Can we all take a moment to pause In Praise and Celebration of well-buttered toast? We do agree about this, right? When I worked for Graham Nash, we started many a work session with buttered toast. I used to bring down loaves of pain au levain from Acme Bakery in Berkeley (on San Pablo, next to Alice Waters' Cafe Fanny). I think I shipped six loaves from time to time. And between the three of us, Graham, R, and I, a loaf was mostly gone in no time.
(And then I remember this line from Tennessee Jed ... "Rich man step on my poor head/when you get back you better butter my bread" ... Levon does a good version.)
This morning, sitting here finishing that toast, listening to the rain, contemplating what might be the best use of my time. The call of the long winter’s nap is strong. And there are ever-so-many pages of The Power Broker to read. Good news about Amazon pulling out of Queens, no? Now, if NY could get rid of the parasite foreign apartment owners who don't even live here, (oh wait ... I don't live there anymore) perhaps things might shift in a more livable direction.
All of us Kermit Place Readers (my book group in Brooklyn) agree that The Power Broker is amazing reading, and all of us also agree it is difficult to read rapidly because it is so dense and fascinating. I found this to be worthy of continued contemplation as we observe the American democracy fail.
"Unlike European cities, which also mushroomed in the Industrial Age, but which had been built atop previous centuries' strong administrative foundations, America's had sprung into gianthood relatively overnight, often organized around nothing but the factory or the mill, and had no such tested governmental framework. What framework they did have was undermined by blatant corruption, their governments controlled by private interests and political bosses who, with their Christmas baskets and everything the baskets symbolized, marshaled hundreds of thousands of ignorant voters into vast, seemingly impregnable political machines. 'With very few exceptions,' asserted historian Andrew D. White, 'the city governments of the United States are the worst in Christendom—the most expensive, the most inefficient, the most corrupt."
I had not really considered the phylogeny and ontogeny of civic government in this country and it does bear thinking about. We all got fed that lovely picture of justice and righteousness in grammar school history propaganda and, for most of us, our mental and intellectual maps and timelines never wavered, we never stepped back to question and examine from other perspectives.
Interestingly, Caro goes on to discuss the rise of Progressivism in urban centers of America. Do I hear an echo of the current popularity of Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez? I sure as hell hope so. And if any of this interests you, I would also direct you to find Oliver Stone's series The Untold History of the United States which you can stream on Netflix. I have only watched two or three episodes as each time I start over, I get more out of what I have already seen. And when you get the episode, maybe as early as episode three, which looks at how Henry Wallace (a populist/progressive) was edged out by the patsy Harry Truman, I just have to stop. Talk about your alternate history.
Oh, and while we are on this topic, check out this article/podcast from The New Yorker about Eugene V. Debs. My grandparents were serious Communists/Socialists and even named their eldest son using Debs as his middle name.
I hope this eddy was not too boring. It couldn't be much more boring that hearing me repeat sleeplessness, eldercare, loneliness, or my progress in yoga (I have actually had both feet on the ground in downward dog).
Oh, and for those of you who might wonder what happened to Elena Ferrante, I did finish The Neapolitan Quartet. I am awaiting the arrival of Durrell's Justine as I am still all hot and bothered to re-read The Alexandria Quartet (in between Caro, of course).
"She had learned that it hurt to look for reasons, and she waited for the unhappiness to become at first a general discontent, then a kind of melancholy, and finally the normal labor of every day..."
—Elena Ferrante, Those Who Leave and Those Who Stay
AT LEAST
I want to get up early one morning,
before sunrise. Before the birds, even.
I want to throw cold water on my face
and be at my work table
when the sky lightens and smoke
begins to rise from the chimneys
of the other houses.
I want to see the waves break
on this rocky beach, not just hear them
break as I did all night in my sleep.
I want to see again the ships
that pass through the Strait from every
seafaring country in the world—
old, dirty freighters just barely moving along,
and the swift new cargo vessels
painted every color under the sun
that cut the waters as they pass.
I want to keep an eye out for them.
And for the little boat that plies
the water between the ships
and the pilot station near the lighthouse.
I want to see them take a man off the ship
and put another up on board.
I want to spend the day watching this happen
and reach my own conclusions.
I hate to seem greedy—I have so much
to be thankful for already.
But I want to get up early one morning, at least.
And go to my place with some coffee and wait.
Just wait, to see what's going to happen.
— Raymond Carver, All of Us: The Collected Poems, New York, Viking, 2000
HOW A THOUGHT THINKS
A thought is dumb,
without eyes, ears,
opposable thumb,
or a tongue.
A thought lives
underground, not
wholly mole-ish
but with some
of the same disinterests.
The amazing thing
is that it isn't helpless.
Of all creatures
it is the most
random eater.
Caring only for travel
it eats whatever
roots, ants, or gravel
it meets. It occupies
no more space
than moles. We know it
only by some holes
and the way
apparently healthy notions
topple in the garden.
— Kay Ryan, The Best of It: New and Selected Poems, New York, Grove Press, 2000
Speaking of eating, had a terrific cousins' dinner on Saturday. Boeuf bourguignon ... I made a French silk and satin chocolate pie (you missed it, Dan) with a almond vanilla cookie crust and whipped cream. There is one piece left.
And here is our new dog cousin, Layla.
"Unlike European cities, which also mushroomed in the Industrial Age, but which had been built atop previous centuries' strong administrative foundations, America's had sprung into gianthood relatively overnight, often organized around nothing but the factory or the mill, and had no such tested governmental framework. What framework they did have was undermined by blatant corruption, their governments controlled by private interests and political bosses who, with their Christmas baskets and everything the baskets symbolized, marshaled hundreds of thousands of ignorant voters into vast, seemingly impregnable political machines. 'With very few exceptions,' asserted historian Andrew D. White, 'the city governments of the United States are the worst in Christendom—the most expensive, the most inefficient, the most corrupt."
I had not really considered the phylogeny and ontogeny of civic government in this country and it does bear thinking about. We all got fed that lovely picture of justice and righteousness in grammar school history propaganda and, for most of us, our mental and intellectual maps and timelines never wavered, we never stepped back to question and examine from other perspectives.
Interestingly, Caro goes on to discuss the rise of Progressivism in urban centers of America. Do I hear an echo of the current popularity of Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez? I sure as hell hope so. And if any of this interests you, I would also direct you to find Oliver Stone's series The Untold History of the United States which you can stream on Netflix. I have only watched two or three episodes as each time I start over, I get more out of what I have already seen. And when you get the episode, maybe as early as episode three, which looks at how Henry Wallace (a populist/progressive) was edged out by the patsy Harry Truman, I just have to stop. Talk about your alternate history.
Oh, and while we are on this topic, check out this article/podcast from The New Yorker about Eugene V. Debs. My grandparents were serious Communists/Socialists and even named their eldest son using Debs as his middle name.
I hope this eddy was not too boring. It couldn't be much more boring that hearing me repeat sleeplessness, eldercare, loneliness, or my progress in yoga (I have actually had both feet on the ground in downward dog).
Oh, and for those of you who might wonder what happened to Elena Ferrante, I did finish The Neapolitan Quartet. I am awaiting the arrival of Durrell's Justine as I am still all hot and bothered to re-read The Alexandria Quartet (in between Caro, of course).
"She had learned that it hurt to look for reasons, and she waited for the unhappiness to become at first a general discontent, then a kind of melancholy, and finally the normal labor of every day..."
—Elena Ferrante, Those Who Leave and Those Who Stay
AT LEAST
I want to get up early one morning,
before sunrise. Before the birds, even.
I want to throw cold water on my face
and be at my work table
when the sky lightens and smoke
begins to rise from the chimneys
of the other houses.
I want to see the waves break
on this rocky beach, not just hear them
break as I did all night in my sleep.
I want to see again the ships
that pass through the Strait from every
seafaring country in the world—
old, dirty freighters just barely moving along,
and the swift new cargo vessels
painted every color under the sun
that cut the waters as they pass.
I want to keep an eye out for them.
And for the little boat that plies
the water between the ships
and the pilot station near the lighthouse.
I want to see them take a man off the ship
and put another up on board.
I want to spend the day watching this happen
and reach my own conclusions.
I hate to seem greedy—I have so much
to be thankful for already.
But I want to get up early one morning, at least.
And go to my place with some coffee and wait.
Just wait, to see what's going to happen.
— Raymond Carver, All of Us: The Collected Poems, New York, Viking, 2000
HOW A THOUGHT THINKS
A thought is dumb,
without eyes, ears,
opposable thumb,
or a tongue.
A thought lives
underground, not
wholly mole-ish
but with some
of the same disinterests.
The amazing thing
is that it isn't helpless.
Of all creatures
it is the most
random eater.
Caring only for travel
it eats whatever
roots, ants, or gravel
it meets. It occupies
no more space
than moles. We know it
only by some holes
and the way
apparently healthy notions
topple in the garden.
— Kay Ryan, The Best of It: New and Selected Poems, New York, Grove Press, 2000
Speaking of eating, had a terrific cousins' dinner on Saturday. Boeuf bourguignon ... I made a French silk and satin chocolate pie (you missed it, Dan) with a almond vanilla cookie crust and whipped cream. There is one piece left.
And here is our new dog cousin, Layla.
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