Moral support

If I'm not mistaken, my good friend Michael Moreland (formerly of Ignorant Pilgrim and Socrates' Front Porch) today begins his exams for the State Bar of Texas. It's also possible that he began them yesterday. I'm not real clear on dates these days.

Either way, I'd like to wish him luck and success in his endeavor, mostly because as a poet I need a friend who rakes in the big bucks. Can you say "wealthy patron?" Mr. Moreland, in anticipation of your successful entrance into the Legal Universe I offer the following bit of hilarity:

The devil visited a lawyer's office and made him an offer. "I can arrange some things for you, " the devil said. "I'll increase your income five-fold. Your partners will love you; your clients will respect you; you'll have four months of vacation each year and live to be a hundred. All I require in return is that your wife's soul, your children's souls, and their children's souls rot in hell for eternity."

The lawyer thought for a moment. "What's the catch?" he asked.

Salud, Walrus.

# posted by Daniel at 11:11 AM.

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Poem

CHANGING THE BATTERIES IN THE TWO-WAY RADIO

Three hours after midnight. Graveyard shift
on the psychiatric ward, the patients more sane
in dreams than the broad day. They punctuate
the narrow florescent silence of the hall
with sudden incoherence, night terror, cries
and words half-guessed like shadows of fish
seen shifting underwater. Sometimes they stumble
to their doors, eyes blank with fear and dreaming.
Chase them back to bed. Mostly though
the night shift itself's a long and red-eyed dream
of room checks and waiting in between
to walk the hall again, fourth cup of rancid coffee
gone sour on an empty stomach, turning over
the pages of a rain-swelled Augustine's Confessions.

Note the silence of the two-way radio, the long hours
filled with an absence of voices. Switch the batteries
to raise the other night shifters drowsing
on their watches. But in the clutch of seconds
before the radio squawks an answer
there's a sudden fear, cold and mesmerizing
as the darkness between stars. Not in thinking
about the voices that slipped past, hidden
under the air while the radio said nothing
about commands or calls for help, not passing on
the usual hiss and static, garbled snatches
of conversation, the overnight psychiatric in-jokes--

the night terror's instead the sudden thought
that the batteries are good, that the radio's been faithful
reporting silence all along and no one's there to hear
the check--the rest of the night shift sniffed the air
hours ago, unlocked the doors and their patients, awake
with sudden animal clarity, led them
down the hill, through the wet, halogen air
between the buildings, into town
and past, where they mixed with the city full of sleepers
who rose, eyes blank and full as frightened moons,
and left the doors of their darkened houses
swinging, lights and voices leaving town
along moonlit roads, speechless towards the ocean--

and you with your dead philosopher,
dozen patients full of nightmare, and a radio
that crackles, hisses, frets
with the sound of stars being born
ten billion years ago.

# posted by Daniel at 3:44 PM.

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Something to think about

Chapter 61 of the Tao Te Ching (Stephen Mitchell's translation):

When a country obtains great power,
it becomes like the sea:
all streams run downward into it.
The more powerful it grows,
the greater the need for humility.
Humility means trusting the Tao,
thus never needing to be defensive.

A great nation is like a great man:
When he makes a mistake, he realizes it.
Having realized it, he admits it.
Having admitted it, he corrects it.
He considers those who point out his faults
as his most benevolent teachers.
He thinks of his enemy as the shadow that he himself casts.

If a nation is centered in the Tao,
if it nourishes its own people
and doesn't meddle in the affairs of others,
it will be a light to all nations in the world.

# posted by Daniel at 7:38 PM.

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Shameless self promotion

The news is actually a couple of months old, but I've been too busy to remember it. A few months ago I announced that I'd landed a poem in Borderlands, a poetry journal out of Austin. Well, their Spring/Summer issue is out, and my poem is in. You can't read the poem ("Because This Could Be Sunrise") online, but I'm listed as a contributor, and you blood relations of mine can figure out how to get your hands on a copy. (Non-blood relations can do the same, of course, if so inclined.) A year-long subscription (2 issues) is $18, while single issues are $12 each. A bit pricey, but if you appreciate poetry it's worth it. Many good poems (despite my presence therein). One of the other contributors of note is Cyrus Cassells, who taught/conducted my senior workshop, and whose piece "Wild to Be Seen Again" is particularly great.

# posted by Daniel at 3:52 PM.

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Poem


WAKING UP IN THE APARTMENT WITH NO CLOCKS

Day's broken say the white
curtained windows, transluced
by strong light, and your roommate
gone to work: he's a dial more primitive
in his coming and leaving
than druids watching the sun lean
across stone tables; he says
it's morning, afternoon,
or early evening. What's this frantic bird
beginning to move beneath the blanket
of still-receding sleep? What's the time?
The hour? Should you curse
and leave the building at a dead run,
still pulling on the first pair
of pants at hand, or lie
down and whisper dreams
to yourself for another
half an hour? There's no clue
in these vacant, clockless walls,
yellow with timeless light. They're simple
yes-men, nodding
to every suggestion: sure,
it's noon. Sure you'd better start
dinner. Sure coffee
would be nice. Are you running
late or early? Should you run
or walk, build a sandwich
or scramble eggs? There's no knowing
from the pictures dangled
on their nails, that hang at midnight
same as dawn or after
a midday nap, and the light itself's
the usual light, slanted through weather
and the trunks of buildings.
Not the traffic pulsing past
the window knows the time
or where it's going. Not the man
who's nearly hit in sprinting
across the street, who turns
and curses a car already gone.
He curses it again, for luck,
then checks his watch and disappears
almost at a run past the bushes
that bloomed yesterday with roses, lost in thought
already, lost in the future and the past,
in dinner, in the day's work and return
to an house full of scattered,
fading light. He nearly runs;
like a broken wing
his briefcase twitches.

(7/10/05)

# posted by Daniel at 3:39 PM.

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On foreign history books and the 4th of July

Today marked my first Independence Day on foreign soil. All day long I've been remembering that friends and family are taking the day off, grilling burgers, watching fireworks. Oh yeah--and celebrating freedom.

I celebrated by reading two thirds of a history of Canada that Fanny brought home from the library for my further cultural assimilation. Talk about surreal--4th of July, and I'm reading about the French and Indian War (known here, of course, as the Seven Years War) and the American Revolution from the perspective of the British colonies that didn't join us in our little expiriment. Our friend Michael, the other American national in our circle of friends, tells me that his British friends refer to July 4th as "Good Riddance Day." Textbooks in my public school history classes sometimes mentioned that only a third of the American colonists supported the Revolution, and that an equal number of them remained loyal to the King, but never really delved into the implications of that.

It occurs to me again that, if I'd been alive at the time, I would sure as hell not have been a patriot. I probably wouldn't have been rabidly pro-British either; I'd have stuck it out on my farm as much as possible, waiting for these damn idiots to finish killing each other over the right of the American aristocracy (Washington, Jefferson, et al) to duck their taxes.

Turns out something like 100,000 Americans were forced to emigrate to Canada or face persecution at home following the end of the Revolution. We talk a lot about veterans and national heroes who suffered for the sake of our freedom. We don't talk much about the world full of poor bastards who never asked for our problems, whose lives were (and are) turned upside down so that we could vote Democrat or Republican and still have time to make it to Wal-Mart or Target to buy Nike or Adidas, while sipping on a beverage from McDonalds or Taco Bell. Treasure your freedom, people.

Apologies. It's late and I'm feeling snarky.

Two weeks ago was St. Jean Baptiste Day, which is the day when Quebecers celebrate their not-quite-national holiday. Fanny and I went strawberry picking and listened to lots of Quebecois folk music (Fanny, if it hasn't come up on the blog yet, is Quebecois). Then Friday was Canada Day, when (as I understand it) Canadians celebrate the union of three British colonies to create the Dominion of Canada back in the 19th century. They do this through beer drinking, national anthem singing, and ostentatious display of the flag. Later there were fireworks, for which we had primo downtown rooftop spots (courtesy of the same Michael). Yesterday we threw a "celebrate the existence of your favorite North American nation" party here at the apartment. And then today, July 4th, which of course no one cares about, although I've been told if I'd gone down to the beach I could've seen the fireworks across the strait in Port Angeles, Washington.

Had a sense today of all these silly nationalistic holidays going off all year long in nations around the globe. Quebec. Canada. United States. Myanmar. Kenya. Belarus. Whatever. Everybody loves to get drunk, sing songs, and fly their flag. Everybody loves a pep rally before the football game.

Here's what I remember, though. Friday night we were shivering on the roof of the building. The launch site for the fireworks was maybe a third of a mile away, on the edge of the harbour. The bridge to Esquimalt off to our right, buildings all around showing the harbour lights in their windows. Then the fireworks started going off like a naval bombardment. We were so close. They were beautiful, filling the sky in front of us like psychedelic jewelry, then glittering back in the buildings like interstellar dust seen somehow through water. The explosions echoed through downtown; by the end the smoke had filled downtown and was drifting away to the east.

The birds, though, got out of there when the first round went off. A white seabird came around the corner of the building just above our heads. We didn't think anything of it--too busy watching the first explosion fading in the sky--until we saw another one darting between the buildings, away from the water. Turned around, and saw hundreds of birds fleeing downtown over the buildings. The noise and light were too much for them.

And they were right, of course. That's the lesson. Doesn't matter how beautiful it looks--whenever some asshole starts making explosions because he loves his country, get your butt
in motion. Walk, run, or fly the other direction. And don't look back.

# posted by Daniel at 12:27 AM.

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Recommended

Last night we watched Stone Reader. If you haven't heard about this film, it's a documentary about a guy (the director of the film, actually) who goes looking for the author of a book he bought 25 years earlier. The book is The Stones of Summer, by Dow Mossman. The director, Mark Moskowitz, bought the book in '72 on the strength of a glowing New York Times review, but couldn't get into it. He picked it up a quarter of a century later and loved it. Went to find out what else Mossman had published, and discovered not only that he had never published again, but that TSOS was out of print, completely unheard of, and Mossman was impossible to find.

The movie's about his search for Mossman, but also about why we love books and reading, and why the things that get published get published. An outstanding film. Interestingly enough, the release of the film was enough to get the book back in print. Strongly recommended for anyone who loves books, reading, or bald men interviewing literary critics.

# posted by Daniel at 12:48 PM.

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