Little bitty Christmas trees.

A rerun from 2011 that’s been on my mind today. Merry Christmas, y’all.

“I’ve been a pastor for more than 15 years, and I am still amazed at folks in nursing homes, many unable to remember the majority of their own lives, who will begin to sing and nod and clap when they hear Christmas carols. O the power of music, on them and on me.” – Amy Busse Perkins

Of course I teared up when I read this, my friend Amy’s Facebook status, in the week before Christmas.  Of course I am tearing up right now, writing it and imagining these old folks, swaying, uplifted by memories dim and soft as shawls, wrapped around them and patted into place.  Of course, this is not the first time, and won’t be the last, that I go to tearing up this holiday.  Readers of this blog know by now that I believe tears are so often a sign of spirit – no other word for it – knocking, very gently, at a self-protective shell you have put between yourself and things that hurt.  Sometimes the shell is necessary for survival: in the wake of a broken heart or a dear one’s death, you have to go on and teach your classes and go to meetings and smile at the teenage grocery-checkers at Fareway without losing it.  But particularly for those of us who prize our independence and our self-control, accepting emotions as they arise and not fearing them can be a very good thing.  Especially now, at the time when the skin of the visible world is cracking to let a mystery through — a mystery embodied and enfleshed and continually challenging.  Our emotions, however riddling and difficult, can keep us open to this mystery in the softest and most welcoming way.  It is these feelings, so often unnameable and unsortable — not the inevitable blatherings about “war on Christmas,” or the garish commercialism — that, no matter what our creed or belief or place in  life, can take us into the heart of what this season, in Charlie Brown’s words, is really all about.

What moves me at Christmas? Things bound up in spirit and in memory.  Lifting from its bubble-wrap nest my late grandmother’s nativity set, which sat on top of her piano and over which I hovered, careful as a child can be, lifting the baby Jesus out of his china manger and putting him back in.  Reading Truman Capote’s “A Christmas Memory” and the Gospel of Luke (King James version only, please; Christopher Hitchens, RIP, describes best the reasons why.) Hearing, in Methodist churches in my deep-South hometown, black and white folks singing “Sweet Little Jesus Boy,” and listening to Mavis Staples sing it in my own house a thousand miles away.  The world treats You mean, Lord.  Sometimes, it treats me mean, too.  But that’s how things is done down here.  We didn’t know it was you.

But perhaps a central image at the heart of Christmas emotion for me has always been the Christmas tree. Specifically, a little bitty one.  The pathos and sweetness of the tiny, spindly tree transformed by belief in the “Charlie Brown Christmas Carol” — and chosen over the “modern” trees that clank when Linus taps them — is expressed well here:

Near the end of the semester, though, the little Christmas tree came back to me in an entirely different context, as my first-year students and I read Ernest Gaines’s novel A Lesson Before Dying.  Set in 1940s Louisiana, the novel tells the story of a young black man, Jefferson, wrongfully sentenced to death and the teacher, Grant Wiggins, who’s been deputized by the community (specifically his aunt) to “teach him what it means to be a man” before his execution.  At the novel’s heart is a Christmas pageant, seen through Grant’s eyes.  As described over an entire chapter (and unfortunately slighted in the film based on the novel), it’s a beautiful, sturdy, homely invocation of the presence of the divine in a profoundly human place, at a time of great stress and need.  Borrowed bedsheets drape a makeshift stage at the front of the church, which doubles as the school during the week.  The child playing Joseph carries a carpenter’s hammer in his beltloop.  The flashlight serving as the star “moved a little, as if the person holding [it] was getting tired.” When one of the children playing a shepherd asks of the star, “What does it mean?” the second shepherd responds, “Wish I knowed.” A “wise man” looks at the Baby Jesus and nods: “Him, all right.” And at the front of the sanctuary is the tiny Christmas tree,

stuck in the tub of dirt, decorated with strips of red and green crepe paper and bits of lint cotton and streamers of tinsel and a little white cardboard star on its highest branch. And under the tree and propped against the tub was one lone gift, wrapped in red paper and tied with a green ribbon and with a red and green bow.  The children had contributed nickels, dimes, quarters — money they had made from picking pecans — and Irene, Odessa, and Odeal James had gone to Baton Rouge and bought a pair of wool socks. 

The people sitting up front could see the package, and they knew who it was for, and at times I could see their eyes shifting from the choir toward the tree, and I could see the change in their expressions.

The gift is for Jefferson: a pair of socks to care for his body, even in the face of the known fact of his death.  For some time, my students and I pondered the theological implications of this: letting your grief come among you as a community, letting it be part of the weave of humble everydayness lifted, as a community, toward the divine.  Ever so gently.  Ever so small.

One of y’all is going to have to read this passage aloud, I told them.  I can’t do it.  Little bitty Christmas trees break me up.  I was joking, but only partially.  And when I went back into that classroom to give those students their final exam a week later, they had drawn, on the board, a Christmas tree (helpfully labeled “little bitty Christmas tree.”)  A bit of final-exam mercy? they joked, eyes bright.  We laughed, but we also all remembered experiencing that moment in the text together, thinking together about what community means, what incarnation means, how human beings can touch the rough and humble surfaces where our world meets the divine.  It’s just such a moment that Gaines writes into his novel: the stakes are high, a man is going to be put unjustly to death, and this is when we need to look, and need to let ourselves be moved. Not look away.  Not choke back that pity, that anger, that mysterious emotion, whatever it is.

The stakes are pretty high for our world too, and are only going to keep rising.  But when I try to wish peace into this world, and into the lives of my friends and my family and my students, this is the kind of peace I’m hoping for: that in the middle of bewildering and riddling emotion, memory, difficulty that never really goes away, we find that moment of quiet, homely grace in which we may be strengthened, and moved, and encouraged along the path of thinking and caring and acting.  If tears come, let them fall.  They’re a sign of something moving, something real and true, whose presence — however we may experience or think of it — sustains us and moves us forward too.

Merry Christmas, y’all.

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Every creature makes its own tracks.

Windblown leaf in my yard, Dec. 14, 2016.


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Moving the house.


On the morning of November 9, 2016, I walked out of my front door into a world I wasn’t sure I’d recognize.  It was the warmest November ever, but with just enough nip to the air to remind us it was still November after all. The sky was creamy blue, the air exhilarating, with a tinge of exhaust and gasoline.  A neighbor was walking down the sidewalk and we hugged, wordlessly, shaking our heads.  But then we turned and continued up the street to where a tangle of police cars and power trucks surrounded a giant semi, chugging under its load.  At last, the house was on the move.

“The house” was a blue-gray, three-story Victorian with high ceilings and elegant wooden trim that had sat on its corner since nobody knew when.  Recently purchased by our hometown bank – the same bank whose vice-president, grandson of its founder, can be seen out back cutting the grass on summer afternoons – the house had been sold to a young woman with a young family who’s moving it across town to restore, across the street from her own parents’ house. The windows had been boarded, the walls plastered with happy paper signs (Starting a new life!), the whole structure jacked up and supported by two giant steel beams.

And now, as the whole town had been anticipating, the big house was underway at last.  People gathered across the street, snapping pictures, as the truck inched into the street and the big house came with it.  Out over the curb, then – with infinite slowness – up to the intersection and a turn onto our main street, past the hair salon and the bike shop, the house moved on.  Past the bank employees standing on the corner in their suits and ties and nametags, past the bar and the music shop, past the chiropractor’s office and the Mexican restaurant whose owners’ son was one of my students on my first study-abroad trip, tracking Mary Shelley and Lord Byron and John Keats through England and Geneva and Italy – with notebook and pen in hand, eyes wide open in wonder, he was the last student out of each museum we visited.  Past them all the big house sailed with the eerie wondrous majesty of a ship, its brown shingled roof-peaks floating higher than the roofs of the earthbound buildings on either side.  An elementary school teacher had walked her class up a couple blocks to watch; the children huddled on the corner, pointing and exclaiming, faces lifted to the sky.  In the face of such a sight even the familiar becomes strange, even magical.  What will their dreams be like, after today?

Like courtiers, the linemen in their ladder trucks surrounded the house on its Elizabethan progress, lifting the power lines out of its way.  Police officers went ahead to make sure the way was clear and signaled traffic along the route the house had just recently traveled, getting the day back to normal even as the great thing eased away from where it had always stood.  I found myself next to the bank’s vice president (the one who cuts the grass) and shook his hand.  Thank you, I blurted, for giving us something to come together around as a community today.  Until I said it I hadn’t realized how deeply I felt it. Politics is not a nursery; Hannah Arendt is right about that.  There will be disagreement.  But there need not be — must not be –vitriol, spitefulness, hate.

My walk to campus that morning took me longer than usual because I kept stopping to talk, to hug, to simply stand with people I knew.  All day long students pressed close to colleagues and to me, nervous and on the verge of tears, all of us semi-wordless, pleading the same silent thing: Be with me. Help me feel by your presence that we will be okay somehow. There were tears. There were meaningful looks, there were pats on the shoulder as we passed wordlessly in the hall.  I felt that power of connection like oxygen: we need other people in the flesh, we need the presence of and in the living world.  Not for the first time I gave thanks that I’m a teacher in this place, with these students.

After dark that night my old cat circled my feet as I entered the usual evening laptop-gyre of Email and Commentary.  I looked down at him.  This is my present moment, in which he is here with me. He won’t always be.  What am I ignoring, locked into pseudo-conversation with a computer?  Life is very long. So is the field of action; so is the necessity of conserving and sustaining energy, especially from this day forward.  More and more these days, I am realizing that for me, social media drains that energy away. This is my one wild and precious life. How am I spending it, on what good, for what purpose? What, in every way that matters, am I actually doing?  Being out on that street in my town, talking to my neighbors, watching that house float away, had felt so good, especially after the burning-eyed incredulity of 3 a.m.  What place was this no-place of the screen?  And would it really nurture real work?  What was I now being asked to understand? What if the thing that we need — at every level, especially now — is community?  What if that is the place where the real work of change begins?

The following day, after more than one conversation with sad and anxious people, especially students, most of whom mentioned Facebook as a deepener of that mood, I decided to let myself say this: it’s OK to release yourself from the notion that posting on / “correcting” other people’s arguments on / ceaselessly monitoring social media is something you have to do.  Sure, social media is a great tool.  It can be vital to represent your point of view, to be heard, to gather your community, to document the ugliness breaking out all over. You might be saying something another person really needs to hear.  You might be finding community you need, especially if you are one of the many people cast into danger, in this post-election world, because of your identity.  I totally get that.  I don’t want to minimize the lifeline and the tool for activism social media can be.  But it can also so easily swallow us, churning us around in breathless, paralyzing spirals of anxiety.  Many of the most powerful community leaders I know (like those in our anti-frac-sand mining work) spend little to no time on social media.  It is not for everyone.  But action can be.

In these days I am finding that doing something breaks up dark, frozen moods, even a little.  There’s a lot to do.  Write or create in a forum not limited to 140 characters or bright images framed by that corporate border of blue and white — a medium, as Zadie Smith reminds us, “designed by a Harvard sophomore with a Harvard sophomore’s preoccupations.”  Write something that can be read and lingered on, thought about, returned to, in a longer-form article, a book, a magazine.  Talk to somebody, hug them, pat them on the shoulder as you walk past and see that sad look in their eyes: the simple power of this, on the day after the election, was stunning.  Sit down with a group of students who want to talk.  Get a group of people together on the courthouse steps.  Make a donation to a good charity, or volunteer.   Reach out through your church or other organizations to people in need, whatever that looks like; there are so many forms of need out there, and so many churches doing amazing things nobody knows about.  Go to your county Board of Supervisors meetings.  Go to Standing Rock or give money to people who are going.  Plant a tree.  Take a walk. Dig in some leaves to your vegetable patch to get it ready to grow you more food next year.  Take care of your family, your friends, your pets.  If social media is stressing you out rather than actually informing and engaging you – as the best reporting and media can do – you shouldn’t feel guilty about turning it off.  Especially since doing so might enable you to turn more fully toward the world beyond the screen.

One way or another, that living world will move forward like that house down the street. And it will do so best if surrounded by the team of all of us, out there, watching and engaging with it on its way and clearing the obstacles from its path, not sequestered away in what can so quickly become internet silos, hammering away at our keyboards as our blood pressures and anxiety levels spike into the red zone of despair.  That is what our living world cannot afford.

  • P.S., a rerun of a favorite passage. In his book CROSSING THE UNKNOWN SEA: WORK AS A PILGRIMAGE OF IDENTITY (2001), David Whyte writes: “Our work is to make ourselves visible in the world. This is the soul’s individual journey, and the soul would much rather fail at its own life than succeed at someone else’s…. In work as in life, we must contemplate the loss of everything in order to know what we have to give; it is the essence of writing, the essence of working, the essence of living; an essence that we look for by hazarding our best gifts in the world, and in that perspective, all of us are young and have the possibilities of the young until our last breath goes out.”
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John Milton, the morning after.

Wednesday, November 9, 2016: 7:30 a.m.

I have a lot of thoughts but for now, as a college professor, will confine myself to this:

What happens now to education, in a country where everyone claims to value it but our new president-elect, and those who voted for him, have just rejected its actual results? I’m talking about the idea of being qualified. I’m talking about the idea of expertise, learned and practiced through experiences in a field over time.  I’m talking about what happens in the heart and mind of a person who submits herself to learn – really learn – something she does not already know. Most of all I’m talking about a certain practical, humble stance on reality, driven by a deep knowledge that me and my single perspective are not all there is to the world, past, present, or future: the mental and emotional ecosystem of the educated person’s mind and heart.  Which, like any other endangered ecosystem – great forests, the underground layers of the Bakken shale, state universities now endangered in Wisconsin and North Carolina and elsewhere – unfolds and builds itself over time and needs attentiveness to understand but only a few years of reckless arrogance to destroy beyond redemption. And all these ecosystems are threatened in a society that insists that nothing really matters beyond money, beyond greed, beyond what we see on TV, beyond fear.

Yesterday afternoon, my seminar students and I read a passage in Milton’s Areopagitica (1644), the classic defense of free and open ideas in a democracy.  Here, Milton, warrior and intellectual, dreams of the fruits of reform and of peace:

Behold now this vast city, a city of refuge, the mansion house of liberty, encompassed and surrounded with [God’s] protection. The shop of war hath not there more anvils and hammers waking, to fashion out the plates and instruments of armed justice in defense of beleaguered Truth, than there be pens and heads there, sitting by their studious lamps, musing, searching, revolving new notions and ideas wherewith to present, as with their homage and their fealty, the approaching reformation; others as fast reading, trying all things, assenting to the force of reason and convincement.

A lump came to all our throats, and I felt the presence of a great unacknowledged hope:  this can still be the dream of our country, of eager minds submitting themselves to learn of reality in conversation with each other and with the dead, speaking in writing and in the legacies we leave to those yet unborn.  Learning and growing from what you learn, opening yourself to wonder at the thing that is not yourself, brings out the best in humans as a species and as individuals.  This is the faith around which I have built my life.

What happens to those million firefly lights now – so reminiscent of a library at night?

What happens to that dream?

For me – and I am clinging to this as hard as I can, for so very many reasons – the answer lies elsewhere in Areopagitica:

I cannot praise a fugitive and cloistered virtue, unexercised and unbreathed, that never sallies out and sees her adversary, but slinks out of the race where that immortal garland is to be run for, not without dust and heat.  Assuredly we bring not innocence into the world, we bring impurity much rather: that which purifies us is trial, and trial is by what is contrary.

This is the star by which I now steer. My writing in the last few years has focused, and will, on how we can protect and save that which we love – places, ideas, ecologies, planets.  As the great Roxane Gay wrote at 2 am – and as I read, sleeplessly refreshing and refreshing my computer screen, the radio blaring from the kitchen – now is not the time to give up.  Now is the time to keep fighting, or, in the peaceful metaphor I strive in my heart to prefer, to keep working.  Trial is by what is contrary.  Time for me, for all of us, to step up, stand up, work together.  It is not, cannot, be too late to save the world we love, and to build the world we need: the million lights of a million minds, eager in their pursuit of truth.

by Unknown artist, oil on canvas, feigned oval, circa 1629

John Milton (1608-1674) by Unknown artist, oil on canvas, feigned oval, circa 1629

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John Keats and “the spotted child.”

In one of his famously long, thinking-out-loud journal letters to his brother George and sister-in-law Georgiana, finished and sent in January 1819, John Keats talks about cats:

There is another thing I must mention of the momentous kind;– but I must mind my periods in it—Mrs. Dilke has two Cats – a Mother and a Daughter – now the Mother is a tabby and the daughter a black and white like the spotted child – Now it appears ominous to me for the doors of both houses are opened frequently – so that there is a complete thorough fare for both Cats (there being no board up to the contrary) they may one and several of them come into my room ad libitum.

A cat lover myself, I first read this through the blurry lens of ailurophilia, gliding right over the phrase “the spotted child:” the daughter cat has spots and she’s the child of the mother cat, right?  But rereading Keats’ letters recently, that phrase leapt out at me, because I’d seen a “spotted child” in London a few months earlier – a human girl.  And Keats might well have known such children too.

The child in question is Mary Sabina, whose unsigned portrait, painted sometime in the eighteenth century, hangs in the Hunterian Museum of the Royal College of Surgeons in Lincoln’s Inn Fields, London.  The caption reads “The true Picture of Mary Sabina, who was born Oct 12 1736 at matuna, a Plantation belonging to ye Jesuits in ye City of Cartagena in America of two Negroe Slaves, Named Martiniano & Patrona.”  Like numerous other “spotted” or “pony”-boys or –girls pictured as medical anomalies or sideshow curiosities throughout the eighteenth, nineteenth and twentieth centuries, she had vitiligo, a disease which causes the skin to lose color in patches.

Mary came to the world’s attention when Jose Gumilla, a Jesuit priest “visiting the sick in the plantation hospital,” saw a woman “who had with her a six months old child of so extraordinary an appearance that he was convinced he would be accused of exaggeration in his description of it” and “advised the mother to guard the baby very carefully lest someone should cast the evil eye upon it” (Dobson 273).  The priest thought that the presence of the mother’s black-and-white pet dog may have influenced the child’s coloring in utero, a similar reasoning to that offered by the twentieth-century vitiligo patient Frances “The Spotted Pony Girl” Lopez of Johnson City, Tennessee: “Physicians claim my condition is caused by my mother, being in a delicate condition, was frightened by a spotted pony.” According to the Hunterian’s website, “Mary Sabina does not appear to have been brought to Europe, but images of her were circulated widely – a kind of substitute exhibit.”

A&E Dips day 2007

Portrait of Mary Sabina (from the Hunterian Museum at the Royal College of Surgeons, London.)

I’ve seen this portrait myself several times, since the Hunterian is my first stop on my study-abroad course “In Frankenstein’s Footsteps: The Keats-Shelley Circle in London, Geneva, and Italy.”  Still welcoming visitors at the Royal College of Surgeons in Lincoln’s Inn Fields, London, the Hunterian is based on the specimen collection of the pioneering surgeon John Hunter (1728-1793).  And it’s a pretty good stand-in for Victor Frankenstein’s lab.  As described in Wendy Moore’s excellent biography The Knife Man, Hunter was brilliant and relentless, so driven to discover and experiment that he infected himself with syphilis to study the progress of the disease and grafted a human tooth into a rooster’s comb to see whether it would take.  (It did – you can still see it in the Hunterian, since, like all Hunter’s casts and preparations, it’s amazingly well-preserved.)  I met Hunter years ago in Hilary Mantel’s brilliant novel The Giant, O’Brien, where I also met one of the Hunterian’s most famous residents, Charles Byrne, “the Irish Giant” (1761–1783).  Imported to London and exhibited as a sideshow curiosity, Byrne drew Hunter’s attention for his unusual height, over seven and a half feet tall.  Byrne realized he was in danger of becoming a specimen and begged his entourage to bury him at sea, so that his body could escape Hunter’s knives, yet after his death, bribes from Hunter ensured his place in the museum, where his skeleton hangs today.  Standing in front of Byrne’s time-browned bones is a wonderful place to tell his story to my students and ask them to think about where scientific curiosity might lead us – as it led Victor Frankenstein.  And just around the corner is the portrait of Mary Sabina, given to the museum in 1880.

Yet Mary Sabina was not the only “spotted child” whose image might have been known to Keats.  George Alexander Gratton, the “spotted boy” (1808-1813), was exhibited in London throughout “much of his short life…described as ‘the Beautiful Spotted Negro Boy’ and ‘a fanciful child of nature formed in her most playful mood.’”  Like Mary Sabina, his image was also circulated widely.  The showman John Richardson exhibited George to public and private audiences for a fee – sometimes, according to the Hunterian’s website, for “up to twelve hours a day.”  Born on the Caribbean island of St. Vincent, George was somehow “transported to Bristol” and “delivered into the care” of Richardson – a squirm-inducing voyage at the tail end of legal slavery in the Empire.  (Richardson, writes the historian Lucy Inglis, “had apparently paid a thousand guineas for George.”  His parents’ feelings about the transaction are not recorded.)  Yet Richardson seems to have treated George with genuine affection, and when George died of a tumor of the jaw, age 5, Richardson buried him in his own family plot in Marlow, leaving instructions for George’s headstone to be linked to his own.


George Alexander Gratton by P.R. Cooper, sold by and after Daniel Orme, coloured etching and aquatint, published 11 November 1809;

The lives of Mary Sabina and George Alexander are part of a story of medical anomaly in Georgian England that expands and frequently horrifies our own historical and cultural imaginations.  Who can really know – really – how people of other times and places experienced their own bodies, the bodies of others, “difference,” “normalcy?”  We must acknowledge the spirit and unknowable, private complexity of individuals even as individual cases make us pause: an infant taken from his parents, who were slaves, paid for with a thousand gold guineas as an investment that paid off.  But little George was not unusual.  Tiny Caroline Crachami, “the Sicilian Dwarf” (1815-1824), whose skeleton also resides in the Hunterian, was essentially stolen from her father, an itinerant Italian musician in Dublin, and brought south to London to be exhibited.  (There are accounts of her crying and swatting away the hands of strangers as she stood upon a table.)  We’ve seen how Charles Byrne was brought from Ireland to be exhibited, too.  And “freaks” even had their political uses, as seen in two cartoons.  Daniel Lambert (1770-1809), England’s fattest man, became a symbol for Britain’s health and strength during the Napoleonic Wars, as “Boney” marvels, “I contemplate this Wonder of the World and regret that all my Conquered Domains cannot match this Man,” while Lambert replies proudly that he is “nourished by the Free Air of Great Britain [which] makes every Englishman thrive.”  (Wikipedia reports that Lambert was “highly respected for his expertise with dogs, horses, and fighting cocks;” at the time of his death, he weighed 739 pounds.)

lambert drawing.jpg

People with goiters, neck pouches resulting from iodine deficiencies, were exhibited as “Monstrous Craws” in the city, leading caricaturist James Gillray to comment on the perceived greed of the Royal Family (with the Prince Regent looking slyly on, poised between his parents).

monstrous craws from fash contrasts.jpg

‘Monstrous craws, at a new coalition feast’ (Queen Charlotte; King George IV; King George III), 1787

All this messy, fascinating medical anomaly – and the shadow of John Hunter, whose colleague, Astley Cooper, was still active at Guy’s Hospital – would certainly have been an active presence in Keats’ medical training and poetic imagination, given the omnipresence of “sideshows” in London and, in general, the greater susceptibility to accident, disease, and physical disfigurement in a world of hard physical labor and imperfect sanitation. The poet Dean Young wonderfully imagines this period of Keats’ life in “I See a Lily On Thy Brow” from his book Skid (2002):

It is 1816 and you gash your hand unloading
a crate of geese, but if you keep working
you’ll be able to buy a bucket of beer
with your potatoes. You’re probably 14 although

no one knows for sure and the whore you sometimes
sleep with could be your younger sister
and when your hand throbs to twice its size
turning the fingernails green, she knots

a poultice of mustard and turkey grease
but the next morning, you wake to a yellow
world and stumble through the London streets
until your head implodes like a suffocated

fire stuffing your nose with rancid smoke.
Somehow you’re removed to Guy’s Infirmary.
It’s Tuesday. The surgeon will demonstrate
on Wednesday and you’re the demonstration.

Five guzzles of brandy then they hoist you
into the theater, into the trapped drone
and humid scuffle, the throng of students
a single body staked with a thousand peering

bulbs and the doctor begins to saw. Of course
you’ll die in a week, suppurating on a camphor-
soaked sheet but now you scream and scream
plash in a red river, in a sulfuric steam

But above you, the assistant holding you down,
trying to fix you with sad, electric eyes
is John Keats.

 This is my favorite way to do scholarship, and writing in general: read a lot, follow apparently strange interests, and see how they connect. (I learned much of this information about physical difference in Georgian England while researching my dissertation, for instance.) In this it resembles life, and imagination: fill your brain, look around, read a lot, and you can see at least some patterns emerge.

So overall, it’s impossible to say whether Keats actually saw a “spotted child” in person – but given the plenitude of likenesses of George Alexander Gratton, his contemporary, he would very likely have held the image of “the spotted child” in his brain, so seasoned and enriched with bodily imagery and knowledge as to appear in his poetry years later.

Posted in body, Romanticism, the past, travel | 2 Comments

First clothesline day of 2016!

IMG_1871Clotheslining is a big deal here in Cheapskate-Intellectual-land, so the first warm and windy day is a big deal too.  As soon as I saw the sun and smelled the breeze, I knew it was time.  So familiar and delightful to pull that cord across the yard and hook it up and tote the basket out into the day.

Warm? Yeah, somewhere in the 40s, which is enough to get Midwesterners and Midwestern transplants all excited. Windy? Yeah, a little much, but not bad. Smell? Yeah.  Hard to describe, but everybody everywhere has their own version of this. Here it’s the way soil and wet grass and the plants that are just thinking about rising again are stirring and thawing and releasing the water and life that have been locked in scentless frozenness for the last few months.

The return of the senses.  Yes, spring is on the way.


Posted in attention, home, seasons | 2 Comments

The idiot box.

William Greiner: "TV in Bayou, Chalmette, LA, 1994."

William Greiner: “TV in Bayou, Chalmette, LA, 1994.”

All sin starts from the assumption that my false self, the self that exists only in my own egocentric desires, is the fundamental reality of life to which everything else in the universe is ordered… And I wind experiences around myself and cover myself with pleasures and glory like bandages in order to make myself perceptible to myself and to the world, as if I were an invisible body that could only become visible when something visible covered its surface.   – Thomas Merton

We can interpret the ascendancy of a certain real-estate mogul, reality-tv celebrity, windbag demagogue, and presidential front-runner in many ways.  (No names, please: why help the ratings?)  Here’s mine: he’s the logical and disastrous result of the way screen-based “entertainment” dominates our personal imaginations and what civic life we still possess.  What did his supporters say, over and over again, as people all over the political spectrum realized with mounting alarm that this guy wasn’t going away? “He’s just so fun to watch!”

Even people who watch it will call TV the idiot box, laugh disparagingly about how bad a habit it is, mutter (especially if they have kids) about how there really should be more books around, but, you know, you get home at night and you just want to crash, right?  Sure, there’s genuine exhaustion and desire for comfort in a time when the average American is stretched thinner than ever, financially and emotionally.  But, as in Plato’s “Allegory of the Cave” from Republic can suggest, the TV habit breeds other habits that overtake us from the inside and hollow us out.

The Allegory’s a little parable about the nature of reality and the thing inside humans that makes us choose comfort and habit whenever we can.  Imagine a bunch of prisoners chained inside a dark cave with their faces to the wall; they’ve always been there, and they don’t know anything different. Across the wall pass shadows of objects held up by unseen people for the prisoners to view. The prisoners, of course, confuse the shadows with the real things. Then, one of the prisoners breaks out of the cave and ascends into the sunlight.  At first he’s stunned, blinded, confused, in real physical and psychological pain.  But as his eyes adjust, he realizes as he looks at the objects around him that he is seeing reality for the first time, and that it’s wonderful.  If he returns to the cave to share his discovery with the other prisoners, however, they won’t thank him.  Instead, they’ll try to kill him. Why? In my classes, students are quick to answer that. He makes them uncomfortable.  He makes them wonder if everything they’ve believed is a lie.  And people will do anything to keep making themselves feel safe.  And students aren’t slow to notice, either, that those shadows on the wall can look a lot like a TV screen.

The Greeks had a lot to say about illusion, reality, and private space.  Our modern word idiot comes from the Greek idios, meaning someone who has refused the duty of every (adult male) citizen, public conversation and engagement, because he is just not interested.  The idios has retreated to the “safety” of his own private world.  (And in 21st-century America, that private world increasingly includes home theatre.)  But safety does not come automatically from self-isolation. It comes from adult understanding of and good information about the world beyond one’s own hometown, from real engagement with people who are not yourself, from a realistic understanding of the world that will then let you make decisions about how to interact with it.  As someone who has traveled quite a bit, nationally and internationally, in the last five years, I know very well that the world is dangerous. But hunkering down in your own house – literally or figuratively, even as home and school also get more dangerous – just doesn’t work.

Significantly, idios also contains id, Sigmund Freud’s word for that chamber in each of us where our most primitive, selfish, and basic impulses live.  I want what I want, the id constantly sneers, and all the rest of y’all can go to hell.  If this is the worst impulse within a person (think about the times when you’ve hurt yourself or others, and you’ll see what I mean) how much worse is it within a whole country? And how are our habits of being thoughtlessly “entertained,” seeking only pleasure with no challenge or discomfort, feeding what is worse about ourselves and our society?

Think about it. When you’re slumped in front of a screen, surrendering to the flow of images and words, are you really your best self?  Are you really “spending time” with your family and other people in the house with you, or letting the fact that your bodies are all in the same room be your excuse?  (More than one of my students has told me, sadly, “My parents always say ‘I can’t wait till you get home at Christmas!,’ but then when I get there, they still just spend all their time at night watching TV or on their phones – they don’t really talk to me.”) Are you active or passive? Generous or selfish? Out there living your life or just waiting to be twitched by the next marketer (or politician) who wants something from you? Being challenged by difference or just ready to switch the channel if you see something you don’t like? And the big question to ask about everything in society or spirit: Is this life-affirming or death-dealing?

The rise of a reality-TV star to within striking distance of the American presidency represents a disastrous collision between two things.  One is reality as adults who engage with other adults out in the real world know it, who are reminded by our contact with others that we are not the only beings on earth, especially if we have ever traveled beyond our own home towns.  The other is the kind of blinkered credulity, naivete, and arrogance that blooms in our brains when we are alone just a little too long in our cavelike rooms with our televisions and their ads and programs and “celebrities” tailored with merciless marketing precision to entertain us by telling us exactly what we want to hear — that we, our prejudices and desires and egos, are all there is and all with which we need concern ourselves.  One is truth. The other is a lie.  And, disastrously, we — as the best-entertained and least-informed and most powerful nation on earth — are losing the ability to distinguish between the two.

TV shapes our imaginations around itself – even our vague dreams of liberation from the forces of conformity and corporate slavery we (still half-) sense it represents take only the form of another metal box with a screen. Check out this famous Apple ad from 1984, brilliantly co-opting George Orwell’s novel of the same name.

But even when The Screen pretends to be deep, it’s really not.  It is ultimately interested only in itself. It crowds out generosity and nuance and imagination. It thrives on rote gestures of obeisance to “objectivity” (Everybody knows the world is round, but here’s a flat-earther to show some “equal time!”) and mimes of real emotion (mother and daughter connect across the miles with their AT&T phone!)  It loves spectacle and noise and brute force.  It’s childish.  And we need adults to lead our country and our world.

So that red face and stiff rooster-comb (-over) of hair and bluster and insult and expensive suits and self-made mythology is not just a person. He’s the TV-fed and TV-bred id, bristling with buzzwords (Socialist! Muslim!) and jumping from one emotional hot button to the next.  He’s riding on misappropriated images (migrants in deserts, anyone?) and the myth that money is the greatest possible good of human life.  He’s the illusion that all of this is just a game.  That we will have plenty of time in the future to fix mistakes, even his.  But we don’t.  We are reaching and passing the threshold of 400 parts per million of carbon in the atmosphere, beyond which life on earth as we know it will not be possible.  This is fact.  Our next president — and we — will have to deal with it, honestly.

This is not funny anymore.  Reality TV is not reality.  TV is not real life.  A TV star is not a viable presidential candidate.  And this is not a game.

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