tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2048323470197836542024-03-18T12:53:47.138-04:00MacaroniMacaronihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02053482785858037690noreply@blogger.comBlogger775125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-204832347019783654.post-56976460914381102972024-03-12T13:33:00.000-04:002024-03-12T13:33:51.400-04:00After the Oscars<p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEWizaWNsYca5_d3RgP-l2G79KdkCLqzMC_BqLFEQmXKINc-pVxF_z0rFqNIInZsDs8ytuG9j4p9mfCD4gmcGB_01rIOPsautTZjEncngoT-6Xo20ArngnyDNl__xzQbRxuvLocRnTtf9vz5yK6wFjcG0vzSNocytBiDnl-F4kbQfBJmh7eCBMGSbGFr1g/s1486/Kimmel.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="991" data-original-width="1486" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEWizaWNsYca5_d3RgP-l2G79KdkCLqzMC_BqLFEQmXKINc-pVxF_z0rFqNIInZsDs8ytuG9j4p9mfCD4gmcGB_01rIOPsautTZjEncngoT-6Xo20ArngnyDNl__xzQbRxuvLocRnTtf9vz5yK6wFjcG0vzSNocytBiDnl-F4kbQfBJmh7eCBMGSbGFr1g/w400-h266/Kimmel.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />The songs weren't bad, and the drumming was memorable; the
winners were mostly deserving, I can recall only one over-the-top dance number--"Just Ken"--and Jimmy Kimmel took care of business as well as
Johnny Carson ever did. The early focus on <i>Barbie</i>
was gratifying to see. The worst bit involved a pseudo-streaker. I didn't "get" it.<p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Kimmel's worst joke—horrific, really—was to remark that in
Germany <i>The Zone of Interest</i> fell
into the rom-com category. The technical awards and the always tedious speech by the president
of the Academy were scuttled. But the In Memoriam episode, brief though it was,
didn't come off well: the camera was so far removed from names and faces that
you couldn't see or read them, and the flailing dancers in the foreground
looked ridiculous. By the same token, the film clips were meager. That's too bad. Jack
Nicholson, Harrison Ford, and Meryl Streep were nowhere to be seen, which is fine by me. And the
show was wrapped up by 9:30. It was hard to believe. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I can't recall an Oscar ceremony that gave us less to
complain about. </p><p class="MsoNormal">Then again, what do I remember about the event from previous years
anyway? Not much. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Can anyone even remember which films won the Best Picture
Oscar in recent years? I don't find it easy.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I just now called up a list of nominees, year by year. Here
are some winners, followed in some cases by a runner-up that might have
taken home the prize with equal justice.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><i>Everything Everywhere All at Once</i> ... or
<i>Tar</i>?</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><i>Coda</i> ... or <i>Licorice Pizza</i>?</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><i>Nomadland <o:p></o:p></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><i>Parasite</i> ... or <i>Ford vs. Ferrari</i>?</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><i>The Green Book</i> ... or <i>Black Klansman</i>?</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><i>The Shape of Water</i> ... or <i>Phantom Thread</i>?</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><i>Moonlight</i> ... or <i>Hell or High Water</i>? </p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><i>Spotlight</i> ... or <i>The Big Short</i>?</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;">And so on.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I read a fair amount of Oscar chatter before the ceremony,
and sometimes almost forget how trivial it all is when compared to the
experience of actually <i>seeing</i> a film.
Any film. For example, the energy, sweep, detail, drama, intensity, and moral import
of <i>Oppenheimer</i> stagger the
imagination. It's a very good film, I think. The question of how many statues
it won seems vapid by comparison.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguarBiiaw3fp74Jx3YTs-b_sVradsHve5jiK0t1LoFSCKmwibOmC_taZk8HRP97vjE00yCHKlljvpurGoSgR56DH1tBYqyEuKmSt7qLMsj4A8XvnFxZUvtFuGHvcCin6oKbl7LbMn__Z08kdsATs6siTKwgitV9Kx4YBgyPi0HPbPap3xEGtGZk7fQhxji/s600/Oppenheimer-glasses.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="420" data-original-width="600" height="280" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguarBiiaw3fp74Jx3YTs-b_sVradsHve5jiK0t1LoFSCKmwibOmC_taZk8HRP97vjE00yCHKlljvpurGoSgR56DH1tBYqyEuKmSt7qLMsj4A8XvnFxZUvtFuGHvcCin6oKbl7LbMn__Z08kdsATs6siTKwgitV9Kx4YBgyPi0HPbPap3xEGtGZk7fQhxji/w400-h280/Oppenheimer-glasses.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal">On a much smaller scale, <i>The
Holdovers </i> also won my heart. It's
full of humor and sorrow and truth. And purposeful lies. It isn't a Christmas
movie or a coming of age movie or a Vietnam movie or a 70s movie, though all of
those elements play a part. It's one of those movies that develop organically as
we learn more about the characters, and it's fair to say that even Classical Studies—you
know, Latin and Greek, Horace and Thucydides—come into play, as do race and
class and parental loss and academic vanity. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAi_MiIaeeWh2kpSSt7ns8ZAZSYntYljwdbyFKgYJzJoqDefhfVAtR20dcC76au942I6M-RYJNrhCToF_vWW7IJkWup0yf0f7Jzct9vrMpj90IEVHkY0AVv_XjQKJvh2iBR8vhRXyQ0TCgMx7hmYiML4lJsmCa8_6oeCc8piL9akYwt6PDwWD_eF_yfUJN/s457/holdovers.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="260" data-original-width="457" height="228" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAi_MiIaeeWh2kpSSt7ns8ZAZSYntYljwdbyFKgYJzJoqDefhfVAtR20dcC76au942I6M-RYJNrhCToF_vWW7IJkWup0yf0f7Jzct9vrMpj90IEVHkY0AVv_XjQKJvh2iBR8vhRXyQ0TCgMx7hmYiML4lJsmCa8_6oeCc8piL9akYwt6PDwWD_eF_yfUJN/w400-h228/holdovers.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal">Paul Giametti shines as the harsh
and frustrated instructor, so lovelorn he's forgotten what the word means,
though he does love his Latin quotations about nobility and sacrifice. But the entire cast is up to the challenge of
making a seemingly arbitrary and unpleasant situation into a funny and moving
tale. Well done all the way around.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i>American Fiction</i>
also works well, though not quite so touchingly, as both a family drama and a
charming, if someimes bitter, comedy about how academia, the publishing
industry, and the reading public shape the dialogue about underrepresented
communities. Very shrewd.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGbgW2hM-sO1wrJQvx239ipuaDxylmGMzYAEahxsZCOvRjl__s8R1Hr4B7RZ7N0YwnDd4dAXpSmOI9URVx97eyqbwulAIeWwCwMPdwL4xPsWhdjdRpEwe5xtZW0C-FHAAMoTHFTGgo5MvdqeQvFruxGPmK39vNKGt_ozwDbEL2EoD7ZK1BE7ceXOLXBy5y/s2560/Past-Lives-laughing.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1280" data-original-width="2560" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGbgW2hM-sO1wrJQvx239ipuaDxylmGMzYAEahxsZCOvRjl__s8R1Hr4B7RZ7N0YwnDd4dAXpSmOI9URVx97eyqbwulAIeWwCwMPdwL4xPsWhdjdRpEwe5xtZW0C-FHAAMoTHFTGgo5MvdqeQvFruxGPmK39vNKGt_ozwDbEL2EoD7ZK1BE7ceXOLXBy5y/w400-h200/Past-Lives-laughing.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal"><i>Past Lives</i> is a quietly enigmatic film that follows a few
decades in the life of Nora, who emigrates to Canada from Korea at the age of
twelve with her parents. Nora seems unperturbed by the change; a few frames
later she's become an adult and moved to New York to pursue a career as a
playwright. </p><p class="MsoNormal">The plot centers on her relationship with Hae Sung, the boy she
left behind in Korea when they were kids. They reconnect online and begin a vague, dreamy
correspondence about where their lives are going, how they still think about
each other, and so on. Meanwhile, Nora meets Arthur, a likeable novelist and
self-styled New York Jew. The two are happily married by the time
Hae Sung decides to come visit.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i>Barbie</i> is a
colorful, fun-loving, ingenious romp that examines gender roles with tongue
partly in cheek. The production is unique and audacious. </p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAY1Fi2v02Xi2FfsfZhe-Wgr9BlF-jmaISJ8d0498Bie3dBgjkEpPKfXwWd8lx0fj2ipK94mj_LNQSADxvX922-e2mCLvSRgSP8Hbo3s6IO8qPs3Yq-PnPjRLbtnJ0_9xZY8ICLzMMt4PqBvgq0HGz-fIsNeH5dO31a8IfRA_f6j2vbhmjes37L8obIfF_/s600/maestro.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="470" data-original-width="600" height="314" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAY1Fi2v02Xi2FfsfZhe-Wgr9BlF-jmaISJ8d0498Bie3dBgjkEpPKfXwWd8lx0fj2ipK94mj_LNQSADxvX922-e2mCLvSRgSP8Hbo3s6IO8qPs3Yq-PnPjRLbtnJ0_9xZY8ICLzMMt4PqBvgq0HGz-fIsNeH5dO31a8IfRA_f6j2vbhmjes37L8obIfF_/w400-h314/maestro.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /> <i>Maestro</i> is full of dazzle and bluster but it fails to offer a broadly satisfying portrait of its subject, the
conductor, composer, and educator Leonard Bernstein. Nor does it probe very
deeply into Bernstein's marriage or the career and personality of his wife.
Director and star Bradley Cooper chose to focus instead on himself—er, I mean, the
maestro's numerous gay affairs, and viewers are left with an energetic but
hollow "long-suffering wife" tale, in which the musical genius and
emotional complexity of the ostensible subject is largely missing. As Richard
Brody put it in the <i>New Yorker</i>,
Cooper "left out all the good parts." <p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkXVmcGLevu_jtIcv3L0jFDPIdyyJzw4WmE5muPpzem9i_DZiMj_Hf3M7vg4mR4TEsqYHaVL-Yj54II2ybeP8XQC61WfnrMBae9QEnLPb7qxBZoBJboasHrmxg44eBbqIffeVaLErY-pxbRq7tJjJFL-LhAbB3Sigtdgk8BJbUreA0VKsgwkX3YZ-qZ4PK/s827/BoyAndTheHeron%20copy.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="430" data-original-width="827" height="208" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkXVmcGLevu_jtIcv3L0jFDPIdyyJzw4WmE5muPpzem9i_DZiMj_Hf3M7vg4mR4TEsqYHaVL-Yj54II2ybeP8XQC61WfnrMBae9QEnLPb7qxBZoBJboasHrmxg44eBbqIffeVaLErY-pxbRq7tJjJFL-LhAbB3Sigtdgk8BJbUreA0VKsgwkX3YZ-qZ4PK/w400-h208/BoyAndTheHeron%20copy.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal">I fell asleep during <i>The
Boy and the Heron</i>. The portraits of bird life are inaccurate and
uncomplimentary, the facial expressions of the humans lack dimension, and the
voices are cartoonish. Oh? It is a cartoon? Well, that explains it.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><i>Anatomy of a Fall</i> had
piqued my interest even before it won the Oscar for best original screenplay.
It revolves around the question of whether a depressed author living in the Alps
killed himself by jumping out a window or was pushed by his wife. Neither of them are all that appealing, and the French courtroom scenes are full of
badgering lawyers asking tendentious questions. Meanwhile, no one makes the
slightest effort to look for the murder weapon, presuming there was one. Our
sympathies come to rest with the couple's sight-impaired son and his cute dog,
who also happen to be the prime witnesses.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijI633ycviQl7XQiL4E5Q94VO3F-6T0TxLgTrPUdk1Wqn7wGXhq0rWX5LNjiFATYH6r1yRUhcOX3j22qx4g2BMQCD8f0LRyaqu2EEkhP8jxVw23GYSZIoSsYwUxQr9uTBPfg1RVGy1L5Tj-FaASoXw11Av7owFDhdySI-9XFZA4GG2HRhyfA7Dh1LXNwmG/s600/anatony-fall.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="379" data-original-width="600" height="253" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijI633ycviQl7XQiL4E5Q94VO3F-6T0TxLgTrPUdk1Wqn7wGXhq0rWX5LNjiFATYH6r1yRUhcOX3j22qx4g2BMQCD8f0LRyaqu2EEkhP8jxVw23GYSZIoSsYwUxQr9uTBPfg1RVGy1L5Tj-FaASoXw11Av7owFDhdySI-9XFZA4GG2HRhyfA7Dh1LXNwmG/w400-h253/anatony-fall.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal">In the end, it isn't that hard to figure out what happened.
But I'll leave you in suspense, while also noting that the recent Japanese
film, <i>Decision to Leave</i>, covers
similar ground in more suspenseful and entertaining ways.</p>
<p>Now, on to the International Film Fest and the summer
blockbusters! </p>Macaronihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02053482785858037690noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-204832347019783654.post-83696848359301916172024-03-07T18:51:00.005-05:002024-03-07T19:15:53.365-05:00A Note on Marilynne Robinson<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjN5rtl53Sm5eSSvFePhXMK9zEJgHGk9Yez8mSug_E7xtaSpcbPNJSMifilkk_LThc4AYB2eaeCknuoGH_83IjRab4nI8pCJydk5Tc4u3xiZErm6QvijwfLUKH8akQQGZ06OEks5LPW55MoDEQJy-RSbbufkQmhjTghRhLoYddd8_94h2wjiPdW1RmZshjg/s1500/m%20robinson.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="921" data-original-width="1500" height="245" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjN5rtl53Sm5eSSvFePhXMK9zEJgHGk9Yez8mSug_E7xtaSpcbPNJSMifilkk_LThc4AYB2eaeCknuoGH_83IjRab4nI8pCJydk5Tc4u3xiZErm6QvijwfLUKH8akQQGZ06OEks5LPW55MoDEQJy-RSbbufkQmhjTghRhLoYddd8_94h2wjiPdW1RmZshjg/w400-h245/m%20robinson.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />During my days on the loading dock, my colleagues and I used
to comment wryly on the exaggerations and absurdities that routinely appeared
in the promotional copy on the books we were checking in. I was reminded of
that the other day when I glanced at the blurbs on the back of Marilynne
Robinson's collection of essays <i>The Death
of Adam</i>. In the first line it's described as a "grand, sweeping,
blazing, brilliant, life-changing book" that will leave the reader
"shaken." That's not the impression I got while reading a few of the
essays. To my mind it would more accurate to describe the book as modest, astute,
carefully focused, cautiously articulated, thought-provoking, and leavened with
only occasional touches of gentle irony. But I suppose such phrases are
unlikely to sell many books. Post-modern readers want to be shaken, not
stirred.<p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I heard Marilynne read maybe ten years ago at a book
convention. She was soft-spoken, mournful, almost lethargic, yet animated by a
smoldering inner fire that kept your attention. I don't remember what she was
reading; the passages might have been from her novel <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Home</i>.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtY6qWURWEYB1gQ0M6vHZr-Iadgfzp50yWo4CQTgbRUj7bAY9UoyUMU1PSW8zsh24QlpeHeS_pUL-ttkLAMlmnR3DfVG2J6wqwQx-ei-NlrIOKusWKabbNoouf2TY-Jbe4kUY0gyGkZaeb5mHNXXmjwUhwZEocSd748Z7Kzs5C2lHoLXGx5BPntX7ENG6Z/s281/death%20adam.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="281" data-original-width="180" height="281" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtY6qWURWEYB1gQ0M6vHZr-Iadgfzp50yWo4CQTgbRUj7bAY9UoyUMU1PSW8zsh24QlpeHeS_pUL-ttkLAMlmnR3DfVG2J6wqwQx-ei-NlrIOKusWKabbNoouf2TY-Jbe4kUY0gyGkZaeb5mHNXXmjwUhwZEocSd748Z7Kzs5C2lHoLXGx5BPntX7ENG6Z/s1600/death%20adam.jpg" width="180" /></a></div><br />After the event I went up to ask her a question. "You've
devoted several essays," I began, "to the connections between
Marguerite of Navarre and John Calvin—" Before I had time to come to the
point, she said,<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>in a quiet but
strangely troubled and insistent tone of voice, "But why would you be
interested in <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">that</i>?" It wasn't a
challenge or a put-down, as far as I could tell, but a serious inquiry. To be
honest, I wasn't sure <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">what</i> she was
driving at. What I might have said in reply was, "I like Marguerite of
Navarre's <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Heptameron</i> quite a bit, but
have an altogether negative impression of John Calvin. I don't see the
connection." I see now that if I had, she might have responded, in a
courteous voice tinged with humor, "Well, if you'd actually <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">read</i> the pertinent essays in my
collection <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Death of Adam</i>, you'd
have seen the connection." But there was a line of eager readers forming
behind me, and it didn't seem the proper time to elaborate on the sources of my
interest. <p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">A few days ago Hilary forwarded to me an article that
Marilynne wrote recently about Joe Biden. I liked it so much that I tracked
down my copy of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Death of Adam</i> and
gave it another look. I read an essay called "Psalm Eight," in which
Marilynne describes the role religious feeling played in her childhood.</p>
<blockquote><p class="MsoNormal">"I was becoming a pious child, seriously eager to hear
whatever I might be told. What this meant precisely, and why it was true, I can
only speculate. But it seems to me I felt God as a presence before I had a name
for him, and long before I knew words like "faith" or
"belief." I was aware to the point of alarm of a vast energy of
intention, all around me, barely restrained, and I thought everyone else must
be aware of it."</p></blockquote>
<p class="MsoNormal">That's a remarkable passage, I think, To which she adds:
"I do not remember childhood as happy but as filled and overfilled with an
intensity of experience that made happiness a matter of little interest." </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">From there I turned to a piece titled "Puritans and
Prigs." Marilynne likes Puritans, and thinks they've been given a bad rap.
She hates prigs, though she sees them nowadays almost everywhere she looks. At
one point she writes:</p>
<blockquote><p class="MsoNormal">"The way we speak and think about Puritans seems to me
a serviceable model for important aspects of the phenomenon we call Puritanism.
Very simply, it is a great example of our collective ignorance to disparage
without knowledge or information about the thing disparaged, when the reward is
the pleasure of sharing an attitude one knows is socially approved of."
Ouch! </p></blockquote><p> At another point: </p><blockquote><p>"For at least a century we have diverted ourselves with the fact that it is possible to translate whole constellations of ideas into terms inappropriate to them. And when, thus transformed, they seem odd or foolish, we have acted as if we had exposed their true nature—in its essence, the alligator was always a handbag."</p></blockquote><p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQFq1v6DlAaMsT-pibd5xlnKnIxocyOuksKPFCnPr6m6fPkxtoZ4RrskpoCUlfNSqOcqwj6pFar4mfFt9V47TsR2tfGTAJAN4wxgS4rNxQD9gGDxZXjE__uJSgmAXxrQquFqdV5_bPt3m1XmaA3jp3HIErdYM62ozuMWFf8_G_v_eZVOeV7pVXI10dIPvP/s712/john%20calvin.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="712" data-original-width="570" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQFq1v6DlAaMsT-pibd5xlnKnIxocyOuksKPFCnPr6m6fPkxtoZ4RrskpoCUlfNSqOcqwj6pFar4mfFt9V47TsR2tfGTAJAN4wxgS4rNxQD9gGDxZXjE__uJSgmAXxrQquFqdV5_bPt3m1XmaA3jp3HIErdYM62ozuMWFf8_G_v_eZVOeV7pVXI10dIPvP/w160-h200/john%20calvin.jpg" width="160" /></a></div><br />These are fine examples, I think, of Marilynne's even-tempered (yet scathing) criticisms of the current state of critical judgment. Meanwhile, she seems to knows a great deal about Puritanism herself, both the Genevan original and the North American offspring. In
fact, the thirty-five page essay titled "Marguerite de Navarre" is
almost entirely devoted to the career of John Calvin, about which I, for one,
knew almost nothing before reading it. It's a long and eloquent narrative, and
at its heart lies the notion that divine energy is real and exultation is
something valuable to share it. On a more prosaic level, she concludes:<p></p>
<blockquote><p class="MsoNormal">"There are things for which we in this culture are
clearly indebted to [Calvin], including relatively popular government, the
relatively high status of women, the separation of church and state, what
remains of universal schooling, and, while it lasted, liberal higher education,
education in "the humanities." All this, for our purposes, emanated
from Geneva—in imperfect form, of course, but tending then toward improvement
as it is now tending toward decline."</p></blockquote>
<p class="MsoNormal">Her assertion that American culture and institutions owe
more to Continental than to English precedents is an intriguing one, and it
seems to jibe with other treatments of the subject—for example, Guido de
Ruggiero's <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">History of European Liberalism</i>.
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">Marilynne's judgments are finely put, rather unlike the hysterical tone so common nowadays, and her prose has a kind of purring density that requires close attention. It reminds me more of Sir Thomas Browne than Hunter Thompson. She doesn't use Bible references to "prove" her points, but rather, offers glosses from afar that may, perhaps, alter our perspectives. For example:</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><blockquote><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">"I believe it is usual to say that the resurrection established who Jesus was and what his presence meant. Perhaps it is truer to say that opposite, that who Jesus was established what his resurrection meant, that he seized upon a narrative familiar or even pervasive and wholly transformed it." </span></blockquote><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtIBp32hMPwTlAjqUK3SG7SUxfGPH5DS-98OdjzVGw6H-BdgGLgdL1tQkPZ1TNYLxtgZMvawtNQEnEa6JSPcbel4xZvye7Vp2BNJPWNkYJtglEcbqrxRxEUJarZYXJyrlwIFDon1yAs8ZRsfbIvDKGHrMOk7GqHrSjDsRLZPtkGaNJcR9eqg9iUi1uVrsJ/s259/margaret%20of%20navarre%20cloet.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="259" data-original-width="194" height="259" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtIBp32hMPwTlAjqUK3SG7SUxfGPH5DS-98OdjzVGw6H-BdgGLgdL1tQkPZ1TNYLxtgZMvawtNQEnEa6JSPcbel4xZvye7Vp2BNJPWNkYJtglEcbqrxRxEUJarZYXJyrlwIFDon1yAs8ZRsfbIvDKGHrMOk7GqHrSjDsRLZPtkGaNJcR9eqg9iUi1uVrsJ/s1600/margaret%20of%20navarre%20cloet.jpg" width="194" /></a></div><br />But what about Marguerite of Navarre? Marilynne admits in
the first paragraph of her essay that the appearance of Marguerite's name in the title is mostly a deception; readers would be unlikely to take up an essay devoted to John Calvin. And she may
be right. Yet the association isn't entirely arbitrary. The two almost
certainly knew each other, and Marilynne <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>makes the case, albeit briefly, that Calvin
was deeply influenced by Marguerite's religious poetry, though she doesn't
reproduce any of it. Meanwhile, she doesn't think much of Margaret's <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Heptameron</i>, casually lumping that collection of
moral tales in with Boccoccio's much less interesting, though far more famous,
predecessor, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Decameron</i>. With that
judgment I cannot agree.<p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I requested a copy of <i>The Grammar of Silence: a Reading of
Marguerite de Navarre's Poetry</i> from the library. It was the only thing they had that might serve. I expect it will be a scholarly slog that I'll dismiss in a few pages as worthless. But who knows?</p><p class="MsoNormal"> I'll let you know how it turns
out.</p>Macaronihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02053482785858037690noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-204832347019783654.post-62327279471792110342024-02-29T15:54:00.002-05:002024-03-10T14:51:19.304-04:00Have I Lost My Sisu?<p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdO7h0UN1PKt8Qo04g5IpQyozkD2TWo-IAX57r5_LderEaVHh2xwNs_7TAkECmcLEr933Lok4-sd-tgR7R22XtlvbafqQ8Wr-bKm475ppVukAvEs1PUwGcJ37aBZACm-qbq-Ok0lqfHUefhMFSGKBv2ykmSzyaLBRV9lmLZrdrmukZoNEvxcrEGx0FUFZ4/s1440/sauna-lake.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1440" data-original-width="1440" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdO7h0UN1PKt8Qo04g5IpQyozkD2TWo-IAX57r5_LderEaVHh2xwNs_7TAkECmcLEr933Lok4-sd-tgR7R22XtlvbafqQ8Wr-bKm475ppVukAvEs1PUwGcJ37aBZACm-qbq-Ok0lqfHUefhMFSGKBv2ykmSzyaLBRV9lmLZrdrmukZoNEvxcrEGx0FUFZ4/w400-h400/sauna-lake.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div><br />It's been hard to find a good place the ski this winter. Or
maybe I just haven't been trying hard enough. Looking out the windows at
dormant grass and dead leaves spreading out in every direction is sort of
pleasant, but it also engenders a listless sense of stasis, of waiting. But let's be
honest: the recent string of mostly sunny days has been mostly magnificent.<p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">A few days ago the <i>Star
Tribune</i> ran a <a href="https://www.startribune.com/from-lake-minnetonka-to-swanky-downtown-minneapolis-hotels-twin-cities-sauna-culture-heats-up/600344062/"><span style="color: red;">story</span></a> identifying Minnesota as the "epicenter
of a sauna revival in the United States." Well, we'll grasp at any excuse to feel "special," and I'm sure many snow-birds in
Texas, Florida, and Arizona are now green with envy. I must confess, however, that
I don't enjoy saunas as much as I once did. You get hot, then you want to go
out but you don't. No one else is going out, and you don't want to be a sissy. Finally you do go out, coaxing someone to go with you, but as often as not there's no lake
nearby to jump into.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The first sauna I ever took was in the mid-1960s, on the
shores of Wake-Um-Up Bay on Lake Vermilion, near the cabin where my mom had
spent her childhood summers. She still had friends in the neighborhood, and they had a sauna right next to the lake. During one visit my brother and I were introduced to that old backwoods
institution. I was ten years old, and I didn't quite see the point. It was too
hot for me. I was more impressed with the two-gallon galvanized kettle sitting
in a shed nearby, filled almost to the brim with blueberries that our hosts had
picked in the scrubby open country along a gravel road up beyond Elbow Lake. That was a lot of blueberries.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">During the years I worked at a canoe camp a few miles from
the Canadian border the sauna became a regular part of the routine. We'd stoke
it for hours—the record temperature was 230 degrees, as I recall—then sit
around inside, sweating like mad, before running out to jump in the lake, which was
only a few feet away. I can remember one moonless night, swimming out into the lake under a starry sky and spraying water into the air, which would catch the light
from the sauna on shore behind me and explode into silent clouds of mist against a black sky filled with stars.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The best part of any sauna is the tingle you get as your
overheated body adjusts to the frigid
lake water. Is it actually <i>good</i>
for you? I have no idea. In any case, these days a motel hot-tub suits me just
fine.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><b>Last winter the snow</b>
was so deep that rabbits gnawed all the bark off several newly planted shrubs
in our backyard. I bought some green fencing and a few white plastic sleeves to protect the ones that
survived, and it's nice to see them here and there in the yard, differentiated
somewhat from the generally weedy things that show up every year.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYhdhweASfae2kp0GZgTBIEV-TLW4zCNOGY_ZaKprqcmQzbx3J0P5y9Gyjk4BtoGf_2eRvT1-pnDyjMbtdEuyu6LXD8-I25Oi-yZyK4W_iwKFrblvhzpqGDwQnsh3tnnIoeSo7c4_aVKSs1-rWnAwJ_7a0M74lJAE0a89QvRXnU78cRCfDNGuuJHNPgP_y/s600/tree-tard-wires.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="374" data-original-width="600" height="249" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYhdhweASfae2kp0GZgTBIEV-TLW4zCNOGY_ZaKprqcmQzbx3J0P5y9Gyjk4BtoGf_2eRvT1-pnDyjMbtdEuyu6LXD8-I25Oi-yZyK4W_iwKFrblvhzpqGDwQnsh3tnnIoeSo7c4_aVKSs1-rWnAwJ_7a0M74lJAE0a89QvRXnU78cRCfDNGuuJHNPgP_y/w400-h249/tree-tard-wires.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal">I'm especially excited about a pair of volunteer chokecherry
trees that I discovered last summer just inside the neighbor's new fence. All
winter long I have had it in mind to remove a twenty-foot elm tree that's crowding
their space. "It's only four inches in diameter," I would say to
myself. "I could cut it down with an ax. And winter's the time to do
it." The other day, with the temperatures in the fifties, I decided it was
now or never. I got some rope, an axe, a little aluminum hand saw, and my
long-handled pruning saw from the garage and set to work.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I tied the rope (not a very good rope) from the spindly elm
to a nearby spruce tree with a taught-line hitch (not a very well tied knot.) I
thought I might lop off some of the upper branches that were overhanging the
power-line, but they were too high to reach with my extensions, and I was unsure of the wisdom of
waving a long metal pole in that particular direction. <i>When it starts to go</i>, I said to myself<i>, I'll tighten the rope and direct the tree out away from the wires</i>.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I hacked at the base of the tree with the ax for a while,
then decided it would be better to saw it off four feet up, so that it would
weigh less when it fell. I made the lower cut in the direction I wanted the little tree to
fall, but that didn't matter much. It was leaning in the opposite
direction, out over the wires, and the minute I began to break through the trunk, it dropped down
onto them. Not a crash, but a weighty and definitive movement that I knew
immediately would be impossible to undue or counteract with the tools I had. That was not the way I'd imagined it.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Then I went inside and called the power company.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">A jolly man not far from retirement age arrived two days
later in a white pick-up truck. I met him at the door.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">"A tree fell on the wires?" he said.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">"It didn't fall; I cut it down. I guess I got in a
little over my head."</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">"Don't worry about it," he said. "It happens
all the time."</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">We went around back and he took a look around. "You
stopped at a good time," he said.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgV3e4S17v8Za4s5N9TI98pUWF9jGcwyjVWRqvI1EFsGISTWRZIjIunqJfNI8IAPgH1N2YeMZAophyphenhyphenglEod9iBSH8hDHmKRF_KrpE1c2WB7l8DMfECJQmQNkmw4Oa15VZw3mucg_4CE4RM31x-RYwUzyOQoHJ-NgABB9dApc0e3K1OxzPgWK9zouFjSMfZf/s600/tree-trimmer-1.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="591" data-original-width="600" height="394" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgV3e4S17v8Za4s5N9TI98pUWF9jGcwyjVWRqvI1EFsGISTWRZIjIunqJfNI8IAPgH1N2YeMZAophyphenhyphenglEod9iBSH8hDHmKRF_KrpE1c2WB7l8DMfECJQmQNkmw4Oa15VZw3mucg_4CE4RM31x-RYwUzyOQoHJ-NgABB9dApc0e3K1OxzPgWK9zouFjSMfZf/w400-h394/tree-trimmer-1.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal">His method for removing the tree was the same as mine, but
he had much better tools, and a half-century of experience under his belt. He
had a beautiful hank of supple pale blue rope at least an inch in diameter and a pole much longer than mine
with an attachment on the end that he used to string the rope fifteen feet
higher on a different tree nearby. "This pole doesn't conduct
electricity," he said. "I think yours might."</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Once he'd secured the rope he took my little saw from where
I'd left it on the edge of the deck—I almost laughed out loud—and completed the
cut. When he broke through the trunk it swung down away from the wires like a pendulum and came
to rest against my neighbor's fence in the midst of a buckthorn thicket. What a
relief.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgu4IdQ6CvwQAgwtkaskyTxC43zKYoQG6tQMMYwOKyzdyOqcxjhMVwxEr-isdBZNZ707TEwAkPvmvZzvCO2cuXpc3mDHMUjPlDe1sNsQfqp6JfJrSgvhCk4GiyN3KNYdIUb15MBJ58AUjKaAMG0SJZNK8IPMZNmtcoBgFZFmPO1sCFhNzJCrrwHX3eP35W8/s600/tre-trimmer-2.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="450" data-original-width="600" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgu4IdQ6CvwQAgwtkaskyTxC43zKYoQG6tQMMYwOKyzdyOqcxjhMVwxEr-isdBZNZ707TEwAkPvmvZzvCO2cuXpc3mDHMUjPlDe1sNsQfqp6JfJrSgvhCk4GiyN3KNYdIUb15MBJ58AUjKaAMG0SJZNK8IPMZNmtcoBgFZFmPO1sCFhNzJCrrwHX3eP35W8/w400-h300/tre-trimmer-2.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal">He was having a slow day and we spent a few minutes talking
about trees and birds. He owns a few acres up in Ramsey. When his kids were
little he had a clock in the kitchen with birds instead of numerals on the face:
robin, goldfinch, blue jay. Rather than chiming on the hour it would produce the
appropriate bird call. "Imagine how thrilled my kids were when they heard
a <i>real</i> mourning dove cooing in the
back yard," he said. "And knew what it was!"</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">On quiet days I can now stare out the dining room window at
a section of the yard that suddenly looks healthy, prim, and full of potential—the
way I've been envisioning it for several years. In part, this is because I had
to clear out several large buckthorns (which I should have done anyway) to get at
the tree I wanted to remove. But now a new section of the sky has been exposed,
too, and all summer we'll enjoy the extra sunlight shining down on our otherwise mostly
shady garden. </p><p class="MsoNormal"> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihi3B4GLi57n5ShDP99tT8WPQ0DGqnXeHKCA7sGHI9TSFuCZNddwF0SiSZhqww1mjFuOgEWRJz_bDJPoV1h8u2XnRh7o1d8ntqYgsS2TBIyTLmwXqN0c4qsZwjHlyy6_txe2n93iAswKri01oqYT3c1XC1tt4xsb17SrI3OC7ZP-6yciobcs8LQfuN6Ip6/s922/bird%20clock.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="922" data-original-width="900" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihi3B4GLi57n5ShDP99tT8WPQ0DGqnXeHKCA7sGHI9TSFuCZNddwF0SiSZhqww1mjFuOgEWRJz_bDJPoV1h8u2XnRh7o1d8ntqYgsS2TBIyTLmwXqN0c4qsZwjHlyy6_txe2n93iAswKri01oqYT3c1XC1tt4xsb17SrI3OC7ZP-6yciobcs8LQfuN6Ip6/w390-h400/bird%20clock.jpg" width="390" /></a></div><br /><p></p>
<p> </p>Macaronihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02053482785858037690noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-204832347019783654.post-22284659020628342802024-02-21T16:39:00.006-05:002024-02-22T11:45:32.378-05:00 A Farm Morning<p>I read in the paper the other day that Bob Moore, who
founded Bob's Red Mill, has died. His is an all-American entrepreneurial
success story with Biblical overtones, not only the part where he struggled to
learn Hebrew and Aramaic, but more especially the part where he spurned
numerous offers from mega-food producers to buy his company and instead turned
Bob's Red-Mill into an employee-owned outfit.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMdYk2ZC3j3i8K5anBzp4sEx2RJ37KvmayjorN4Iy_cqTSOPorZ3-bUIPM-ZNRccxMMRylxn3pqTShkFBi1DdzdwCC7cB1w7eZjj4RBsljqP_vR3SYiYxVyWoZGpSmmDfn7FJiXtITttfqd0SSA-1jbzXvp8ZcuSws6Z0BAJ0Tq_geXHzpHEas3tfBkdQc/s1001/Bob-Moore.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="667" data-original-width="1001" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMdYk2ZC3j3i8K5anBzp4sEx2RJ37KvmayjorN4Iy_cqTSOPorZ3-bUIPM-ZNRccxMMRylxn3pqTShkFBi1DdzdwCC7cB1w7eZjj4RBsljqP_vR3SYiYxVyWoZGpSmmDfn7FJiXtITttfqd0SSA-1jbzXvp8ZcuSws6Z0BAJ0Tq_geXHzpHEas3tfBkdQc/w400-h266/Bob-Moore.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p>By coincidence, I happen to have a hefty bag of Bob's Red bulgur
in the pantry. Fetching a few ancient cookbooks from the basement, I opened
Paula Wolfert's <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Mediterranean Grains and
Greens</i> to the appropriate page and read, "There's no particular reason
for eating bulgur." What? Oh. I had misread the line. It actually says,
"There's no particular <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">season</i>
for eating bulgur." That's better.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Bulgur seems to be an ecumenical grain, popular among Turks,
Armenians, Jews, Arabs, Kurds, and aging hippies, which are more numerous than
you might suppose. I didn't read Wolfert's analysis of the four or five types
of bulgur, but skipped to the recipes, where "Zeliha GunGoren's Scallion
Bulgur Pilaf with Golden Raisin Hosfaf" caught my eye. It sounds pretty
good.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlJ01OXGsiUYRahw5kzcNBADC5SnOq2vyLOaiVD6XXo8QYNmA8AgOBSjb46JCHAH66KQdGdYPug51UDdNgwEXOx6DOplFQQIneYjQCDoQK4hvK4NxNqdfsfhyopKPh0_Rb7s0LmUmu_kw4xzZjUNYlYxS05tB2Q-AEmmDLZfGKxJ3JwOUkWJ7BCpOj0wH4/s500/dawn%20of%20everything.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="500" data-original-width="325" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlJ01OXGsiUYRahw5kzcNBADC5SnOq2vyLOaiVD6XXo8QYNmA8AgOBSjb46JCHAH66KQdGdYPug51UDdNgwEXOx6DOplFQQIneYjQCDoQK4hvK4NxNqdfsfhyopKPh0_Rb7s0LmUmu_kw4xzZjUNYlYxS05tB2Q-AEmmDLZfGKxJ3JwOUkWJ7BCpOj0wH4/w130-h200/dawn%20of%20everything.jpg" width="130" /></a></div><br />By coincidence, the previous night I had been reading <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Dawn of Everything</i>, in which
anthropologists David Graeber and David Wengrow explode several myths about the
nature of early humans by simply examining the archeological evidence. The huge
structures found at Göbekli Tepe, in southeast Turkey, for example, which date
from 9500 BCE, don't look much like the kind of things that small bands of egalitarian
nomadic hunter-gatherers would have built. The even more massive structures at
Poverty Point, Louisiana, which Hilary and I have visited, also date from
before the agricultural revolution which, in the standard view, led to cities, hierarchies,
and all of our current urban and environmental woes. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Graeber and Wengrow seem to know their stuff, reaching back
deeply into the literature, quoting Levi-Strauss, Radin, Lowrie, and other anthropologists whom
I've actually heard of, in an effort to scuttle the conventional account of
human development—a simple-minded scheme that ignores most of the evidence. In short, a
far greater variety of ingenious patterns of social organization have been devised
by humans across the millennia than we've been led to believe.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Did the seasonal inhabitants of Göbekli Tepe eat bulgur? I
don't know, but maybe I'll find out soon. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The
Dawn of Everything</i> is a long book. </p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioEEe-cNvqeIyNtKs3NoRMtFTz3yAcqI-45dFziQOqxn_WFvVMSMALdiAsf8S4s_yrcsRJW1X_TJIrqac107I3ER95_AeIpAgmd3Se5B8O9K3SmrICeMVfh7YoZApL5I2FjXKRtlXw5eU30oababqSUYf5sL7roIPJu2zfN3gv9UUZ4gKNm0ts3tkAwmAF/s600/1280px-Gobekli_Tepe,_Urfa.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="398" data-original-width="600" height="265" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioEEe-cNvqeIyNtKs3NoRMtFTz3yAcqI-45dFziQOqxn_WFvVMSMALdiAsf8S4s_yrcsRJW1X_TJIrqac107I3ER95_AeIpAgmd3Se5B8O9K3SmrICeMVfh7YoZApL5I2FjXKRtlXw5eU30oababqSUYf5sL7roIPJu2zfN3gv9UUZ4gKNm0ts3tkAwmAF/w400-h265/1280px-Gobekli_Tepe,_Urfa.jpg" width="400" /></a></span></div><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br /> </span>Meanwhile, I was cheered to read in the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="color: red;"><a href="https://www.startribune.com/usda-says-minnesota-farms-are-growing-in-size-but-shrinking-in-number/600343230/"><span style="color: red;">Star Tribune</span></a></span></i> this morning that the
average Minnesota farmer made $141,869 last year, more than twice the 2017
level, and also almost twice as much as the national average. And here's another reason to celebrate:
Minnesota farmers planted 760,00 acres of cover crops last year, thirty percent
more than five years ago.<p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">There are more big farms than there were five years ago, and
also more farms between 10 and 49 acres. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I imagine this odd fact reflects the
bifurcation of production methods between mega-farms and those who are
following a more sustainable path. You can buy cheap food or good food. You can
work to preserve the health of the environment or follow in the footsteps of
Louis XV — <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">après moi le déluge</i>. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I face that dilemma every time I go shopping
for carrots at Cub.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNRWmGR6moeBePhUc9ZQGKwN5r5Jqjjhebpmj5dVChFcs1LZC5a2TDXadZYKQDU3KCfBK77oHeC45FlgMQiJuEjZrhkoA2vPuNrdZdOTJcySlysiVqF2OCTgUWJ7qyhbbB6ccNYEPFBPsyFiwMWE6OXw_n0wBlBaCfi3aTJgtvG4FapqBM8NUXdaMVh4hT/s600/farm.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="399" data-original-width="600" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNRWmGR6moeBePhUc9ZQGKwN5r5Jqjjhebpmj5dVChFcs1LZC5a2TDXadZYKQDU3KCfBK77oHeC45FlgMQiJuEjZrhkoA2vPuNrdZdOTJcySlysiVqF2OCTgUWJ7qyhbbB6ccNYEPFBPsyFiwMWE6OXw_n0wBlBaCfi3aTJgtvG4FapqBM8NUXdaMVh4hT/w400-h266/farm.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal">The <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Guardian</i> published an <span style="color: red;"><a href="https://www.theguardian.com/environment/2024/feb/15/us-agriculture-census-farming"><span style="color: red;">article</span></a> </span>the next day crunching the numbers
on a national level. Among its conclusions:</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"></p><blockquote>"The steepest decline – 17% – was among the smallest
farms with less than 10 acres. The US globalized agricultural system favors
large and corporate-owned operations, as smaller farms struggle more with boom
and bust prices, extreme weather linked to the climate crisis and access to
government subsidies and other credit." </blockquote><p></p><p class="MsoNormal">I don't know anything about farming, but it seems to me that
a farm of less than ten acres is going to have a hard time staying afloat
regardless of the weather or market conditions.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgD-IeXE0JFAJZrWVBGnJjiGwqUC9pCfr0vTmjQy3vFGZpx7T4XMVvp_5WVLyGjHiGLHMOipIAMlnc5AkCUy5mbRI5iNYdinadHDJhS37Tiq4sQyaoI6MD9tGfiGN15EzdODD7RXREBXnDlgI-SogCcUMziW2-_HlSV0NEG2ovUxymi8oO4puHtXnPGxMSG/s600/farm-stalls.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="454" data-original-width="600" height="303" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgD-IeXE0JFAJZrWVBGnJjiGwqUC9pCfr0vTmjQy3vFGZpx7T4XMVvp_5WVLyGjHiGLHMOipIAMlnc5AkCUy5mbRI5iNYdinadHDJhS37Tiq4sQyaoI6MD9tGfiGN15EzdODD7RXREBXnDlgI-SogCcUMziW2-_HlSV0NEG2ovUxymi8oO4puHtXnPGxMSG/w400-h303/farm-stalls.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal">At times the analysts seemed to miss the obvious, while
attaching undue importance to meaningless categories of their own devising.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">For example, the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Guardian</i>
observes that "the number of farms enrolled in USDA conservation programs
that pay farmers to leave environmentally important areas such as wetlands fell
by 7% between 2017 and 2022. Smaller farms saw the steepest decline, which is
likely due to high commodity prices on the global market that offered
short-term economic gains."</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Does anyone really care how many <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">farms</i> in each arbitrarily created category are enrolled in conservation
programs? No. From the environmental point of view, the question is, how many <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">acres</i> are enrolled in these programs. The
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Guardian</i> observes that the acreage
increased by 17 percent, but complains that the increase was mostly due to
larger farms planting more nutrient-rich cover crops between growing periods
for cash crops. Well, isn't that what the program is all about? Larger farms, by
definition, have more land, so we should be happy they're doing their part, and
more, rather than aping the quest of smaller farms for "short-term gains."</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4jRspumxXjghvip2_k72Ooi17lelCsTst7uoPi2oPHm1VlgD_FZ1KDW0RwA487ZpS0GUvihMSO7BVYCksRSHbVNm_HzSk6i2mEXREr78eKrgwUbKADiZMloeKyRK1O1suH3DGd2sK4zIvXWgZZcwj2Bo3j3felaIcGtWjbUByK7dEwJv2axAITnBb5g8d/s600/farmers.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="399" data-original-width="600" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4jRspumxXjghvip2_k72Ooi17lelCsTst7uoPi2oPHm1VlgD_FZ1KDW0RwA487ZpS0GUvihMSO7BVYCksRSHbVNm_HzSk6i2mEXREr78eKrgwUbKADiZMloeKyRK1O1suH3DGd2sK4zIvXWgZZcwj2Bo3j3felaIcGtWjbUByK7dEwJv2axAITnBb5g8d/w400-h266/farmers.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal">In the end, the health of the agricultural sector is a tough one to assay,
with corporate profits, cheap food, environmental health, and a manageable
lifestyle ceaselessly jockeying for priority. </p><p class="MsoNormal">I get emails from the Ninth Federal Reserve District on a regular basis keeping me up to date, but I'm pretty sure it's a tough business any way you look at it. And I must confess I'd rather settle back in my easy chair and read a few lines from Virgil's <i>Georgics</i>:</p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="background-color: white; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0%;"></span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet;"><span style="background-color: white; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0%;"></span></span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span><span style="background-color: white; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0%;"></span></span></span></p><blockquote><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span><span style="background-color: white; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0%;">Winter's the lazy time for husbandmen.<br /></span></span></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span><span style="background-color: white; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0%;">In the cold season farmers wont to taste<br /></span></span></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span><span style="background-color: white; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0%;">The increase of their toil, and yield themselves<br /></span></span></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span><span style="background-color: white; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0%;">To mutual interchange of festal cheer.<br /></span></span></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span><span style="background-color: white; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0%;">Boon winter bids them, and unbinds their cares,<br /></span></span></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span><span style="background-color: white; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0%;">As laden keels, when now the port they touch,<br /></span></span></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span><span style="background-color: white; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0%;">And happy sailors crown the sterns with flowers.<br /></span></span></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span><span style="background-color: white; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0%;">Nathless then also time it is to strip<br /></span></span></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span><span style="background-color: white; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0%;">Acorns from oaks, and berries from the bay,<br /></span></span></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span><span style="background-color: white; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0%;">Olives, and bleeding myrtles, then to set<br /></span></span></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span><span style="background-color: white; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0%;">Snares for the crane, and meshes for the stag,<br /></span></span></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span><span style="background-color: white; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0%;">And hunt the long-eared hares, then pierce the doe<br /></span></span></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span><span style="background-color: white; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0%;">With whirl of hempen-thonged Balearic sling,<br /></span></span></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span><span style="background-color: white; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0%;">While snow lies deep, and streams are drifting ice.</span></span></span></blockquote><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span><span style="background-color: white; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0%;"></span></span></span><p></p><span style="font-family: trebuchet;"><span style="background-color: white; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0%;"></span></span><p></p><span style="background-color: white; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0%;"></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"> </p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p>Macaronihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02053482785858037690noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-204832347019783654.post-57100712493118350522024-02-18T17:49:00.003-05:002024-02-18T18:18:56.329-05:00World Cup in the Neighborhood<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhp7QSdvbwpZVzFWC4r4FUbHDgEqf5faIFxBeeQifIvXfLIUxoKkx5Gsg5klHxG8Q64_y6J1Xk3GnTNjA-KQgeXBGIqzcKamawfvLxYY96jRRFbkyPJy84qe5VA1iKwXWpTyzUg7fxbBYzuArUiOGKNkunUX8cIdEJd7cHTs_XNV_7-F_r6d_Nk4o9txogl/s600/IMG_0246.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="405" data-original-width="600" height="270" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhp7QSdvbwpZVzFWC4r4FUbHDgEqf5faIFxBeeQifIvXfLIUxoKkx5Gsg5klHxG8Q64_y6J1Xk3GnTNjA-KQgeXBGIqzcKamawfvLxYY96jRRFbkyPJy84qe5VA1iKwXWpTyzUg7fxbBYzuArUiOGKNkunUX8cIdEJd7cHTs_XNV_7-F_r6d_Nk4o9txogl/w400-h270/IMG_0246.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />On a stunning Saturday morning we left the house after breakfast and made our way down Theo Wirth Parkway to the World Cup cross-country ski races being held on the golf course at the bottom of the hill. They've been making snow and grooming trails for months, of course, but the arrival of six inches of new snow was welcome, to say the least. A large TV screen had been set up in front of the chalet and we could hear the distinctive tone of Senator Klobuchar's voice as we approached. By the time we got there her face had been replaced on the screen with that of Governor Walz, who was welcoming fans to the first World Cup races to be held on American soil in more than twenty years. <p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhabumv7xqw6s-qE-YezbhZXEIyh3VUDssoXTmoEc0NYrYgvL3QHbynm-qALssthcRhlgT36M7yH1FtMBhFOSZUpBh5S_x1SGDqWZ5aU_YJ9q-7jmL9Skgt9NluZHdn3yhJp_4DWCG5xrrWtCLKZtNtEdZK-MRjKpd0dIkbvTYxvLZZMR5KCvChHAsED768/s600/IMG_0251.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="450" data-original-width="600" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhabumv7xqw6s-qE-YezbhZXEIyh3VUDssoXTmoEc0NYrYgvL3QHbynm-qALssthcRhlgT36M7yH1FtMBhFOSZUpBh5S_x1SGDqWZ5aU_YJ9q-7jmL9Skgt9NluZHdn3yhJp_4DWCG5xrrWtCLKZtNtEdZK-MRjKpd0dIkbvTYxvLZZMR5KCvChHAsED768/w400-h300/IMG_0251.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p>We joined the stream of attendees who were continuing west to the trailhead. It was a colorful scene.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBvsmNtwa9unPBNKHZgBB-x6eiSlCfWoOVqJY4QLTaCukwzKVMNc3eNoJKfPleL_q_BJmfrgIVEAKfMzzy-qZPV5rD4wR4pDOIY1x957_ChLddzWWn-2K0NGa-wULw3qK3yWiIrZxqk1nbyRLrltkJaQU3w-iQtiZREFF5Ri6qNj70R2JyYq-u34qZ7huR/s600/IMG_0252.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="450" data-original-width="600" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBvsmNtwa9unPBNKHZgBB-x6eiSlCfWoOVqJY4QLTaCukwzKVMNc3eNoJKfPleL_q_BJmfrgIVEAKfMzzy-qZPV5rD4wR4pDOIY1x957_ChLddzWWn-2K0NGa-wULw3qK3yWiIrZxqk1nbyRLrltkJaQU3w-iQtiZREFF5Ri6qNj70R2JyYq-u34qZ7huR/w400-h300/IMG_0252.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p>The sprints were set to begin in a few minutes, and we clamored up a hill past some handsome oaks to a vantage point above the finish line and the grandstand full of VIPs and full-blooded skiing fans on the other side. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhlKO8A30eW46PUfCrWNoy3BH_dlFabnMglhr90F1NGByzxjnCuEL9338GymV-mnnTPXZomVdrcnGP1fk_797Cr-EodbhocR2k_c3pFDUX8LFEWe-KjszkexPtsnpEaeBUcKTyYLOGMjrLf01SjeBUzoXWjMJ8YDIRIopiMS3g7AtI4F0S3ZFntFZMq5jE/s600/IMG_0262.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="450" data-original-width="600" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhlKO8A30eW46PUfCrWNoy3BH_dlFabnMglhr90F1NGByzxjnCuEL9338GymV-mnnTPXZomVdrcnGP1fk_797Cr-EodbhocR2k_c3pFDUX8LFEWe-KjszkexPtsnpEaeBUcKTyYLOGMjrLf01SjeBUzoXWjMJ8YDIRIopiMS3g7AtI4F0S3ZFntFZMq5jE/w400-h300/IMG_0262.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p>Hilary and I have skied these same trails many times, like lots of other people, but it was fun to wander the hills watching these remarkable athletes move so swiftly across them, even from a distance. But the greater pleasure was to find ourselves in the midst of this joyous and colorful scene, with flags from all parts of the world dangling in the breeze nearby.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2jlJHoZFGZRaavCMHMN6t-FC7VYIyHMT-qFyTtsYaWKo2K1IN7LzihXkHVWFQoosy2NAubYLIDJkBRcQpJqtIZdCfCN-4Aoetd1x3ho2wiLFT_6CVhP79YduiAtqOLSHoYHQh6dt_hALifUxQ8nVDHW21G0Z8iMkts0Jf0sUPQ-ywi1KaPhOYeyBSBIf0/s600/IMG_0254.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="450" data-original-width="600" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2jlJHoZFGZRaavCMHMN6t-FC7VYIyHMT-qFyTtsYaWKo2K1IN7LzihXkHVWFQoosy2NAubYLIDJkBRcQpJqtIZdCfCN-4Aoetd1x3ho2wiLFT_6CVhP79YduiAtqOLSHoYHQh6dt_hALifUxQ8nVDHW21G0Z8iMkts0Jf0sUPQ-ywi1KaPhOYeyBSBIf0/w400-h300/IMG_0254.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p>All of the skiers looked the same, for the most part, though quite a few of the women had pony-tails. It was easy to tell when Jessie Diggins went by, because the crown noise suddenly increased. Diggins was later quoted as saying: "That was surreal. It was already the best atmosphere we've had all season, and that was an hour before the qualifier."</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1PVsGZ26jgEH-Zu3bVeE70IVif9I69K-97Ksm-GQryri7_lorzONdEO49XGmikWORe5LVpiOBqa95Ld6Gz69jq1IC4HDUGnXK7a5873poMd_y5iZ3OxaE1mj_ZQdTj3y3FHp4p2Lnc_c8lT4VzOMbxYVAy09XXOgCLUaVP-SOPatl8WRugJreaM7x5LE4/s600/IMG_0269.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="450" data-original-width="600" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1PVsGZ26jgEH-Zu3bVeE70IVif9I69K-97Ksm-GQryri7_lorzONdEO49XGmikWORe5LVpiOBqa95Ld6Gz69jq1IC4HDUGnXK7a5873poMd_y5iZ3OxaE1mj_ZQdTj3y3FHp4p2Lnc_c8lT4VzOMbxYVAy09XXOgCLUaVP-SOPatl8WRugJreaM7x5LE4/w400-h300/IMG_0269.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div>After a while we crossed an open vale to another vantage point closer to the track where we could see the skiers better. As they passed I found it hard to tell if they were competing or merely getting familiar with the track. <p></p><p>Twenty minutes later we moved on to another hilltop from which point we could watch the skiers descend the final hill before the finish line.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHiOe-7FyIzGB3IVplcdxknnk7vOr8qXrPsLGe1BNBDyPFgSOvKyj-4TzApoiIlXrT6iHly_HdtHa9pAIDp8QDA-dLP9QL8eFe5Yyswrnw1ZrgKkOxKNBzHa7Ku9yiFYVve102XR9mq1zatMOm4yLECnG5IQeeXd_gwd6LW4aW6CJ3XUAwFnfQ9uOEyR-W/s600/IMG_0277.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="425" data-original-width="600" height="284" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHiOe-7FyIzGB3IVplcdxknnk7vOr8qXrPsLGe1BNBDyPFgSOvKyj-4TzApoiIlXrT6iHly_HdtHa9pAIDp8QDA-dLP9QL8eFe5Yyswrnw1ZrgKkOxKNBzHa7Ku9yiFYVve102XR9mq1zatMOm4yLECnG5IQeeXd_gwd6LW4aW6CJ3XUAwFnfQ9uOEyR-W/w400-h284/IMG_0277.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p>Then we walked home. </p><p>I didn't hear a single remark from fans in the crowd in Norwegian, Swedish, or German, but a few interesting remarks later appeared online.</p><p>"A little snow came the day that we arrived," Andrew Musgrave of Great Britain said. "It's beautiful now; so different from anywhere else we race. 'Minnesota Nice' has definitely proven true so far."</p><p>"I had big emotions before the start," said Italian skier Federico Pellegrino. "I almost cried with all these people knowing my name."</p><p>Diggins finished fourth in the sprint final behind Scandinavian sprint specialists Jonna Sundving, Linn Svann, and Kristine Skistad. </p><p>Today they held the long-distance races. We watched them on TV. Alaskan Gus Schumacher pulled off a surprising win in the men's division, four seconds ahead of the Norwegian favorite, Harold Ostberg Amundsen. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhZSn6honXaD-vf2s7gKbGgZnk1SG7BbNLKlKiS-NwNmszDNQKobiOk6xFwDmQjliOQX17wuZEfsYbPLTxwZJa3fjtZoZI2Ssst0WH8t12qQ2WFrPLF6znumB-BvRxemju9zpFq0HdYSgvSAWRIHOOZuYhmAEPVS17giVcRLqFQvWlVpZ3Z7bGVQK5uFp_/s600/Schumacher.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="384" data-original-width="600" height="256" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhZSn6honXaD-vf2s7gKbGgZnk1SG7BbNLKlKiS-NwNmszDNQKobiOk6xFwDmQjliOQX17wuZEfsYbPLTxwZJa3fjtZoZI2Ssst0WH8t12qQ2WFrPLF6znumB-BvRxemju9zpFq0HdYSgvSAWRIHOOZuYhmAEPVS17giVcRLqFQvWlVpZ3Z7bGVQK5uFp_/w400-h256/Schumacher.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p>Incredible.</p>Macaronihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02053482785858037690noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-204832347019783654.post-6791634415510553862024-02-11T11:11:00.002-05:002024-02-11T12:26:18.509-05:00The Ides of February<p>Though the skies have been gray, and the weather strangely
warmish and out of season, it's been one riotous festival after another. Shall
I number them?</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">1) <b>February 7</b>. It's the first day of spring, at least
according to Cato the Elder. In his book on farm management (c.a. 160 BCE), he identifies that
specific date, and even gives a reason for choosing it. The wind changes on
February 7. (Which way it changes he doesn't say. Probably from North to South.
I guess weather patterns were more consistent in his day.)</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">2) <i>February 10</i>. It's the lunar New Year!</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">3) <b>February 12</b>. It's Fasching! A two-day festival when
Germans get drunk, run wild, and so on, prior to the onset of Lent.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">4) <b>February 14</b>. Valentine's Day. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">What am I doing about it all? Very little.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">But that's not entirely true.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">On the afternoon of February 7, I was sitting out on the
deck after work watching the sun go down. The skies were blue that
day, with a pale white band of thin clouds drifting by overhead. I'd gotten a
pot of yellow-pea soup going on the stove. The recipe called for 1/2 cup of
sherry, which isn't very specific. Oloroso? Fino? Almontillado? Well, all I
could find in the cabinet above the stove was an old bottle of Marsala. Once
I'd added the quantity specified there was only an inch left in the bottom, a
bit muddy. I made short work of it, as a service to the household. Now we can get a fresh bottle of something similar.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">As I sat on the deck, I took a peak at an essay about Johann
Gottfried Herder from Arthur Lovejoy's <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Essays
in the History of Ideas</i>—a nice way to start the new year—but then I noticed
that the buds on the branches of the silver maple above my head, those spiky
little red clusters, seemed to have grown larger. Already? A red squirrel
started chattering and the sun dipped behind a bank of clouds near the horizon.
Four mallards raced by at tremendous speed, high overhead, traveling north.
Why?</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I could hear a CD of the Polish trumpeter Tomas Stanko on
the stereo inside. I'd forgotten how good this CD is. But it's a moody thing.
And the smell of peas wafting my way from the half-open door reminded me that it
was time to stir the soup.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The following afternoon Hilary and I drove down to the
Mississippi and along River Road downstream past the Guthrie and the Ted Mann Concert
Hall to the Northern Clay Center on Franklin Avenue. It's always fun to see
what the local potters are doing, but we were surprised to come upon a
retrospective show of Warren McKenzie's work. McKenzie, who died a few years
ago, is the long-standing local superstar of the Mengei tradition. It's an
Asian tradition, in fact, appropriate to the lunar new year.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUFnfigHh4gxsi8JzfsZMaZi7a-0lGE29J5q_hHjuF7BX4x5l8gIpHRIMpMOiub3dfAY2yGo5GUc764fnXWOrdSJcvUhTGzZjA3ma5r_sdRlQo5mIji-h0o0iVeZ_YcKV_DWtLSwTGSgq2lprUExr5NmZHZeqJUxSmRqXSpJ1lDAr5bRzMz_sEnett7Mx0/s600/warren-pots.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="450" data-original-width="600" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUFnfigHh4gxsi8JzfsZMaZi7a-0lGE29J5q_hHjuF7BX4x5l8gIpHRIMpMOiub3dfAY2yGo5GUc764fnXWOrdSJcvUhTGzZjA3ma5r_sdRlQo5mIji-h0o0iVeZ_YcKV_DWtLSwTGSgq2lprUExr5NmZHZeqJUxSmRqXSpJ1lDAr5bRzMz_sEnett7Mx0/w400-h300/warren-pots.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div>These classic rustic vessels, exhibiting a wide variety of shapes and surface decorations, did not disappoint. If they had slipped a few pots by Guillermo Ceullar or Will
Swanson into the show, would we have noticed? It doesn't matter, and such
quibbles degrade the integrity and depth of the tradition.<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOWsiEBdYnKfCnJl2bGpCNRmwLeB8GmKkH1hzJ3F3-eXLvuGXSovpBcG18TotgeOE7FAEHwCq5zZ3oNUBeM5lXLL8d59fVGJ9hPW1dg54DnHDES-TSQjrLRb33ehIyjLvIN-gQ37zLylFJhA25XQ6tQ8LeCKGi8-oyeiUb6Dh8RXbLFwcOoT1-Z4bjJclu/s600/warren-chart.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="440" data-original-width="600" height="294" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOWsiEBdYnKfCnJl2bGpCNRmwLeB8GmKkH1hzJ3F3-eXLvuGXSovpBcG18TotgeOE7FAEHwCq5zZ3oNUBeM5lXLL8d59fVGJ9hPW1dg54DnHDES-TSQjrLRb33ehIyjLvIN-gQ37zLylFJhA25XQ6tQ8LeCKGi8-oyeiUb6Dh8RXbLFwcOoT1-Z4bjJclu/w400-h294/warren-chart.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal">I also have my doubts about the value of the price list,
though its presence was unavoidable; the show was a fundraiser, after all, and all but a few of the pots had sold. But it's a little
disconcerting to know that Hilary and I eat our breakfast every morning out of
$400 cereal bowls. Better not drop them!</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4Gujov888_st0fMCaJggjSx65VJmrS81DzZNWqBssUQXFml85MtoFb6NSVBZwBrzknhJkWn3PggjuFF1kpagU-WzBsZVfmvjJGjMXsFfsxVEm7j5ihrWGMzbv7whMJC8_dLU0KauhKcelou47lkBDmDg4CtCdAfzPzVhV76rd-1UrQKibaKNNY_arda6m/s1124/beadwork.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1124" data-original-width="600" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4Gujov888_st0fMCaJggjSx65VJmrS81DzZNWqBssUQXFml85MtoFb6NSVBZwBrzknhJkWn3PggjuFF1kpagU-WzBsZVfmvjJGjMXsFfsxVEm7j5ihrWGMzbv7whMJC8_dLU0KauhKcelou47lkBDmDg4CtCdAfzPzVhV76rd-1UrQKibaKNNY_arda6m/w214-h400/beadwork.jpg" width="214" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div>From Northern Clay we drove a few blocks to the West Bank
campus of the U of M, where an exhibit of indigenous art was on display in the
Katherine Nash Gallery. If I imagined that I was somewhat jaded by the
seemingly endless influx of Native American stuff recently, this show was a
pleasantly rude awakening. <p></p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5Qugrgr4vamISYr0_-MOsyr5Bx7tDz6XKVW6NUg2ymu1J9hbpF8tHA3yZ_UNx_PdSrMcgmd8CoiQ-R5kuTI0w8wDcyi9yxUMdIbPha1qEY93cE5WogofW-csDv-7fZldeM5MMtyb68j6C2sL05cHHk7s22uIHPSTO135-0KenFr2yWJcPzoCISMgP2IDj/s600/myth-painting.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="447" data-original-width="600" height="297" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5Qugrgr4vamISYr0_-MOsyr5Bx7tDz6XKVW6NUg2ymu1J9hbpF8tHA3yZ_UNx_PdSrMcgmd8CoiQ-R5kuTI0w8wDcyi9yxUMdIbPha1qEY93cE5WogofW-csDv-7fZldeM5MMtyb68j6C2sL05cHHk7s22uIHPSTO135-0KenFr2yWJcPzoCISMgP2IDj/w400-h297/myth-painting.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />White walls, bright colors, exotic and familiar
imagery. The incandescent purples and pinks of George Morrison's Lake Superior
landscapes are always a treat. But I was no less taken by such large-scale
works as Michelle Defoe's immense <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The
Stars Remember: We are the caretakers of the land and our ancestors reborn</i>.
And Rabbett Before Horses Strictland's carefully rendered mythological scenes
from Anishinaabe lore brought the works of Poussin to mind. Bright colors
predominate; it's the age of acrylics. But Patrick DesJarlait's watercolors
have that pleasantly old-fashioned WPA look and feel.<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-vmvPdZ5YtuG_J9cpNjXHnAOojMQNRAukTbJu2UQG2l4cgnN6XKY_xH2hry1WgOLfg1S4PxRm87HPKykmSZryc3I4AMZayen5czKlBbdE8sbgFdq-f9jeuCu1r4pE-0_zDaqPftUN-MSD5URwZfd4gqO3OAtCxlQQkAaXyRikenfmCzArVsl1yx8qCYZo/s600/fisherman.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="482" data-original-width="600" height="321" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-vmvPdZ5YtuG_J9cpNjXHnAOojMQNRAukTbJu2UQG2l4cgnN6XKY_xH2hry1WgOLfg1S4PxRm87HPKykmSZryc3I4AMZayen5czKlBbdE8sbgFdq-f9jeuCu1r4pE-0_zDaqPftUN-MSD5URwZfd4gqO3OAtCxlQQkAaXyRikenfmCzArVsl1yx8qCYZo/w400-h321/fisherman.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal"><b>A few days later</b>, on the spur of the moment almost, we
decided to take a spin down to New Ulm, where we hadn't been in many years.
Though hardly a tourist Mecca, the town is well-known for its German heritage. In
a few hours you could visit the historical museum and Turner Hall, have a meal
in the basement rathskeller or at the Kaiserhof downtown, then drive by the oversized
statue of Herman the German at the top of the hill and the more modest statue
of Bohemian immigrants down in the city park, before heading to the Shell
Brewery or upstream along the Minnesota River to see the historical sites
associated with the Dakota War of 1862.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMQCU-kJkRi6PUwCMJiUYUU0muNpwSzaveJGKhzQvEkX1p4jDz8xtN5PhvKI1ZDbuimbrYiFwsCiPIQhJHy-nFewXaguEZwQCOPdziKVw4qVahFn2Rge2nEGOTp8MhYCgZ_8677tbcv0QiSfA7myBTCGcFaLwdEpJo7CjAKI-ZrAhrgYb1ntTAnZz8X6t1/s600/new-ulm-main-street.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="450" data-original-width="600" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMQCU-kJkRi6PUwCMJiUYUU0muNpwSzaveJGKhzQvEkX1p4jDz8xtN5PhvKI1ZDbuimbrYiFwsCiPIQhJHy-nFewXaguEZwQCOPdziKVw4qVahFn2Rge2nEGOTp8MhYCgZ_8677tbcv0QiSfA7myBTCGcFaLwdEpJo7CjAKI-ZrAhrgYb1ntTAnZz8X6t1/w400-h300/new-ulm-main-street.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal">But our plan was simply to see how the town was doing, then
take a hike at nearby Flandreau State Park. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjO3HkDfidIhFte-jPQsQYyds_cvB953kkfMn1zmpe_mjM2G1bdM4QXSl2sXZ1ilrG3F50uOVXUN1M-IuTH4NiuXBwN1DEvkuY_YuYMXhA0srK4S4Di4LOA1BdWV_3pge6oMkpYdoG6Lk8zGGtnmuei5041dUG2KLgWJoxI-aRwxlt9JIgMLoMGe878JimE/s600/lolas-food.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="450" data-original-width="600" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjO3HkDfidIhFte-jPQsQYyds_cvB953kkfMn1zmpe_mjM2G1bdM4QXSl2sXZ1ilrG3F50uOVXUN1M-IuTH4NiuXBwN1DEvkuY_YuYMXhA0srK4S4Di4LOA1BdWV_3pge6oMkpYdoG6Lk8zGGtnmuei5041dUG2KLgWJoxI-aRwxlt9JIgMLoMGe878JimE/w400-h300/lolas-food.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal">We had a pleasant lunch at a place
called Lola's, then walked down Minnesota Street to a fine brick building
called the Grand that's been converted to an art center, with a beer hall next
door. Along the way we stopped in at low-lit place called <a href="https://www.sweethaventonics.com/"><span style="color: red;">Sweethaven</span></a> Tonics
that had a few comfortable chairs and enough open space to host a pop-up
bookstore. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTeSJbwIC6p7lOZzrl6rfh76B6INc1Qr8FwEFaEZRZAUSTE81Cg-LZVUfGMbSF3fX8K5a_mn93r8d6FqTHYMEYcNGmCBBfiCjDa650IIkFtqmKyEDEgn0MW05BKd1TOTOCrGsw8iwsHrOUxETGA_GbDHT56u89F-Wt0yxW5XOG8_-FxJH7OT7EC0gIODYh/s2500/sweethaven%20bar.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1406" data-original-width="2500" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTeSJbwIC6p7lOZzrl6rfh76B6INc1Qr8FwEFaEZRZAUSTE81Cg-LZVUfGMbSF3fX8K5a_mn93r8d6FqTHYMEYcNGmCBBfiCjDa650IIkFtqmKyEDEgn0MW05BKd1TOTOCrGsw8iwsHrOUxETGA_GbDHT56u89F-Wt0yxW5XOG8_-FxJH7OT7EC0gIODYh/w400-h225/sweethaven%20bar.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal">I noticed later on their website that the bar also hosts musical
events, including a recent show by a group called Uccellino, two women who sing
and play the ukulele and Melodica. Evidently Sweet Haven makes and distributes
a variety of concentrated non-alcoholic "tonics," including Lemon Basil
Lavender and Ginder Lime Peppercorn. Just add some booze and you're all set.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">While we were perusing the books a woman appeared from the
shadows wearing a floral print dress and a big smile. I don't remember her name
but she told us she'll be opening a bookstore soon across the street. I hope it
goes well.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">We also enjoyed chatting with the young woman at the nearby Grand
Art Center. I asked her whether anything special was in the works for the
weekend. "Do you know about Flasching?" she asked. "It's like
Mardi Gras, but not so grand. Do you know what Narren are?"</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifwjpY9HlO7Q3SlIE2UMf5y9Bl7s-CIv6QPfwbaLs5MFTPBXsbLhIauF8KjPN-MSb9aLEFBqGJjhjedY1lPBo8x01i9L5tQbNuQ3rSHoMWLDnnSphC34pgAoJOUv2ml6sRJmjZa9O0nrB9OE97NOFya0gOPgLBu3f4blCWMr9g_FL6CB4C7RyC3M06sLqA/s600/Narren-New-Ulm.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="522" data-original-width="600" height="348" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifwjpY9HlO7Q3SlIE2UMf5y9Bl7s-CIv6QPfwbaLs5MFTPBXsbLhIauF8KjPN-MSb9aLEFBqGJjhjedY1lPBo8x01i9L5tQbNuQ3rSHoMWLDnnSphC34pgAoJOUv2ml6sRJmjZa9O0nrB9OE97NOFya0gOPgLBu3f4blCWMr9g_FL6CB4C7RyC3M06sLqA/w400-h348/Narren-New-Ulm.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal">"Are those the people wearing the grotesque wooden
masks?"</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">"Yes. They gave me the creeps when I was a kid."<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">"We haven't seen any on the street this morning."</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">"It's probably too early. I'm not sure what the schedule is. You can find more
information online."</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">She gave us a tour of the cabaret next door, which had
oversized images on the walls of Wanda Gag, Tippi Hedrin, and a famous local accordion player whose name neither of us couldn't remember. "That's not
really my kind of music," she said.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">"But you do know <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">how</i>
to polka?"</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">"Kind of. You shuffle back and forth...."</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">A few storefronts down we went into a fair-trade shop stocked with fabrics,
gifts, and doodahs from around the world. The proprietor, a retired
kindergarten teacher, gave us a bit more information about how the town was
changing. Someone was retrofitting one or two of the handsome brick buildings
across the street. "And we've got a bookstore opening soon, too."</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">"We met the owner a few minutes ago."</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">"Isn't she a breath of fresh air!" </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I asked her about Fasching and she said, "Did you see
the rags hanging from the lamp posts. That's part of the festival. Spring
cleaning. Out with the old." But not very festive, really; I hadn't
noticed them.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEithHs0WXLRyWzcj16ddw6Ub3IhKlokx7lmb2qdNkTuZlfTBogLMMGtni-9SMER0vpUruA1OIbAqtpjAQUGOg7yxmiy7NMKbL4sv1PHQ_9Ag1tOkyvHFGGYVcvje6ShTfovl81j_cJP6BQ4L7XqVVJtSkHXmaBVxcaA9dM_JJvUz8CyNi_4PMUgM-j-4Bxp/s600/rags.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="440" data-original-width="600" height="294" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEithHs0WXLRyWzcj16ddw6Ub3IhKlokx7lmb2qdNkTuZlfTBogLMMGtni-9SMER0vpUruA1OIbAqtpjAQUGOg7yxmiy7NMKbL4sv1PHQ_9Ag1tOkyvHFGGYVcvje6ShTfovl81j_cJP6BQ4L7XqVVJtSkHXmaBVxcaA9dM_JJvUz8CyNi_4PMUgM-j-4Bxp/w400-h294/rags.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Rags dangling in front of the Grand Art Center</td></tr></tbody></table><p class="MsoNormal">I asked her about the Shell's brewery. "The last time
we were down there, you couldn't sample the beer unless you took the tour."</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">"That was a long time ago. People didn't like that. Now
they have a big beer garden. And one of the Marti sons has opened a distillery.
You should come down here during Octoberfest." Indeed.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">She and her husband are cross-country skiers, and we
commiserated briefly about the lack of snow.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">On our way back to the car we passed the Kaiserhof
Restaurant—I could see a long line inside through the darkened window. And though
we'd already had lunch, something in the air gave me the strong desire to sample
a few sausages and some hot potato salad, with a pile of sauerkraut on the side.
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Next time. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGApefhHlF6q-RIWTPh8Y3tPYFjQ5Ly4zQsx3m-XHdn3FuO_2PsX4_zoyoHhKxA6OxsNpcI7iQd5-uWl2GiMpAT_90LcORjB5q6Q-7_0qhgd80iZeV6FCzkP9lhfppS5HBgznsU6B0QRzKryjgwNV9A-zpWfIfV6dWXDbEVKqXh1xktoucNsFIYCBAz3Pv/s600/flandreau-SP.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="450" data-original-width="600" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGApefhHlF6q-RIWTPh8Y3tPYFjQ5Ly4zQsx3m-XHdn3FuO_2PsX4_zoyoHhKxA6OxsNpcI7iQd5-uWl2GiMpAT_90LcORjB5q6Q-7_0qhgd80iZeV6FCzkP9lhfppS5HBgznsU6B0QRzKryjgwNV9A-zpWfIfV6dWXDbEVKqXh1xktoucNsFIYCBAz3Pv/w400-h300/flandreau-SP.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><o:p> </o:p> <p></p>Macaronihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02053482785858037690noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-204832347019783654.post-85526438205993075742024-01-28T09:05:00.004-05:002024-01-29T10:14:02.181-05:00Wandering Through Winter<p></p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxmusyVw88T4pityF_BKuywezq9vMVAnnoLZDf0ubGapZsgrSQpQtEwLL_zjBKgLXImZdImN4EVQzcNSzbOV_-ZIsRjC9FmEGDmEAMVls_tdP0Yc09TeBwUaqQj9nB8h9UULM9M67W3k3wdjLHDwe1VkBY-_yMqouJr4FJSEE9fjIQ7ic40ryxMeummJ24/s728/bright-collage.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="728" data-original-width="600" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxmusyVw88T4pityF_BKuywezq9vMVAnnoLZDf0ubGapZsgrSQpQtEwLL_zjBKgLXImZdImN4EVQzcNSzbOV_-ZIsRjC9FmEGDmEAMVls_tdP0Yc09TeBwUaqQj9nB8h9UULM9M67W3k3wdjLHDwe1VkBY-_yMqouJr4FJSEE9fjIQ7ic40ryxMeummJ24/w330-h400/bright-collage.jpg" width="330" /></a></div><br />On a gray Saturday morning in late January, no snow, we
nevertheless feel it necessary to get out into the day. The plan is simple:
drive down to the Old Cedar Avenue Bridge, where there might be some birds
loitering in patches of open water, and at the very least, we can take a stroll
without getting our shoes muddy; then swing north on 35 W to the Art Institute
to take a look at a few of the "minor" exhibits. Very low-key.<p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">There <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">were</i> a few
birds down at the river. A flock of sixteen trumpeter swans flew by overhead,
honking. (This is the kind of nature stuff we need right now.) They're big
birds, pristine, shapely, and athletic, and their trumpeting is hardly less
evocative than the hooting of a great-horned owl at midnight. Also louder.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">We also came upon a flock of hooded mergansers when we got
to the river channel. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsemEGpFQDm_CYA1XkdOFUhCrS5PAs7KrJfiNyUl54diZ6qIp9bzKvOkP5LEgqzoosnJEvXaSHomR25OegsdCEUzb5JIsyevw1BbOLHL4EoUVBYPRX9EWMxKo8EDYfbDCw06ZCj1FDl5doFhZBvp1-_PixOm5xQ1oJOGexb_VmjtKPMaHYy2Ex1Ftpa2KW/s600/Cedar-ave-bridge.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="451" data-original-width="600" height="301" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsemEGpFQDm_CYA1XkdOFUhCrS5PAs7KrJfiNyUl54diZ6qIp9bzKvOkP5LEgqzoosnJEvXaSHomR25OegsdCEUzb5JIsyevw1BbOLHL4EoUVBYPRX9EWMxKo8EDYfbDCw06ZCj1FDl5doFhZBvp1-_PixOm5xQ1oJOGexb_VmjtKPMaHYy2Ex1Ftpa2KW/w400-h301/Cedar-ave-bridge.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal">It was nice wandering down the asphalt path alongside the
rich orange grasses, with the myriad shades of gray ice and white cracks below.
Groups of fat-tire bikers passed us on the reconstructed bridge, and
five-year-olds on miniature bikes who had raced ahead of their parents were
screaming wildly in the damp frigid air. It <i>does</i>
feel good to get out.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">But the cool, damp, almost Danish air also has a way of
sinking in, and we enjoyed the warmth of the car as drove north on the freeway
to the Institute, fifteen minutes away. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWz9R4M97gcA3Tmt8zT_G13liF1Vky_j3kv-yNn8d-ATyx16-wflIXMH4_Zra0jjTQpNxB_eG3xapw2Neejo2zCd3rBUxPfO_pd2GZGS6vHro1KXF7DABNt6n2Qn5AZRsPSYdPiRzeZSjQVWeKSRkWRFcPL0InaWdqSpkS51XiWgJVevGEkgp-V8g5aT5q/s600/MIA-lobby.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="450" data-original-width="600" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWz9R4M97gcA3Tmt8zT_G13liF1Vky_j3kv-yNn8d-ATyx16-wflIXMH4_Zra0jjTQpNxB_eG3xapw2Neejo2zCd3rBUxPfO_pd2GZGS6vHro1KXF7DABNt6n2Qn5AZRsPSYdPiRzeZSjQVWeKSRkWRFcPL0InaWdqSpkS51XiWgJVevGEkgp-V8g5aT5q/w400-h300/MIA-lobby.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal">It's a handsome place. Also huge. Also free. </p><p class="MsoNormal">We lingered at
the Cargill Gallery admiring the Root Collection of pottery, though we'd seen that
exhibit before. As usual, we were drawn to the more functional work. Admiring a
thin blue bowl with a mottled glaze, I was tempted to say to Hilary, "You've done
stuff as fine as this," but I didn't, because making things isn't a quest
to be as good or better than others; it's a personal need and a loving, exploratory process.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVsIY0EzV1CO0YSiF5x3I0ib3UaxKhldy4QGJ9F8nyrh9Vy9x-BOLWHEHOV-M6eiXJyi1516V9LgoWKKo_G0wa_45YhBZvqcr9iRwB_5mkQJHMtZvHGT2-3fsXv_QUf12nZuD5AKlsfY22tbppOkMfUvtBtTsInMSsOzrIT8pXhiAkm2nNHxJxQw-8Mova/s600/five-pots.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="407" data-original-width="600" height="271" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVsIY0EzV1CO0YSiF5x3I0ib3UaxKhldy4QGJ9F8nyrh9Vy9x-BOLWHEHOV-M6eiXJyi1516V9LgoWKKo_G0wa_45YhBZvqcr9iRwB_5mkQJHMtZvHGT2-3fsXv_QUf12nZuD5AKlsfY22tbppOkMfUvtBtTsInMSsOzrIT8pXhiAkm2nNHxJxQw-8Mova/w400-h271/five-pots.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal">Looking at a piece by the Finnish-American potter Otto
Heino, I was reminded of the visit we paid to his studio in Ojai,
California, many years ago. We stopped in unannounced that day, and he entertained us
with stories for an hour. He was a nice man, well beyond eighty, living alone. But he could still throw a nice pot with ease and remove it from the wheel, dry. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I had printed out a list of the exhibits I wanted to see, including
room numbers. They all seemed to be on the third floor. The building is a
labyrinth of rooms and halls arranged in no obvious pattern. We finally found "Networks of Care" but were
not impressed. </p><p class="MsoNormal">I thought it might be fun to see the show in the Herberger Gallery devoted to art created by museum staff. Hilary had picked up an official map, but that gallery wasn't marked on it. Wandering through the remote southwest corner of the third floor, amid the Art Deco furniture and Moderne blown glass, we came upon a passing guard and asked him where the Herberger Gallery was.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">"Oh, that's down on the first floor," he said cheerfully.
"It's that long hallway going left just beyond the coffee shop."</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">"You mean the hallway where they display the cast iron
piggy banks and the children's tempera paintings?"</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">"That's the one."</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">He looked like a friendly guy so I said, "Do <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">you</i> have anything in that show?"</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3VcafCyIMmhyYSaumC3cMnR_vc6fACO5n3rF1Y1Z756ubdWY1gDDi93xT6JeizNvAXC0P8WM3-CRuCsl0M6ahwntHGJmFUB1RqPiu6_HAQYz-tVw48Aciq9A_t35gBN3SS1T897A6SrqjsSU3c2vtZmQbGoC83liSpt0-V-hvRkMzLYYtp2FMDJNMYw9_/s600/guard.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="545" data-original-width="600" height="364" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3VcafCyIMmhyYSaumC3cMnR_vc6fACO5n3rF1Y1Z756ubdWY1gDDi93xT6JeizNvAXC0P8WM3-CRuCsl0M6ahwntHGJmFUB1RqPiu6_HAQYz-tVw48Aciq9A_t35gBN3SS1T897A6SrqjsSU3c2vtZmQbGoC83liSpt0-V-hvRkMzLYYtp2FMDJNMYw9_/w400-h364/guard.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal">"Me? No. I'm not an artist, though many of my
colleagues are. I spent most of my career as a project manager for litigation projects.
When I quit that, I wanted to work in a more inspiring environment. And here I
am, surrounded by art."</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">"And you like it?" I said, slightly dumbfounded.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">"Oh, yeah. And you meet interesting people almost every
day. Yesterday I ran into a fellow rugby player. In an art gallery! What's the
likelihood of that?"</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">"So you played rugby?" I said. "For the
University?"</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">"Oh, no. It was club play. We were in tournaments all
over the US and Europe, paid our own way."</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">"How are your knees holding out?" I said.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">"My knees are great," he said. "I had them
both replaced!"</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">On our way to the Herberger Gallery we passed through a special exhibit devoted to some documentary black-and-white photos by
a young Gordon Parks of a cleaning woman in Washington, D.C. circa 1940—her
work, her apartment, her little children. There were also photos of religious
services and a dry goods store, Asian men working, large bags of rice sitting
in piles. Sometimes chaotic, often dignified. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEWQH4kehTn9IjroIocbsAur_UexyZ3a6y8wuMuNRFAq3Xiior4KrcbZVMrng9Xaw5MMPj90J_ERCSblMReQO9YjbHS1ETWLTGG0k9k0f37dumDdtM4T7ryXM0a7lPVOXBbIH2MrqMVF2dom_x3Sz8E8w53i4aCcAVUa1TtgUUvb-U0P6AmvNzUowa-YdR/s600/parks-gordon.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="509" data-original-width="600" height="339" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEWQH4kehTn9IjroIocbsAur_UexyZ3a6y8wuMuNRFAq3Xiior4KrcbZVMrng9Xaw5MMPj90J_ERCSblMReQO9YjbHS1ETWLTGG0k9k0f37dumDdtM4T7ryXM0a7lPVOXBbIH2MrqMVF2dom_x3Sz8E8w53i4aCcAVUa1TtgUUvb-U0P6AmvNzUowa-YdR/w400-h339/parks-gordon.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal">As we paused to take in these images, I began to hear the
strains of a violin in the distance, as if it were being tuned. The sound of
the instrument itself was deep and rich—something you often fail to take note of when you're focused on the music being played on it. </p><p class="MsoNormal">I was reminded
of a morning years ago when Hilary and I drove up to a village in the hills
above St. Tropez. Three middle-aged men who had biked to the top were standing
in front of a café. The village was otherwise largely deserted, but someone was playing a
violin in a second-floor room on one of the narrow streets, rehearsing the
same lilting passage over and over again. It was a haunting experience, something out of
a dream. </p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiMLCT8d7rQgsKDewZHjneWwbC_cF8r1fRSVM7K1jSFiQmI6u44t0EWAaxSnDbR0HqpIjPQ-IdmGaIG5UGEt8y9tjyxPLJdRf2mMiP1ZkquBt0lFuF6s2JHgzxSs5Vuv_u3szNgWq0OOQ4u_MRU_Vmi69HR1ZfFuAhO0rU2puiELRm3hGGw1yKbqHmV4-l/s600/window.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="450" data-original-width="600" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiMLCT8d7rQgsKDewZHjneWwbC_cF8r1fRSVM7K1jSFiQmI6u44t0EWAaxSnDbR0HqpIjPQ-IdmGaIG5UGEt8y9tjyxPLJdRf2mMiP1ZkquBt0lFuF6s2JHgzxSs5Vuv_u3szNgWq0OOQ4u_MRU_Vmi69HR1ZfFuAhO0rU2puiELRm3hGGw1yKbqHmV4-l/w400-h300/window.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p></p><p class="MsoNormal">Then I remembered that an improvisatory concert had been
scheduled for one of the galleries, to be performed in complete darkness. The
show was called Black Box. It wasn't on my list, but I was hearing it. I walked around the corner from
the Gordon Parks exhibit, pausing briefly to admire the foggy view downtown, and
approached the entry to the Black Box, which was cordoned off. A sign requesting
silence also mentioned the program and listed the starting times. A small
basket of earplugs was lying in front of the door--a thoughtful touch.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">As I listened, it dawned on me that I was standing in one of
the galleries Hilary and I had been looking for: 369, Collage/Assemblage. I
looked down at a few pages of Matisse's illustrated book <i>JAZZ</i> that were on
display in a glass case against the wall nearby. I've seen them before; this time they didn't "draw" me. Then I noticed what appeared
to be a fine collage hanging on the wall opposite. I walked over to take a
look, all the while vaguely entranced by the snippets of music and scratching
noises emerging from the gallery nearby. At one point I heard someone
whistling. At another, it sounded like a flock of sandhill cranes was
approaching overhead.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyvD5_fgfcIr2uuT4trRSOsx_R40aYZM2QWwZG_0Hve862CSeCCqaAotdXjl6U3cI1suU20qdpswMnoXp5qT6nJNesDIGATD2h6jq2MtXcggXTyLav6Ir_1l88nZibjkhwd5ByonVkh_w7_XRrCaXPGZ1QUDecdR1p3NDMKP0DHfcWZR4Thh4zWS7yPtF6/s600/collage.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="223" data-original-width="600" height="149" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyvD5_fgfcIr2uuT4trRSOsx_R40aYZM2QWwZG_0Hve862CSeCCqaAotdXjl6U3cI1suU20qdpswMnoXp5qT6nJNesDIGATD2h6jq2MtXcggXTyLav6Ir_1l88nZibjkhwd5ByonVkh_w7_XRrCaXPGZ1QUDecdR1p3NDMKP0DHfcWZR4Thh4zWS7yPtF6/w400-h149/collage.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal">The collage, "Untitled (no. 708)," dates
from 1953. Anne Ryan, an artist and sometime poet I'd never heard of, put it together, inspired
by a German Dadaist named Kurt Schwitters; once again, no one I knew. The
collage was maybe three feet long. It was described on the plaque as a "nonverbal poem, composed from a
pictographic grammar of materials." </p><p class="MsoNormal">But isn't that what all art is? Some
kind of compositional arrangement, some kind of poem? After all, the Parks photos may have been interesting because of their content—an era and a slice of life most of us aren't familiar with—but they were beautiful by virtue of the arrangement of
shadows and highlights, the curve of a mirror frame, the careworn or perky
expression on a human face. </p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjouhRPlIcg4RXRTKHas4LKVZoezcZkYyl5lpA2PkQIzkh5a-jtKwolrzqW8C0ZteON0DP5Ti8VKOWeu11AV3WTbri3kJzcxLVRQZD6Rg-6xtHAY1_bNa5UGZ-1DK7OpLZBNCu9LOoCXfUNL5GIoMIx1nFChNPq4aOWhURhdkZb2kXLoPLKKGOKaKWFzL5W/s600/black-box.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="434" data-original-width="600" height="289" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjouhRPlIcg4RXRTKHas4LKVZoezcZkYyl5lpA2PkQIzkh5a-jtKwolrzqW8C0ZteON0DP5Ti8VKOWeu11AV3WTbri3kJzcxLVRQZD6Rg-6xtHAY1_bNa5UGZ-1DK7OpLZBNCu9LOoCXfUNL5GIoMIx1nFChNPq4aOWhURhdkZb2kXLoPLKKGOKaKWFzL5W/w400-h289/black-box.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div>During all the time I was in the collage gallery, I saw one woman leave the Black Box, and no one enter it. I asked a passing guard, "Is anyone in there?"<p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">"Oh, yes," she said. "It's a ticketed
performance. It runs for ninety minutes. Everyone's sitting on the floor."</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">"Ninety minutes!?" I said. "I'm glad I'm out
here." She smiled.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Philistine that I am, I added, "But I <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">am</i> enjoying it."</p><p></p>Macaronihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02053482785858037690noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-204832347019783654.post-7067802002049267742024-01-22T13:56:00.001-05:002024-01-22T17:00:05.110-05:00Algorithm Blues<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimetm-BwPmhrKf-d-c6lM7On09v1l7tMsccT4E9VjQIw6MxtmCHTjzXJy5wfGLXsUf1H8NHG2LQxTH6Oe8wMw9eQrwq8q72LhvhXun8KWAvEYYktfJbIUk6NFP6ecSkdkW6gkERre7C5b_UQuIrEgrvhkKeBwHwu2fCnY1Rp2WpScVaQNQP3xx8Vmp0O8V/s600/coffee-shop.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="450" data-original-width="600" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimetm-BwPmhrKf-d-c6lM7On09v1l7tMsccT4E9VjQIw6MxtmCHTjzXJy5wfGLXsUf1H8NHG2LQxTH6Oe8wMw9eQrwq8q72LhvhXun8KWAvEYYktfJbIUk6NFP6ecSkdkW6gkERre7C5b_UQuIrEgrvhkKeBwHwu2fCnY1Rp2WpScVaQNQP3xx8Vmp0O8V/w400-h300/coffee-shop.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />Emerging from a week-long fog and many hours of sleep due to
cold weather, a virus, or something I ate, I find a few ideas converging—ideas
that I might have ignored altogether under other conditions.<p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">1) I was scrolling through an <span style="color: red;"><a href="https://www.nytimes.com/2024/01/09/opinion/ezra-klein-podcast-kyle-chayka.html"><span style="color: red;">interview</span></a></span> in the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">NY Times </i>by Ezra Klein in which his interlocutor, an author named Kyle
Chayka, was attempting to press home the point that algorithms are homogenizing
the world. Chayka was complaining that wherever he goes on assignment, be it
Japan or Austria or Rio, the coffee-shops he visits look the same. It finally
dawned on him that " digital platforms, whether Instagram or Yelp or
Google Maps, were feeding this series of cafes to me as a recommendation"
because of his past preferences. He finds the same issue with film reviews,
which used to be personal and idiosyncratic, whereas now, he's much more likely
to rely on the aggregate score posted on Rotten Tomatoes or Metacritic.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Now, anyone who's taken a look at these sites knows that
they give you a score at the top and excepts from a long series of reviews
underneath. If you care to read any review in detail, a link is provided. By
the same token, if you look for a coffee-shop in Paris or Keokuk on Google
Maps, and zoom in a bit, it will show you <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">all</i>
of them in the neighborhood you've specified. A few<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>minutes of investigative work will serve to
isolate the one that looks best to you. It will probably be one similar to the
ones you've liked in the past, but you're free to take your pick.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlJR8tchYqU5tno5GtmCz5l0wVlo_KThY-AqC4AuKh4ZmT8q6gK3QUhJ5YEcdKLu1RRYJUWdKwNzURiR2RHcBRWkIQkPIxbclJBmAIhNCT3xv11PxcM7OoZinLCSqmPUVXGzB8Vxx4AxaeXnFIPBlDldzKRyFkUWniz-Fy61Kj39LXAsXxCBVwlTWcZMdT/s418/spiniza-biook.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="418" data-original-width="265" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlJR8tchYqU5tno5GtmCz5l0wVlo_KThY-AqC4AuKh4ZmT8q6gK3QUhJ5YEcdKLu1RRYJUWdKwNzURiR2RHcBRWkIQkPIxbclJBmAIhNCT3xv11PxcM7OoZinLCSqmPUVXGzB8Vxx4AxaeXnFIPBlDldzKRyFkUWniz-Fy61Kj39LXAsXxCBVwlTWcZMdT/w203-h320/spiniza-biook.jpg" width="203" /></a></div><br />2) During my week in a stupor, I roamed the house wrapped in
blankets, watching highlights of the Australian Open on the computer, playing
backgammon, heating up cans of chicken noodle soup, and staring at bookshelves.
A volume caught my eye—oh happy day—that I thought I'd lost or gotten rid of:
Stuart Hampshire's monograph on Spinoza. I'd never read it, but wanted to see
what Hampshire had to say, if anything, about Spinoza's use of the term
"conatus." Hampshire identifies it as the tendency toward
self-preservation, and places it at the center of Spinoza's elaborate scheme. <p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">As I browsed the relevant sections, I came upon this remark.
"An unenlightened man's own account of his motives and behavior will be
what we now call rationalizations; he will give plausible reasons for feeling
and behaving in certain ways, but these reasons, expressed in terms of
deliberate choices and decisions, will not give the true causes of his
reactions....He will speak as if his desires and aversion were determined by
the properties of external objects." </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">A case in point, Kyle Chayka's argument: the algorithm made
me do it. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Meanwhile, during my brief but friendly perusal of
Hampshire's book, it occurred to me where the central error of Spinoza's system
lies. It isn't enough to say that the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">conatus</i>—the
desire to maintain equilibrium and preserve life—lies at the center of things.
The sociologist George Simmel brings us closer to the truth when he remarks:
"Life is that which seeks to go beyond life." That is to say, family
life, social life, community life. And also the expansion of personal spirit.
Why did Spinoza go to all the trouble of spelling out the details of his
system, for example, except to share the good news? </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">3) At our best, we have all sorts of emotions stirring within
us that can't be accounted for by reference to Spinoza's "inadequate
ideas." At other times, our hearts are mute. One of the benefits of being "under
the weather" is that the mental lethargy makes it easier to stick to a
long book, where we become engaged in the emotions of others. As a result of
such an effect, I now find myself three-quarters of the way through Stendhal's
long and episodic novel <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Charterhouse
of Parma</i>. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDj6WNzp5lHI8yxO0wXSTJNul1z_-VFP9l3_F-4RtFZHUTfJRpvxwt43_YoqhKhY38gqgUzEfB_IK8o3qwQYL3K8v7WSGHTmAw5HuW3yo8b3BES72-9fiARIC4IGvvuBrVxIxcUTviw5cd0EFDWUMLC0y18W5-sFo3VzL_c8GsT8eFTyOzIVcxhLvvceXl/s893/charterhouse-cropped.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="893" data-original-width="600" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDj6WNzp5lHI8yxO0wXSTJNul1z_-VFP9l3_F-4RtFZHUTfJRpvxwt43_YoqhKhY38gqgUzEfB_IK8o3qwQYL3K8v7WSGHTmAw5HuW3yo8b3BES72-9fiARIC4IGvvuBrVxIxcUTviw5cd0EFDWUMLC0y18W5-sFo3VzL_c8GsT8eFTyOzIVcxhLvvceXl/s320/charterhouse-cropped.jpg" width="215" /></a></div><br />There are plenty of emotions in this rambling and energetic
work, which Stendhal is reputed to have written in a few months, though the
central character, a young nobleman named Fabrizio del Dongo, might fairly be
described as a moral idiot. The younger son of a conservative Count, Fabrizio
is inspired by Napoleon's campaigns and races off, at the age of seventeen, to
fight for the cause of liberty. He arrives at Waterloo just in time to
participate in the famous battle, but knows nothing of guns or warfare and is
attached to no military unit. He's befriended by some camp-followers hauling a
food truck, briefly becomes an aide to General Ney, and meets up with numerous
other adventures before making his way back to the castle in Italy where his
family lives. He's in trouble now, having fought in Napoleon's army, and the
Austrians are convinced he's a spy. His enchanting aunt takes Fabrizio under
her wing, and for the rest of the novel their lives are intertwined in one way
or another.<p></p><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Fabrizio isn't quite sure whether he actually fought in a
battle, and he spends most of the book convinced that he has never experienced
"love," though he kills a man in a street fight over an
actress—another black mark against him in the eyes of the authorities. In many
ways the book resembles <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Count of
Monte Cristo</i> or <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Three Musketeers</i>,
though the breezes of liberal political sentiment freshen the air and
complicate the plot. Yes, Fabrizio (like Spinoza?) tends to over-analyze his
emotions. Many of his actions seem to be inspired by the thought that "This is the kind of thing someone like me ought to do." He can stir himself to anger and burst into tears a few minutes later. It's all rather operatic ... in the best possible way. I guess that's what makes him a "modern" hero rather than a mere swashbuckler. </p><p class="MsoNormal">But it's not the kind of novel you have to think about much. You just
keep turning the pages.</p>Macaronihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02053482785858037690noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-204832347019783654.post-50150819452617146912024-01-12T11:38:00.001-05:002024-01-12T14:47:09.619-05:00Viking Romance<p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizuJhyw5JJkhtqoPjk4xnyp6q_B0UU0ZbykPtfKBJAGpwlXcKiFtSbCcap-YCkvrp1jAcYdxJlphYXjGm08T4Oo8TtqllJNBVu1jhYVw_b7wSp7HEBGECBBOyYunbA7dhpuks4eDRBFqMsZlsWsFzmok0tg_sgeRRdUW_g4lh5YoKqOXwaoeysM7en5qPB/s600/fireplace-window.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="450" data-original-width="600" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizuJhyw5JJkhtqoPjk4xnyp6q_B0UU0ZbykPtfKBJAGpwlXcKiFtSbCcap-YCkvrp1jAcYdxJlphYXjGm08T4Oo8TtqllJNBVu1jhYVw_b7wSp7HEBGECBBOyYunbA7dhpuks4eDRBFqMsZlsWsFzmok0tg_sgeRRdUW_g4lh5YoKqOXwaoeysM7en5qPB/w400-h300/fireplace-window.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />Wednesday morning, calm and dark.<p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">But the dark divides itself into two dark masses: sea and
sky, hardly distinguishable from one another. The wind is rising, I see that
now, coming in from the east rather than the south.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I finished a Viking romance, "Bosi and Herrard,"
translated from Icelandic, last night. Robust but simple language, lots of
teeth flying and blood gushing in the combat scenes, described with admirable
succinctness and <i>sang froid</i>. There
were also a few humorous midnight encounters between warriors and the daughters
of the local inn-keepers. Characters came and went with bewildering frequency,
and the names aren't that easy to remember anyway. I found it useful to make a
chart to keep things straight.</p>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAO5Yrz9wvoqNbR8NPKS41Gzb-o_UdH6D0ipNZr1jZtCMmVvzsAb584FUKSbPD4HggluT3v50dOXwW5Qw1yTzpeZ5xGpJi5NxcfhfR0z6bY4kPX51sZKkBVyb0G31qocppj9MBO9UU3vT7Uxp6r9KjZrPTWsHXKw6A0a6Y3JR3lyIMIW4aKeqzlQZjd8dg/s600/Viking-chart.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="421" data-original-width="600" height="281" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAO5Yrz9wvoqNbR8NPKS41Gzb-o_UdH6D0ipNZr1jZtCMmVvzsAb584FUKSbPD4HggluT3v50dOXwW5Qw1yTzpeZ5xGpJi5NxcfhfR0z6bY4kPX51sZKkBVyb0G31qocppj9MBO9UU3vT7Uxp6r9KjZrPTWsHXKw6A0a6Y3JR3lyIMIW4aKeqzlQZjd8dg/w400-h281/Viking-chart.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal">Our morning escapades included walking down to the office to pay the bill. That gave
us the opportunity to chat with Jamie, one of the owners, about how the
resort's doing, and also about the game a few nights earlier between the
Timberwolves and the Lakers, which she attended with her kids. I mentioned that
the yard light was less obtrusive than in years past.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">"Yeah, my parents put that bright light in," she said.
"When we remodeled the house we replaced it." </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoP0mvfI6hIFgdWfHITbB8KwCaqTrrrA-LQSZXHjJ51SGLAWfFkvZNVneh-UtNht7EdULwod831kss2maElXrodVrvgTV6F6S6vG8Ctxci9YUPbJaDUQrHpNa61ZnjALqBeJrH87cHRWZPbeIbivWBLKoROtRSelfc1LIA2uhV3PMRwhw3mB3rUFyHNW7V/s600/beaver-river.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="450" data-original-width="600" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoP0mvfI6hIFgdWfHITbB8KwCaqTrrrA-LQSZXHjJ51SGLAWfFkvZNVneh-UtNht7EdULwod831kss2maElXrodVrvgTV6F6S6vG8Ctxci9YUPbJaDUQrHpNa61ZnjALqBeJrH87cHRWZPbeIbivWBLKoROtRSelfc1LIA2uhV3PMRwhw3mB3rUFyHNW7V/w400-h300/beaver-river.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal">We hiked along the shore at Split Rock State Park and also
took a short hike along the Beaver River on a ski trail a few miles inland from
Silver Bay. At Zup's Supermarket in town we picked up a can of chili and a jar
of Aunt Nellie's pickled beets to go with the chicken liver pate we'd brought
along. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNI0AGHQ_zkOp-yb66Q0M9tWsZgycWF-tspSrIKnfQ8F1WgDIEQT_xo-SZ8eRrR0jyIppg8EK_wtLSuqN3jTxNZazKoS6PFtoEeh0uCOtn6WHh6bdHiFrIjcuDRt2hTa0e70IrpFGeO52TK4-STqzliG-H5M6odMYWEYDC2MzMCrwSmQdAGiF4NaBu1nAn/s600/glamping-tent.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="450" data-original-width="600" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNI0AGHQ_zkOp-yb66Q0M9tWsZgycWF-tspSrIKnfQ8F1WgDIEQT_xo-SZ8eRrR0jyIppg8EK_wtLSuqN3jTxNZazKoS6PFtoEeh0uCOtn6WHh6bdHiFrIjcuDRt2hTa0e70IrpFGeO52TK4-STqzliG-H5M6odMYWEYDC2MzMCrwSmQdAGiF4NaBu1nAn/w400-h300/glamping-tent.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal">We checked out the glamping tents set up in the woods across the highway
from Cove Point Lodge, though at $250/night we'll never stay there. And we also
took a walk along the rocks east of the docks at Two Harbors.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: .5in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in; margin: 0in 0in 0in 0.5in;"><i>Sunset,
though we can't see it.<o:p></o:p></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: .5in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in; margin: 0in 0in 0in 0.5in;"><i>Twelve
gulls circle high overhead.<o:p></o:p></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: .5in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in; margin: 0in 0in 0in 0.5in;"><i>Rising as they drift out to sea,<o:p></o:p></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: .5in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in; margin: 0in 0in 0in 0.5in;"><i>Blue wings turn gold.<o:p></o:p></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: .5in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in; margin: 0in 0in 0in 0.5in;"><i> </i></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;"><i>* * *<o:p></o:p></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">I'm caught between books. Will it be Clive James or Per
Petterson? And how about Paul Valery's collection <i>The Outlook for Intelligence</i>? Here's a line from an essay called
"Unpredictability" in which Valery steps back from using the word
"transcendental":</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: .5in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in; margin: 0in 0in 0in 0.5in;"><i>I
dislike using certain terms whose overtones startle the mind—either hypnotizing
it or putting it on guard, which are opposite effects that should both be
avoided.<o:p></o:p></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">A little further on, reflecting on the intellectual climate
in 1944, he writes:</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: .5in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in; margin: 0in 0in 0in 0.5in;"><i>Our
means of investigation have far out-stripped our means of representation and
understanding. <o:p></o:p></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: .5in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in; margin: 0in 0in 0in 0.5in;"><i> </i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">At another point Valery considers the question of whether </p><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px;"><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><i>"the world is becoming 'stupid,' whether there is a distaste for culture,
whether the 'liberal professions' are suffering, perhaps dying—their strength
declining, their ranks thinning, their prestige gradually diminishing, their
existence more and more thankless, precarious, and near its end."</i> </p></blockquote><p class="MsoNormal">Sound
familiar? That was in 1925.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Back outside to see the stars. Brilliant. We spotted the Beehive
Cluster, faint as it is, with binoculars, and at midnight, coming out into the living room
on my way to the bathroom, I saw a bright and perfect Leo blazing in the sky
above the lake.</p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">* * *</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjClEPiLNSvbXMaE1_WOqQxIwz_5wXunGAcuBXlcprbJVeuRSdbUGARGFU0krNy1ni6UDONW3YMn1Tt7za9YYIYmb66bj0qEuz4IVIskNAkvK-RE89NbxCk4dj9rCJnNnDVAgAYKHgaJhuE58KdmOqq4I_IaZ7Ci69P_8GkyJgdI5x0i5qmRaalFfjb08vU/s500/viking%20cover.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="500" data-original-width="325" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjClEPiLNSvbXMaE1_WOqQxIwz_5wXunGAcuBXlcprbJVeuRSdbUGARGFU0krNy1ni6UDONW3YMn1Tt7za9YYIYmb66bj0qEuz4IVIskNAkvK-RE89NbxCk4dj9rCJnNnDVAgAYKHgaJhuE58KdmOqq4I_IaZ7Ci69P_8GkyJgdI5x0i5qmRaalFfjb08vU/w130-h200/viking%20cover.jpg" width="130" /></a></div>It was a nice morning walk up the Gooseberry River following
our old ski route. The downhill runs look different when you're not worried about crashing off into the trees. Then a fine cold lunch back here at the cabin; then a nap. All is
gray outside. Our final afternoon of reading, with "You Must Believe in Spring," a CD of Frank Morgan ballads, playing on the miniature DVD/TV
set that's tucked into the wall above the fireplace.<p></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">* * *</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I did end up reading a second Viking romance,
"Halfdan Eysteinsson." This time I didn't make the slightest effort to keep
track of relationships between the characters, which included Eystein, Halfdad,
Ulfkel, Ulfar, Kol, Ingigerd, Skuli, and two strangers who travel together,
both named Grim. I enjoyed it all the same.</p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">* * *</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Two crows are wandering out on the rock shelf below the
window, pecking desultorily at something, then pausing to discuss where to fly off to
next. A model of bourgeois domesticity.</p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">* * *</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"></p>There are many things to admire about <i>Cultural Amnesia</i>, Clive James' collection of mini-biographies of
famous people, not least the choice of entries. It's fun to see Dick Cavett
next to Albert Camus and Sartre next to Satie. And how can we resist the
juxtaposition of Ramond Aron and Louis Armstrong? Doing a quick count I
determined that I'd never heard of roughly a third of the individuals profiled.
And I'm pretty sure a few of the choices were guided less by good judgment that
by personal quirks of taste: Terry Gilliam? Tony Curtis?<p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4zLrJc32RmAJg3XsKpNj_UD3aJ5RtMThAF6xONiMO6Brk_OIuevl2F1Dbc69934eeXW0S3RPQPYL_1tnyXkPxqNrDBX-sPYprHnUIQvENigSQxI3uN3vamXO417h7AxO4_7SDhnamXRXP_KV-CYh02szr3W4Cry6zoWHlIM2Ql86TyNf_pIgm1MSUEfn7/s400/Cultural-Amnesia-James-Clive.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="400" data-original-width="263" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4zLrJc32RmAJg3XsKpNj_UD3aJ5RtMThAF6xONiMO6Brk_OIuevl2F1Dbc69934eeXW0S3RPQPYL_1tnyXkPxqNrDBX-sPYprHnUIQvENigSQxI3uN3vamXO417h7AxO4_7SDhnamXRXP_KV-CYh02szr3W4Cry6zoWHlIM2Ql86TyNf_pIgm1MSUEfn7/w131-h200/Cultural-Amnesia-James-Clive.jpg" width="131" /></a></div>Now that I've read a few of the essays—William Hazlett,
Norman Mailer, Georg Christoph Lichenberg—I can see that James has a few pet
interests, the most prominent being the well-turned phrase. I suspect he has a
notebook filled with the solecisms and mixed metaphors of famous authors. The
entry on Lichtenberg, at thirty pages, might be the longest in the book, but
James tells us almost nothing about this obscure eighteenth-century aphorist
beyond the fact that he chose his words carefully. James devotes most of the essay
to highlighting the gaffs of other writers. <p></p><p class="MsoNormal">I'd never heard of Lichtenberg, and would like
to have found out more about him. James at least had the good sense to direct
us to J.P. Stern's <i>Lichtenberg: a
Doctrine of Scattered Occasions</i>, which I suppose I'll try to find when I
get home. Then again, when was the last time I pulled my copy of <i>Products of the Perfected Civilization</i>,
a collection of aphorisms by Lichtenberg's misanthropic contemporary Chamfort,
off the shelf? Oh, no! James has got an essay about Chamfort, too! Do I care?</p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">* * *</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDxK5y4gQVM0kr_-rJfG1gOjYT_4t-g-cAj0IkygTFk9Nx-Ra-TA4qYOpTZ3nzDbuW60759T0Pz_wpUqXy5Dkz0VeyWgRKhW2c_NAu4xxkybc2r52v-bae2vVN1viMrqQI3H0yat2ZsXL6XV3gsfAcETLhGX1NwLz640U1Qoj8rLVGEHISukCaITwzhweK/s600/woodsy-walk.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="450" data-original-width="600" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDxK5y4gQVM0kr_-rJfG1gOjYT_4t-g-cAj0IkygTFk9Nx-Ra-TA4qYOpTZ3nzDbuW60759T0Pz_wpUqXy5Dkz0VeyWgRKhW2c_NAu4xxkybc2r52v-bae2vVN1viMrqQI3H0yat2ZsXL6XV3gsfAcETLhGX1NwLz640U1Qoj8rLVGEHISukCaITwzhweK/w400-h300/woodsy-walk.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />Our final outing was a walk through the fields and woods
away from the lake east of the resort. Lots of alder shrubs and healthy-looking
white spruce. We flushed two grouse.<p></p><p class="MsoNormal">Now we're listening to some Handel sonatas for violin and
harpsichord. Night is closing in. The gas fireplace gives off a lot of heat,
but it can hardly be said to be blazing. It looks like a collection of glorified cigarette lighters nestled under a pile of artificial rocks. But it
does the trick. We love it.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: .5in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in; margin: 0in 0in 0in 0.5in;"><i>Curried
chicken from a plastic sleeve <o:p></o:p></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: .5in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in; margin: 0in 0in 0in 0.5in;"><i>on
couscous left over from the now-distant holidays.<o:p></o:p></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: .5in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in; margin: 0in 0in 0in 0.5in;"><i>A
Cote du Rhone from a vineyard I've never heard of.<o:p></o:p></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: .5in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in; margin: 0in 0in 0in 0.5in;"><i>The
fate of ideas. Zen poems.<o:p></o:p></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: .5in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in; margin: 0in 0in 0in 0.5in;"><br /></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">On our last evening I take yet another book from the stack: Chet Raymo's <i>An Intimate Look at the Night Sky</i>. We won't be seeing any stars tonight, but it's nevertheless worthwhile to read about what we've been seeing. Raymo discusses the experiments of the ancient Greeks, including Anastarcus, and mentions Giordano Bruno--among the early champions of infinite worlds--and others on his way to the Hubble Telescope, by means of which we can be assured that the universe contains at least a hundred-billion galaxies. That's a very large number.</p><p class="MsoNormal">And now we've got an even bigger, better telescope! That means, even larger numbers.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">But then someone in class pipes up: "It makes me
feel so insignificant!" That has always struck me as a dumb remark (pardon
the expression), though the intent, I'm sure, is to express the inexpressible--the problem Valery highlighted half a century ago. Of course, in many ways we <i>are </i>insignificant, all of us, except to our
loved ones, our friends, and the people who rely on us from day to day to deliver their morning
paper, repair their car, diagnose their ailments, edit their books, or whatever it is we do to make a little "bread" and contribute to the community.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Yet the stars are <i>ours</i>. Whose else could they be? We see
them, know them, love them. Their brilliance is a sign of our own perspicacity,
insight, and blinding affection, shooting out in all directions. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1qbFa6mUlwov4_ObgZp2nuOPHW00ya9X1V8TDna_mkXV7cs1CGwv0vVHsrD1PYOePjwm3ujowU5q7lAeSAleOlKDVkPOTm71L3tXKmEJw4c55wCR8__suAk-zuMtvz9KRy3ThDBdRS2czbK7g23wfcsU5nkoMNvB922wMt4OSdB-Uh23XgQ3oMJYL7LeV/s600/space.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="338" data-original-width="600" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1qbFa6mUlwov4_ObgZp2nuOPHW00ya9X1V8TDna_mkXV7cs1CGwv0vVHsrD1PYOePjwm3ujowU5q7lAeSAleOlKDVkPOTm71L3tXKmEJw4c55wCR8__suAk-zuMtvz9KRy3ThDBdRS2czbK7g23wfcsU5nkoMNvB922wMt4OSdB-Uh23XgQ3oMJYL7LeV/w400-h225/space.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal"> </p><p></p>Macaronihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02053482785858037690noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-204832347019783654.post-11679861300446941012024-01-09T18:33:00.004-05:002024-01-10T10:46:13.707-05:00The Narrow Road to the Deep North Shore<p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjk5dwQI2pTLFXgfzKSZFkq7tI6upQp6wrX4eezvLJC6i-JtMfzJH9o9mScRb0ve_Wzck2A5cP8lUiUaX8gyeEqKi9DGpsQNxNTv6M4-_-w1r-dyy-LYxXneDZs3jZZZ1HLyhBtzt2vKFIgTU2fjqguC7tDG5InzaSz3VDLY0exOj1SpV99cqgRHiopY4li/s600/IMG_0064.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="450" data-original-width="600" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjk5dwQI2pTLFXgfzKSZFkq7tI6upQp6wrX4eezvLJC6i-JtMfzJH9o9mScRb0ve_Wzck2A5cP8lUiUaX8gyeEqKi9DGpsQNxNTv6M4-_-w1r-dyy-LYxXneDZs3jZZZ1HLyhBtzt2vKFIgTU2fjqguC7tDG5InzaSz3VDLY0exOj1SpV99cqgRHiopY4li/w400-h300/IMG_0064.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />New Year's Eve. Castle Haven Resort. Waves crashing in the
dark.<p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Our now-standard side-trip to the Sax-Zix Bog on the way up was
fruitful. No exotic owls, but the rough-legged hawks seemed to be everywhere,
both dark and light phases. Several Canada jays. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4fVvYJSn8e1nLDLocxFVHmlC1RbBX6dmTmSVYVzH7J1NvNUFZWVw7DxTIXvSCoBk0i2EGZk_LERMuWK5JfpVGV9XubtTWyadBOR03XRKnfivbtPj1j3GEpa-I68dHAUCMxeHiSdf5S13jju6W6ruoLquCcbSpAjqTCL5qfeDg0S04-b_X3DuXZqRgxaK4/s600/IMG_0050a.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="426" data-original-width="600" height="284" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4fVvYJSn8e1nLDLocxFVHmlC1RbBX6dmTmSVYVzH7J1NvNUFZWVw7DxTIXvSCoBk0i2EGZk_LERMuWK5JfpVGV9XubtTWyadBOR03XRKnfivbtPj1j3GEpa-I68dHAUCMxeHiSdf5S13jju6W6ruoLquCcbSpAjqTCL5qfeDg0S04-b_X3DuXZqRgxaK4/w400-h284/IMG_0050a.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal">A highlight was an extended
view of a martin feverishly eating something wonderful—probably some peanut
butter put there by a bog volunteer—out of the hollow bore of an upended log
near a feeding station on Admiral Road.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">* * *</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Monday morning, approaching seven. Still pitch dark. Surf is
down. We're sitting by the fire. Still in the bird-watching mood, I just looked
up the differing traits of the black-backed and the three-toed woodpeckers.
Much more white behind the eye on the three-toed variety. Also some pale white
stripes running from side to side down the back. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">* * *</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbjWcFVxZHuNty7aRja5So61MDKnVVAVnw0oHM-qkMfat0BW8Q145hnipZizEnyyRw1q9YPphh1w8Pt6GIJ3dn1Xaw6mkaBKL-YMEeHtu2xTla2TZ3dEscNIah7X-Apk7WOApMw4kI7pbeA0Sxmfvuz7E9Rl8uidUj0kktzjBQxCjpoRu89AHXX-X5bqDG/s600/IMG_0067.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="450" data-original-width="600" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbjWcFVxZHuNty7aRja5So61MDKnVVAVnw0oHM-qkMfat0BW8Q145hnipZizEnyyRw1q9YPphh1w8Pt6GIJ3dn1Xaw6mkaBKL-YMEeHtu2xTla2TZ3dEscNIah7X-Apk7WOApMw4kI7pbeA0Sxmfvuz7E9Rl8uidUj0kktzjBQxCjpoRu89AHXX-X5bqDG/w400-h300/IMG_0067.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p>Back from Gooseberry Park, where we walked along the waterfront
picnic area, hoping to see a few snow buntings. One large flock of tiny
birds—probably siskins—swooped above our heads <i>en masse</i> into the top of an open jack pine and disappeared
altogether. A few minutes later we spotted a few tree sparrows in an alder
thicket. That's a common winter bird, easy to identify. A few days later,
consulting eBird, I discovered that it's considered rare at this location and
time of year.<p></p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGInmYSh1abqgsRPOITuFvxdSIRT_ESICkY86Yiy_Y969jN9l5o-0YE5uGGod1Ls6NlRZAKDDw2fgfphxmN87NaaKjqCcRnA6EUlARyDj8TjhaP2WYn0j5eQkQ4dHXElYr38cR1U6YdgirX5SXyxiG1U81vimCvZ9yrKF1kqMk6b6abc9LFvHLk4VXJEQL/s889/front-cover.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="889" data-original-width="600" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGInmYSh1abqgsRPOITuFvxdSIRT_ESICkY86Yiy_Y969jN9l5o-0YE5uGGod1Ls6NlRZAKDDw2fgfphxmN87NaaKjqCcRnA6EUlARyDj8TjhaP2WYn0j5eQkQ4dHXElYr38cR1U6YdgirX5SXyxiG1U81vimCvZ9yrKF1kqMk6b6abc9LFvHLk4VXJEQL/w135-h200/front-cover.jpg" width="135" /></a></div>From the visitors' center we hiked up the west side of the
falls through dark pines (featured on the cover of Louis Jenkins' <i>Collected Poems</i>) up the river to Fifth
Falls through a thin layer of snow, hardly enough to cover the leaves and
twigs. Saw no one. Returned downstream closer to the river. The sun had come
out, and the blue sky reflected on the surface of the icy water gave it the
look of a vigorous spring freshet.<p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">* * *</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Now there's bright sun blazing into the cabin. I'm sitting
on the futon/couch, but I. might have to move as the sun creeps west.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: .5in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in; margin: 0in 0in 0in 0.5in;"><i>I
read hurriedly<o:p></o:p></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: .5in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in; margin: 0in 0in 0in 0.5in;"><i>to
finish the book before<o:p></o:p></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: .5in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in; margin: 0in 0in 0in 0.5in;"><i>the
sunlight reaches my face.<o:p></o:p></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: .5in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in; margin: 0in 0in 0in 0.5in;"><i> </i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Yes, I'm reading the learned introduction to Basho's <i>Narrow Road to the Deep North,</i> but the
passages the author refers to as "clever interpretation" and
"ingenious transfer" seem ho-hum to me. As do nearly all haiku. The syllable count isn't interesting, except as a creative challenge. The simplicity of the result is. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: .5in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in; margin: 0in 0in 0in 0.5in;"><i> Awakened
from my nap,<o:p></o:p></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: .5in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in; margin: 0in 0in 0in 0.5in;"><i>I
see the white-caps have grow.<o:p></o:p></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: .5in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in; margin: 0in 0in 0in 0.5in;"><i>Time
to relight the fire.<o:p></o:p></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Coming upon a child abandoned by its parents on the beach,
Basho gives it what food he can spare. Attributing its sorry situation to
"the irresistible will of heaven," he passes on, leaving the child to
its fate. He refers to a massive pine as a "cold senseless object,"
but a few lines later describes it as "eternal as law." This
"law" is probably something similar to the Greek notion of
"logos."</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">* * *</p>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjf0EQyiqgVKl6qyFPbxVgEMZffBMjeHlFi2uusY-0dMc8DBO-tFOnFHjubR40_etO3stZp0RJZtdKi-cOXrc728t3TA8jGynFFDN7gBs6JO2U3XoqvCk3ICrACQpeEEeBciBdjO9izV8QfpfkejcWFYhPe3d1GhemnQp84uuek5dvXceNEr6p4n0RRxHSA/s600/IMG_0073.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="450" data-original-width="600" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjf0EQyiqgVKl6qyFPbxVgEMZffBMjeHlFi2uusY-0dMc8DBO-tFOnFHjubR40_etO3stZp0RJZtdKi-cOXrc728t3TA8jGynFFDN7gBs6JO2U3XoqvCk3ICrACQpeEEeBciBdjO9izV8QfpfkejcWFYhPe3d1GhemnQp84uuek5dvXceNEr6p4n0RRxHSA/w400-h300/IMG_0073.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal">An afternoon foray to the Superior Hiking Trail a few miles
inland from the Rustic Inn. A rocky, icy climb through brilliant sun and snow
to the top for a spectacular look out to sea across the valley of the
Encampment River. But during the second leg, across flat scrubby country to
Crow Creek, Hilary's eye started to act weird and we turned back. It's happened
a few times before, always while hiking in winter. Now we're sitting in front
of the fire again, eating spicy pretzels and looking out at the whitecaps
stretching as far as the eye can see. The sun is low and everything here on
land is in shadow.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">* * *</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Basho compares himself at one point to a bat who waivers
ceaselessly between being a bird and a mouse. A few pages later he writes:</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: .5in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in; margin: 0in 0in 0in 0.5in;"><i>Unwilling
to part with the passing year, I drank till late on the last day of December.
When I awoke after a long sleep, the first day of the new year was more than
half gone.<o:p></o:p></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: .5in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in; margin: 0in 0in 0in 0.5in;"><i> </i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Hilary and I shared a bottle of white wine and got up at
5:30 this morning.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: .5in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in; margin: 0in 0in 0in 0.5in;"><i>Having
showered and changed<o:p></o:p></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: .5in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in; margin: 0in 0in 0in 0.5in;"><i>I
pour myself a glass of white wine.<o:p></o:p></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: .5in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in; margin: 0in 0in 0in 0.5in;"><i>This
plastic juice glass better suits the winter day<o:p></o:p></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: .5in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in; margin: 0in 0in 0in 0.5in;"><i>than
cut crystal. <o:p></o:p></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: .5in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in; margin: 0in 0in 0in 0.5in;"><i> </i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">There are few things here to distract me from Basho's
simple-minded but somehow charming travelogues. At one point he writes:</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: .5in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in; margin: 0in 0in 0in 0.5in;"><i>My
only mundane concerns were whether I would be able to find a suitable place to
sleep at night and whether the straw sandals were the right size for my feet.
Every turn of the road brought me new thoughts and every sunrise gave me fresh
emotions. My joy was great when I encountered anyone with the slightest
understanding of artistic elegance. Even those whom I had long hated for being
antiquated and stubborn sometimes proved to be pleasant companions on my
wandering journey. Indeed, one of the greatest pleasures of traveling was to
find a genius hidden among weeds and bushes, a treasure lost in broken tiles, a
mass of gold, buried in clay.<o:p></o:p></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: .5in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in; margin: 0in 0in 0in 0.5in;">
</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 1.0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in; margin: 0in 0in 0in 1in;"><i>To
talk casually<o:p></o:p></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 1.0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in; margin: 0in 0in 0in 1in;"><i>About
an iris flower<o:p></o:p></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 1.0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in; margin: 0in 0in 0in 1in;"><i>is
one of the pleasures <o:p></o:p></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 1.0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in; margin: 0in 0in 0in 1in;"><i>of
the wandering journey.<o:p></o:p></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 1.0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in; margin: 0in 0in 0in 1in;"><i><br /></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 1.0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in; margin: 0in 0in 0in 1in;"><i><br /></i></p>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgf_zkCAEyV5-Gf7V5wR_VaF44QgaHixJIL37rm-4Q2QH1du4XDaDyrBxSjhxvvIfIS12VvrtdxDrA7gGOmqhBKX_cKNRrbyAKlsqMlkM5wCoUeAxsUNoQjbN1cNFq0k4ke-fpI_sKDJjBXw20sQnqR-dk6uklV8KYB3XEZVOLyZbRJ3GbEWR1jDbOkgXpl/s450/basho%20cover.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="450" data-original-width="292" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgf_zkCAEyV5-Gf7V5wR_VaF44QgaHixJIL37rm-4Q2QH1du4XDaDyrBxSjhxvvIfIS12VvrtdxDrA7gGOmqhBKX_cKNRrbyAKlsqMlkM5wCoUeAxsUNoQjbN1cNFq0k4ke-fpI_sKDJjBXw20sQnqR-dk6uklV8KYB3XEZVOLyZbRJ3GbEWR1jDbOkgXpl/w130-h200/basho%20cover.jpg" width="130" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal">This is one of Basho's better poetic efforts. His prose is
often equally poetic.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: .5in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in; margin: 0in 0in 0in 0.5in;"><i>It
was the middle of April when I wandered out to the beach of Suma. The sky was
slightly overcast, and the moon on a short night of early summer had special
beauty. The mountains were dark with foliage. When I thought it was about time
to hear the first voice of the cuckoo, the light of the sun touched the eastern
horizon, and as it increased I began to see on the hills of Ueno ripe ears of
wheat tinged with reddish brown and fisherman's huts scattered here and there
among the flowers of white poppy.<o:p></o:p></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: .5in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in; margin: 0in 0in 0in 0.5in;"><i> </i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">* * * </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">We inched forward along the deck, feeling with our feet for
the first step. It was dark, also cold; no moon, the stars were very bright.
The square of Pegasus, Orion, Auriga, the Pleiades, against the rich blackness
of night. Hilary saw a dramatic shooting star. I missed it.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The yard light a hundred yards down the way was out. Good.
We located Andromeda without much difficulty, a lovely smudge in the darkness.
Jupiter was blazing. I was hoping for a second meteor, but no such luck. The
biting wind eventually drove us back inside.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">You don't see such a brilliant night sky in the Cities.
Nowhere near it. It touches something deep and mysterious—a welcome gift.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">* * *</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Tuesday afternoon, we're back from an extended excursion up
the shore. The sky is a mottled gray, and the big lake is covered with gentle,
almost imperceptible swells burnished with tiny ripples. The crests that
finally appear a few feet from shore make only a half-hearted murmur when they
break. The distant shore is clearly visible, including a few of the Apostle
Islands.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">As we drove up the shore earlier this morning the clouds
were scanty, and our hike out to the end of Shovel Point was full of sunshine
and clear green-blue water, not to mention the glistening rocks and moss and
the bristling evergreen shrubbery. A heavenly walk. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAcd43xoQHAjRkaJuwZ73vjaWo9GnFaXFj06cV9lFWPjFitc0ep8saIWzlVcKn_9Ray9WT2rR8LAPJX1MqnBrk8nNHA8yod_BZbF6tsPj2GUAjyieCZ5Xok_tFdzjXEQnES6kpHCKgeNSsKQv9i4O0mhzHAHM6aLJMAloD36WqcBOoSv_sDt9uLu-qSDF_/s600/shovel-point.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="450" data-original-width="600" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAcd43xoQHAjRkaJuwZ73vjaWo9GnFaXFj06cV9lFWPjFitc0ep8saIWzlVcKn_9Ray9WT2rR8LAPJX1MqnBrk8nNHA8yod_BZbF6tsPj2GUAjyieCZ5Xok_tFdzjXEQnES6kpHCKgeNSsKQv9i4O0mhzHAHM6aLJMAloD36WqcBOoSv_sDt9uLu-qSDF_/w400-h300/shovel-point.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal">By the time we returned to the car the clouds had moved in
again. Having come this far up the shore, we decided to continue east to Grand
Marais. The big question became: Where to go for lunch? We considered several
alternatives but finally chose the Cascade Lodge because it was closest, we'd
never eaten there before, and the menu Hilary called up on her phone listed a
"bliss" beet salad with arugula, feta, sautéed garbanzos, and
mandarin orange slices.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The place had a woodsy feel, but it was somewhat classier
than one would expect to judge from the weather-beaten exterior. I went with
the salad. Excellent. Hilary ordered an Irish beef stew cooked with Guinness
that was thick, warm, and tasty. There was only one other couple in the place,
and when I asked about the vaguely Irish flavor of the place, our server explained that the previous owners had been Scottish, and the current new
owners even more so. I told her a bit about my Scottish roots and she shared the
results of her recent DNA test. "My people are from Ohio originally. Like
did you read <i>Hillbilly Elegy</i>? That's
my region. Some of my ancestors left, some stayed. Different choices, different
outcomes. I was actually born in Alaska."</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">As we were leaving I said, "I've driven by this place
for fifty years, and this is the first time I've stopped in."</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">"Lots of people say that," she said. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">* * *</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Grand Marais was cold and quiet. I felt a little sorry for
the flock of golden-eye we saw bobbing in the harbor. The Ben Franklin was
closed. The donut shop was closed. But Drury Lane Books had a sandwich board set up
on the sidewalk proudly proclaiming that it was open from 9 to 5 seven days a week. Warm
and cheery inside. Plenty of best-sellers and local titles on display. A few are tempting. Then again, I've got a stack of books waiting for me back at the cabin. </p><p class="MsoNormal">Now for the long drive
back.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">* * *</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Basho<i>: The pines are
of the freshest green, and their branches are carved in exquisite lines, bent
by the wind constantly blowing through them. Indeed, the beauty of the entire
scene can only be compared to the most divinely endowed of feminine countenances,
for who else could have created such beauty but the great god nature himself?<o:p></o:p></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">A few pages later I come upon one of his less appealing
haiku:</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 1.0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in; margin: 0in 0in 0in 1in;"><i>Bitten
by fleas and lice,<o:p></o:p></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 1.0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in; margin: 0in 0in 0in 1in;"><i>I
slept in a bed,<o:p></o:p></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 1.0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in; margin: 0in 0in 0in 1in;"><i>a
horse urinating all the time<o:p></o:p></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 1.0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in; margin: 0in 0in 0in 1in;"><i>close
to my pillow.<o:p></o:p></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 1.0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in; margin: 0in 0in 0in 1in;"><i> </i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">For dinner we finished off Hilary's Irish stew, preserved
for us at the restaurant in a light brown cardboard container like the ones
used to transport live worms to be used for bait. Once we'd finished that we
moved on to some broiled chicken with prunes and olives left over from a
birthday party we hosted recently with friends. Not bad!</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">* * *</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I've finally finished <i>The Narrow Road to the Deep North</i>, and
remain unconvinced of Basho's gifts as a poet. But I thoroughly enjoyed his home-spun
descriptions of sights along the way and encounters with other travelers. Isn't that the challenge facing the chronicler? How to express the ecstasy of seeing a
patch of moss on a rock lit up by glancing sunlight, or the good feeling that
develops briefly among passing strangers?</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCNKPq31QsUxq7-83pzz2uI7vSwMsi5l1wQiohiiIuFHcN36-Si4YPrhxmVthKq4mG4IMLqkSMT-Kn8oS9_zzQtw394Q1UKQPPpzJWxkqi4LSDSlCyhhmLZtf6qtEUWxMQEkQz_RbkgvmysUGYWNpaPemd57kjAzHsQfodTcHV_b6PH3a21qjUMYzo0aE2/s600/rocks-point.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="450" data-original-width="600" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCNKPq31QsUxq7-83pzz2uI7vSwMsi5l1wQiohiiIuFHcN36-Si4YPrhxmVthKq4mG4IMLqkSMT-Kn8oS9_zzQtw394Q1UKQPPpzJWxkqi4LSDSlCyhhmLZtf6qtEUWxMQEkQz_RbkgvmysUGYWNpaPemd57kjAzHsQfodTcHV_b6PH3a21qjUMYzo0aE2/w400-h300/rocks-point.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal">At one point in the introduction the translator, Nobuyuki
Yuasa, quotes Basho as follows:</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: .5in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in; margin: 0in 0in 0in 0.5in;"><i>Your
poetry issues of its own accord when you and the object have become one—when
you have plunged deep enough into the object to see something like a hidden
glimmering there.<o:p></o:p></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: .5in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in; margin: 0in 0in 0in 0.5in;"><i> </i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Well, maybe.
But it seems to me that poetry is never about objects. Always about events.
Turning to the <i>Everyman Library of Zen Poems</i>, I come upon this gem by Basho:</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 1.0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in; margin: 0in 0in 0in 1in;"><i>The
beginning of art—<o:p></o:p></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 1.0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in; margin: 0in 0in 0in 1in;"><i>the
depth of the country<o:p></o:p></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 1.0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in; margin: 0in 0in 0in 1in;"><i>and
a rice-planting song.<o:p></o:p></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 1.0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in; margin: 0in 0in 0in 1in;"><i> </i></p>
<p>I step outside into the cold. A hazy darkness. Not a hint of
a star. Only a brief yellow flash or two my eye provides for itself. </p>Macaronihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02053482785858037690noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-204832347019783654.post-20122085957432828592023-12-27T12:19:00.009-05:002024-01-06T04:10:30.868-05:00Ridley Scott's Napoleon <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBBmpBo1tGz_Z8MSVGpj0dKW-JluEaEuk7KFmV27a2Q2rpjHXU0EL5gWtyh2qpi9vJ0OrOKCWfiPX7zWs5XvbGLmCqAizAM5W6eEEtvq7sVDvSSf_sLhhAldYxRQk4gtRC6C47FgCSabGgJP8KpGQ7faqcYjls4MYOJCQwIcXD4SZUJGy1J5VcrswVOWEb/s1200/nappie%20on%20ship.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="900" data-original-width="1200" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBBmpBo1tGz_Z8MSVGpj0dKW-JluEaEuk7KFmV27a2Q2rpjHXU0EL5gWtyh2qpi9vJ0OrOKCWfiPX7zWs5XvbGLmCqAizAM5W6eEEtvq7sVDvSSf_sLhhAldYxRQk4gtRC6C47FgCSabGgJP8KpGQ7faqcYjls4MYOJCQwIcXD4SZUJGy1J5VcrswVOWEb/w400-h300/nappie%20on%20ship.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p>Is Ridley Scott's <i>Napoleon</i>
worth seeing? Yes. </p><p>Is it a good film? Not really.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">It's a blockbuster of sorts, with countless battle scenes
full of shouting and explosions, but it's shot in what seems to be natural
light, and most of the film has an unpleasant grayish tinge. </p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglUijFZv7qLYGAg-1WAQlAArrb3cRaoKMZbw7BxAg75C3pY9ndqcOPkRsCKIYFQzSAa85VFIGQyQOWdpYxucPilFS5OUtIvL27wwbPI4bTtIkZqsTJGHf9Op5g4tQfguHSOJt0M8HPTqKXnFC-GqMP9h7Q3hyVAPZqjAsNpCjoNKXjutDrm8PaAzDkm1qG/s290/charge-nappi.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="174" data-original-width="290" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglUijFZv7qLYGAg-1WAQlAArrb3cRaoKMZbw7BxAg75C3pY9ndqcOPkRsCKIYFQzSAa85VFIGQyQOWdpYxucPilFS5OUtIvL27wwbPI4bTtIkZqsTJGHf9Op5g4tQfguHSOJt0M8HPTqKXnFC-GqMP9h7Q3hyVAPZqjAsNpCjoNKXjutDrm8PaAzDkm1qG/w400-h240/charge-nappi.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal">Interspersed amid these roaring scenes, Scott gives us
extended looks at the time Napoleon spent "at home" with the Empress
Josephine, but these scenes don't have much depth. Josephine found the
arrangement expedient; Napoleon nurtured a sentimental affection during his
time away, and wrote Josephine often. But he also wanted an heir, and it
appears he overlooked no opportunity to bring such an event about when he
wasn't charging across Egypt, Italy, Germany, and Russia in pursuit of an
ever-shifting congeries of aristocratic opponents.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi27s5eZIfZMNvgwGYOI_fqHDyyyDHlYEqVN6YXgvQ5MzTG5uvGIqvVDvx3Q-dst6PXwD7XKslsYV1BIQOVvyrHIwgiuI_IT1kuF3eEMIFWvfwuIwnT9kPVIY8dJmAR5y6eXR5IXN7zRN4EWCVd-QN32UZlz27FfFemMuIOdIlRZ3-Eh75VveJ6DtcPHyU0/s958/nap%20w%20girl.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="639" data-original-width="958" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi27s5eZIfZMNvgwGYOI_fqHDyyyDHlYEqVN6YXgvQ5MzTG5uvGIqvVDvx3Q-dst6PXwD7XKslsYV1BIQOVvyrHIwgiuI_IT1kuF3eEMIFWvfwuIwnT9kPVIY8dJmAR5y6eXR5IXN7zRN4EWCVd-QN32UZlz27FfFemMuIOdIlRZ3-Eh75VveJ6DtcPHyU0/w400-h266/nap%20w%20girl.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal">As a means of setting the scene politically, we spend the
first part of the film watching brief episodes of mayhem during the early days
of the Revolution, followed by the Convention, the Reign of Terror, a few
back-room deals during the Directory, and the final coup d'état that brought
Napoleon to power. That's a lot of ground to cover in a relatively short span
of time, and beyond the inevitable Robespierre, the individuals involved will
be strangers to most viewers: Sieyes, Junot, Barras. <i>Who</i>?</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Perhaps I underestimate the educational level of the movie-going public, but I suspect most viewers will be unaware that Napoleon's enduring
achievements have been omitted from the film entirely. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Encyclopedia
Brittanica</i> summarizes his career as follow:</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">"Napoleon ... left durable institutions on which modern
France was built up, including the Napoleonic Code, the judicial system, the
central bank and the country’s financial organization, military academies, and
a centralized university."<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">A more detailed on-line source reminds us that the Code
Napoleon "codified France’s confused jumble of laws and guaranteed
property rights, equality before the law, freedom of religion, and the
abolition of feudalism." </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSS55CtCyrANdlwNP9-PvUs1VV5F0Nc3M5lOm38VgqAAvj-fHC_cykormjnELakszWuFvUNxMIU8Bjgq4P6aAMuuMAkH6lHE6qCZkFr24vYlU7bZo6YD1DbZf1Cc1vzduVjFd5NCllgEwlxNVojo-J8aUOPWyoFsdWgQJTiISTmLbbRxxZgRBhyXvffiZr/s600/nappi-map.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="506" data-original-width="600" height="338" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSS55CtCyrANdlwNP9-PvUs1VV5F0Nc3M5lOm38VgqAAvj-fHC_cykormjnELakszWuFvUNxMIU8Bjgq4P6aAMuuMAkH6lHE6qCZkFr24vYlU7bZo6YD1DbZf1Cc1vzduVjFd5NCllgEwlxNVojo-J8aUOPWyoFsdWgQJTiISTmLbbRxxZgRBhyXvffiZr/w400-h338/nappi-map.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal">In time Napoleon's military conquests, which eventually
included almost the entirety of Western Europe, obliterating numerous feudal and
ecclesiastical states, and that led a generation or two later to the unification of Germany
and Italy and the liberalization of legal codes throughout the region.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">It would have been impossible, not to mention boring, to depict such bourgeois
accomplishments in even a three-hour biopic, but without reference to these details, we're left with a feeble portrait of a strangely anemic personality,
and that makes it difficult to accept the fact—though it is a fact—that
Napoleon stirred the loyalty and devotion of hundreds of thousands of men, not
only in France but throughout Western Europe, many of whom lost their lives as a result.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The best reason to see <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Napoleon</i>, aside from the costumes and the military re-creations, is that it may kindle the desire to learn more about the real story. (When we
got home, I pulled my copy of J.M. Roberts' <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">History of the World</i> off the shelf. I can't remember the last time
I did that.)</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Though Scott's <i>Napoleon</i> is never boring, as I watched it I was reminded of several other films on similar
themes with greater depth but narrower focus. Erich Rohmer's <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Lady and the Duke</i> (2001) depicts the
harrowing days of the Terror in Paris, when friends became enemies and no one could be trusted. In <i>La</i> <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Nuit de Varenne</i> Italian director Ettore Scola dramatizes the phase
of the revolution before Louis XVI was executed. And <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Start the Revolution Without Me</i>, as you might guess from the title,
is a spoof of the early days of the revolution starring Gene Wilder and
Donald Sutherland. "I thought it was a costume ball ..."</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">And while we're at it, why not mention Woody Allen's early
masterpiece, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Love and Death</i>, in which, amid lots of other silliness, Napoleon is outraged with his bakers because the Duke of Wellington's
pastry-encrusted beef is a big hit, while his multi-layered pastry <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">still</i> isn't flaky enough.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhY3iE4FVBwuom6t4EZgm8hPe1iIFiAZaAzXLhadUgs-chN2lXpEl90c046Is6Be30UPPSrh9DVQTQyShEHnAlaAcnp_iabdy0vu-IDoQk-TKL6PRkaAxlaHMvTtArz4HDW_8DCW-D5R4JUYHmMX_wHMWkuDUftWFzuoITv3VH72g8uD0HftQ8kZBBp1FWj/s600/nappi-winter-battle.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="338" data-original-width="600" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhY3iE4FVBwuom6t4EZgm8hPe1iIFiAZaAzXLhadUgs-chN2lXpEl90c046Is6Be30UPPSrh9DVQTQyShEHnAlaAcnp_iabdy0vu-IDoQk-TKL6PRkaAxlaHMvTtArz4HDW_8DCW-D5R4JUYHmMX_wHMWkuDUftWFzuoITv3VH72g8uD0HftQ8kZBBp1FWj/w400-h225/nappi-winter-battle.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Let me add that although Ridley Scott's depiction of the
battle of Waterloo is grand, it might have been a good idea for him to remind viewers
which side General Blücher was on. For my money, those expansive scenes are well worth seeing, but carry
less of a punch than the famously chaotic literary passages in Thackerey's <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Vanity Fair</i> and Stendhal's <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Charterhouse of Parma</i>, both told
from the point of view of a bewildered foot soldier who has trouble finding the
battlefield. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">* * *</span></p>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4TBqikO33QCwPOi5ayxjVZocICd926shmBkUIx6gWvhaEeB37cHuyVzGS89jU9I25JSBb-6xARp7xfDD5_QuqhRlyaBzLIM17bmSTfC3xk7E-EUp_5Pr2pH10b9Bsn65C_f8ZMtwKs83ZWgMvOdR1pBH2BhdzZjWRz8cAIzFSy_y7zqdyutr2iPP9-SDr/s600/Margaux-bar.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="450" data-original-width="600" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4TBqikO33QCwPOi5ayxjVZocICd926shmBkUIx6gWvhaEeB37cHuyVzGS89jU9I25JSBb-6xARp7xfDD5_QuqhRlyaBzLIM17bmSTfC3xk7E-EUp_5Pr2pH10b9Bsn65C_f8ZMtwKs83ZWgMvOdR1pBH2BhdzZjWRz8cAIzFSy_y7zqdyutr2iPP9-SDr/w400-h300/Margaux-bar.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal">To keep the flavor of the Revolution alive, after the film we
drove downtown to a restaurant in the North Loop called Maison Marguax, where
the starter for the sourdough bread has been kept alive for more than a century,
so they say. The bar is a nice place to sit on a drizzly afternoon in mid-December.
I found the <i>jambon beurre</i> baguette a little short on ham, but the "oui
burger" was robust and buttery. The <i>pomme frites</i>, served in a shiny metal
cup, were delicious, though it seems they forgot to add the tarragon to the béarnaise
sauce. But it's possible my palate simply lacks the required finesse.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSivTxnyZZGJ4weFoVGUL-QaVgrJyhV7V4d_Xjc4yJuYNk1SN2TstTNl0TmHSSYS3ECRPArOiyBim4HH1y0SFtqjKiTg1u7cXquIujikAVOpw0tPYhOKO4Ol_4Oq8B-N6YQKaqRgYtFMo_fcq6HVNcOfSWfTFbKgigSrdltbXDgf42XSiona-ecTrEpJVL/s600/Maison-Margaux.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="450" data-original-width="600" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSivTxnyZZGJ4weFoVGUL-QaVgrJyhV7V4d_Xjc4yJuYNk1SN2TstTNl0TmHSSYS3ECRPArOiyBim4HH1y0SFtqjKiTg1u7cXquIujikAVOpw0tPYhOKO4Ol_4Oq8B-N6YQKaqRgYtFMo_fcq6HVNcOfSWfTFbKgigSrdltbXDgf42XSiona-ecTrEpJVL/w400-h300/Maison-Margaux.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><p class="MsoNormal">All of the servers wore vests covered with intricate blue
brocade and several were wearing nose rings. One young women had recently
completed a degree program in Madison in home economics and was now earning
some money as she pondered her next career move. Another seemed to have a
slight accent, and I asked her where she was from. Marseille? </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">"You've probably never heard of it," she said.
"I'm from Forest Lake."</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">"What? I'm from Mahtomedi, just down the road. We pass
Hugo often on our way to O'Brien State Park."</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">"I love that park," she said.</p><p class="MsoNormal">____________________</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">And where, you might ask, does Jesus enter into all of this? </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;"><span>Not only did the Napoleonic
period advanced the cause of universal brotherhood by expanding citizenship and
economic opportunity to Protestants, Jews, and free-thinkers, as I mentioned above, but at the same time, the</span><span> incalculable violence and bloodshed </span><span>of the period convinced many that the facile truths of the
Enlightenment were grossly inadequate to the task of harnessing the energies
involved in those social developments.</span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">And we've been struggling to maintain a balance between the ground of faith and the blue skies of liberty ever since.</span></p></div>Macaronihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02053482785858037690noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-204832347019783654.post-43928140531211583342023-12-18T10:12:00.003-05:002023-12-18T11:56:19.492-05:00Wordle Holiday<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjM-0wCxnbwto-kEVokh1WbvzN9TNGpfjkR4crGQG_WJDe3BWGXuG4iY_K1HwwazBZj8V9hEMvRNhRz1y518vCbP_S6EZUAaD2Z8bTz-uUKJoIdWejonE0WFpRqNKBhbW4t3bjHthV75EG90wH-Bi5T3Dqvxxd1oDswLaNakPZTFacwNbA1DEdEgPO5q9cm/s600/wodle-sample.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="515" data-original-width="600" height="344" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjM-0wCxnbwto-kEVokh1WbvzN9TNGpfjkR4crGQG_WJDe3BWGXuG4iY_K1HwwazBZj8V9hEMvRNhRz1y518vCbP_S6EZUAaD2Z8bTz-uUKJoIdWejonE0WFpRqNKBhbW4t3bjHthV75EG90wH-Bi5T3Dqvxxd1oDswLaNakPZTFacwNbA1DEdEgPO5q9cm/w400-h344/wodle-sample.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />The <i>New York Times</i>
recently ran a <a href="https://www.nytimes.com/2023/12/17/upshot/wordle-bot-year-in-review.html?searchResultPosition=9"><span style="color: red;">story </span></a>about its popular word game, Wordle. The article offers
little of interest, except to advise those who play the game to choose a
starting word with a healthy mix of vowels and consonants. Duh! Statistical
analysis suggests that the most popular starting word, "adieu," isn't
that great. Words like "slate," "crane," and
"trace" are likely to lead more quickly to the correct solution.<p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Part of the appeal of Wordle, as far as I'm concerned, is
that you can only play it once a day, there is only one solution, and the
meaning of the words plays no part in the solution. Therefore, a good deal of
whimsy can be involved in choosing an opening word. Every morning, around 5:30
or 6:00, I find myself lying in bed thinking of words such as WORSE, ASCOT,
TRAIL, and CHORD, though by the time I make the coffee, do my morning
stretching exercises, and get to the computer, the word I've chosen is long gone,
and I have to start all over again.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_aGGPmr2yB2qq7CtcMLRNKd5krM9TqeSHn3vrkgXgAqEk85guOMy49oCasJfwE_9u2_mS2d4hF8ZT3PlTVI-gI4raUbzLMk8DTwnFqLUW7nI_Kf2NqidkvexKtSnjL0p-iRoa5x1ZZCd3S9H0qRIj9U7lY4iJJd2BDYafxV0SjlOw6DAsCXRzNkx3c7WI/s600/letter-slip.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="169" data-original-width="600" height="113" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_aGGPmr2yB2qq7CtcMLRNKd5krM9TqeSHn3vrkgXgAqEk85guOMy49oCasJfwE_9u2_mS2d4hF8ZT3PlTVI-gI4raUbzLMk8DTwnFqLUW7nI_Kf2NqidkvexKtSnjL0p-iRoa5x1ZZCd3S9H0qRIj9U7lY4iJJd2BDYafxV0SjlOw6DAsCXRzNkx3c7WI/w400-h113/letter-slip.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal">I have a strip of paper here beside me listing the twelve
most common letters, though on some occasions I start out with a word that
includes an unlikely consonant such as W or P, just to see if I get lucky. I
also tend to avoid using S and T, because I'd rather have those letters in
reserve to slip in to the blank spots between the letters I happen to get right
on my first guess.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">If I do happen to get a few letters right on my first guess,
there is a strong temptation to keep them in place and try to nail the correct <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>word on the next guess. That's not always the
best strategy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Better, perhaps, to
select five new letters. You won't get the word right, but you'll learn more,
and be in a better position to get the correct word on your third try.</p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9ce5T_wYl5OXhNy2JGbRz_U_jEYanx7TwollcZiCK0MGp9dkYCnXjqX2tJggQyWqk7Ni3I_TMXft3pSdaHZ1vx08oXE2NTM-MlOL9PbS1Z6xbKqPLIOevBFQ6hE_Yc9JrJqRs7FYZGlubNg4MNCItNOANBNDtNiYtJDT53P8Txaot_aVREIkkqyx1DvxE/s240/hinge.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="240" data-original-width="240" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9ce5T_wYl5OXhNy2JGbRz_U_jEYanx7TwollcZiCK0MGp9dkYCnXjqX2tJggQyWqk7Ni3I_TMXft3pSdaHZ1vx08oXE2NTM-MlOL9PbS1Z6xbKqPLIOevBFQ6hE_Yc9JrJqRs7FYZGlubNg4MNCItNOANBNDtNiYtJDT53P8Txaot_aVREIkkqyx1DvxE/w200-h200/hinge.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>The low point of my Wordle career came on the day when,
after two guesses, I had correctly guessed four of the five letters and was
faced with _INGE. Great! I hastily supplied what seemed to me to be the obvious
missing letter. TINGE. Wrong!<p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Oh, how could I have missed it? The word must be HINGE.
Wrong again!</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">By this time quite a few letters had been eliminated, and there
seemed to be nothing left but BINGE. Bingo! </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Well, getting a five isn't the end of the world. But clearly
there was nothing at work here except bad luck. It happens, though some Wordle
experts (such as the bot) would have come up with a word on the third guess
that eliminated <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>all but one of the
letters H, T, and B. Even now, I can't think of what that word might be. THROB?</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The bot, in case you aren't familiar with the game, is a
computer-generated feature that analyses your choices to determine the degree
to which luck and skill figures in your success and how your performance
measures up to the millions of other people who are playing the game. The bot
also <i>plays </i>each game, rifling through every possible guess to figure out which
one is best, so you can also see how you stack up against it.</p><p class="MsoNormal">The bot isn't infallible, however. On one day's event it ranked my skill level as lower than average, and also my luck level, when compared against the norm. Yet my score that morning was half a point better than the average. How could that be? </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8eHaRj1U7dWiJGK7eosppiUMz6veU3y3rDzS8uK5yBy1LsM7HU19bSFvXNCECreczCNwGxGbzzFbaApioZ8R6MgulX2z6AMhjsKuCfAsOIcjp9Avhg-eH6k_d_h7rabJMxfrm6Z4AODxlV_lGe7r6F89BX53opDtLO7IzaL6mBRqvYJRqd4ZYilMn1reO/s691/Dec-18,-2023.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="541" data-original-width="691" height="314" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8eHaRj1U7dWiJGK7eosppiUMz6veU3y3rDzS8uK5yBy1LsM7HU19bSFvXNCECreczCNwGxGbzzFbaApioZ8R6MgulX2z6AMhjsKuCfAsOIcjp9Avhg-eH6k_d_h7rabJMxfrm6Z4AODxlV_lGe7r6F89BX53opDtLO7IzaL6mBRqvYJRqd4ZYilMn1reO/w400-h314/Dec-18,-2023.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal">So far I've played Wordle 621 times—it only takes ten
minutes—and the statistics suggest I'm getting a little better at it. In fact,
during the last two-week period, my score has been, on average, not only significantly
better than the average NYT reader, but better than the bot. (see above)</p><p></p><p class="MsoNormal">I'm sure my luck won't hold out for long. And anyway, who
cares?</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Yet perhaps there is some deep meaning hidden within the progression of words: Tinge, Hinge, Binge.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>Macaronihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02053482785858037690noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-204832347019783654.post-28309199217534901822023-12-12T10:46:00.012-05:002023-12-17T11:00:06.351-05:00 A Promising Time for the Library<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhW9kiT94Cd1Ll-Btr7d-fPrLQhfBmdW3cXGFvDDNuStksqKnYU-3KSi0oYX56vEAKLUm31bDPVscwcCPjaVLGMC7IIF-INPaBMlBtEw2schfd2eDZob78D3imt3Pe9o-Z6t7moEpajT8F-GCpYixpEMhcyjdmYulfBDGMv1ZqbQJqOYNpQlm7Vx91FyOa1/s600/books-w-art.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="450" data-original-width="600" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhW9kiT94Cd1Ll-Btr7d-fPrLQhfBmdW3cXGFvDDNuStksqKnYU-3KSi0oYX56vEAKLUm31bDPVscwcCPjaVLGMC7IIF-INPaBMlBtEw2schfd2eDZob78D3imt3Pe9o-Z6t7moEpajT8F-GCpYixpEMhcyjdmYulfBDGMv1ZqbQJqOYNpQlm7Vx91FyOa1/w400-h300/books-w-art.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />I got an email a few days ago from someone named Kristi bearing the title, "This is a promising time for your library." That
struck me as a pleasant thought. I wasn't aware that anyone really cared much
about my library except me; I wondered who Kristi was, and what she meant,
exactly. <p></p><p>It's true that several books have come my way recently via the
de-acquisition cart in the lobby of the Golden Valley Library, including a
handsome coffee-table book of Seth Eastman's paintings. And the other day, when
Hilary and I were shopping for gifts at Magers & Quinn, I also picked up
two books for myself: a collection of poems by Joyce Sutphen,<i> Carrying Water to the Field</i>; and <i>Existential Monday</i> by an obscure French
philosopher named Benjamin Fondane.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">To top it off, a few weeks ago I conceived the notion that it
was necessary to have a decent hardcover edition of Samuel Johnson's writings
at my disposal. I'm not sure why, though the Penguin paperback edition I own is
looking pretty ratty. I consulted a used book consolidator online and
discovered that Amazon was offering a recently compiled hardcover edition from Yale at half-price.
How could I resist?</p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYJ4zoTib4C9tfB5mPcocoK-uAdK-LE5q2POSQ4_jmCXpr0jFI4MO-xo8rZipAaHiljedQd0KAnVo9rqmwhfdOUVnk2uqrP5S9mlcpTgjtQ25_12WEmV9H_Yj2Oz5YOyG5rH_vuwSt0MKNwS48cKFQ3JwXxPnGu9639qDKdHCH1AJxRkljQhkm5wTXQScE/s381/samueljohnson_eshort-678x381.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="381" data-original-width="277" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYJ4zoTib4C9tfB5mPcocoK-uAdK-LE5q2POSQ4_jmCXpr0jFI4MO-xo8rZipAaHiljedQd0KAnVo9rqmwhfdOUVnk2uqrP5S9mlcpTgjtQ25_12WEmV9H_Yj2Oz5YOyG5rH_vuwSt0MKNwS48cKFQ3JwXxPnGu9639qDKdHCH1AJxRkljQhkm5wTXQScE/w146-h200/samueljohnson_eshort-678x381.jpg" width="146" /></a></div><br />The book is handsome, but also formidable. It weighs in at a
little less than four pounds, which makes it unwieldy and somewhat difficult to read. Selected essays from Johnson's
two-penny sheets, the <i>Rambler</i> and the
<i>Idler</i>, make up a good part of
the book, and they've been arranged by theme—moral choices, men and women, war and
imperialism—which is convenient.<p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Johnson was formidable himself, though he wasn't handsome. He's
known today largely for his curmudgeonly <a href="https://www.brainyquote.com/authors/samuel-johnson-quotes"><span style="color: red;">one-liners</span></a> about the weather, writing for money,
and other commonplace subjects. Few read his works, I suspect. Many of the
essays are occasional and short, which is good. But the language in which
Johnson expresses himself tends to be wordy, syntactically complex, and riddled
with specious generalities. Not so good. But right or wrong, suave or clumsy, you've
got to give credit to an author who chooses a weighty subject, explores it in
terms the common reader can understand, and arrives at a conclusion without
unnecessary references, complications, or digressions.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The first essay I turned to happened to be about awe. It
surprised me that Johnson would take up such a subject. Not so long ago young
people referred to everything as "awesome," and I sometimes come upon
articles offering tips about how to revive that precious yet elusive emotion.
It doesn't strike me as a typically eighteenth-century topic.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> But his approach to that issue does fit the era in which he wrote, in which astronomic discoveries, steam engines, and spinning jennies were all the rage.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMPLQNG8HA-_XYL7BayOtnt_LMw7ykDiMdJ2iIx4JS7tyhuWyPEZmV14jxC30ZCkx56U_8c56zUzt2DPBnzYLz9HN27fLCJW6dE_TJqDUOLWniZhbu3BCsXgBqzkHNEkt94s1M7neuGvkfN_CiQUDBwXqAthr8n_fq_M2_7ro7AZgLtBGHJExa_xoUH4vo/s397/samuel-portrair..jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="381" data-original-width="397" height="192" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMPLQNG8HA-_XYL7BayOtnt_LMw7ykDiMdJ2iIx4JS7tyhuWyPEZmV14jxC30ZCkx56U_8c56zUzt2DPBnzYLz9HN27fLCJW6dE_TJqDUOLWniZhbu3BCsXgBqzkHNEkt94s1M7neuGvkfN_CiQUDBwXqAthr8n_fq_M2_7ro7AZgLtBGHJExa_xoUH4vo/w200-h192/samuel-portrair..jpg" width="200" /></a></div>Johnson's theory is that the awe we feel in the face of an
unusual phenomena is the result of our ignorance as to how it works. "The
awful stillness of attention, with which the mind is overspread at the first
view of an unexpected effect, ceases when we have leisure to disentangle
complications and investigate causes." Johnson reiterates this argument
several times and also seems determined to castigate those who are simply too
lazy or too conceited to humbly and patiently investigate the inner workings of
things. "To expect that the intricacies of science will be pierced by a
careless glance ... is to expect a peculiar privilege, a power denied to the
rest of mankind; but to suppose that the maze is inscrutable to diligence ...
is to submit tamely to the tyranny of fancy, and enchain the mind in voluntary
shackles." <p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"></p>It's worth reminding ourselves that in Johnson's day, many
words had different shades of meaning than they do today. For example,
nowadays the word "awful" carries connotations of disgust, whereas
Johnson defines it in his famous dictionary as "that which strikes with
awe, or fills with reverence." But it seems the primary association of awe
with reverence hasn't changed much from his day to ours. <p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><br />On the other hand, Johnson's notion that awe is inspired by
ignorance, and evaporates once we've familiarized ourselves with a phenomenon, strikes
me as doubtful at best. Our modern world is full of mechanical and electronic
devices the workings of which remain incomprehensible and mysterious, yet we rarely
hold any of them in awe. Maybe we should.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Meanwhile, I have found that if I do happen to develop a
layman's understanding of how something works, it usually increases the
admiration and awe I feel for it. Just now I pulled my copy of the plates
created for Diderot's encyclopedia, which were designed to illustrate how
everything from plate glass and rope to upholstery and marbled paper was made. Incredible.
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEBBZ1zCEBctWUjJfDGT90atOZSarUgf_2DrkrALwx6w-N63itO9uqiFezpMLg3DrJNcp8Ak9Z4xy5DFjlU4lT9zpOvv-hKZCVGJ2JizAa7RiBQoAFXD5MDH02RyJXTozIVZ0I_HO2iKMUtVmROkLmqawLNoRswOc0B_3ehCLvqcjiWMHO3FnAdbr5X_Jk/s487/diderot-encyclepdie-fortifi.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="487" data-original-width="300" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEBBZ1zCEBctWUjJfDGT90atOZSarUgf_2DrkrALwx6w-N63itO9uqiFezpMLg3DrJNcp8Ak9Z4xy5DFjlU4lT9zpOvv-hKZCVGJ2JizAa7RiBQoAFXD5MDH02RyJXTozIVZ0I_HO2iKMUtVmROkLmqawLNoRswOc0B_3ehCLvqcjiWMHO3FnAdbr5X_Jk/s320/diderot-encyclepdie-fortifi.jpg" width="197" /></a></div>Nothing is more likely to inspire fleeting feelings of awe than
aspects of the natural world. But perhaps this supports Johnson's thesis,
insofar as such phenomena will forever remain largely inexplicable. Evolutionary theory
can offer clues as to how the myriad life forms that surround us came to be,
generally speaking, but it will never be able to "explain" the
miraculous presence of a deer who beds down at nightfall in the back yard, much
less a particular being whom we have come to know and love. <p></p><p class="MsoNormal">By the same token,
even a lifetime of astronomical study will do nothing to dissipate the awe we
often feel when we contemplate the depths of space. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The poets of Johnson's day had hardly begun to explore this
realm of beauty and mystery. Wordsworth's "Westminster Bridge" and
Keats "To Autumn" were still a long ways off. </p><p class="MsoNormal">Johnson himself was perhaps wary of what he calls "the tyranny of fancy." I wonder what he, who loved words so well, would have made of this brief poem that I came across in the second of my purchases, Joyce Sutphen's <i>Carrying Water to the Field</i>:</p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><blockquote><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><i></i></p><blockquote><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><i>It's Amazing</i></p></blockquote></blockquote><p> </p><blockquote><blockquote><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><i><o:p></o:p></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><i>Another word for that is astonishing<o:p></o:p></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><i>or astounding, remarkable, or marvelous.</i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><o:p><i> </i></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><i>It's also slightly startling, which leads to</i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><i>shocking and upsetting, perhaps a bit</i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><o:p><i> </i></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><i>disquieting, and that is troubling and</i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><i>distressing—you could say outrageous</i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><o:p><i> </i></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><i>and deplorable, which leads to wicked</i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><i>and more precise equations such as</i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><o:p><i> </i></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><i>sinful and immoral or just plain bad</i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><i>and wrong. It's amazing, which is just to say</i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><o:p><i> </i></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><i>bewildering and unexpected, that</i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><i>it happened out of the blue, and that we went</i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><o:p><i> </i></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><i>all the way from miraculous to absurd, </i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">
</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><i>within the syllables of just one word.</i></p></blockquote></blockquote><p> </p><p class="MsoNormal"></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhttttsnWZPOUVQ0YyvciZUbbsqd97AyOYbX8A7xJ9lPIaQ_eJIR7j9m4JxFwFhiRYZ3ZDz8-oPZqCZx7R7FXvj0u6PFy6vfsEwvMiBpB_s7-LTeFSv6KygkijcZxrpUojnZhyBtZGYFNzAQUfRmKFhfq5tdKPlTWif0RJ2dOYhVcTB-mho6UmmLo95ET1A/s263/fondane.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="263" data-original-width="192" height="263" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhttttsnWZPOUVQ0YyvciZUbbsqd97AyOYbX8A7xJ9lPIaQ_eJIR7j9m4JxFwFhiRYZ3ZDz8-oPZqCZx7R7FXvj0u6PFy6vfsEwvMiBpB_s7-LTeFSv6KygkijcZxrpUojnZhyBtZGYFNzAQUfRmKFhfq5tdKPlTWif0RJ2dOYhVcTB-mho6UmmLo95ET1A/s1600/fondane.jpg" width="192" /></a></div>Opening my third purchase, the slight volume of essays by Benjamin Fondane called <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Existential Monday</i>, I suddenly found
myself immersed in a realm driven not by awe and reverence, but by anxiety and
dread. This is entirely understandable, given that Fondane was a Romanian
Jew living in Nazi-occupied Paris. But Fondane's theories predate that dreadful
circumstance by several decades. Writing in the zany Dada era and drawing heavily on the theories of Kierkegaard and the obscure Romanian
philosopher Lev Shestov, Fondane emphasizes that every philosophic system, and
especially Hegelianism and it's cartoonish offspring Marxism, will miss the
mark unless it not only recognizes but also emphasizes the significance of the maverick,
the outcast, the unique individual, and the once-in-a-lifetime event that shatters
all systems. For example, the Resurrection. <p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"></p>Fondane refers to Shestov so often that I requested a few of
that thinker's books from the Hennepin County Library. And they actually had some! Now there is an amazing institution. <p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Meanwhile, taking a closer look at the email I mentioned above, I see
that it comes from Kristi Pearson, executive director of the Hennepin County Library system.
It was <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">her</i> library she was referring
to, not mine. Then again, her library is also mine. </p><p class="MsoNormal">She wants me to contribute, lend
them of hand. Gladly. 'Tis the season.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></p>Macaronihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02053482785858037690noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-204832347019783654.post-38931486043690383472023-12-01T18:19:00.112-05:002023-12-03T09:50:20.931-05:00Thanksgiving Conversations<p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6h1N02RlcLOwlOyOmlDPhRPoKDT0hyphenhyphenNHjO6KiHwm9C1iwQg__WabkwfoLLXzSFoDFh8BKU0JvNXvYLl0HUZdiWXA7aaRS3sTFqCyPIwGJKGtUThMRdXGQjGk6glJU4l54JOsXLhhRxk_bIX7oni7R_nhwIo-xm-fTpPBOvn2SjJV_f7EWv3CeQBZCaEBh/s600/IMG_9983a.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="450" data-original-width="600" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6h1N02RlcLOwlOyOmlDPhRPoKDT0hyphenhyphenNHjO6KiHwm9C1iwQg__WabkwfoLLXzSFoDFh8BKU0JvNXvYLl0HUZdiWXA7aaRS3sTFqCyPIwGJKGtUThMRdXGQjGk6glJU4l54JOsXLhhRxk_bIX7oni7R_nhwIo-xm-fTpPBOvn2SjJV_f7EWv3CeQBZCaEBh/w400-h300/IMG_9983a.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />It's a frosty pre-winter morning, and I'm luxuriating in pleasant thoughts of Thanksgiving recently past
but ever-present. I'm also listening to some random tunes by C. P. E. Bach played by jazz pianist Keith Jarrett.<p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The Thanksgiving holiday may have gotten started a few weeks ago during a
Sunday morning breakfast with my cousin Pat. She always has good stories to
tell about her high-stress position in the banking world, her daughter
Natalie's horse ranch, and the perils and rewards of her volunteer activities
at the nearby animal humane society. "I'm a dog-whisperer," she says.
And I believe her. After years of volunteering, she has also finally reached the rare status of having her own locker.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">She and Hilary always have lots of books in common to talk about. (I
don't.) Family stories are also likely to emerge, though they're sometimes about
people I never met. The names sound vaguely familiar... </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_AITeqOzFdtik-U_vLaJB93bV1fIQPPvSijMeQ34zBddjxWw82GjdllK1aNAV3RRqqNnDLKzV5GS6Jmfm7xs7naKB_wW0DA_cRwTtHYHDBN85-iwfQgRhvRsnGKGJ-Wwt9EwoMr1Q2gReWjily8CLwGj7qqycuU8mJvu-NKAI3_yvu1fLouE5tb8nFMGL/s766/McIlvenna-clan.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="766" data-original-width="600" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_AITeqOzFdtik-U_vLaJB93bV1fIQPPvSijMeQ34zBddjxWw82GjdllK1aNAV3RRqqNnDLKzV5GS6Jmfm7xs7naKB_wW0DA_cRwTtHYHDBN85-iwfQgRhvRsnGKGJ-Wwt9EwoMr1Q2gReWjily8CLwGj7qqycuU8mJvu-NKAI3_yvu1fLouE5tb8nFMGL/w314-h400/McIlvenna-clan.jpg" width="314" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal">At our recent breakfast Pat's stories turned to someone I knew quite well: her
dad. I had no idea how many different lines of work he pursued, dragging the
family along with him to Colorado, Oregon, and elsewhere, before finding his
calling as a forest ranger supervising firefighters in the Gila National Forest of southern New Mexico.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><b>We had Hilary's family</b> and a few family friends over on
Thanksgiving, and it was a lively scene. I enjoyed listening to my brother-in-law
David describe a trip with his wife, Debbie, to visit her family in Florida and
South Carolina in an antique camper they purchased recently. </p><p class="MsoNormal">David was also
excited about a new book by Pete Jesperson, long-time manager of The
Replacements, who first played in a rock-n-roll band in the Sylvestre family basement. "My
parents were the only ones in the neighborhood who could stand the noise."</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSu_1h8JC9bXV7P9DVTIL_kU85CoS2nC5hut7aTrrO9c1UtEWOHFJ-XC6Ou3dkGltDMYEx9EjS4zQUKdMgAvABHF2RymVWm7uaTEV7VB1FoK4oBI8_fwUOauAgmJAYKi0mgAqZbx0J6PHBPSukBYEPItW0kWVn8qM5vZAGHt2xeOfhXtTGfD86kjy4bDE1/s600/new-camper.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="472" data-original-width="600" height="315" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSu_1h8JC9bXV7P9DVTIL_kU85CoS2nC5hut7aTrrO9c1UtEWOHFJ-XC6Ou3dkGltDMYEx9EjS4zQUKdMgAvABHF2RymVWm7uaTEV7VB1FoK4oBI8_fwUOauAgmJAYKi0mgAqZbx0J6PHBPSukBYEPItW0kWVn8qM5vZAGHt2xeOfhXtTGfD86kjy4bDE1/w400-h315/new-camper.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal">At dinner Hilary's mother, Dorothy, who's now 97, described to me in some detail a documentary she watched recently on our local public television station. (Now <i>I'm </i>the one who can't remember what the show was about!). </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">It was also fun hearing Miles describe how it feels to be
"in the zone" on the basketball court. Brother-in-law Jeff shared
some photos on his phone of his family's newly remodeled kitchen, and we
reviewed the career of film director Ridley Scott together in light of his
upcoming film about Napoleon. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjizC_wgXaJCoYk2FEQRZ3B_Q2Icska-FkQfn9scmuQXwQc0pMcG7FW0q35IPAi1YdKDE_4qjqyFh4WDqdWlkGAIPFRVMLwTEClJxecKtvO8Ac0OUscM5X7bFoIhuDVbPWqz-CreLYhbA-ySHjME8qveZ5GbIYbSlkAdTKHJ5M6hwsdLelNhxvmgJooTWEQ/s600/jeff-kitchen.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="450" data-original-width="600" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjizC_wgXaJCoYk2FEQRZ3B_Q2Icska-FkQfn9scmuQXwQc0pMcG7FW0q35IPAi1YdKDE_4qjqyFh4WDqdWlkGAIPFRVMLwTEClJxecKtvO8Ac0OUscM5X7bFoIhuDVbPWqz-CreLYhbA-ySHjME8qveZ5GbIYbSlkAdTKHJ5M6hwsdLelNhxvmgJooTWEQ/w400-h300/jeff-kitchen.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal">After dessert several of us at the far end of the
table got into a lively discussion of language usage. It ranged from the difference between "supper" and "dinner" to the excesses of the "periodic style"--with difficulty I refrained from fetching my new copy of the Yale <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Selected Works of Samuel Johnson</i> from the other room to illustrate the point. We also explored the use and misuse of the semicolon and the
egregiousness of the phrase "one of the only... ." </p><p class="MsoNormal">At one point Nora's mom, Mary, said, "My mother would
have loved this conversation."</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">With the average age being<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>in the mid-sixties, of course there was also plenty of health talk: dreadful
migraines, expensive medications, dietary restrictions, sore knees and hips and
necks. Many of us were nevertheless eager to take a postprandial walk around
the block before we fetched the pies from their cache on top of the piano. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It's a family tradition.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Back at the table, but for the most part sitting in
different places, conversation continued for quite a while before everyone
headed for home. To my ear, the din of multiple voices exchanging views on a
variety of subjects in a single room is one of the most beautiful sounds on
earth. </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnyoAYfAolYiGXI-Q4iGrhDm7BCA9brbg_6VIby6Lww1VwIFD3iuttWGVrDJo_tx4j_VV165kMz-MSOq5YGsy5_fwfij4dJ0MyQFMgQMo3ysAjL6UZkdtOXGWrwnnXVro6d25GqKEkulIyvOE2Yukgx8-nb1o0lGjCvtjp0nkY_U6Ws-vte1hVUMjwHPP1/s600/saying-goodbye.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="450" data-original-width="600" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnyoAYfAolYiGXI-Q4iGrhDm7BCA9brbg_6VIby6Lww1VwIFD3iuttWGVrDJo_tx4j_VV165kMz-MSOq5YGsy5_fwfij4dJ0MyQFMgQMo3ysAjL6UZkdtOXGWrwnnXVro6d25GqKEkulIyvOE2Yukgx8-nb1o0lGjCvtjp0nkY_U6Ws-vte1hVUMjwHPP1/w400-h300/saying-goodbye.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A long Minnesota goodbye</td></tr></tbody></table><p class="MsoNormal"><b>Later, with darkness encroaching</b> outside the windows, while Hilary
and I were doing the dishes, the phone rang. Cousin Laura had left her cell phone
behind. She and her husband, Rick, stopped by the next morning to fetch it, and
we sat in the living room in front of the fire chatting once again. We told a
few stories about our recent trip to Duluth. Rick, stimulated by the fire, told
a few stories about splitting cords of wood with a maul back in the days when
he and Laura managed a sheep farm in Vermont. We discussed the likelihood of the
northern lights putting on a show and the new Native American photography
exhibit at the institute. Rick, a professional photographer, didn't think much
of it; the rest of us found it was well worth a visit. On these and other
subjects, including the dangers of "post-truth" that Rick's brother Charlie is pushing on his Boston <a href="https://thegroundtruthproject.org/team/charlie_sennott/"><span style="color: red;">website</span></a>, we spent the morning.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">But we weren't quite done with the Thanksgiving conversations.
The next afternoon we drove out to Lake Minnetonka to visit my cousin Rich and
his wife, Sarah. A few years ago they bought a house in Mound just down the
street from their daughter Willa's place, and during their visits from Lincoln they've
been spending quite a bit of time dealing with the house's sub-standard wiring
and plumbing. "I know the man at the hardware store a lot better than any
of the neighbors," Rick says with a grim chuckle. </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWXL8JuGebRAxT9PcJCiwsu5I6KraMjY0FF_QQMVfXKim1WdNAdu0WAiMrbRO9fVq-ocXWmvnAGDFRNZAtaTux1bMd8tuPhoFq-B6djJrSrOgjiUAM6lL6ToojTZhGP7Hatkr-VexBvT77lc2EPzbeL-_3mOkoVIUhalHi4Pv_pbr39WlimkNFlWt7EHZ8/s600/rich-sarah-lincoln.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="450" data-original-width="600" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWXL8JuGebRAxT9PcJCiwsu5I6KraMjY0FF_QQMVfXKim1WdNAdu0WAiMrbRO9fVq-ocXWmvnAGDFRNZAtaTux1bMd8tuPhoFq-B6djJrSrOgjiUAM6lL6ToojTZhGP7Hatkr-VexBvT77lc2EPzbeL-_3mOkoVIUhalHi4Pv_pbr39WlimkNFlWt7EHZ8/w400-h300/rich-sarah-lincoln.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Coffee and conversation, the classic combination</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">We discussed a few detective novels set in Southern France and the widespread popularity of Aperol in northern Italy. And it was just our good luck
that Willa stopped by on her way home from shopping—we hadn't seen her in years—and
we got a chance to find out what's been going on in her life, how the boathouse remodel is coming along, and how the kids
are doing. The big question facing her daughter Clare, now a fifth-grader, is:
basketball or hockey? (She's going with basketball.)</div>
<p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitdTiefHXu43n1YoD-l0jVoZi5JeO1jsFQIi7mILpZPMSJQLcB4oLhRiKJIszOAQQm3Cp4iRrgFPCepWBd3Fa26Vfr7eP5FgYYe7pGHVG76Pa0kTOyQHYGj9yNoLcPuDpxV5fDTqKoSrAFk_UuQxOqZMJT_V11vegGxfPjajnlTZHBJuA8Jb058pRLEkol/s394/Letter--May-28,-1919-Folks.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="383" data-original-width="394" height="194" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitdTiefHXu43n1YoD-l0jVoZi5JeO1jsFQIi7mILpZPMSJQLcB4oLhRiKJIszOAQQm3Cp4iRrgFPCepWBd3Fa26Vfr7eP5FgYYe7pGHVG76Pa0kTOyQHYGj9yNoLcPuDpxV5fDTqKoSrAFk_UuQxOqZMJT_V11vegGxfPjajnlTZHBJuA8Jb058pRLEkol/w200-h194/Letter--May-28,-1919-Folks.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>On a brief foray into family history, I confirmed with Rich a
vague notion I had that grandpa Toren, who had a fine tenor voice, served as
cantor at the synagogue in Lincoln on Saturdays, while also singing at the
Swedish Covenant church he and grandma attended on Sunday. It's true.<p></p><p class="MsoNormal">We also touched briefly on Grandpa Toren's role as a secretary at a Palestine peace commission of 1918. A few years ago Rich scanned all the letters grandpa sent how from Europe and sent me copies.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">These are a very few fragments of the many connections and conversations
that filled the holiday. Such things are hard to remember except in random snatches, and harder
still to describe or recreate, unless you happen to be a novelist. The snatches above are grossly inadequate to capture or do justice to the family spirit. </p><p class="MsoNormal">But I guess there's no harm trying.</p>Macaronihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02053482785858037690noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-204832347019783654.post-68666819806889460262023-11-20T18:44:00.007-05:002023-11-21T09:18:55.460-05:00In Our Hands - Native American Photography<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjX0GnFl4RvZXPvmVhegyf5r0BlB6DgsnMlJiwWPM-0LPbDB-wNPvVorn-mEMwB1eirAVZWB3kdEtsRKgmwM6629UiRORrRWSDwYyRTv5fEwimbjQehpaLfjgc2J0gMN0WKItYbKUEqhYdoA8OQt_7HXWIXdau6Y5HOruu1poqaakR-tqNxqkUHFYbD_qx2/s600/teepees.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="412" data-original-width="600" height="275" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjX0GnFl4RvZXPvmVhegyf5r0BlB6DgsnMlJiwWPM-0LPbDB-wNPvVorn-mEMwB1eirAVZWB3kdEtsRKgmwM6629UiRORrRWSDwYyRTv5fEwimbjQehpaLfjgc2J0gMN0WKItYbKUEqhYdoA8OQt_7HXWIXdau6Y5HOruu1poqaakR-tqNxqkUHFYbD_qx2/w400-h275/teepees.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />The exhibit currently on view at the Minneapolis Institute of Arts,
"<a href="https://new.artsmia.org/exhibition/in-our-hands-native-photography-1890-to-now"><span style="color: red;">In Our Hands</span></a>: Native Photography, 1890 to Now," offers a hodgepodge
of themes and styles, as we might expect, considering the span of time
involved. Biting ironic collages about westward expansion hang next to staged
ceremonial tableau, arrays of abstract religious symbols, and black-and-white
photos of family groups. Some of the pieces might be referred to as
ethnographic, while others draw their appeal from the spectacular colors
available to any modern photographer. The result is a wonderful show, needling
a white viewer like me to think a little more deeply about how Indians see the
world while also confirming the notion that the aspects of indigenous cultures
that I find most appealing are often the ones that native artists also value
highly about themselves. <div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipMajyZPkK-GkbFAMrtQ6RJi2t5BxAqP04DpMXxiQmWe_LQti3Zt0yrfkQufEbKGKPhc_3c2aoGadfT6U7LkpEIkwa_ZKmddWx0UVLoSTQxNmkTnzkynctB17pVf-bTmsgzVpF1bor3LecPycexCS4sNcXDlJx_bpIgA_CmHfM2TyUkyNG2G41hThXOCqp/s600/collage.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="491" data-original-width="600" height="328" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipMajyZPkK-GkbFAMrtQ6RJi2t5BxAqP04DpMXxiQmWe_LQti3Zt0yrfkQufEbKGKPhc_3c2aoGadfT6U7LkpEIkwa_ZKmddWx0UVLoSTQxNmkTnzkynctB17pVf-bTmsgzVpF1bor3LecPycexCS4sNcXDlJx_bpIgA_CmHfM2TyUkyNG2G41hThXOCqp/w400-h328/collage.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div><p class="MsoNormal">It almost goes without saying that the artwork on display is
often better than the accompanying interpretive texts, which too often traverse
the familiar ground of exclusion, marginalization, and misunderstanding between
cultures, without illuminating it much. Many of the images are simply
"cool" to look at, and hardly need interpretation. For example, the
start of a race, which interested the photographer because, as he admits in the
text, he'd never seen anything like it before.</p>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDGZRQd4dHOfrnDPu2TTC5XCrwz2WV6KJoROau55iBUJybIpDkCF5tJfqWMPkokruPzDJrZh6rwY8IOcysIzZz8jcrqP4DSDgTVr4mao5UVHsV0d_E9lVbV6r9f3fDk_Ogx6DDCrUb-CU1OkBbkfkYOQhYJq1tWfNsP8Ntbj14tQNNOWslD4-CetCKVmJQ/s600/race.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="397" data-original-width="600" height="265" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDGZRQd4dHOfrnDPu2TTC5XCrwz2WV6KJoROau55iBUJybIpDkCF5tJfqWMPkokruPzDJrZh6rwY8IOcysIzZz8jcrqP4DSDgTVr4mao5UVHsV0d_E9lVbV6r9f3fDk_Ogx6DDCrUb-CU1OkBbkfkYOQhYJq1tWfNsP8Ntbj14tQNNOWslD4-CetCKVmJQ/w400-h265/race.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal">In another fascinating photo we see chunks of whale blubber
spread across the ice, and are informed in the text where the whale came from
and why it has been ceremonially butchered.</p>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEih6h3mhztkhnZ9AD4aBjJCm27BoLMwx0Vcg2gQIT5PIjykXoc3xUNEPx1qZpbQcSOlt-i4ibbPW1Vmcx4j7ecp8pgfe9Mu8IyAewf5q7kiE4Xszs26VlKFTUerxbcYqhNSob-XX1uO0gJXJ_5HOGTrQvxDQQT3Nx5WYfGXPPU90Jk5tDuvgujbG2ErZyrQ/s608/blubber.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="608" data-original-width="600" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEih6h3mhztkhnZ9AD4aBjJCm27BoLMwx0Vcg2gQIT5PIjykXoc3xUNEPx1qZpbQcSOlt-i4ibbPW1Vmcx4j7ecp8pgfe9Mu8IyAewf5q7kiE4Xszs26VlKFTUerxbcYqhNSob-XX1uO0gJXJ_5HOGTrQvxDQQT3Nx5WYfGXPPU90Jk5tDuvgujbG2ErZyrQ/w395-h400/blubber.jpg" width="395" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal">One image from the 1950s (if I remember correctly) is a
portrait of an Indian sitting near a pueblo wearing high-top tennis shoes. According
to the text, there was a time when many viewers were more interested in analyzing
<i>why</i> the man was wearing those shoes
than in appreciating the striking character of the photo. Not today. </p>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPnyvvju3S0eH67IK40BX6GubHWjkng4a_JFKigCXoFIsqWd1q6k7JWkb6R0MYUWs7qLjqlvxlMj-dF-Y-jEoiVDQ7NMSp4d1JcV1wyjLrGWsljyOoxh-aYslFUxN5_tcOgi9FsHXSVOU8Ul1V5MuJOFpaVBpSHdol6GI08qMBWXuTL8FoIuBn5_qQBeXP/s775/hig-tops.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="775" data-original-width="600" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPnyvvju3S0eH67IK40BX6GubHWjkng4a_JFKigCXoFIsqWd1q6k7JWkb6R0MYUWs7qLjqlvxlMj-dF-Y-jEoiVDQ7NMSp4d1JcV1wyjLrGWsljyOoxh-aYslFUxN5_tcOgi9FsHXSVOU8Ul1V5MuJOFpaVBpSHdol6GI08qMBWXuTL8FoIuBn5_qQBeXP/w310-h400/hig-tops.jpg" width="310" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal">One large piece, maybe 3 by 6 feet, that I found appealing carries this note
by Will Wilson, which I have edited slightly due to typological limitations:</p>
<blockquote><p class="MsoNormal">Diné photographer Dakota Mace's chemigrams blend the language
of Diné symbology with the elements of silver-based photography. These unique
prints, made by manipulating light-sensitive photographic paper and chemicals,
stand as remarkable unions of symbolic language and material interaction. As
Mace observes, central symbols—Spider Woman, Mountain, Whirling Log, and <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>the concept of four—are ever-present yet
ever-shifting within the land. Each print, inspired by traditional narratives,
designs, and symbols, echoes the unique yet interconnected essence of Diné philosophy.
Mace's innovative approach embodies simplicity and elegance, harnessing form
and concept to evoke <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>the Diné concept of
balance and harmony.</p></blockquote>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKBuHPKr4j5G1LpEeveOpfRTdTbp_gTK3cTSKwHEe80HQgZWptySqijyGxgb3Shn1XYIIkIO1K2-8sVlZMSGF8a_FAtjhyphenhyphenNNUi5s1Uf5kpDsQzcyYUEmUyGoVyW_vui3oqT1Tga7GLRHyJMgM9mukRapzJWuBhq7OcK4FS-gw8F_cA64FFL9EXVafR8n1t/s600/symbols.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="347" data-original-width="600" height="231" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKBuHPKr4j5G1LpEeveOpfRTdTbp_gTK3cTSKwHEe80HQgZWptySqijyGxgb3Shn1XYIIkIO1K2-8sVlZMSGF8a_FAtjhyphenhyphenNNUi5s1Uf5kpDsQzcyYUEmUyGoVyW_vui3oqT1Tga7GLRHyJMgM9mukRapzJWuBhq7OcK4FS-gw8F_cA64FFL9EXVafR8n1t/w400-h231/symbols.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal">Some photos are appealing due to the colors, regardless of
the artist's intent in taking them. For example, this vivid overhead scene of seal
butchery was taken by a drone.</p>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0g5x69JbE_InP6Y263dp6OCxbfqVRcR6oRGOjADRs7GV6jwcjLJI29IhdROJKC9f06Yx9mJITDcYoIDYdOPblZ3xy2cdONTbadXmpN6BDuKdSX2Khm_A8Kh7LhREN48NlEuk0rEpwjUp75mL-81C_HVI7Q-PsGk-R8LoC4ZgkIQ5aTOjwei8OmBCJ7U-l/s600/drone-shot.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="329" data-original-width="600" height="219" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0g5x69JbE_InP6Y263dp6OCxbfqVRcR6oRGOjADRs7GV6jwcjLJI29IhdROJKC9f06Yx9mJITDcYoIDYdOPblZ3xy2cdONTbadXmpN6BDuKdSX2Khm_A8Kh7LhREN48NlEuk0rEpwjUp75mL-81C_HVI7Q-PsGk-R8LoC4ZgkIQ5aTOjwei8OmBCJ7U-l/w400-h219/drone-shot.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal">Another image was staged to make some sort of statement
about the exploitation of Native women. I couldn't quite follow the logic of the text, but I thought it looked "cool."</p>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0TFjCU-Spw_7sWGM7Z0pPSm16y0_enEdn0zCulAk1wzGLQ1ngG3Rp66npedrQs0vCJwsxhxZGCV2LdOBZGiA0wYqJrNrNLWdNPG29RC-P0MBu8zVgYiwIO4ZCiLO58xkpN6_XfwCgQjqf7GKFvWtKzjlEYtEvBFyVbFQ-2SHUVfLGSv_IFvQrI9lK_jIz/s600/pink-cloud-woman.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="469" data-original-width="600" height="313" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0TFjCU-Spw_7sWGM7Z0pPSm16y0_enEdn0zCulAk1wzGLQ1ngG3Rp66npedrQs0vCJwsxhxZGCV2LdOBZGiA0wYqJrNrNLWdNPG29RC-P0MBu8zVgYiwIO4ZCiLO58xkpN6_XfwCgQjqf7GKFvWtKzjlEYtEvBFyVbFQ-2SHUVfLGSv_IFvQrI9lK_jIz/w400-h313/pink-cloud-woman.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal">Some of the images offer a fascinating glimpse into bygone
customs and lifeways, in the manner of Edward S. Curtiss.</p>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjM5dF-eaWCTxRHOhqI2vxrdFuj-GF00tog1bCEFfMDT_SEK7oqEd4yD2OU1xe4KPBa5iQqTJU4QvjxXTv-84bv-gMELv2p0RE04ihX18WgiwnXZ5Cox5yhAGneIYFgS0XCuU1KhfzkRQ1SNi5Lhf8HcPpfcnLdadcOd5uxjE1_xcvQ9NC97u433gfA_5fG/s825/IMG_9892.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="825" data-original-width="600" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjM5dF-eaWCTxRHOhqI2vxrdFuj-GF00tog1bCEFfMDT_SEK7oqEd4yD2OU1xe4KPBa5iQqTJU4QvjxXTv-84bv-gMELv2p0RE04ihX18WgiwnXZ5Cox5yhAGneIYFgS0XCuU1KhfzkRQ1SNi5Lhf8HcPpfcnLdadcOd5uxjE1_xcvQ9NC97u433gfA_5fG/w291-h400/IMG_9892.jpg" width="291" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal">Others, though obviously staged, are hauntingly evocative.</p>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3rCClzdurOKhYfEub24TvCYapfsX5vmKu2OcitkXTkay69rkthRrfdQxOrl581aN7mwU7OO74uLVmrgsiKt_5xJZ60kCquSpwGPAix1dpRbjpoNfGF99ViHrJinriixZT3sLDe72XsTlUKBbMiC-7xlKh_G9fP4b2yGBkpsoZjVDtbhi-q6leioH7XHJO/s600/dancing-totem.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="307" data-original-width="600" height="205" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3rCClzdurOKhYfEub24TvCYapfsX5vmKu2OcitkXTkay69rkthRrfdQxOrl581aN7mwU7OO74uLVmrgsiKt_5xJZ60kCquSpwGPAix1dpRbjpoNfGF99ViHrJinriixZT3sLDe72XsTlUKBbMiC-7xlKh_G9fP4b2yGBkpsoZjVDtbhi-q6leioH7XHJO/w400-h205/dancing-totem.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal">And others still, whatever their intended message, reminded me of
the good-natured humanity that often shines through between people, regardless
of ethnicity, grievance, or misunderstanding.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkV5aYXbNmSEFBZBHQljFAoM5Tb3ERiJwpkRX07hU5sshTumKZI-V7ylb1D5q9cqgm9Z8PizPhxXmJeSMIMBhloqHNQXw7Qz71Pq5Vh48qn16Ix_JVwzjn4f5jKV5cQOwfsaXNUTdHsKBq35RuLsBvx5cBS_KsrnUHmn4CRg9p2naRk2kZ-jQtCmMU5A_C/s600/headshots.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="380" data-original-width="600" height="254" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkV5aYXbNmSEFBZBHQljFAoM5Tb3ERiJwpkRX07hU5sshTumKZI-V7ylb1D5q9cqgm9Z8PizPhxXmJeSMIMBhloqHNQXw7Qz71Pq5Vh48qn16Ix_JVwzjn4f5jKV5cQOwfsaXNUTdHsKBq35RuLsBvx5cBS_KsrnUHmn4CRg9p2naRk2kZ-jQtCmMU5A_C/w400-h254/headshots.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal">You may argue that I would have gotten more from the show by reading the text more carefully. Maybe so. But it strikes me that the "intentional fallacy" is sound: it's a mistake to lean too heavily on an artist's analysis of what he or she has done. Better to take in what's right in front of you first.</p><p class="MsoNormal">The exit from the show leads out into the Native American
rooms of the MIA's permanent collection, which is also fine. But in light of the unusual and varied images
we'd just come face to face with, it seemed not only familiar and conventional, but also strangely stale.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Our final stop was <a href="https://www.quang-restaurant.com/"><span style="color: red;">Quang</span></a>, that ever-popular Vietnamese
restaurant a few blocks away. I ordered the Hu Tieu Bo Kho. Not quite the lamb and hominy stew we'd been served in the two-room adobe home of a local family at San Ildefonso Pueblo years ago, after witnessing an Easter deer dance together. But it was close enough.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyrMzcrzZx7Wtq_Fy0oYnxRtikAGaDWgrfSV-3DBV__QPcmHepi8J4PT3xmfCfSZVozvzRpE6hPkUaPNFFYx9wcfeEgpJ3OlReqHitLlqVkBqYINg-KdEnMufb-CpJGZkA7RFPZmr9vSEpbn6XLzZRgzX5RkNPTuNoMEnLUCuWI3wIPvfI5vwg8PM-jVq0/s600/Quang-bowl.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="450" data-original-width="600" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyrMzcrzZx7Wtq_Fy0oYnxRtikAGaDWgrfSV-3DBV__QPcmHepi8J4PT3xmfCfSZVozvzRpE6hPkUaPNFFYx9wcfeEgpJ3OlReqHitLlqVkBqYINg-KdEnMufb-CpJGZkA7RFPZmr9vSEpbn6XLzZRgzX5RkNPTuNoMEnLUCuWI3wIPvfI5vwg8PM-jVq0/w400-h300/Quang-bowl.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />
<p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p></div>Macaronihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02053482785858037690noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-204832347019783654.post-88561066152305486102023-11-10T09:06:00.002-05:002023-11-10T09:06:26.059-05:00New Book Out<p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkReexMklnK_BGjdjZD3b9B4163hzGJxIFm4ps9JVawSpNUON7K5Y_KjkMEM5iDWDX6eAwtSleIQ1ADCAmwN3bg2njX87hEBi3SoVW0PYy4AiazZpdgi9YizB1cs5Ajh6S0BInroqNz76sspKFJhjxusXuyb0PPjPAGcH98v9TXwSKTP7tU19yExQPT_e_/s936/front-cover-600.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="936" data-original-width="600" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkReexMklnK_BGjdjZD3b9B4163hzGJxIFm4ps9JVawSpNUON7K5Y_KjkMEM5iDWDX6eAwtSleIQ1ADCAmwN3bg2njX87hEBi3SoVW0PYy4AiazZpdgi9YizB1cs5Ajh6S0BInroqNz76sspKFJhjxusXuyb0PPjPAGcH98v9TXwSKTP7tU19yExQPT_e_/w256-h400/front-cover-600.jpg" width="256" /></a></div><br />The Roman poet Horace once advanced the theory that an
author ought to wait nine years before publishing a book. He referred to this
maturation process as "building soil." At least, that's how I remember
the remark. I made an attempt to double-check the quotation online and came up
with a <span style="color: red;"><a href="https://www.pmagsources.com/fertility-soil"><span style="color: red;">link</span></a></span>
to P.M. Agricultural Sources in Horace, North Dakota.<p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">All the same, Horace's point is well-taken, though a little
extreme. Nine years is a long time for anyone but a locust, or a geologist. Yet
every so often I take a look at something I wrote a few years ago and am
surprised at how cogent it is. I also notice, more than occasionally, a few unnecessary adjectives and frivolous
asides. "This would not be bad, if someone cleaned it up a bit," I
say to myself.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">All of which is a roundabout way of saying that a new
collection of essays appeared on the market recently bearing my name. My
intention, when putting it together, was to gather a few pieces together that
were perhaps on the more serious side, as a complement to the breeziness of my
previous collection, <i>Cabin in the City</i>.
</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The title I came up with was "A Metaphysical
Bent." Confident that such a collection would appeal to few readers, my
plan was to upload the files to a print-on-demand site, so that the book would
become available on <a href="https://www.amazon.com/Mind-Cuts-Heart-Sings-metaphysics/dp/098270965X/ref=sr_1_6?crid=16VA8OF3W3RMZ&keywords=john+toren+books&qid=1699624810&sprefix=%2Caps%2C112&sr=8-6"><span style="color: red;">Amazon</span></a>, in case anyone happened to be interested. I might
give away a few copies myself. Christmas is right around the corner!</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnKMM-ZHe5XByNIrI58YsO1kO9IJawe-2ZKp-b0TKtYH_FBuNBlqYqhkRLzyFDmlZEABnvrfa9clWM7oQDTyjQmYlAi8pYaw2tnMIyXFhH-7K3Yvq6d4KEeSiNgqn5iMqPTiydMohJP4shvlzF4TYBqHYTiCZH0tAzHZK44n11cq-xmgaeoxYWuk8mWA6x/s454/cassirrer.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="454" data-original-width="380" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnKMM-ZHe5XByNIrI58YsO1kO9IJawe-2ZKp-b0TKtYH_FBuNBlqYqhkRLzyFDmlZEABnvrfa9clWM7oQDTyjQmYlAi8pYaw2tnMIyXFhH-7K3Yvq6d4KEeSiNgqn5iMqPTiydMohJP4shvlzF4TYBqHYTiCZH0tAzHZK44n11cq-xmgaeoxYWuk8mWA6x/w168-h200/cassirrer.jpg" width="168" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ernst Cassirer</td></tr></tbody></table><br />Hilary advised me to change the title. She also read through
the manuscript and suggested that I remove a few pieces. For example, she
questioned whether anyone would get excited about an essay called "The
Conceptual Sympathy of Ernst Cassirer." Good point. She also found the essay about my struggles with ilio-tibial span syndrome (sore hip) a bit
self-referential, not to mention BORING. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">"Why don't you add a few <i>fun</i> essays?" she said. "Travel? Music? Food?" She
also suggested that I move the last, and longest, essay in the book,
"Metaphysics for Beginners," to the front. I found that encouraging.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The revised and much improved collection now carries the following
description on the back:</p>
<blockquote><p class="MsoNormal">Fresh from the backyard ruminations of <i>Cabin in the City</i>, essayist John Toren here turns his attention to
all manner of earthly and cosmic speculation. Driven by the belief that
philosophic thought should be clear, accurate, and emotionally gratifying, he
takes up such questions as whether the universe will continue to expand
forever, what it means to be “moved,” and why it is that a common cold can
significantly undercut our mood, and hence our view of life. Dipping into the
Western canon, he takes Blaise Pascal to task for some of the views he advances
in his <i>Pensées</i> on both probability
and faith, and makes a valiant attempt to come to grips with Dante’s <i>Divine Comedy</i>, before becoming waylaid
by the challenge of choosing among the many competing translations. Lydia
Davis’s “flash fiction,” Glenn Gould’s search for the perfect piano, the
history of agriculture in the Mediterranean basin, and Swedish entomologist
Fredrik Sjöberg’s unusual perspective on the natural world—these are just a few
of the subjects under review in this curious and delightful collection.</p></blockquote>
<p class="MsoNormal">A perfect stocking-stuffer? A light-weight companion for a
North Woods getaway? </p><p class="MsoNormal">You can pick up a copy <span style="color: red;"><a href="https://www.amazon.com/Mind-Cuts-Heart-Sings-metaphysics/dp/098270965X/ref=sr_1_8?crid=3VMNP2GFO2YH3&keywords=John+Toren+books&qid=1699623447&sprefix=john+loren+books%2Caps%2C114&sr=8-8"><span style="color: red;">here</span></a></span>. </p>
<p> </p>Macaronihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02053482785858037690noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-204832347019783654.post-1617731693808399822023-10-26T12:21:00.002-04:002023-10-26T14:39:35.118-04:00Does Aging Improve Brain Function?<div class="post-body entry-content" id="post-body-429379489913192034" itemprop="description articleBody" style="background-color: white; line-height: 1.6em; margin: 0px 0px 0.75em;"><div dir="ltr" trbidi="on"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; color: #15222b; font-family: Trebuchet, "Trebuchet MS", Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9tvRZTdCBAA6VeytASGzkyf12iLCYmMhkhV4n7bq3wzRVPvzjPq9j1YC6T7sYfyUzlHvhRluFqTtQOaIATCEmBgdfTIdP5P24VSd4rZs7utEcgpX8AZ_83Zmg5oRk73iLkNYSJ47FpA9n/s1600/brain+scan.jpg" style="color: #5588aa; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-decoration-line: none;"><img border="0" height="242" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9tvRZTdCBAA6VeytASGzkyf12iLCYmMhkhV4n7bq3wzRVPvzjPq9j1YC6T7sYfyUzlHvhRluFqTtQOaIATCEmBgdfTIdP5P24VSd4rZs7utEcgpX8AZ_83Zmg5oRk73iLkNYSJ47FpA9n/s400/brain+scan.jpg" style="border: 1px solid rgb(204, 204, 204); padding: 4px;" width="400" /></a></div><div class="story-body-text" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; color: #15222b; font-family: Trebuchet, "Trebuchet MS", Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; margin: 0in 0in 12pt;"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: georgia, serif;"><br /></span></div><div class="story-body-text" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; color: #15222b; font-size: 13px; margin: 0in 0in 12pt;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="color: #333333;">The <i>New York Times</i> reported <a href="http://well.blogs.nytimes.com/2015/12/09/does-exercise-help-keep-our-brains-young/?ref=health" style="color: #5588aa; text-decoration-line: none;" target="_blank"><span style="color: red;">recently</span></a></span><span style="color: #333333;"><a href="http://well.blogs.nytimes.com/2015/12/09/does-exercise-help-keep-our-brains-young/?ref=health" style="color: #5588aa; text-decoration-line: none;" target="_blank"> </a>that researchers have discovered significant differences in the way young people and middle-aged people process information and solve problems. When young people undertake a cognitive task, the part of the brain they activate tends to be "highly localize." Older people draw upon a broader spectrum of cognitive facilities when approaching the same task.</span></span></div><div class="story-body-text" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; color: #15222b; font-size: 13px; margin: 0in 0in 12pt;"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: verdana;">The researchers—who probably wish they were still young, so they could be doing something more fun than looking at brain scans—have come up with a perversely inaccurate acronym for this phenomenon: HAROLD. This stands for "hemispheric asymmetry reduction in older adults." According to the article, most researchers agree this phenomenon represents "a general reorganization and weakening of the brain’s function with age."<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="story-body-text" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; color: #15222b; font-size: 13px; margin: 0in 0in 12pt;"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: verdana;">Weakening? I'm afraid it represents nothing of the kind. Unless it can be established scientifically that the solution arrived at most rapidly, and using the least amount of brainpower, is invariably the best, which I doubt. I think it's more often the other way around. Young people tend to have plenty of energy, but they often mistake their own infinitesimal corner of the world for the world itself, and as a result, they make snap judgments that often prove to be inaccurate and can sometimes be personally harmful.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="story-body-text" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; color: #15222b; font-size: 13px; margin: 0in 0in 12pt;"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: verdana;">Older people, tempered and enlightened by years of experiences, are much better at seeing the connections between things, reserving judgment, pondering alternatives. Due to these qualities--which, prior to the age of acronyms, went collectively under the name "maturity"--older men and women often become adept at charting a safe, effective, creative, and reliable course between A and B.</span></div><div class="story-body-text" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; color: #15222b; font-size: 13px; margin: 0in 0in 12pt;"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: verdana;">Rather than burdening older folks with yet another dreadful syndrome, HAROLD, researchers ought to be studying, and celebrating, HEART—this is, Hemispheric Equilibrium and Reflective Temper.</span></div><div class="story-body-text" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; color: #15222b; font-size: 13px; margin: 0in 0in 12pt;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEil96q9BfEPl7HHU8TiZBv7DK8aka0MWsO9MaztLnlCVPlQE-vmJzRhc3EsE-M9ZuGsIqwFNYQKwftvPJWVH_fQNtT3vgeQn57V3YbSJNJd3DZM5L8SccN75T-o8xOahQg01K89ft7IyGBayOyOBY2_VD4Ep3-o5ZCzOQOMDxuvTyVcQbzGRn9QtSDDau9U/s600/backyard-window.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="452" data-original-width="600" height="301" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEil96q9BfEPl7HHU8TiZBv7DK8aka0MWsO9MaztLnlCVPlQE-vmJzRhc3EsE-M9ZuGsIqwFNYQKwftvPJWVH_fQNtT3vgeQn57V3YbSJNJd3DZM5L8SccN75T-o8xOahQg01K89ft7IyGBayOyOBY2_VD4Ep3-o5ZCzOQOMDxuvTyVcQbzGRn9QtSDDau9U/w400-h301/backyard-window.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><span style="color: #333333; font-family: verdana;"><div class="story-body-text" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; color: #15222b; font-size: 13px; margin: 0in 0in 12pt;"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></div>(And by the way, have you notice how this gray weather has been bringing out the muted brilliance in the multicolored leaves, especially when a bit of sunlight makes them glisten with moisture?)</span></div><div class="story-body-text" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; color: #15222b; font-size: 13px; margin: 0in 0in 12pt;"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: verdana;">On the methodological level, the study once again reminds us that it isn't easy to design experiments involving the complex tasks that people typically have to deal with, where one of the options might be wait, or to ignore the task altogether.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="story-body-text" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; color: #15222b; font-size: 13px; margin: 0in 0in 12pt;"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: verdana;">I've become adept at such delayed responses. For example, a few weeks ago the "check engine" lit up on the dash of our 2015 Corolla. Our go-to mechanic tracked it down to an aging carbon canister, and proposed a $700 replacement. "You don't really <i>have </i>to do it," he told me, "if you don't mind looking at that light."</span></div><div class="story-body-text" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; color: #15222b; font-size: 13px; margin: 0in 0in 12pt;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0BivuYkfmFgXUKJP0AO7WcE7fqyW4gY9FlZqNZWwu-Dm7Zl92S_LQU7DS-WyR1u8RhFNtRK5OAiU8LQe4wpizsKLfc6-Myw8zboRXSBqYuNRO_26KaQzniQBv14-u0RJexirvh3WZIKBq5NRbX_M-I1QiPTKUYwtaKQWROB8IcKu-Gs9S7dCJJSPhSbu2/s600/Vesterheim-atrium.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="450" data-original-width="600" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0BivuYkfmFgXUKJP0AO7WcE7fqyW4gY9FlZqNZWwu-Dm7Zl92S_LQU7DS-WyR1u8RhFNtRK5OAiU8LQe4wpizsKLfc6-Myw8zboRXSBqYuNRO_26KaQzniQBv14-u0RJexirvh3WZIKBq5NRbX_M-I1QiPTKUYwtaKQWROB8IcKu-Gs9S7dCJJSPhSbu2/w400-h300/Vesterheim-atrium.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The "occulus" in the new Vesterheim visitors' center.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><span style="color: #333333; font-family: verdana;">We pondered the expense all the way to Lanesboro, and on to Decorah, Iowa, to see the new visitors' </span><a href="https://vesterheim.org/announcing-the-vesterheim-commons-project/" style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="color: red;">center </span></a><span style="color: #333333; font-family: verdana;">at the Vesterheim Museum. On the way back, somewhere near Zumbrota, the light went out. It stayed out. Problem solved. (For now.) </span></div><div class="story-body-text" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; margin: 0in 0in 12pt;"><span style="color: #333333;"><span style="font-size: 13px;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">Meanwhile, it may also be worth pointing out that the brain does lots of things besides solving problems. The "hemispheric asymmetry reduction" that the researchers refer to as a defect might be just the thing that many of us are looking for. Books appear almost daily giving us advice as to how to find serenity and inner peace. Centuries ago Spinoza and Marcus Aurelius followed the same track. It's matter of learning how to see the world, and our place in it, as an ensemble of more or less harmonious elements rather than the interminable series of crises that the purveyors of news are so good at describing hourly.</span></span></span></div><div class="story-body-text" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; margin: 0in 0in 12pt;"><span style="color: #333333;"><span><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size: 13px;">But there is one thing to avoid: it would be a mistake to become too adept at counterbalancing this and that, adjusting to every situation, putting things off, staying "in the moment," while slowly sinking into a quietistic stupor.</span></span></span></span></div><div class="story-body-text" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; margin: 0in 0in 12pt;"><span style="color: #333333;"><span><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size: 13px;">On some occasions, there really is something wrong with the car. And there are always more than a few things wrong with the world. </span></span><span style="font-family: georgia, serif; font-size: 13px;"> </span></span></span></div><div class="story-body-text" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; font-size: 13px; margin: 0in 0in 12pt;"><br /></div></div></div>Macaronihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02053482785858037690noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-204832347019783654.post-11844751632637368812023-10-15T15:36:00.004-04:002023-10-16T11:06:25.391-04:00Rain Taxi Book Festival 2023<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiC9hBiiqD2YaNGIwyLTpPbvFn9acdtde1dV_uyyD6HzYMMsCaYXWpj5pvyhy_1sNgzmB_csQNK_E0gbTWvzrgyrkzmbjnhfQgJVuxWOhHwfVBf_6jOueC2N4rCU5tszHuCmj1tEI2yOc77-gSlLRwyJTfasWEElEWNJwk2aIO_-_fJ6U7ZaAna0ylGCHym/s1000/book-fest-panorama.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="492" data-original-width="1000" height="196" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiC9hBiiqD2YaNGIwyLTpPbvFn9acdtde1dV_uyyD6HzYMMsCaYXWpj5pvyhy_1sNgzmB_csQNK_E0gbTWvzrgyrkzmbjnhfQgJVuxWOhHwfVBf_6jOueC2N4rCU5tszHuCmj1tEI2yOc77-gSlLRwyJTfasWEElEWNJwk2aIO_-_fJ6U7ZaAna0ylGCHym/w400-h196/book-fest-panorama.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />I dropped in at the Twin Cities Book Festival once again the
other day, where you never know what books you'll discover, what old friends
you'll run into, or what new friends you'll make. The day is usually cold and
blustery, making the two-block walk up the hill to the event refreshing, and
this year was no exception. As I approached, the smell of mini-donuts filled
the air—a pleasantly bitter-sweet reminder that we hadn't gone to the State
Fair this year.<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQhP5jbnRg_CVwq4iQuKBzLcI4wifmqyDUiGuAHRgCoYBNackUmfXexELF27FwePhIg8ihhiRJ1PZ6Yz6Zjbza4Kx9T6n6p7Kb9kBboTsG-3bifauh1USY2MAXlIGefdZDv5VPRyo2g-fV05lXKfpanpWB96xlnShHfh8TUQp87B8sEdMhv-CpM6EADq8o/s600/nodin-booth.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="450" data-original-width="600" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQhP5jbnRg_CVwq4iQuKBzLcI4wifmqyDUiGuAHRgCoYBNackUmfXexELF27FwePhIg8ihhiRJ1PZ6Yz6Zjbza4Kx9T6n6p7Kb9kBboTsG-3bifauh1USY2MAXlIGefdZDv5VPRyo2g-fV05lXKfpanpWB96xlnShHfh8TUQp87B8sEdMhv-CpM6EADq8o/w400-h300/nodin-booth.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p>The Nodin Press booth no longer occupied its prime position
by the front door, due to an administrative mix-up, but it was only one row
down, still next to the main aisle. It was perhaps a better location: just as
prominent as usual but less exposed to the elements. I said hi to Norton and
poet Sharon Chmielarz, who was there to sign copies of her new book, <i>Duet in the Little Blue Church</i>, and
promised to be back soon.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">A few booths down I spotted a new novel by Will Weaver, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Power and Light</i>, on the Holy Cow Press
table. "One of my favorite books," I told the rep standing there,
"is Weaver's <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Last Deer Hunter</i>.
I'm not a deer hunter myself," I hastened to add. "Then again, neither
is he."</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0TUELk0QqLhxGhag9pZV_Lj5KRmB1A8JQ9uPj9EjdH3eGGWihBNskE-SOpdTOnrL9mneLcETlYtS-2vK55osZWjNOk35RrpKlwa2gcBI8vsTxaC5O2G11P1R159HJidn_CTYINf8V5u5SeYA37waQMc58Yv6ywJlWFLnpYSHYOvg-Jdgmh-w06ekMk76y/s600/will-weaver.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="450" data-original-width="600" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0TUELk0QqLhxGhag9pZV_Lj5KRmB1A8JQ9uPj9EjdH3eGGWihBNskE-SOpdTOnrL9mneLcETlYtS-2vK55osZWjNOk35RrpKlwa2gcBI8vsTxaC5O2G11P1R159HJidn_CTYINf8V5u5SeYA37waQMc58Yv6ywJlWFLnpYSHYOvg-Jdgmh-w06ekMk76y/w400-h300/will-weaver.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal">"What? Did someone say my name?" came a voice from
down the way. It was Will himself.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">"I was just conveying my appreciation for<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> The Last Deer Hunter</i>," I said.
"It's got the farm, back-woods, and out-state urban flavor, but also Santa
Cruz. I'll never forget the scene where you bring your girlfriend from Madison
home to meet your parents, and wonder what she'll think of all the frozen fox
carcasses in the barn. Hilarious."</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">"Thank you," he said with a smile. "Though
the book is called <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Last Hunter</i>."
</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">"My wife and I travel around the state a lot, and a few
years ago we took a turn through your neck of the woods: the Smoky Hills.
There's not a whole lot there."</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">"It's subtle," he said with a laugh. "Very
subtle."</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Turning back toward the Nodin booth, I ran into a young
woman I vaguely recognized. "I think you're one of the famous authors that
will be reading today," I said. "But I don't remember your
name."</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">"I wouldn't say <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">famous</i>,"
she laughed. "I'm Kathleen Rooney. From Chicago. Right now I'm looking for
that Robert Bly book. Oh, there it is.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
love Bly."</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXVwCe5qOk3SG623-uVyTUj5CR3jBaDrX0Ju1BsDnBcT394d_fRiHLfbvKpi_NuETX8Ky1lhpfLpjhWzrZDB5rWFUxekpzAXk3EHdvMMdfXcmyk-j-dzcq_0ONhMgyihVpWwfXtnJ2HMe9LY6uepxSh3H54E2YF5Hu7SLE-afXNTlLieKSot843ERt3byX/s600/Kathleen-Rooney.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="450" data-original-width="600" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXVwCe5qOk3SG623-uVyTUj5CR3jBaDrX0Ju1BsDnBcT394d_fRiHLfbvKpi_NuETX8Ky1lhpfLpjhWzrZDB5rWFUxekpzAXk3EHdvMMdfXcmyk-j-dzcq_0ONhMgyihVpWwfXtnJ2HMe9LY6uepxSh3H54E2YF5Hu7SLE-afXNTlLieKSot843ERt3byX/w400-h300/Kathleen-Rooney.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal">I couldn't resist mentioning that I'd edited and designed that
book."</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">"Well, I reviewed it for Laurie Hertzel." </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">"Thanks very much. Laurie had a great book page, don't
you think?"</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">So we talked about Laurie, and I mentioned that I'd reviewed
a few books for the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Star Tribune</i> back
in the Dave Wood era. (Kathleen was probably an infant then.) But Laurie knew a
lot of book reviewers,<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>and drew from a far wider pool. </p><p class="MsoNormal">I mentioned that I'd also reviewed quite a few books for the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Rain Taxi Review</i>. While we were discussing the virtues of that publication and the ways that Rain Taxi keeps the local book scene bubbling, Kathleen
spotted Norton's bushel basket of crabapples, and that got her going on some of
the orchards just east of Madison, WI, where they've succeeding in bringing
back some heirloom species.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">"I'm sure you know that the U of M is a sort of apple
breeding capital," I said. "Haralson, Fireside, Honey Crisp."</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">"Yeah, well, that's not <i>quite </i>the same thing."
True enough.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">And I'm thinking now, isn't this what the book fest is all about? Individual authors
and regional proprietors? Niche audiences? Intimate associations?</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">It's been quite a while since I met such a disarmingly
friendly young person, who actually seemed eager to chat. I looked Kathleen <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>up online when I got home, and was introduced
to the astonishing array of her literary <a href="https://kathleenrooney.com/about/"><span style="color: red;">endeavors</span>
</a><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>as both author and publisher. Yet
she never mentioned any of them.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQ0tuXJhRhBdLOzW6gH6O7jhApCcVaQbBzB_qYUQFbB-4lth1eyvdQwHb-W1q0ruCy5tOPoQiaSNm4OUqirJJkFfPiLkOrCAonDem4Kj7zipz8SHCtwRmLtnOg4HrUb9Eo5Ukm47kS0yxo_vM9-POPRnG3DdxrTv6Jv5CmZU0_AbIGXZmcouz9_bNAEcLE/s225/Bach%20cover.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="225" data-original-width="225" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQ0tuXJhRhBdLOzW6gH6O7jhApCcVaQbBzB_qYUQFbB-4lth1eyvdQwHb-W1q0ruCy5tOPoQiaSNm4OUqirJJkFfPiLkOrCAonDem4Kj7zipz8SHCtwRmLtnOg4HrUb9Eo5Ukm47kS0yxo_vM9-POPRnG3DdxrTv6Jv5CmZU0_AbIGXZmcouz9_bNAEcLE/s1600/Bach%20cover.jpg" width="225" /></a></div><br />My next stop was the used book stall in the far corner of
the building, where books were arranged at random in a few broad categories:
fiction, biography. non-fiction, poetry, art, travel. I glanced at a few titles
as space between browsers permitted. On the "non-fiction" table,
which was relatively open, I came upon a weighty hardcover volume titled <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Bach's</i> <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Musical Universe</i> by Christoph Wolff, Harvard professor and former
director of the Bach Archive in Leipzig. It looks a little technical—not a book
to read cover to cover, perhaps—but I'm pretty sure he'll offer enlightenment about
any particular piece I want to find out about. What? Only $5.<p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Less than a minute later I hit upon a paperback edition of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Size of</i> <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Thoughts</i> by Nicholson Baker. Essays. The pages were yellow, but the
title was intriguing. And it was only $1. Why not?</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">But I drew the line at a $2 copy of Kenneth Rexroth's
autobiography. I knew of the book, but had never seen a copy before. But the
type was SO SMALL. I knew I'd never read it.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">One very long table was devoted to LPs. The dust jackets
looked ragged, the artists stale. Who cares about Cream or the Turtles these
days, much less Peter Frampton or Styx? <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>"Where are the CDs?" I asked the
nearest Rain Taxi volunteer. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">"We don't do CDs," he said dismissively. "But
next year we'll have cassettes." Are you joking? </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><b>Wandering the aisles</b>, I spent some time chatting with
Bookmobile prepress guru Sean Nickerbocker about his printing strategy for the
series of graphic novels he's been publishing. And in the next aisle, I
reintroduced myself to Carla Lomax, with whom I worked on the newsletter of the
Professional Editor's Network many years ago. I passed junior colleges
promoting their writing programs, individual authors hawking their
self-published books, university presses where the books were lined up in a row
between bookends (as if they didn't <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">really</i>
want you to look at them), library organizations, and used book stores.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">In one aisle I stopped to chat with a gentleman tending a
booth for St Paul's East Side Freedom Library. By coincidence, I<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>had looked up the location of this branch just
a few days earlier because some local poets had been scheduled to do a reading
there. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I told the man that I knew almost nothing about the East Side,
though I'd been up and down Arcade a few times as a youth on my way into St.
Paul, before the freeways were built. He told me a bit about the neighborhood's
immigrant heritage. What I learned just now, a few minutes ago, <a href="https://eastsidefreedomlibrary.org/"><span style="color: red;">online</span></a> , is that the East Side Freedom Library isn't part of the city system. Though
it's located in what looks to be a beautiful Carnegie library building, it's an
independent institution dedicated to labor history.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7u6IlJfimFm47Y9oLxWdpPwpeBWjRiQzyniTAdfheELMNU2nYFVfKs73v8epfzpaPpew_F3qjMGulFvEY2vMwSxWjzCZ1oqzlGg-gQb1y1CF1e07Al7TK7SHVhbPdZ_TBc4ce1dpnNOGCs7Wk6VhPBg3totuB-DXOt5G-ddKDRei4xkqBOLWuaX6GYQsS/s600/bookmen-pals.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="450" data-original-width="600" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7u6IlJfimFm47Y9oLxWdpPwpeBWjRiQzyniTAdfheELMNU2nYFVfKs73v8epfzpaPpew_F3qjMGulFvEY2vMwSxWjzCZ1oqzlGg-gQb1y1CF1e07Al7TK7SHVhbPdZ_TBc4ce1dpnNOGCs7Wk6VhPBg3totuB-DXOt5G-ddKDRei4xkqBOLWuaX6GYQsS/w400-h300/bookmen-pals.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /> Among the most pleasant encounters I had,
naturally, were with Rick Johnston, Richard Stegal, and Annie Klessig, old
friends from Bookmen days. We used to chat often at the warehouse when business was
slow, and occasionally at a happy hour after work. Here we were, striking up
the same humorous banter as if it were thirty years ago. It was a rare treat.<p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Back at the Nodin Press both I sat with Sharon while Norton
went off to get some lunch. We chatted while she signed a few copies of her new
book, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Duet in the Little Blue Church</i>,
for fans and strangers. I mentioned that I'd been talking with a man from the
Freedom Library. "I love that library," she said. "Such lofty
windows. That man was poet Clarence White."</p><b><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglokyQ2f0hftpuUTOf-Fw6_PloL3IgywbH6hx6AVO3LO6R9N0W7BgYdStqADDBRW46LxcVdqbkp56Z__8uogNs7rA2L0JPgoscqDaswEg4T6cpbjEKw6NrsPRN0wNfzP_8c-BoQR-d9xEsaPlJToOc-b1GohWyzVYs524mRmYcf-Mp6WIR-sM7hN3Jhjb2/s280/libromancy.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="280" data-original-width="175" height="280" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglokyQ2f0hftpuUTOf-Fw6_PloL3IgywbH6hx6AVO3LO6R9N0W7BgYdStqADDBRW46LxcVdqbkp56Z__8uogNs7rA2L0JPgoscqDaswEg4T6cpbjEKw6NrsPRN0wNfzP_8c-BoQR-d9xEsaPlJToOc-b1GohWyzVYs524mRmYcf-Mp6WIR-sM7hN3Jhjb2/s1600/libromancy.jpg" width="175" /></a></div><br />The festival also sponsors </b>author appearances throughout the
day. I was intrigued by the morning's opening event, which featured Josh Cook,
author of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Art of Libromancy: On
Selling Books and Reading Books in the Twenty-First Century</i>. Cook, a youngish
used book dealer from Cambridge, Mass, would certainly have had some interesting
things to say about the future of the book trade. But consulting the online
catalog of the Hennepin County Library before the fest, I noticed that a copy of
his book was available, and I placed a hold. It will arrive in a few days,
and I can ponder his theories at my leisure. (Stay tuned.)<p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">By the time I left the morning had warmed, but not much.
Yet<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> I</i> had been warmed in all kinds of
ways. I don't think anyone bought any of my books, but little matter. Though when
one visitor to the Nodin booth approached our cigar box checkout table with a
copy of Jim Gilbert's beautiful <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Minnesota
State of Beauty</i> under his arm, I couldn't resist mentioning that I'd
designed that book and taken more than a few of the photos.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">"Really?" he said. "Would you sign it for
me?"</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">"Surely you're joking?" I said.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">"Not at all. Please sign it 'to Ted.'" </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></p>Macaronihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02053482785858037690noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-204832347019783654.post-68640938366267728442023-10-13T09:55:00.002-04:002023-10-14T20:04:19.191-04:00Schubert Club Gems - Ah, Human Voices<p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnXjrlhgsxv-sKiW1mU2pFuqy-2ZoZJRvD_OcjhE_MVohEHao8dQLpgGDvXk26mQR1iaKXNTeHNpuxKQN-R5OLUvSdqlFylT9GI8emuWzyQBuJl7Pa_0DhOoDiFE818nMVjQAmE3axZlb7tmlxH8n0RvlZVwTEz_7bXDehAZKTmxUWjqqCxkxixSxMqlOm/s600/Stile-Antico.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="311" data-original-width="600" height="208" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnXjrlhgsxv-sKiW1mU2pFuqy-2ZoZJRvD_OcjhE_MVohEHao8dQLpgGDvXk26mQR1iaKXNTeHNpuxKQN-R5OLUvSdqlFylT9GI8emuWzyQBuJl7Pa_0DhOoDiFE818nMVjQAmE3axZlb7tmlxH8n0RvlZVwTEz_7bXDehAZKTmxUWjqqCxkxixSxMqlOm/w400-h208/Stile-Antico.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">The British a capella vocal group Stile Antico came to town
Tuesday night to present a program devoted to the music of the Renaissance English
composer William Byrd on the 400th anniversary of his death. This group has
been making waves for a good long time now, though I'd never heard of them
until they appeared on the Schubert Club Mix schedule a few months ago. </div><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">My tendency is to lump Byrd in with Thomas Tallis, John Dowland,
and Orlando Gibbons as agreeable composers of mostly
rich, somber, and ecclesiastical music from the era when "standard" chord
progressions did not yet exist. The musical lines, so I thought, tended to fold
back upon themselves in peculiar ways, in ever-shifting cadences, all within a
narrow range of intervals, rather than marking out an exposition, a secondary
theme, a variation or two, a return, a coda, and a finale.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The pieces in Stile Antico's program confirmed that
assessment. Which is not to say they were bad. On the contrary. It was as if we
had entered a musical world based on an entirely different set of suppositions,
the result being less like narrative adventures suitable for a Buster Keaton movie and more like ever-changing waves
of sound, with voices rising and falling, appearing and disappearing, and
harmonies squeezing into odd shapes as the individual voices followed their
distinctive paths. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjj7ul91Ld9v2AZqBDPaOXB7SZFBGzWwyD_UHMZ0Jp2HXmzTykZJL6-fA_64nvIXmAlZA1jqFQI_loNPoB26xASx8pV1_OMq3Nj8WJLXAhX7Srz1-kVDJHmc5NglPC5YaqZm-ukwwEi9063s2VK9Ep2X9M1MLSvaOUCm5dZCUzq8xj1eZDTEkxAnkk-NlKz/s768/william-byrd.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="768" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjj7ul91Ld9v2AZqBDPaOXB7SZFBGzWwyD_UHMZ0Jp2HXmzTykZJL6-fA_64nvIXmAlZA1jqFQI_loNPoB26xASx8pV1_OMq3Nj8WJLXAhX7Srz1-kVDJHmc5NglPC5YaqZm-ukwwEi9063s2VK9Ep2X9M1MLSvaOUCm5dZCUzq8xj1eZDTEkxAnkk-NlKz/w200-h200/william-byrd.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><br />The textbook term for this musical approach is "polyphony,"
as we were reminded during the "pub quiz" during intermission, but it's worth pointing out, I think, that the
polyphony of the Renaissance is far more peculiar than that of the Baroque. (The
harmonic patterns of Machaut and Dufay, from an earlier period, are stranger still. ) Bach later made use of
the same approach, and arguably brought it to an unparalleled expressive peak,
but his works have far fewer of those bizarre harmonies and surprising
cadences than do the works of Byrd and his contemporaries. Bach's music always
seems to be going somewhere. Byrd's often seems to say, "Let's turn back
and relish what we've already got." And more than occasionally they get
caught up in harmonic eddies and backwaters offering no obvious means of
escape. Yet escape they do.<p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Such theoretical niceties are difficult to discuss, and I
suspect I've made a hash of it here. Which may explain why the interpretive material
in the Schubert Club program and the review in the <i>Star Tribune</i> a few days later focused less on the musical elements of the
performance than on the challenges Byrd faced as a practicing Catholic in the
protestant court of Queen Elizabeth I. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">We left the Landmark Center enriched and subdued. I'm sure
I'll never hear Byrd sung better—though I think back fondly to a performance of
the Concert of Music with Emma Kirky in the basement of a church in Edinburgh,
circa 1983. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">But I think the stuff they were singing was Italian. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVmC-4hpm-QgL1OvdHDA8wihLZIP0-qOWWytrf8vVS-AmtghI3cXhaXWZbqXQvFCf3WoKALAQKY8c0NDgsuhTkOYqhQ6Yt0hUGextKQDWjt5qKI2ZxU9CHC_A6I71m0yZxWtqZ7teoM5y3z_EYoMw72mCJzgL2C8Js9f18n-L2QBb_oy5_I9N1AuCtUxqJ/s600/sara-olowski.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="404" data-original-width="600" height="269" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVmC-4hpm-QgL1OvdHDA8wihLZIP0-qOWWytrf8vVS-AmtghI3cXhaXWZbqXQvFCf3WoKALAQKY8c0NDgsuhTkOYqhQ6Yt0hUGextKQDWjt5qKI2ZxU9CHC_A6I71m0yZxWtqZ7teoM5y3z_EYoMw72mCJzgL2C8Js9f18n-L2QBb_oy5_I9N1AuCtUxqJ/w400-h269/sara-olowski.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal"><b>Two days later</b> we were back at the Landmark Center in St.
Paul to hear a free courtroom recital by mezzo-soprano Clara Osowski and
pianist Ahmed Anzaldúa in a program featuring Brahms, Catalan composer and pianist Federico Mompou, and several
local composers. Clara is one of our favorites, and I was also looking forward
to the crisp sound of a piano, after all those gorgeous waves of Renaissance vocal
shape-shifting. The performance did not
disappoint.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">To my ear the Mompou pieces were the best of the lot. They
had just the right amount of strange modernist digression in the piano line, and the lyrics were
sheer poetry, though a bit over the top:</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: .5in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in;"><i>Above
you are only the flowers.<o:p></o:p></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: .5in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in;"><i>They
were like a white offering:<o:p></o:p></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: .5in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in;"><i>The
light that they shone on your body <o:p></o:p></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: .5in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in;"><i>will
never again belong to the branch.<o:p></o:p></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: .5in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in;"><i>An
entire life of perfume <o:p></o:p></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: .5in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in;"><i>with
their kiss was given to you.<o:p></o:p></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: .5in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in;"><i>You
were radiant in the light, <o:p></o:p></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: .5in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in;"><i>treasured
by your closed eyes.<o:p></o:p></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: .5in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in;"><i>That
I could have been the flower’s sigh! <o:p></o:p></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: .5in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in;"><i>Given
myself, like a lily, to you, that my life<o:p></o:p></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: .5in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in;"><i>might
wither over your breast.<o:p></o:p></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: .5in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in;"><i>And
never again to know the night, <o:p></o:p></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: .5in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in;"><i>that
from your side has vanished.<o:p></o:p></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">The texts
chosen by the other composers concerned themselves with red-winged blackbirds,
a feather, and rabbits. Several of the poets involved were in the room, and MC Abbie Betinis invited them up to discuss their work, which is often difficult for a poet to do. But little matter. Clara's rich, soaring vocals held our
attention in any case, and in the context of these fresh, modern works, the three Brahms pieces at the end of the program sounded tuneful and harmonically straightforward, almost like folk songs.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivCMcZBqONYWiv9PotYsaYMN1-rtJ9YhkceJzLJBHbtsojiOcVLIy0E5UZfjE5lbb9wPVE8sRz7B5C2lDQZn4RK-7PBJYZwG3T8QabyOqjvb37UQq3_ZrHlYKAe4jLHLaPyPiGhYlU9jQLwy5Lx8t_ZBVapr0rHcvxigvnllJSjZ2Ar50KtKsHAwI5Fgsb/s600/loa-cafe-loring.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="433" data-original-width="600" height="289" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivCMcZBqONYWiv9PotYsaYMN1-rtJ9YhkceJzLJBHbtsojiOcVLIy0E5UZfjE5lbb9wPVE8sRz7B5C2lDQZn4RK-7PBJYZwG3T8QabyOqjvb37UQq3_ZrHlYKAe4jLHLaPyPiGhYlU9jQLwy5Lx8t_ZBVapr0rHcvxigvnllJSjZ2Ar50KtKsHAwI5Fgsb/w400-h289/loa-cafe-loring.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><b>On our way
back</b> to Minneapolis we stopped in at Gai Noi, a new Laotian restaurant facing
Loring Park that's been getting a lot of press. By an utterly strange
coincidence—we don't eat out much—we had already been to chef Ann Ahmed's two
other restaurants, Lat 14 and Khaluna. Here the food is just as good (or
almost) and both the prices and the tipping practices are more reasonable.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">Our waiter
was a boy wonder: attentive, articulate, knowledgeable, and gracious. The afternoon was gray, and looking out from our table at the window, I almost got the impression it was going to snow. </p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">We don't get down to Loring Park much these days, and it was a pleasure simply to walk past the gardens on the way to our car, watching a flock of white pigeons swooping back and forth amid the trees. </p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjL-F_rq5ju9YypM6f6b9DcAn5bZTDwtP_BxBNO_uhPF0RiMrBY6CNRXVlELkdKQf-eTk5hyphenhyphen9nB0kVRId-iRDzh0D4AS3S0CrARZLLyNU08AnNVsR8D6i2iEcNQ0f76EkgzdmQCR3j3diFKjeYm7qN3fg_-hTa50KrQ7Va-9Gna-D3ClHlKc76-bBD86KLY/s600/loring-park-pidgeons.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="450" data-original-width="600" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjL-F_rq5ju9YypM6f6b9DcAn5bZTDwtP_BxBNO_uhPF0RiMrBY6CNRXVlELkdKQf-eTk5hyphenhyphen9nB0kVRId-iRDzh0D4AS3S0CrARZLLyNU08AnNVsR8D6i2iEcNQ0f76EkgzdmQCR3j3diFKjeYm7qN3fg_-hTa50KrQ7Va-9Gna-D3ClHlKc76-bBD86KLY/w400-h300/loring-park-pidgeons.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></p>Macaronihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02053482785858037690noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-204832347019783654.post-20383701182653304532023-10-04T12:44:00.007-04:002023-10-05T20:05:11.003-04:00The fabric of the universe?<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuP8Xv0PiWGmfFem4EGXeRWhYXhXyyxaZbF9ZNAzLPS879obZkSVxkoFoh90Xoi8BTR6YtHIet7es0Z3nj1G_Kq3a5-cueT2aEojDG-cYYi_NWB3CtWICWVzn-SOfaCIuloWmpgYzyunYHbNQtx0oeVNu7Y4aYTdDHyduNKsTfsUMdwXANQzOI26SX7LhD/s600/reeds-in-water.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="399" data-original-width="600" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuP8Xv0PiWGmfFem4EGXeRWhYXhXyyxaZbF9ZNAzLPS879obZkSVxkoFoh90Xoi8BTR6YtHIet7es0Z3nj1G_Kq3a5-cueT2aEojDG-cYYi_NWB3CtWICWVzn-SOfaCIuloWmpgYzyunYHbNQtx0oeVNu7Y4aYTdDHyduNKsTfsUMdwXANQzOI26SX7LhD/w400-h266/reeds-in-water.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />Metaphysical questions typically arise at an early age, when
we first ask ourselves, "Why am I me, and not you?" Before long this question leads to a second
one: "Why is there something, rather than nothing?" Such questions
may give us a eerie pleasure, or they may induce anxiety or even panic. In
either case, answers are seldom forthcoming, and we usually put those questions
aside, though with time a variety of lesser issues along the same lines are
likely to rear their heads, including "Why are there mosquitoes?" and
"Why is Mrs. Edstrom, my kindergarten teacher, persecuting me?"<p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Injustice, pain, the nature of meaning itself? For the most
part, philosophers have done only a middling job of answering such questions.
There are insights to be found in the writings of Plato, Aristotle, Thomas
Aquinas, and many others, but they tend to be strewn like shining nuggets amid a
vast outwash plain of well-meant but unilluminating ratiocination.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">In recent times—that is to say, in the last few
centuries—thinkers have devised a number of approaches to such problems, drawing
on the methodologies of mathematics, physics, linguistics, and other disciplines
that lay claim to a more limited scope but firmer foundations. The results have
been dismal.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Just the other day, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Scientific
American</i> published an article carrying the title: "Is Consciousness
Part of the Fabric of the Universe?" (You can read it <a href="https://www.scientificamerican.com/article/is-consciousness-part-of-the-fabric-of-the-universe1/"><span style="color: red;">here</span></a>.) It describes the results of a conference
recently held to discuss the fact that no nuts-and-bolts physical or
neurological description of consciousness has ever been devised. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQL8eLvj7ohMsEui5NinlNIndUCofz9FSd3YST-KuyGvLwBiLCa_Bj1NDAuTvywFGd35OPrGzuRlLEV2h0AsNusOyo_atrfo3aKcMJ8rzP-43vTxVm1Tw4Pd9YTMKHfZ84m8N0NsFb8HHbzUUGssRr_VoD3zFv9i3dz-9YR7JNDmkXrf2S9BzN-Z9tjUDK/s600/fabric-quilt.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="450" data-original-width="600" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQL8eLvj7ohMsEui5NinlNIndUCofz9FSd3YST-KuyGvLwBiLCa_Bj1NDAuTvywFGd35OPrGzuRlLEV2h0AsNusOyo_atrfo3aKcMJ8rzP-43vTxVm1Tw4Pd9YTMKHfZ84m8N0NsFb8HHbzUUGssRr_VoD3zFv9i3dz-9YR7JNDmkXrf2S9BzN-Z9tjUDK/w400-h300/fabric-quilt.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal">The chosen title poses an even larger issue: In what way can
it be said that the universe has a "fabric"?</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Skirting this enormous question, the conference attendees
analyzed the question of whether a panpsychic theory—that everything in the
universe already possesses consciousness—might solve the problem. It's a wonderful
theory, though it begs the question. It has been proposed by many
philosophers including Giordano Bruno, Cyrano de Bergerac, and Denis Diderot, all of whose investigations the attendees seem to have been entirely unaware. In any case, such an approach doesn't address the
pertinent issue, which is less about the existence of consciousness than the nature of sentience. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Consciousness is always consciousness "of"
something. And that connection between inner and outer worlds is always colored
by the individual who makes that connection. So what? The conferees seem to
have been content to analyze the question of whether the color "red"
that I see actually looks like the "red" you see. That's a trivial
question. More important would be to analyze how my understanding of beauty or
justice aligns with, and differs from, yours.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Going further, we might explore the wonderful fact—and it <i>is</i>
an empirical fact—that my notions of justice and beauty are similar to the ones
my family and friends hold. For example, we gnash our teeth in concert as we
summon images of the dastardly and dangerous rogues in the Republican Party who
are dead set on destroying our sacred institutions. This, in part, is why we've
become "family and friends."</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnps9chvWAPKLa_alCf-fuR8jzOAYiSsnHNZte9zpRsgq08KInyvxL3B7MLmPmhVyh4YPUBRMnALSA-R4Hf77xBxtHnM77sBsYJtxCHC6W2tTDQmdc-azvGSbcwNe2HOiyrCPSKpbVgiqVX2zC20VWifrwcUdrLb9RpEmac27Nu1oYMNuOiTWi2MaBMDVX/s600/walker-cardamom.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="456" data-original-width="600" height="304" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnps9chvWAPKLa_alCf-fuR8jzOAYiSsnHNZte9zpRsgq08KInyvxL3B7MLmPmhVyh4YPUBRMnALSA-R4Hf77xBxtHnM77sBsYJtxCHC6W2tTDQmdc-azvGSbcwNe2HOiyrCPSKpbVgiqVX2zC20VWifrwcUdrLb9RpEmac27Nu1oYMNuOiTWi2MaBMDVX/w400-h304/walker-cardamom.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal">Such affinities are widespread but they're rarely perfect,
which is why many of us continue to explore the nuances of the world we live in
and the wide array of consciousnesses we share it with—animal, vegetable, and
mineral.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Maybe the universe has a fabric after all?</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div>Macaronihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02053482785858037690noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-204832347019783654.post-43368492924044060802023-09-20T10:51:00.005-04:002023-09-20T16:56:41.390-04:00Home from Nova Scotia<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHpARyBr0xlgpU4caOfEno2Gj6JQtmHw9-FAhED7uHX8v_IR9sn48XB3KsB65vo_lOkEdY80-4XKQdSEOr6yTcbl-1PRhbg4br5FqQ2-a_5FK-VvV58-SYs5PSKj15hLPgIW7wxREpMpiAeb24PQVpW_nd0yvAGIWk6hWpXRRtKqNrRKIBDN3u8HcYt6Ml/s600/IMG_9336.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="450" data-original-width="600" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHpARyBr0xlgpU4caOfEno2Gj6JQtmHw9-FAhED7uHX8v_IR9sn48XB3KsB65vo_lOkEdY80-4XKQdSEOr6yTcbl-1PRhbg4br5FqQ2-a_5FK-VvV58-SYs5PSKj15hLPgIW7wxREpMpiAeb24PQVpW_nd0yvAGIWk6hWpXRRtKqNrRKIBDN3u8HcYt6Ml/w400-h300/IMG_9336.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />Returning home from a vacation leaves me in a state of mild
euphoria that I have no desire to dispel. I know there are things I'm supposed
to be doing, and I do a few of them. I write a press release, make a postcard,
update a website, send some metadata to a distributor, answer an email or two.<p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqRHPA7-myYKECyYiW9kOyXiMRtObjOYqk48StOgC4XrcLniUVlZEjsJLjqhvsqpWnV1-JaO_9J_rbQFKXzsBzLdQ2uudCbE1pIxaWGcSpqOOtSo4FXnQPZ6X81OtIeRXBMCKn1z5PqaCIgrngtXmZu1Ga4VF0okKC5n2Ag1zXkwGVCKUtCJJcQMAT7Ilq/s600/IMG_9403.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="450" data-original-width="600" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqRHPA7-myYKECyYiW9kOyXiMRtObjOYqk48StOgC4XrcLniUVlZEjsJLjqhvsqpWnV1-JaO_9J_rbQFKXzsBzLdQ2uudCbE1pIxaWGcSpqOOtSo4FXnQPZ6X81OtIeRXBMCKn1z5PqaCIgrngtXmZu1Ga4VF0okKC5n2Ag1zXkwGVCKUtCJJcQMAT7Ilq/w400-h300/IMG_9403.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div>But I mostly enjoy the feeling of being at home with memories
of ten days of sublime adventuring on the Atlantic Coast drifting through my
head. It doesn't hurt that upon our return the skies here at home were clear,
the air was cool, and as we discovered the next morning, the lower angle of September
light was giving the vegetation a pleasant glow.<p></p><p class="MsoNormal">Our departure from Halifax had been delayed by the arrival
of Hurricane Lee; we missed our connection in Toronto and spent six additional
hours at the airport trying to figure out clever ways to use up the complimentary
(but meager) food vouchers we were given by way of compensation. It was fun.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8f3NjxvGPUS32I1hEi2B4A_tZoeZYG2a_EuVPn-qvnydXxsK8rXbTW6FtGV7US9eGmcjbTjSSHLX10KtQQgIOm4H8hZwzR613ymHZ8AnHwynOgoyB6o34QYpa4ACbTUowrJR9Ua9SkxANFtz5UM1O-FH_UwpbgPPgbzQDNif8kl6UcVVib9dCOjbH161A/s600/IMG_9660-web.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="536" data-original-width="600" height="358" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8f3NjxvGPUS32I1hEi2B4A_tZoeZYG2a_EuVPn-qvnydXxsK8rXbTW6FtGV7US9eGmcjbTjSSHLX10KtQQgIOm4H8hZwzR613ymHZ8AnHwynOgoyB6o34QYpa4ACbTUowrJR9Ua9SkxANFtz5UM1O-FH_UwpbgPPgbzQDNif8kl6UcVVib9dCOjbH161A/w400-h358/IMG_9660-web.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal">But back here at home
the refrigerator was empty. We scrounged a few chunks of pickled herring from
the bottom of the jar and sliced up the chunk of Canadian cheddar cheese from
my carry-on bag that had befuddled security personnel in both Halifax and
Toronto. (Maybe it looked like explosive putty? It <i>was</i> getting a little ripe.)</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The next morning, not yet ready to re-engage in normal life,
I looked through ten days of mail—mostly pleas from the Democratic Party,
Nature Conservancy, Habitat for Humanity, Mercy Corp, and so on—and hit upon
the latest Daedalus catalog. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Daedalus
sells remainders—discounted books—and I have vowed several times never to look
at that wretched catalog again. It's a sign of how free and loose and
uncluttered my head had become on the beaches of Nova Scotia that I not only
paged through it, but found several books of interest. The next morning I
placed an order!</p>
<blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px; text-align: left;"><p class="MsoNormal"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Break It Up</i>: a
history of the many ways various states—and not just the southern ones—schemed
to leave the United States before the Civil War broke out.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Book Of The People</i>:
a book about the Bible written by the author of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Dante in Love</i>, which I enjoyed.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Evening In Paradise</i>:
a collection of short stories by Lucia Berlin, a woman I've never heard of.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Quotable
Machiavelli</i>: the title says it all.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Coldest Case</i>:
an inspector Bruno mystery that Hilary read recently and enjoyed.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Follow The Flock</i>: a
history of the role played by sheep in the development of civilization. I have
read this book. It's a classic. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Montale-Poems</i>: I
have a copy of Montale's collected works—a doorstop of a book. This tiny volume
looks more manageable. </p></blockquote><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I'm not eager for the order to arrive. Just think what a
burden it will be!</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"></p><div style="text-align: center;"> <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-tnR3P6GrpP4SwdcLIdFtC5-3KMfRfVcnrHVnQTYEcWpTmpDOBJZh3u1nf_BYw0cWzk9l7qAvW9-BJ5T1GLoUJCjpx1CXE4VTMpXibtvaeb95-e80VJfK79p2PqGm1th5KV5dMEGXtGGJctMoIkpqI41E5FlfMCi-Gv3QebWCM01vmxOmsXngHyJl3ESv/s600/IMG_9592.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="450" data-original-width="600" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-tnR3P6GrpP4SwdcLIdFtC5-3KMfRfVcnrHVnQTYEcWpTmpDOBJZh3u1nf_BYw0cWzk9l7qAvW9-BJ5T1GLoUJCjpx1CXE4VTMpXibtvaeb95-e80VJfK79p2PqGm1th5KV5dMEGXtGGJctMoIkpqI41E5FlfMCi-Gv3QebWCM01vmxOmsXngHyJl3ESv/w400-h300/IMG_9592.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /></div><o:p><br /></o:p><p></p>Macaronihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02053482785858037690noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-204832347019783654.post-31842584454453637522023-08-28T11:40:00.000-04:002023-08-28T11:40:10.605-04:00Summer Evening: Tenth Wave Music<p>It was a walk down memory lane, sort of, as we ate dinner at
the venerable Tea House, a Stadium Village fixture for more than fifty years, I
think, then drove the backstreets of Dinkytown looking for the University
Lutheran Church of Hope. We were on our way to a concert scheduled to take
place in the church courtyard presented by a chamber ensemble called 10th Wave
(never heard of them). The program consisted of five or six compositions
written in the last quarter-century by composers unknown to me.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFcTJ5eCnXcjAhp5YEeZWSro4X_8U7flLQ5R0t0upDtJrIDA7NB_oPh5mqQydPm2yYspk2bu8k1wNW6NChooTZEQNkg0Uql7uZLB3YRg9e1p_qn-DCLI1LmBzv33T0o9JUux80_vfj46A5ITiiFPX8WhoijgRTpLknbCOgdOBdY6N7XZ4QpDGGxyUDTOYl/s600/tenth-wave-close-up.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="440" data-original-width="600" height="294" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFcTJ5eCnXcjAhp5YEeZWSro4X_8U7flLQ5R0t0upDtJrIDA7NB_oPh5mqQydPm2yYspk2bu8k1wNW6NChooTZEQNkg0Uql7uZLB3YRg9e1p_qn-DCLI1LmBzv33T0o9JUux80_vfj46A5ITiiFPX8WhoijgRTpLknbCOgdOBdY6N7XZ4QpDGGxyUDTOYl/w400-h294/tenth-wave-close-up.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p>What drew us to such an event? I would say it was the
setting and the instrumentation: violin, viola, flute, clarinet, piano, and
cello. Such an ensemble is likely to offer clear, open line rather than a flood
of sound, and the clarinet in particular recalled to my mind pieces such as
Stravinsky's "Pastorale," Poulenc's Clarinet sonata, and Milhaud's
many chamber works for winds.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Of course, one never knows. They might just as well have
presented a program devoted to compositions by disciples of Gyorgi Kurtag,
Hindemith, and Skrowaczewski!</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">But there has been a healthy swing in recent decades away
from post-war anxiety and doom-speak toward openness and lyrical expression, usually
without the mid-century pastoral schmaltz. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A post-modern oddness and the revival of
interest in deliberately—almost mechanically—repetitive figures helps to keep
things fresh.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Here I am, analyzing recent trends in "classical"
music like an Alex Roth wannabe. What do I know about such things?</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I do know that I enjoyed all of the pieces on the program.
The opening number, "Karakurenai," by Andy Akiho, was my favorite. It was written for a steel drum ensemble, but
it sounded great with more traditional instruments. The pianist, Mirana Moteva,
maintained a simple rhythmic pattern heavy on octaves and common intervals that
reminded me of the works of the Armenian priest Komitas, who died in 1935. if
that means anything to you. (You can hear a very brief fragment <span style="color: red;"><a href="https://youtu.be/lAwwv2EDbTs"><span style="color: red;">here</span></a></span>.) <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">"Eviogimenos," by Sungji Hong, was also very fine,
though I don't remember much about it now. "Ralph's Old Records," by
Kenji Bunch, offered a five-movement aural tour of the music the composer
listened to as a child along with his dad. It started off with a rich, swooning
rendition of a few bars of "Deep Purple" and moved on from there in several interesting, though less familiar,
directions. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The performers were all top-flight, and it was wonderful to
be reminded yet again how lovely individual instruments can sound when they're
being played nearby. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgY_NfiQJ0rr1smFoeV-DpbIPmoYyZltEA2zaUunZ7WDu1PN-56CC-_k_cb2KLcInwxqXbzTRAK5sVOu6jYCIUsASD30Qei_fCVEVmcgddJuCCt_e6a7zYLDWMYVrGt32SFLnn3gU5Quu2P7iUawMN7-EmI3AMiMs4x0qKEAotPevg_ktu4mQF2pMy3HBCj/s600/temth-wave-panorama.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="388" data-original-width="600" height="259" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgY_NfiQJ0rr1smFoeV-DpbIPmoYyZltEA2zaUunZ7WDu1PN-56CC-_k_cb2KLcInwxqXbzTRAK5sVOu6jYCIUsASD30Qei_fCVEVmcgddJuCCt_e6a7zYLDWMYVrGt32SFLnn3gU5Quu2P7iUawMN7-EmI3AMiMs4x0qKEAotPevg_ktu4mQF2pMy3HBCj/w400-h259/temth-wave-panorama.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal">It was a chilly evening. The crowd seemed to me a mix of younger middle-aged and elderly people: family and friends of the performers, budding young composers, a few parishioners perhaps. </p><p class="MsoNormal">With its youth, ethnic diversity, contemporary musical focus,
and agreeable aura, Tenth Wave has clearly got a good thing going. I want to
hear more.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></p>Macaronihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02053482785858037690noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-204832347019783654.post-44990797358755707562023-08-22T20:24:00.006-04:002023-08-22T20:47:13.321-04:00It's a Party. You're invited.<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4ZVHl0f69LVs4MJPU7L-SLEkf4ZCcx8WLsWTQJycN3o3jOBbnxFg6KipXZ-UUyiogs9woPLOj52bCdKyk9dYQzbblZRqCsbbyKDZS7_CG_IGfjks-mX-fzMsf0Gm1UUpxC0Khhd6MOAldZG0LeMcrMpBKzm4a_eU-hXBAF-sZSVZSGR-OU2OYQZpEP03h/s600/party-crowd.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="355" data-original-width="600" height="236" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4ZVHl0f69LVs4MJPU7L-SLEkf4ZCcx8WLsWTQJycN3o3jOBbnxFg6KipXZ-UUyiogs9woPLOj52bCdKyk9dYQzbblZRqCsbbyKDZS7_CG_IGfjks-mX-fzMsf0Gm1UUpxC0Khhd6MOAldZG0LeMcrMpBKzm4a_eU-hXBAF-sZSVZSGR-OU2OYQZpEP03h/w400-h236/party-crowd.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div>We drove down to the Icehouse the other day to catch a show
by the Flamenco Collective, one of the groups that sustain that art-form on our
area while supporting themselves giving dancing lessons and touring outstate on
government grants, I would imagine. We had seen the featured dancer, "La
Chaya" Nishiuchi, at the same venue a few years ago. Good stuff.<p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">But I really pricked up my ears when I read that they were
bringing in a singer, a dancer, and a guitarist from Seville. Our local artists
are good, but I have never heard a local singer who possessed that rough, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">flamenco puro</i>, open-throated rasp
without which all the shouting doesn't carry the anguish required, and begins to
sound like caterwauling. Javier Heredia's voice has that quality, and he has
the snappy dance movements to go with it.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRiaZz90WFU1IMvP_dNBTactTPGJkq2k44O4Wu77t4SwjJ54i2NSHzWSgGLfWQW_lVjemUaKebuAY1lLzxqpQ3GoAnrmk60mJynh6QVmmJoxkMlcKw4CHN6Zj0MW8G1n6frV8UOV-2vHuG7-OzR-Fot9CQ5VAIpidARudyPQyhPGOXUGi0Koqbx3kD2XOJ/s600/party-2.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="color: red;"><img border="0" data-original-height="398" data-original-width="600" height="265" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRiaZz90WFU1IMvP_dNBTactTPGJkq2k44O4Wu77t4SwjJ54i2NSHzWSgGLfWQW_lVjemUaKebuAY1lLzxqpQ3GoAnrmk60mJynh6QVmmJoxkMlcKw4CHN6Zj0MW8G1n6frV8UOV-2vHuG7-OzR-Fot9CQ5VAIpidARudyPQyhPGOXUGi0Koqbx3kD2XOJ/w400-h265/party-2.jpg" width="400" /></span></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal">The Icehouse is a perfect venue for these tablao-style
performances, where the artists—dancers, singers, clappers, guitarists—sit in a
row on straight-backed chairs taking turns in the spotlight while urging one
another on with a glorious and infectious energy. I've lost the knack of
identifying the forms they were using, but I'm sure I heard several bulerias, some
tangos, and perhaps a rumba or two. All of these are pulsing <i>flamenco chico</i> forms full of anguish but
also of excitement.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Each of the three dancers was given an extended solo with
guitar and <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">palmas</i> accompaniment (see
a bit of La Chaya's solo, and feel the energy <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="color: red;"><a href="https://youtu.be/8EWsqpgv-R0"><span style="color: red;">here</span></a></span>)
, the two guitarists both had a solo opportunity to shine, and two thirds of
the way through the show, when the energy was high, Heredia stepped to the mic
to gesture, stomp, and bewail in the best flamenco tradition. (You can listen
to a bit of it <span><span style="color: red;"><a href="https://youtu.be/oMJpNjLMhHc">here</a></span></span>.)</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhH1AmMpvBlKQ2htNcr7srDVv-chDfmSoB4tvBlTh5xjTg3Fx8JJEqMW1L1Yk-qLUV59rsehuqUxOnoQeP6cVKDrz1muGlkf6kiP8LjjfwjJV12epbErnOKT562r76Xzyo6WI66o6LTbihw1UXOzIdIs-fcso1d5r3L_elVk6NUROAMK3joHdArjpdmaDwo/s600/Heredia.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="408" data-original-width="600" height="272" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhH1AmMpvBlKQ2htNcr7srDVv-chDfmSoB4tvBlTh5xjTg3Fx8JJEqMW1L1Yk-qLUV59rsehuqUxOnoQeP6cVKDrz1muGlkf6kiP8LjjfwjJV12epbErnOKT562r76Xzyo6WI66o6LTbihw1UXOzIdIs-fcso1d5r3L_elVk6NUROAMK3joHdArjpdmaDwo/w400-h272/Heredia.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal">As a final touch, at the end of the show La Chaya invited a
few of her students up on the stage to do a few steps in the midst of the
finale, accentuating the fact that such tablao performances are based less on virtuosic
display than on a genuine yet casual rapport first of all between the artists on
stage, which, as the night develops, extends to the aficionados in the audience
sitting only a few feet away.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I listen to flamenco on CD from time to time—Vicente Amigo,
Pepe Habichuela, Remedios Amaya, Chicuelo, Cameron—but it's important (and wonderful)
to be reminded of the art-form's community spirit, which can only develop in a
club environment. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiywaqaOwlBqK5BWqmI0QOgTpUwf3yoWjCFygc1WN4mKVTelwAfFpNZdiUhZHAwIuo8b98562JHb5VVOEdWcxCVO2YxiGoK8dTipeFkcACZr2vPNO5rZ6BK8_AuOSGgBbg4lL0RwQAMXnfK2TGw_6cS1pEieUPYkhh6sB_Kv1tuvowtkD4r0zoXxVFDbwQb/s600/marnie-bryan.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="460" data-original-width="600" height="306" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiywaqaOwlBqK5BWqmI0QOgTpUwf3yoWjCFygc1WN4mKVTelwAfFpNZdiUhZHAwIuo8b98562JHb5VVOEdWcxCVO2YxiGoK8dTipeFkcACZr2vPNO5rZ6BK8_AuOSGgBbg4lL0RwQAMXnfK2TGw_6cS1pEieUPYkhh6sB_Kv1tuvowtkD4r0zoXxVFDbwQb/w400-h306/marnie-bryan.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal">I'm sure half the
people in the audience knew, and perhaps studied with, one of the dancers
on-stage. It's a small world, just like Nordic fiddling or Balkan tamburitza
music. We learned just how small it is when we spotted our friends Marnie and
Bryan in the crowd and went down to chat with them after the show. I wasn't
surprised to see them; Marnie studied flamenco dance seriously for quite a
while, and Bryan plays all sorts of music. But I was surprised to learn that La
Chaya and her husband, Bobby, are practically their next-door neighbors. Small
world indeed. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></p>Macaronihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02053482785858037690noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-204832347019783654.post-890895946431457012023-08-13T08:20:00.003-04:002023-08-13T20:47:55.370-04:00Midsummer Voices<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-yXIxk-Ynbw-QNPTFqyMOZQurcKbzC1MxLLSTlllVYjBIffHP-DHdE3-USswvRN-IwVm5COwq1YOUeqZkKwJ2gZBlLs0XgmxBTNQgcZeQ85rjssdkwhhvw3em5FYMWlix1_s-bNMABd5oQzEMNqTsXud9n8Xr5pjDD8axRqrQmwjlH9RnwQd0cms7RJpQ/s600/RJ-group.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="450" data-original-width="600" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-yXIxk-Ynbw-QNPTFqyMOZQurcKbzC1MxLLSTlllVYjBIffHP-DHdE3-USswvRN-IwVm5COwq1YOUeqZkKwJ2gZBlLs0XgmxBTNQgcZeQ85rjssdkwhhvw3em5FYMWlix1_s-bNMABd5oQzEMNqTsXud9n8Xr5pjDD8axRqrQmwjlH9RnwQd0cms7RJpQ/w400-h300/RJ-group.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />We caught a bit of opera and razzmatazz down at the
Trailhead on a Saturday afternoon on the invitation of some friends who have
been following the <span style="color: red;"><a href="https://mixedprecipitation.org/"><span style="color: red;">Mixed
Precipitation</span></a></span> Opera Company for several years. The drama was
familiar—Romeo and Juliet. The performance took place on the grass behind the
building, with young women and men on mountain bikes speeding up and down the
hill in the distance. And the zany acting style, which I enjoy only to a
degree, was counter-balanced by the inclusion of arias from Bellini's 1830
opera <i>The Capulets and the Montagues</i>.
Shakespeare was nowhere to be seen, or heard, which I also consider a plus, and
it made sense, considering Bellini based his opera not of the Bard's rendering
but on a far older Italian novella.<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiS1mCRGWVDYt09kN9ujyhVQ924Bxmkg4XU0HgOQd06yDUYWQGR2Hh93dBbUIg_VCZGfLDBulvWigQNZ6kvmxOrDx6IodD6VBE12LccAQb5ePoqDgyrAn1Bo_if2bmBmfthtiVmcvcRjeceEZUrOynB2QjFxh_YJqG1r-LN46cIjHyAc8IeL6nBifzxg06V/s600/RJ-truck.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="450" data-original-width="600" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiS1mCRGWVDYt09kN9ujyhVQ924Bxmkg4XU0HgOQd06yDUYWQGR2Hh93dBbUIg_VCZGfLDBulvWigQNZ6kvmxOrDx6IodD6VBE12LccAQb5ePoqDgyrAn1Bo_if2bmBmfthtiVmcvcRjeceEZUrOynB2QjFxh_YJqG1r-LN46cIjHyAc8IeL6nBifzxg06V/w400-h300/RJ-truck.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p>The troupe seemed to be a little short on props. At one
point in their update of the original tale, the two lovers drive away on a
motorcycle. They didn't have one, however, so we watch Romeo and Juliet tear
across the field in front of the stage in the back of a pick-up truck holding a
cardboard image of a motorcycle on a stick.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">At another point a duel takes place between two rivals making use of Venetian blinds!</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">It was all great fun, and the <a href="https://youtu.be/nfCQIyu_Z0M"><span style="color: red;">singing</span></a>
was very fine. So were the contributions from the pit band, which consisted of
a cello, a violin, and an electric piano. The director wisely dispensed with
anything resembling a <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">recitative</i>,
replacing those passages with spoken dialog or a song by Fleetwood Mac, the
Pixies, or the Fugees. A line dance here and there also livened the show. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSRtiuYxyNqdvvi6jHjFMBD1YlpahzuaTxIRbkcZUzFTCyVp8bZ2rdrT2Nv5gjrVCe2ff_7EE9fbTtYKOIhhW94vIXEsgMhrXhZj8gC0YM6MpXuCGsV_4CnUWAB6yl7GKff_jp7RM24L-QBPjELE_ocBIpQJJ3Mv0pzFt3sKz8DdI6bivug1_jwmBlddZC/s600/RJ-3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="450" data-original-width="600" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSRtiuYxyNqdvvi6jHjFMBD1YlpahzuaTxIRbkcZUzFTCyVp8bZ2rdrT2Nv5gjrVCe2ff_7EE9fbTtYKOIhhW94vIXEsgMhrXhZj8gC0YM6MpXuCGsV_4CnUWAB6yl7GKff_jp7RM24L-QBPjELE_ocBIpQJJ3Mv0pzFt3sKz8DdI6bivug1_jwmBlddZC/w400-h300/RJ-3.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal">Some viewers might have taken the casting of women in both
the title roles as a gender-bending update. I did. Looking it up later I
learned that Bellini wrote it that way. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">It was a brilliant but blistering afternoon, and many in the
audience were more than happy to have their program mounted on a stick. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWTI0dl2N7Zq3dC-sDOJb2vAjzrGQjvv3g_6GlhExARnzE-MaZCWibZtHuGaeW8958fMuDUi1NEvVVI-Sbj4k2z4LKbNgY3dq4p5wMSmq3MaDZJy217iV1tSMYFkl7H0ZdunohyFhojyBL_zV-AhWVOkMxxotmfwTWPWNcS-LE9hwygF2wgCF4ujDMoWlF/s600/RJ4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="492" data-original-width="600" height="328" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWTI0dl2N7Zq3dC-sDOJb2vAjzrGQjvv3g_6GlhExARnzE-MaZCWibZtHuGaeW8958fMuDUi1NEvVVI-Sbj4k2z4LKbNgY3dq4p5wMSmq3MaDZJy217iV1tSMYFkl7H0ZdunohyFhojyBL_zV-AhWVOkMxxotmfwTWPWNcS-LE9hwygF2wgCF4ujDMoWlF/w400-h328/RJ4.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal">Our enthusiasm for opera revitalized, a few days later we attended a Metropolitan Opera "encore" performance of <i>Il Travatore</i> at a nearby multiplex. The production was lavish, the singers top-flight, as one might expect, considering the source. In fact, we saw this very performance a few years ago when it was originally released in theaters.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5QlY-CDOn0nKoTUgiml5chNHUb8SfBHlwJTjVb163NKfXDYd-1Dehyx9u4xQc1ItKOayCkhmkrf1cj6fyg9UFZnd-NxJlVbgtOY3v4TkgOzdUjfTb9spHyxAmRyWw9uiT4RhjKbQR3ykeCPsUSYppGNiqJW3P4MwsBrOy3slD9tf0cNuqLkYf_K2O9A0_/s600/travatore-cropped.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="462" data-original-width="600" height="308" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5QlY-CDOn0nKoTUgiml5chNHUb8SfBHlwJTjVb163NKfXDYd-1Dehyx9u4xQc1ItKOayCkhmkrf1cj6fyg9UFZnd-NxJlVbgtOY3v4TkgOzdUjfTb9spHyxAmRyWw9uiT4RhjKbQR3ykeCPsUSYppGNiqJW3P4MwsBrOy3slD9tf0cNuqLkYf_K2O9A0_/w400-h308/travatore-cropped.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal">The plot is an odd one, and I'd forgotten the last few wrinkles. Though there were only ten people in the audience, I was reminded how noisy elderly viewers can be, chatting in a normal tone of voice as if they were sitting at home in their living room. But all things considered, it was a fine evening.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><b><o:p> </o:p>A few days later</b> we headed downtown after supper to listen
in on an evening of art songs presented as part of the <span style="color: red;"><a href="https://www.sourcesongfestival.org/"><span style="color: red;">Source Song
Festival</span></a></span> that takes place every year in early August. We used
to attend regularly during the fest's early years, when concerts were held near
the river at Antonello Hall. Parking was easy to find, the concerts were free,
they started early, and we could grab a bite to eat a block away before the
show at Zen Box Izakaya's happy hour.
When the festival expanded and moved uptown to Westminster Church we
lost touch.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The organization is celebrating its tenth anniversary this
year. The performance we attended featured rising opera star <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tamara_Wilson"><span style="color: red;">Tamara
Wilson</span></a> and renowned baritone Anthony Dean Griffey, and it was a great
pleasure to be there. We even enjoyed the drive downtown, which took us through
a traffic jam near Target Stadium along with thousands of people who were there
to hear a concert by Pink. (Who?) </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Once we got past the parking ramps near the stadium the
traffic thinned out considerably, and we enjoyed watching people hurrying on
foot down Hennepin Avenue to one of the theaters carrying a touring Broadway
show. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Once we got past Nicollet Mall, the traffic disappeared.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Yes, our own little event was well-attended. Eighty people?
A hundred and twenty? It was so low-key that no one was scanning tickets. (In
fact, I think several of the organizers smiled at me warmly because I was the
first person they'd seen that night whom they <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">didn't</i> know.) Conversation from row to row and from aisle to aisle
before the performance was widespread; we might have been the only couple there
who knew NO ONE else in the audience. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7Cc3V-oQgOLbXi2rk1xipvp-pauf1oZGbPwweW1TC0d_XGBXx_8D5O4hfAqpVM3lKKoXYsf3POM7OJ9UNH_Xcsjsgg9-LiTgxdtWstW_32S9nivsGF5967HkBeBbDPxSGzSGNYT9mVzaYNTrlq8O5rMMKmsfERS9YzYpIfAmEM-as4JeN476jXQkLXalE/s600/tamara-wilson.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="436" data-original-width="600" height="291" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7Cc3V-oQgOLbXi2rk1xipvp-pauf1oZGbPwweW1TC0d_XGBXx_8D5O4hfAqpVM3lKKoXYsf3POM7OJ9UNH_Xcsjsgg9-LiTgxdtWstW_32S9nivsGF5967HkBeBbDPxSGzSGNYT9mVzaYNTrlq8O5rMMKmsfERS9YzYpIfAmEM-as4JeN476jXQkLXalE/w400-h291/tamara-wilson.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal">To my untrained ear, Tamara Wilson's voice was, above all
else, <i>strong</i>, but I think I'd rather
hear her doing the title role of <i>Aida</i>
(which she sang at the Met recently) than the cute song cycle based on a book
of childish magic spells with which she opened the evening. The warmth of
Griffey's handling of two brief Ned Rorem songs came as a welcome contrast, and
he also breathed more than a touch of sincerity and life into a few selections
from Copland's somewhat hackneyed <i>Old
American Songs</i>.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">But Tamara really hit her stride after intermission. Her
voice was perfect for Strauss's <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Vier
letzte Lieder</i>, sung in German with all due intensity and weight.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">It was a fine evening from start to finished, and we even
enjoyed wandering the church library at intermission looking at black-and-white
photos of the many distinguished women and men who have been guest speakers at
the Westminster Town Hall Forum over the years. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><b>But something essential</b> was missing, and I was pleased when
Hilary noticed in the program that another concert was scheduled for the following
night, during which the young artists who had participated in the week-long
series of workshops that the festival is mostly "about" would display
the fruits of their efforts on stage. This would be an even more interesting
show, so I thought, with ten performers instead of two, and new compositions
from start to finish. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">And so it proved to be.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFTe9RbTZ0-fh2oBHhsRCTaqXVa29oniJJWIOOYzlIRSleKlkyhuuuJHilYUJJIPMqAhdXK_6GJLmtDMJIEDWM5Z9YwWteRpQt2hDgLWbkd0aW_CowHe5hSuWne7WOV_ruzBkNaOSaTec7caVfbdU170EYRbjxZmYcjDNRKKi1xv4l-kn7AWa_2n4N0vY9/s600/downtown-night.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="450" data-original-width="600" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFTe9RbTZ0-fh2oBHhsRCTaqXVa29oniJJWIOOYzlIRSleKlkyhuuuJHilYUJJIPMqAhdXK_6GJLmtDMJIEDWM5Z9YwWteRpQt2hDgLWbkd0aW_CowHe5hSuWne7WOV_ruzBkNaOSaTec7caVfbdU170EYRbjxZmYcjDNRKKi1xv4l-kn7AWa_2n4N0vY9/w400-h300/downtown-night.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal">The following evening the traffic downtown was thinner. The
voices on stage were more varied and no less pleasing. And the compositions
were, if anything, more delightful, though they weren't all new. Each performer
had chosen a famous song, and then had gone to work with their collaborating
composer, spinning a new creation in light of that chosen classic. That's why
songs by Wolf and Debussy, Schumann and Schönberg, Rachmaninoff and Grieg,
showed up on the program alongside the compositions of the largely unknown
women and men who had been the festival "fellows" during the week.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLV-ABvx88CX9aYfckpMsURAIq2bAFmVjoepe7NNttWyXsn0lt3idP593HQzktv7V37lfFXgd7OiNa1tybsJ2yZJ8ZGj24F6uqqHP9kU-czqBloaj_mXDORZLmH_HHnFhuAz6IkNJ_T2Sjq1dTV6nIhKyJhYFvelDIxpWgph135W2BN_Iuu3AQ-kCUSYoY/s781/four%20singers.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="636" data-original-width="781" height="326" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLV-ABvx88CX9aYfckpMsURAIq2bAFmVjoepe7NNttWyXsn0lt3idP593HQzktv7V37lfFXgd7OiNa1tybsJ2yZJ8ZGj24F6uqqHP9kU-czqBloaj_mXDORZLmH_HHnFhuAz6IkNJ_T2Sjq1dTV6nIhKyJhYFvelDIxpWgph135W2BN_Iuu3AQ-kCUSYoY/w400-h326/four%20singers.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal">The words were largely incidental. The explanations for the words
that the composers offered before each performance were sometimes revealing,
sometimes insightful, occasionally misguided. They exposed each young composer's
brilliance, youth, character, and
naiveté. The melodies and the singers, all of them sopranos, carried us
along. No intermission. A giddy sense of excitement filled the room, as if we
were witnesses to an event at which the participants had began to discover for
themselves or reaffirm how good they really were. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgukt1Xcl8mK_2da8NB8y-Q0AZX_yGU4feHBfP5h7uRoZNycvHrfXw6suLVtsvpgmhcOKEZUT1tCeUIwDKtY_E46WwrmlDyCVdOTgQVUY-DKeUqryokc8I4DYsl97kxTaWzS0xayC5mr92Qr4k_cszjTcFCJVtrVuknsoJXafFH97qunFbiUbQrQUrcNIUw/s600/group-shot.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="413" data-original-width="600" height="275" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgukt1Xcl8mK_2da8NB8y-Q0AZX_yGU4feHBfP5h7uRoZNycvHrfXw6suLVtsvpgmhcOKEZUT1tCeUIwDKtY_E46WwrmlDyCVdOTgQVUY-DKeUqryokc8I4DYsl97kxTaWzS0xayC5mr92Qr4k_cszjTcFCJVtrVuknsoJXafFH97qunFbiUbQrQUrcNIUw/w400-h275/group-shot.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></p>Macaronihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02053482785858037690noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-204832347019783654.post-39341044562700121642023-08-10T13:05:00.011-04:002023-08-11T09:53:56.886-04:00It All Started with Eggplant<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglciShhwOD-B-NonRYTvFCXeeb4NUA7W_f_RifHGaWYLTbVoLrwdsZx2YbidX8IG89zVRyPrhRWLXllVrvRjKBU16glxtX6kNjrxtDH-HkqzyTKXLaqAtVDzyZE5TydFI4f-yy8f7T5sOVPEYdG5LUgIciZJWLcO7HeJ1rRIlq6dx3o8-1EOw5h82UqDF7/s600/sage-2023.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="450" data-original-width="600" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglciShhwOD-B-NonRYTvFCXeeb4NUA7W_f_RifHGaWYLTbVoLrwdsZx2YbidX8IG89zVRyPrhRWLXllVrvRjKBU16glxtX6kNjrxtDH-HkqzyTKXLaqAtVDzyZE5TydFI4f-yy8f7T5sOVPEYdG5LUgIciZJWLcO7HeJ1rRIlq6dx3o8-1EOw5h82UqDF7/w400-h300/sage-2023.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />There are times in midsummer when it's hard to resist the well-rounded
shape and shiny aubergine color of an eggplant. "Now or never," it
seems to cry out. So you convince yourself once again that you DO like ratatouille,
some of the time. And you're suddenly reminded of a recipe that an old buddy
from Bookmen gave you years ago called Monsieur Henri's Eggplant that was very
easy to put together. And you begin to imagine the Provençal lift that
preparing such a dish will provide as the aromas of rosemary and basil and
garlic fill the kitchen.<p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">You need a lift, because you've just left the office of a
physical therapist who's given you a few simple stretching exercises that are
suppose to alleviate (though it seems highly improbable) the chronic leg pain
you've been suffering for a month; the result of an obscure condition called
illiotibial band syndrome that you developed as a result of playing tennis or
traversing the trails at Elm Creek Regional Park with undue gusto. Who knows?</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Suddenly a new idea takes shape: "Let's make something
new with that eggplant." And so we did.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqNXGx9aRYPFNSnWSLlihaiBU6ktX1I-zKjIDUmhLAuoiCdkLdh2dX96oz3ksz1YHjDYj2MKs5b4SWyALkMzvWYnMx8s6DOudxiCWZP62CsQZEEMc7n1CR-leYMRksXWg6etWmx-TA0d_GMse7BeeGNHt0UpQB_gvbA0Lf-GURHBiVqa4AL7UVE2AyTc2R/s600/eggplant-toast.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="561" data-original-width="600" height="374" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqNXGx9aRYPFNSnWSLlihaiBU6ktX1I-zKjIDUmhLAuoiCdkLdh2dX96oz3ksz1YHjDYj2MKs5b4SWyALkMzvWYnMx8s6DOudxiCWZP62CsQZEEMc7n1CR-leYMRksXWg6etWmx-TA0d_GMse7BeeGNHt0UpQB_gvbA0Lf-GURHBiVqa4AL7UVE2AyTc2R/w400-h374/eggplant-toast.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /></div><p class="MsoNormal">The eggplant itself gets peeled and baked, then pulverized
in the food processor along with some sautéed garlic and anchovies. Meanwhile,
you sauté some capers and chopped red peppers and toast some slices of bread in
the oven.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">You can imagine what comes next: slather the toast with the
eggplant puree and top with peppers and capers. Delicious!</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">That might have been the end of it, but the recipe called
for only a few anchovies, and even after doubling the quantity, we were left
with half a can. What to do? What to do?</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgG2oWbvrMCeGZDjPo1OuPoMGdfC022E65uA1y7AWV9pmY6VWiU08lEvREa9OjW5GSwORpu1xztTP8SIK4pZ_A_IXtwow6sa4z7KhRJrakfZqd6iYwUAdWAB9PLlTlUBK-sho1n2NeY56IXAo_ljOSiYKZ356L6Pp6ACdcqGIbnAEZKs9BmHk9Hb98m3RYd/s600/salad-fixings.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="479" data-original-width="600" height="319" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgG2oWbvrMCeGZDjPo1OuPoMGdfC022E65uA1y7AWV9pmY6VWiU08lEvREa9OjW5GSwORpu1xztTP8SIK4pZ_A_IXtwow6sa4z7KhRJrakfZqd6iYwUAdWAB9PLlTlUBK-sho1n2NeY56IXAo_ljOSiYKZ356L6Pp6ACdcqGIbnAEZKs9BmHk9Hb98m3RYd/w400-h319/salad-fixings.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal">Just this morning I saw four little potatoes sitting on the
kitchen counter. Eureka! Salade Nicoise. I boiled the potatoes and drenched them in a vinaigrette
while they were still hot, then boiled some frozen green beans in the same
water. I took a stroll out to the garden plot alongside the driveway and
harvested a bit of basil, though it's not doing well. (The sage, as usual, is
thriving.)</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkrY8sT-fTK4G5bs0-P5AfZqU8KKKepX_nM6ncLp7BNu5ZJVNS8wgHI4MCes1uX8zvWyeMTmGF_2Q7L9UVNHKFe1fk9t-5l4ZpWvVO4X-l89tLHrFF-wRkYC31PpFfrHm8XDBq3tJEVP0de-ici95ePDVnpv_YpZJfxb3WnOGy71Gk2SOAt9j1MsCaoNJp/s613/brazil-cover.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="613" data-original-width="600" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkrY8sT-fTK4G5bs0-P5AfZqU8KKKepX_nM6ncLp7BNu5ZJVNS8wgHI4MCes1uX8zvWyeMTmGF_2Q7L9UVNHKFe1fk9t-5l4ZpWvVO4X-l89tLHrFF-wRkYC31PpFfrHm8XDBq3tJEVP0de-ici95ePDVnpv_YpZJfxb3WnOGy71Gk2SOAt9j1MsCaoNJp/w196-h200/brazil-cover.jpg" width="196" /></a></div>And all the while, I had an old CD mix going on the stereo
that must be at least a quarter-century old. I call it my cheesy Brazilian mix,
but it's really quite good, with several numbers each by Marisa Monte, Lee
Konitz, Flora Purim, Chet Baker, and a few artists I no longer recognize. <p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I'll assemble the salad when Hilary gets home from the potting studio. Now it's time to get back to work. </p><p class="MsoNormal">But I have no work! </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Perhaps it's time to sit in the shade on the deck and enjoy
the cool August morning, while waiting for a hummingbird to appear at the
feeder. That feeder had been hanging against the wall in the garage for years. The other day we brought it outside and attached it to the pole on the feeder, and the hummingbirds arrived within the hour.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></p>Macaronihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02053482785858037690noreply@blogger.com2