruity is pretty striking.
“Meant to be.”
Meant to be. Okay. Meant to unsettle critics of the administration, I said, not the decision makers. Flat-out ironic.
He sat in an old reclining chair he’d found in the shed behind the house, a beach chair out of it element, and he opened one eye in lazy disdain, measuring the fool who states the obvious.
Okay. But what he thought of the charge that he’d dry to find mystery and romance in a word that was being used as an instrument of state security, a word redesigned to be synthetic, concealing the shameful subject it embraced.
But I didn’t ask this question. Instead I went inside and poured two glasses of ice water and came back out and sat in the chair alongside him. I wondered if he was right, that the country needed this, we needed it in our desperation, our dwindling, needed something, anything, whatever we could get, rendition, yes, then invasion.
He held the cold glass to the side of his face and said he was not surprised by the negative response. The surprise came later, when he was contacted by a former university colleague and invited to a private meeting at a research institute just outside Washington. He sat in a paneled room with several others including the deputy director of a strategic assessment team that did not exist in any set of official records. He didn’t mention the man’s name, either because this was the kind of sensitive detail that must remain within the walls of a paneled room or because he knew that the name would mean nothing to me. They told Elster that they were seeking an individual of his interdisciplinary range, a man of reputation who might freshen the dialogue, broaden the viewpoint. His time in government would follow, interrupting a series of lectures he was giving in Zurich on what he called the dream of extinction, and after two years and part of another here he was, again, in the desert.
There were no mornings or afternoons. It was one seamless day, every day, until the sun began to arc and fade, mountains emerging from their silhouettes. This is when we sat and watched in silence.
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