BirchLane.org

September

Sunday 30

Hope and Chaos.

We are the imitation of Power every man is to be doubted There is no mouth no eye no nose no ear no hand enough -- from Power, Gregory Corso

In church this morning the minister reads to us the entire first chapter of Genesis. He says "I am going to read to you the entire first chapter of the Book of Genesis. In church we turn to each other for comfort. For peace. We wish for peace among the rubble. We say peace be with you. And with you, too. Our story begins in the rubble of history; out of nothing, out of the void -- heaven and earth. It is the story of our family, our faith; from the very first line this is where we begin -- in the darkness; and then there is light. Then there is life.

In the beginning God created the heaven and the earth. And the earth was without form, and void; and darkness was upon the face of the deep. And the Spirit of God moved upon the face of the waters. And God said, Let there be light: and there was light.And God saw the light, that it was good: and God divided the light from the darkness. And God called the light Day, and the darkness he called Night. And the evening and the morning were the first day. And God said, Let there be a firmament in the midst of the waters, and let it divide the waters from the waters. And God made the firmament, and divided the waters which were under the firmament from the waters which were above the firmament: and it was so. And God called the firmament Heaven. And the evening and the morning were the second day. And God said, Let the waters under the heaven be gathered together unto one place, and let the dry land appear: and it was so. And God called the dry land Earth; and the gathering together of the waters called he Seas: and God saw that it was good. Chapter I, 1-10

Saturday 29

War and Peace.

: "The world is a fine place and worth the fighting for and I hate very much to leave it." For Whom The Bell Tolls, Ernest Hemingway

Today: up early; coffee and then off to the garbage dump with nine plastic bags of garbage (Where did all that garbage come from!), five paper bags of newspapers and magazines, and four paper bags of bottles. Then back home for a minute to pack the car with five hoses, seven buckets, dozens of sponges and off to the car wash in the parking lot at Stop & Shop; I am in charge of the High School Girl's Soccer Team Car Wash Fundraiser. I stop for another cup of coffee and the New York Times on my way. Parked and ready in the parking lot at 8:20. There are American flags I notice all up and down King Street and one whips in the wind across the street at McDonalds. No one there yet but me.  I jot down a few thoughts in my notebook and take a few pictures. The flag across the street is big and beautiful; red, white, and blue, waving against a clearing grey sky. A Saturday of peace with these happy young women is still to come. Car Wash. Car Wash. One or two will later scream to cars as they drive past the parking lot. Car Wash. Car Wash.

Friday 28

Gross National Product Happiness.

I am thinking: "Curiouser and curiouser!' cried Alice; I received the most curious e-mail today (below) and links to (and at)  a rather curious newsletter, reprinted here.

Dear Birch Lane, I found your website's January 01 page while searching for information on Gross National Happiness. You've clearly discovered that Gross National Product has its limitations... as you've shown in your writing about The Age of Interdependence (January 14th) and your reading of 'The Politics of the Solar Age: Alternatives to Economics' by Hazel Henderson. I'll send you a copy of The Glastonbury Message which gives a few links that you might find interesting. I hope you do...I have been to Quaker meetings and I do like them. I last went to one in Uplyme, near Lyme Regis, in the UK. If you ever visit Glastonbury, UK, or want to know more about this interesting town, do contact me. Wishing you the best in what I know is a difficult time... Kelvin of Glastonbury, UK

The stores are all sold out Of patriotism, there is only one Flag flying on Birch Lane United we stand, divided We fall, a neighbor Cries on my doorstep We wake over and Over again, the dreams In one town near where I was born, forty families Without mother, without Father, this I am told Today, the stores are all Sold out of patriotism

This poem to be completed in October.

Thursday 27

Neruda and Bravo. A friend writes to me saying:

......I think poems without the grounding of real life are useless, and too nebulous and insubstantial (afterall the poet has responsibilities says Pinsky and also says Neruda)......

And to the bookcase I turn, looking for my Pablo Neruda, Selected Poems, A Bilingual Edition. I open at random and read:

Enemy, my enemy, has love fallen to dust and will nothing save flesh and bones furiously adored while the fire devours itslef and the red-harnessed horses rush into hell?

An excerpt above from his poem "Furies and Sufferings." Neruda writes in March of 1939:

This poem was writeen in 1934. How much has happened since then! Spain, where I wrote it, is a belt of ruins. Ah! If we could only placate the world's rage with a drop of poetry or of love -- but only the struggle and the daring heart are capable of that. The world and my poetry have both changed. A drop of blood fallen on those lines will remain alive within them, as indelible as love.

Ten or twelve poems later, I begin to drift off to sleep; it is well past midnight; I close my eyes and dream of an old poem I wrote, my Neruda/Pound period, so long ago (during the Court and Spark days) I wonder was it really that long ago:

Where You Are And in the city freedom of some sort, an air of suffocation alarming you; a myth formalized years ago and all of this belief was to be believed, regardless of suffering -- that which was promise was lost in its fulfillment -- by now there are numerous versions; when we asked for help and got it, we wished we hadn't. That is what is important, that here we are a couple of years later taking notice of sounds, as the fall of snow is silent at its most decisive and optimistic best; those qualities in certain situations being brutal, as the breaking apart of the invented day, lacking completed definition; there is in the first place its scientific interest, the landscape is hard, and of past history.

Wednesday 26

Peace Corps. Today I was reading in the October issue  of "Silicon Alley Reporter" about the Peace Corp's Global Technology Initiative.

A decade ago, a typical Peace Corps experience might consist of building outdoor toilets in rural villages lacking public sanitation. Toilets might be made of basic hand-mixed concrete poured over a banana-leaf-lined pit, and plumbing, a bucket of water poured into the bowl. That was before last year...when the Peace Corp's Global Technology Initiative (was unveiled). Now, a staff of about 70 volunteers, schooled by ay IT trainer, is dedicated specifically to helping launch technology projects in developing nations... "One story that will always stick in my mind is the first computer class of a seventh-grade girl," says Connecticut native Andrew Cunningham, who was doing tech support for Macintosh when he left after three years to join the Peace Corps. "She was from a nearby village that does not have electricity. It was obviously her first time to even see a computer. The little girl picked up the mouse and began to touch the monitor with it. The beautiful thing is that less tha 30 minutes later, she was double-clicking, opening menus, and drawing pcitures." Kenya-based volunteer and former computer programmer Renice Jones.....after working for EDS for 17 years...decided it was time to escape corporate America. After arriving in Kenya, she encountered a women's group called Teenage Mothers Association of Kenya (TEMAK), whose primary function is to teach teenage mothers job skills and to provide education to their kids. To help raise extra money, Jones launched a website to sell and distribute local crafts over the Internet, including TEMAK-manufactured items.

Tuesday 25

Twenty-five

Mom & Me, 25th Wedding Anniversary Surprise Party

I found this photograph at my dad's. It was in a big box filled with old photographs. I was looking for old photographs of me to help me remember my youth. This photograph was taken at a surprise party for my mother and father at a house on our street, Tilden Avenue in Teaneck, New Jersey. I'm not sure how how I am here, but it looks like I am 16 or 17. I only mention this as today Betsy and I celebrated our 25th. When I think of the years I think of music. Before marriage, it was Bruce Springsteen's "Greetings from Asbury Park, NJ" and "The Wild, The Innocent and the E-Street Shuffle." Our first year of marriage it was "Born to Run." Second year; "Talking Heads 77." And through the years we listened, now in no particular order: Elvis Costello, Televison, Peru Ubu, Henry Cow, Gong, Devo, Magma, Kraan, The Gist, The Young Marble Giants, Prince, Van Morrison, The Beatles, The Band, The Cure, The Doors, Tom Petty, Joni Mitchell, The Clash, The Sex Pistols, Public Image, Blondie, Nirvana, John Lennon, Human League, Eurythmics, Madonna, U2, B52s, Sinead O'Connor, Bob Dylan, Concrete Blonde, Hot Tuna, The Pogues, Kate Bush, Tori Amos, Suzanne Vega, Rod Stewart, The Cranberries, The Grateful Dead, Sade, Shelia Chandra, Squeeze, XTC, Sheryl Crow, Alanis Morissette, Lucinda Williams, Yoko Ono, Joy Division, Sam Phillips and, of course, Patti Smith (to name just a few).

Monday 24

Tears of a Neighbor.

My neighobor calls late at night. Bruce, do you have Sunday's Times? Yes. I couldn't find a copy. Would you like my copy? Yes, if you are done with it. I will gather it up for you. Can I come over now? Yes. And minutes later she stands On my front porch in tears. I just have to keep reading. I can't stop reading. Thank You.

Sunday 23

Pimm's Peace.

I am too tired tonight to write anything that in anyway might be considered coherent. This is not a poem.

She says, Bruce, you wonder Why I do not write you Everytime I sit down to Write I feel strange And I have been crying In my room, I keep crossing Myself, this will end This will end, this will End, I will wake up You, me, like friends running Through the woods, under Stars to water where We rest and want To speak peace, love, faith, hope Hold me, now, this Is where we become The image in the good Dream, the one that we Slept through Without tears, without Fear, we come to this Secret place where we Study philosophy, I come to you From a web of collaboration Weeks pass, we do not Talk, listen, do You hear the poem Read, she writes, private Do not tell any One, please, I dream This, of course Walking It is Dangerous It is Not dreaming We are filled With fear, we are Being called back We are being Called back To hold Do you Remember There is much Bad writing here A is for art B is for beauty C is for creation D is for don't Tell me Anymore, you say Don't do anything, I am Dreaming, say it, dreaming And when I close my eyes I see there is somewhere A garden of love and We keep walking Toward it This is not Very long ago There is A field of wildflowers Where you are first Listening, knees to earth Look, look you say And there You rise up And say Listen to a story About Pimm's Peace I would cry if I knew Oh, God, how can anyone Understand, endure it And I keep wanting To ask what is it Like to cry alone To listen to the voices Outside, the voices Of those innocent And while we held On to each other We dreamed, you were Dancing and came to Rest along side this Body sleeping.

Saturday 22

The Visual Arts in the Digital Age

Notes here:

Friday 21

Gentle Exchanges. This is what Laura writes:

I feel older......Older in the way you notice that you're older, as it happens to you one day in your life......And you notice this. One day. You are older......And see, now you're older. And you won't go back to that innocence......But also, i feel we're all tenderized now. More sensitive. More tender. We tough skinned street smart new yorkers need gentle exchanges.

As soon as I read that today I thought "how true;" gentle exchanges. I find I am either like a firecracker ready to explode or quiet like a monk sworn to secrecy. Gentle exchanges.

On the way home from work today where I was introduced to all the employees--and received a round of applause--I heard the following poem on Fresh Air.

They are all gone away, The House is shut and still, There is nothing more to say. Through broken walls and gray The winds blow bleak and shrill: They are all gone away. Nor is there one to-day To speak them good or ill: There is nothing more to say. Why is it then we stray Around the sunken sill? They are all gone away, And our poor fancy-play For them is wasted skill: There is nothing more to say. There is ruin and decay In the House on the Hill: They are all gone away, There is nothing more to say. Edwin Arlington Robinson

Bobbi writes I" didn't realize how raw and tense I have become." Yes, those are the words--raw and tense. Birch Lane is under the flight pattern for the C-5s out of Westover, which provide worldwide air movement of troops, supplies, equipment and medical patients, capable of delivering to any location in the world, completely equipped combat units, support forces and all types of supplies; including large and heavy weapons and vehicles and outsized cargo that can be carried by no other airplane. Without refueling, the C-5 Galaxy can airlift 50 tons of cargo for 5,940 miles or 82 tons for 5,000 miles. The 16 C-5 Galaxies at Westover represent five percent of all America's total airlift. A few days ago when I first heard its roar after so many days of silence in the sky--and it is a roar in the sky--I was walking Daisy and froze for an instant; and then the images return. How can they not?

Thursday 20

Ain't No Sunshine.

I keep singing this song. I can't get it our of my mind. It is a religious or a spiritual song for me today. She is light. Light is life. Light is life. Light is life. It is a mantra. You are the light of the world.

Ain't no sunshine when she's gone It's not warm when she's away Ain't no sunshine when she's gone And she's always gone too long Anytime she goes away --Bill Withers

Today was my first day at my new job. When I interviewed for the job two weeks ago, Michael said, "It's great to find my first salesperson," shaking my hand, smiling, placing his hand upon my back. And today he greets me with a smile and tells me how excited he is to have me with him. In my letter to my old customers/prospects I write:

I am the new Sales Executive for LASON East Hartford (formerly ASCO). I am very excited about this new opportunity; LASON is a leading provider of integrated information management services and the position allows me to both utilize my extensive direct marketing experience coupled with exposure to worldwide technology centers performing data capture, document conversion, and internet solutions. LASON currently has over 85 multi-functional imaging centers in the United States, Canada, Mexico, India, Mauritius and the Caribbean.Throughout these facilities LASON scans over 100 million pages per month - manages over 3 billion pages within our Visions ASP product - and prints over 150 million pages of information per month worldwide. LASON’s comprehensive portfolio of technology services includes: Laser Print & Mail; Web-based Print-on-Demand; Variable Data Printing; High Volume Digital Color; On-line Document & Data Archiving/Scanning; Electronic Trade Confirmations; Internet Bill Presentment & Payment. I look forward to talking with you soon. Cell 413-219-4916

Meanwhile

Wednesday 19

Pesto and Promise.

First this:

Time it was, and what a time it was, it was A time of innocence, a time of confidences Long ago, it must be, I have a photograph Preserve your memories, they're all that left you Bookends Theme, Simon & Garfunkle, 1968

When I write here, here at BirchLane, I think usually of peace peace peace, or all you need is love, but when I speak, engage in conversation, I sometimes utter words of war war war, as I did tonight when Betsy and talked about our options. One minute I am up; one minute I am down. I am always confused. Stunned.

This morning I turned off the TV after the kids left for school and listened to classical music while I made pesto. For three hours (I made a lot of pesto) I plucked basil leaves and washed  basil leaves (three times I washed the leaves), pressed garlic, and put it all together with olive oil and a little a bit of salt; froze it in ice cube trays and come winter we'll be happy to eat pasta and pesto with sausage and garlic bread and red wine.

Later, it was confirmed I have a new job. I start tomorrow. Betsy asked me how I felt. I feel lucky (100,000 airline employees are losing their jobs). I feel a bit strange. Next week I will be back in New York city for a few days; I think the business climate has changed; of course it has, and I wonder how I will adapt. And on Friday I am to hear more about representing a design firm; why not have two jobs; three; three being a photo rep for Terry and Alaina.

Birch Lane, 7:00 a.m, 9/19

Tuesday 18

Friends.

Birch Lane, Tuesday Morning, September 18

I heard this song last night. It is such a beautiful song. Listen.

America, Paul Simon   "Let us be lovers, we'll marry our fortunes together.  I've got some real estate here in my bag."  So we bought a pack of cigarettes and Mrs. Wagner's pies  And walked off to look for America  "Kathy," I said as we boarded a Greyhound in Pittsburgh,  "Michigan seems like a dream to me now."  It took me 4 days to hitchhike from Saginaw  I've gone to look for America  Laughing on the bus/Playing games with the faces  She said the man in the gabardine suit was a spy.  I said, "Be careful, his bowtie is really a camera."  "Toss me a cigarette. I think there's one in my raincoat.  We smoked the last one an hour ago."  So I looked at the scenery, she read her magazine.  And the moon rose over an open field.  "Kathy, I'm lost," I said, though I knew she was sleeping.  I'm empty and aching, and I don't know why.  Counting the cars on the New Jersey Turnpike,  They've all gone to look for America  All gone to look for America/All gone to look for America.

I spent most of the day online, reading weblogs, looking for--for what; understanding, clarity, purpose--what I found was a network of loving, creative, smart, concerned people struggling with the same questions and answers I spent all day fighting; Heather wrote and brought me to a smile--the first time in days I smiled, I think I even laughed, Bobbi brought me a gift, Laura reached out, Mitsu thanked me, Jouke was simply back online, Letitia wondered how I was, Angi shared personal history--for this I am blessed and thankful.

Monday 17

Brother.

This morning I sat Still Buddha-like And watched And waited For five baby Chipmunks For how long I waited I am Not sure, the tiny thing Stood still Side by side Chipmunk, Bruce We can not speak So we continue, still Looking, in the morning Light, we look At each other, this Is where my day Begins, happy If only for a fleeting Moment, seeing first Esme's photographs, she Taught me beauty, I begin there And then go Outside to see The tiny thing Stood still And when at last I moved, it Became invisible, at night I saw The Big Dipper Above Birch Lane I wished Upon a star I heard A whipporwill sing in the woods Do you hear, in the woods Quietly, so pretty A sound, the perfect Alignment And now where We are whether In France or Canada Italy or Germany In sadness or despair We cry again And again When we hear The story Dad, Mom I love you We say A few words Where     Is      God Outside I know a tiny thing Sleeps soundly For a moment The world Is quiet You know The prayer What Should I do Next; hold me.

Self-Portrait, 9/17

Sunday 16

Memory. Early yesterday morning at around 6:30 I was walking Daisy and when I started to quietly sing "America," tears welled up in my eyes; sadness, despair, fear.

And this morning I woke up thinking about the poem "Transformations" by Thomas Hardy which is quoted in the book I am reading:

Portions of this yew Is a man my grandsire knew, Bosomed here at its foot: This branch may be his wife, A ruddy human life Now turned to a green shoot.   These grasses must be made Of her who often prayed, Last century, for repose; And the fair girl long ago Whom I often tried to know May be entering this rose.   So, they are not underground, But as nerves and veins abound In the growths of upper air, And they feel the sun and rain, And the energy again That made them what they were!

I seek to understand by reading my friends' weblogs and search keywords on google. I find this interview with Elie Wiesel:

Talmud I study every day. It gives me, first, my childhood. I go back to the lessons in childhood. And also it gives me the possibility of entering the different geography and different history of 2,000 years ago, which is marvelous. You cannot study a page on Talmud and not feel the impact of all those who have studied during 2,000 years. The teachers and the disciples become your friends. You are surrounded by friends. It helps you overcome solitude. The sea, which is of course infinite -- I think memories are infinite. Whatever we do, whatever we say, whatever we give, whatever we write, it would still not be enough. My feeling is that if I knew all the survivor's stories, and had done nothing else but speak about them, still the sea would not be full. My role is to write and to teach. Occasionally, if people think I can help them, I will help. Sometimes I feel I can break through. Other times I don't break through. I have no power, but I have access to those who have power This century, which has seen so much evil, has not changed human nature. I describe it to one person and hope they will do the same to another person. You cannot save the whole world at one time. salon.com | Jan. 5, 2000

Saturday 15

Vision. (more forthcoming)

Last night at 7:00 Danielle and Daryl lit candles.

Song of Myself, Walt Whitman, 1891, excerpt I understand the large hearts of heroes, The courage of present times and all times, How the skipper saw the crowded and rudderless wreck of the steamship, and Death chasing it up and down the storm, How he knuckled tight and gave not back an inch, and was faithful of days and faithful of nights, And chalk'd in large letters on a board, Be of good cheer, we will not desert you; How he follow'd with them and tack'd with them three days and would not give it up, How he saved the drifting company at last, How the lank loose-gown'd women look'd when boated from the side of their prepared graves, How the silent old-faced infants and the lifted sick, and the sharp-lipp'd unshaved men; All this I swallow, it tastes good, I like it well, it becomes mine, I am the man, I suffer'd, I was there. The disdain and calmness of martyrs, The mother of old, condemn'd for a witch, burnt with dry wood, her children gazing on, The hounded slave that flags in the race, leans by the fence, blowing, cover'd with sweat, The twinges that sting like needles his legs and neck, the murderous buckshot and the bullets, All these I feel or am. I am the hounded slave, I wince at the bite of the dogs, Hell and despair are upon me, crack and again crack the marksmen, I clutch the rails of the fence, my gore dribs, thinn'd with the ooze of my skin, I fall on the weeds and stones, The riders spur their unwilling horses, haul close, Taunt my dizzy ears and beat me violently over the head with whip-stocks. Agonies are one of my changes of garments, I do not ask the wounded person how he feels, I myself become the wounded person, My hurts turn livid upon me as I lean on a cane and observe. I am the mash'd fireman with breast-bone broken, Tumbling walls buried me in their debris, Heat and smoke I inspired, I heard the yelling shouts of my comrades, I heard the distant click of their picks and shovels, They have clear'd the beams away, they tenderly lift me forth. I lie in the night air in my red shirt, the pervading hush is for my sake, Painless after all I lie exhausted but not so unhappy, White and beautiful are the faces around me, the heads are bared of their fire-caps, The kneeling crowd fades with the light of the torches. Distant and dead resuscitate, They show as the dial or move as the hands of me, I am the clock myself. I am an old artillerist, I tell of my fort's bombardment, I am there again. Again the long roll of the drummers, Again the attacking cannon, mortars, Again to my listening ears the cannon responsive. I take part, I see and hear the whole, The cries, curses, roar, the plaudits for well-aim'd shots, The ambulanza slowly passing trailing its red drip, Workmen searching after damages, making indispensable repairs, The fall of grenades through the rent roof, the fan-shaped explosion, The whizz of limbs, heads, stone, wood, iron, high in the air. Again gurgles the mouth of my dying general, he furiously waves with his hand, He gasps through the clot Mind not me- mind- the entrenchments.

Friday 14

Speak.

I wake and go online to read:

An excerpt from Caterina:

I can't think of a thing to do either, but all the things we always ought to do: be generous every day. Tell people you love them. Vote. Fight for your beliefs. Write to your Congressperson. Be kind. Save the Whales. Keep your heart and mind open. Give to whatever causes you believe in. Help the needy, feed the hungry, educate the children. Smell flowers, watch sunsets. Forgive. Remember to breathe. Do good. Be good.

An excerpt from Paul:

At times like these, when many people are searching for survivors and many more are searching for words, one remembers poetry, especially poetry from the past, poetry which -- strictly speaking -- was written upon other occasions but which now, today, seems written exclusively for this moment, this event, as if it has always been lying in wait. I suppose re-accessibility is one of the great advantages of the art object, the poem, painting, sculpture etc., over the live performative arts and where the performance art piece, in its raw minimalism, distinguishes itself from a piece of theatre: while both are ephemeral the performance art piece is more re-accessible. I have to think of Ulay's comment to me the other day about how each of his early performances with Marina were performed only once, and in each case before an extremely small audience, yet many if not all these pieces live on as cultural signifiers and are instantly 'recallable'.

Slowly a few words came to me this morning after feeling so speechless, wordless, these past few days; and these words had to do with good vs evil, and that evil should not, can not, will not extinquish what is good; we must not allow it. I think it was Emerson who said something like: beauty of nature reforms itself in the mind and not for barren contemplation but for creation, nothing divine dies, all good is eternally reproductive, the creation of beauty is art, nothing is beautiful alone, but is beautiful in the whole. We need to speak, to write, to paint, to sing, to create; now more than ever. We must not be silenced. We must whisper. We must scream. Speak.

With Eyes Closed We Still See & Must Speak Portrait by Cara Perlman & Self-Portrait 9/11

At noon I went to a service of prayer and remembrance at Smith College and heard:

Sarabande, J.S. Bach Andante un poco Adagio (Sonata in F minor), Johannes Brahms Deutsche Arien (Susse Stille), George Frederic Handel Adagio cantabile (Sonata, Op. 13, "Pathetique"), Ludwig van Beethoven Bist du bei mir, Johann Sebastian Bach Addantino quasi Adagio, Walter Piston Deep River, American Spiritual

Thursday 13

Torn Curtain.

My dentist, who has relatives in Israel, told me this morning, that they called him and recommended not to watch too much TV. But that is almost impossible.

And as the day grew, I watched and watched and at night once again experienced a deep sadness and horror.

And despite the evil, on this September day when the sky is a bright brilliant blue, a friend gives birth to a baby girl, and three baby bears--and their mom--romp in our yard. The high shool girls soccer team has dinner at our house and their conversaton is filled with laughter.

I want to write but know not what to say.

A few excerpts from two articles in today's New York Times:

"The American writer in the middle of the 20th century has his hands full in trying to understand, describe and then make credible much of American reality," wrote Philip Roth in an essay in Commentary magazine. "It stupefies, it sickens, it infuriates, and finally it is even a kind of embarrassment to one's own meager imagination. The actuality is continually outdoing our talents, and the culture tosses up figures almost daily that are the envy of any novelist." Those words were not written in response to this week's terrorist attacks on the World Trade Center and the Pentagon. They were written back in 1961, before the assassination of President John F. Kennedy, before the assassinations of Robert F. Kennedy and the Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King Jr., before the social upheavals of the late 60's, before Vietnam, Watergate, the Clinton follies and last year's election standoff. and this In her 1965 essay "The Imagination of Disaster" the literary critic Susan Sontag reflected on psychological meaning of such escapism. "Ours is indeed an age of extremity," she wrote. "For we live under continual threat of two equally fearful, but seemingly opposed, destinies: unremitting finality and inconceivable terror. It is fantasy served out in large rations by the popular arts, which allows most people to cope with these twin specters. For one job that fantasy can do is to lift us out of the unbearably humdrum and to distract us from terrors — real or anticipated — by an escape into an exotic, dangerous situation which has last-minute happy endings. But another of the things that fantasy can do is to normalize what is psychologically unbearable, thereby inuring us to it. In one case, fantasy beautifies the world. In the other, it neutralizes it."

Wednesday 12

Hell.

For that warning voice, which he who saw Th' Apocalyps, heard cry in Heaven aloud, Then when the Dragon, put to second rout, Came furious down to be reveng'd on men, Wo to the inhabitants on earth! that now, While time was, our first Parents had bin warnd The coming of thir secret foe, and scap'd Haply so scap'd his mortal snare; for now Satan, now first inflam'd with rage, came down, 10 The Tempter ere th' Accuser of man-kind, To wreck on innocent frail man his loss Of that first Battel, and his flight to Hell: Yet not rejoycing in his speed, though bold, Far off and fearless, nor with cause to boast, Begins his dire attempt, which nigh the birth Now rowling, boiles in his tumultuous brest, And like a devillish Engine back recoiles Upon himself; horror and doubt distract His troubl'd thoughts, and from the bottom stirr 20 The Hell within him, for within him Hell He brings, and round about him, nor from Hell One step no more then from himself can fly By change of place: Now conscience wakes despair That slumberd, wakes the bitter memorie Of what he was, what is, and what must be Worse; of worse deeds worse sufferings must ensue. and Me miserable! which way shall I flie Infinite wrauth, and infinite despaire? Which way I flie is Hell; my self am Hell; And in the lowest deep a lower deep Still threatning to devour me opens wide, To which the Hell I suffer seems a Heav'n. --Excerpt from Book IV, Paradise Lost, John Milton

Yesterday, September 11, is a day we will never forget. You and I are alive but we are not completely okay. Life is--as we knew it--forever changed. Not just here in America, but across the world, which has been changed in a profound way.

"This is a crime against the foundations of our common humanity," the president of Ireland, Mary McAleese, said yesterday.

British Prime Minister Tony Blair said: "This is not a battle between the United States of America and terrorism, but between the free and democratic world and terrorism."

I was speechless yesterday. Today I am struggling to find words that make sense and maybe that's just it--it is nearly imposible to make sense out of the unfathomable, to understand evil; it is evil isn't. Barbaric. Hell on earth.

Yesterday as I sat watching the events unfold on TV I cried. And when the first tower fell I cried out "Oh My God. Oh My God Oh. Oh My God." I cried out so loud my dog ran around the house barking, knowing something   was dreadfully  wrong. I called Betsy. "You got to get to a TV." I called Letitia. "You got to get to a TV. I can't talk" And I tried to call others to talk with them about the horror but the phone lines were jammed. And then the second tower. "Oh My God. Oh My God. Oh My God."

And above me here a bright blue September sky. A hawk screaming in flight. Leaves falling. I couldn't make sense of it. The good. The evil. Friends from Canada, Germany, Australia, America who know I work in New York City a few days a week called to ask if I was okay. Alive, but not completely okay. Changed. Fortunate--of course.

From today's Christian Science Monitor I find this:

......there is much we can do to consciously bring all humanity and ourselves into that "secret place of the most High." (91st Psalm) It's a place that's in thought, a mental and spiritual awareness of the presence and power of the Almighty. So it's accessible right where you are and to anyone, anywhere, in any kind of danger. And every prayerful reaching out to God, every glimpse that He provides a habitation where no evil can befall anyone, helps. That's the beauty of prayer. It points us to truths, spiritual facts, which fly in the face of horrible evidence right before us. In other words, we have a choice. Stay stunned by the horrible evidence. Or do something that makes a difference. Challenge that evidence with some spiritual conviction, no matter how slight, that God's love is more real, more powerful, than all the hatred ever hurled across the earth.

Tuesday 11

Silence.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Monday 10 (more to come)

No Word. Word Up. We talk this afternoon. My new employer. When I asked him about the company culture he said you will be given great autonomy. Fantastic, I thought. He is in California. I am in Massachusetts. He says, "can you trust me to put together a package you'd be happy with?" I answer, "Yes." Now all I need to do is to find a design firm to represent and figure our how to be a photographer's agent; this I will discuss with Jenni.

This past winter I spent one whole day looking for this photograph in boxes and boxes in my basement because I was writing a poem for Katharine, who was so much of the inspiration for BirchLane and who inspired me to continue with the site. It is a postcard from my collection; I thought I had lost it; now it is found. I also found my high school yearbook which I shared with Danielle this evening so that she could see what people put under their photograph (she has been struggling with THE quote to put under her photo). Under my picture, this:

Fast as a gazelle (more later)

Sunday 09

The Wilderness Project. Today I read a fascinating interview here. And during church I had a vision of a new art project and as soon as I got home I jotted down a few notes and started seriously working on it late at night; a series of letters to a stranger--forty days, forty letters; who knows where this will take me--and this stranger. I also learned that I live in a Dream Town.

It's an undergrad's town, with Smith College's leafy campus downtown and four others—Amherst, UMass, Mount Holyoke, and Hampshire—just across the Connecticut. It's a haven for writers (Tracy Kidder lives up the road), editors, and designers with fiber-optic drip-lines to New York and Boston. You can trace much of Noho's prosperous zeitgeist to the hippies; they tuned in, turned on, dropped out--and then got seed money. In a sense, they've remade the town in their image: a capitalist commune where painters, poets, and plenty of therapists keep recirculating their two-professional salaries among themselves. At times the overlap of disposable income and political correctness gets goofy: This fresh-pasta bistro is a nuke-free zone! But repentant urbanites who want their fresh-air fix, their crème brûlée, their Ray Charles concert, and their white picket fence find the overall package tempting.

Birch Lane early Sunday morning, September 9.

Saturday 08

In Springfield, Massachusetts I talk with Thomas At the Smith & Wesson soccer fields Before the start of the soccer game He tells me a story about a woman He represents, a poor woman In Holyoke, Massachusetts In court on Tuesday I never heard this Explained, gas on gas Heat, he says, everything I know is In translation, she speaks Spanish, me English And listen to me, he Says, and I have been Doing all the talking Tell me about you, what About you, I hear Daryl scream, how many Ice cubes did you Put in my water bottle Go away, the soccer fields Were full of boys and girls And parents with The New York Times A Heminway book, an investment Book, I do not know If what I said Made any sense at all When I told Thomas I would sit thinking How soon I would Represent a famous design Studio, three photographers And a printing company, I would Solidify and sustain, looking Out the window, at what Bruce, at what are You looking, and I Would say I really do Not know but for the trees The leaves blowing In the wind, the color Vibrating, changing Autumn is here Although today it is Hot on the field And along the sidelines In the wild Flowers I tell Thomas A chipmunk An image we Are in love With, see it Now before It disappears Into the hole In the Earth The game is Soon to start Here in Springfield, Massachusetts

"At the Soccer Game in Springfield, Massachusetts"

Friday 07

Thoreau.

The mass of men lead lives of quiet desperation. What is called resignation is confirmed desperation. From the desperate city you go into the desperate country, and have to console yourself with the bravery of minks and muskrats. A stereotyped but unconscious despair is concealed even under what are called the games and amusements of mankind. There is no play in them, for this comes after work. But it is a characteristic of wisdom not to do desperate things.

Thursday 06

Lost Weight. Got Job. When I woke up this morning, I was thinking about by job interview at 11, but I was also thinking (and more concerned) about whether or not I would fit into my suit. It had been at least one month (and many glasses of wine, bottles of beer, gin & tonics, hamburgers, french fries, and bagels with cream cheese later) since I had worn it. So it was with great trepidation I pulled up the pants; ah, not bad, I thought--maybe I actually lost a few pounds thanks to my diet; and exercising, of course, at Smith College.

The Job Interview. I was greeted with a big smile. We talked about entrepreneurialism and enthusiasm (I quoted Emerson; he Whitman--this, at a job interview). He said he would e-mail me an offer. In my thank-you, follow-up, e-mail in which I had to suggest a comp plan (not here),  I wrote:

Overview The direct mail printer/lettershop formerly known as XYZ was recently purchased by the information management company, ABC. With approximately $13--$16mm in sales and just four customers accounting for 70% of its business, the company is clearly at a crossroads. The Vice President of Sales has been with the company for little more than one month and his two sales people have been terminated or fired. Plant morale, while positive from a recent pay raise is, nevertheless, in need of sure signs that the company is still "in" business for the long-term. One of the VP’s most pressing needs is to find a mature salesperson who can think strategically and make things happen—who can come in today to stabilize and solidify relationships with key customers; and introduce the company to his former customers and prospects to obtain new business. Bruce Barone is this person. In my six years with Infiniti I developed working relationships (all new business) with major New York City direct marketers (including such organizations as Readers Digest, Ballantine/Random House, 50 Plus, Book-of-the-Month Club, Dun & Bradstreet, Vibe magazine, Columbia House, Conde Nast) and one Boston organization (The Christian Science Monitor). I have served in leadership positions on the Board of Directors of numerous organizations (Direct Marketing Club of New York, Fulfillment Management Association, Advertising Women of New York and Women in Production) and have actively participated as a member in others (Women in Direct Marketing, Direct Mail Fundraisers Association, New England Direct Marketing Association).

At night I added three new photos to Alaina's page at BirchLane.

Wednesday 05

A Student. First day of school for Danielle and Daryl, my "A" students and children. I am really proud of them both; Danielle being President of the National Honor Society and Captain of the Soccer Team; Daryl taking an advanced math class at the high school and, well, being "Daryl."  While we waited for the school bus to arrive, we sat on the couch and watched MTV, hearing first Alien Ant Farm and then Alanis Morissette.

I spent most of day finishing BirchLane and prepared for my job interview. I am proud of the what Letitia and I gathered for BirchLane and the design seems to work well.

During the afternoon, we had a wind and rain storm:

Tuesday 04

Design Issues. I spent most of the day working on this; inspired by Laura who suggested to me that because I had the time I should put it to good use and work on the site--the printed version could follow at the "right" time (Note: most pages and links are not uploaded nor is Table of Contents on each page; Title Page, Sara , Dennis are online as of now) .  And preparing for my job interview, which is scheduled for Thursday.

Monday 03

Pimm's Principle.

this afternoon five robins dance slowly across the lawn, one turns, takes three, four steps back stands still I watch wait this is balanchine visits birch lane this is a dance I must move to watch walk with I rise put down my book walk toward the grass stage where the robins dance where the robins teach teach teach me to see this is truth this is beauty

The Stage at Birch Lane

Sunday 02

The Voice. We arrived at the soccer field at 7:20 a.m. It was 45 degrees. Betsy and I watched Daryl walk toward his teammates while we sat in the car and stayed warm--and read Sunday's New York Times. Soon I said "I am going to go read outside by the field" and as I walked I heard a voice: "Faster. You are not really trying. Run faster. What are you doing. I said run. Run. If you don't run you will take two laps. Around both fields. Hurry up. Didn't I say run. Run." A creative writing teacher I had at The New School once asked us to write a paragraph that illustrated a voice without telling directly who/what it was. This would have been a perfect illustrataion of a coach without, without what--love, compassion, leadershipp skills. And as I sat there watching I thought how lucky I was to have had the coaches I had when I was young. I would have never enjoyed playing sports to the degree I did or accomplished what I did. A few clippings from my scrapbook (honest):

Bruce Barone paced Old Salt to its decisive victory. Barone pitched a two-hitter and got two hits at the plate. Bruce Barone's 61-yard touchdown run in the third period gave Ramsey a 12-7 victory. Ramsey's only  moment of fame came when Bruce Barone returned the ensuing kickoff 93 yards for a touchdown. Receiving the kickoff at his own 15, the Ram's Bruce Barone raced 25 yards to the 40 before being smothered by a host of warriors. Just when things looked blackest for the Rams, a 5-8, 145-pound junior named Bruce Barone had his moment of glory and it brightened up the gloomy morning for Blue & Gold backers. Barone is listed on the program twice, with numbers 13 and 20. He wore No. 20 when he hauled in Mahwah's kickoff at the eight, raced up the middle of the field, just as he got in heavy traffic, cut to his left and sped down the sidelines for a 92-yard touchdown scamper.

Emerson said "Every great achievement is the triumph of enthusiasm." And in old wallet today I find these "Seven C's of Success," principles for success from Brian Tracy one of America’s leading authorities on the development of human potential and personal effectiveness, a dynamic and entertaining speaker (I gleaned these seven c's from an audio tape); and an avid believer in controlling one’s own destiny, daily goal-planning, hard work, and perseverance. One of his favorite sayings is, “If it’s worth doing, it’s worth doing poorly at first!”  (I think he's funny, too; at his web-site he has his recipe not only for success but for ceasar salad).

Clarity - Eighty percent of success comes from being clear on who you are, what you believe in and what you want. Competence - You can't climb to the next rung on the ladder until you are excellent at what you do now. Constraints - Eighty percent of all obstacles to success come from within. Find out what is constraining in you or your company and deal with it. Concentration - The ability to focus on one thing single-mindedly and see it through until it’s done takes more character than anything else. Creativity - Flood your life with ideas from many sources. Creativity needs to be exercised like a muscle, if you don't use it you'll lose it. Courage - Most in demand and least in supply, courage is the willingness to do the things you know are right. Continuous learning - Read, at the very least, one book a week on business to keep you miles ahead of the competition. And just as you eat and bathe, organize your time so you spend 30 minutes a day exploring e-mail, sending messages, going through web sites, because like exercise, it's the only way you can keep on top of technology. If you get away from it, you'll lose your edge.

In the November-December 1998 issue of Harvard Business Review, author Daniel Goleman writes in his "landmark article" that effective leaders (coaches, too, I might add) are alike in one crucial way: they all have a high degree of emotional intelligence. The five components of emotional intelligence at work are:

Self-awareness. The ability to recognize and understand personal moods and emotions. It drives their effect on others. Hallmarks of self-awareness include self-confidence, realistic self-assessment, and a self-deprecating sense of humor. Self-regulation. The ability to control or redirect disruptive impulses and moods, and the propensity to suspend judgment and to think before acting. Hallmarks include trustworthiness and integrity; comfort with ambiguity; and openness to change. Motivation. A passion to work for reasons that go beyond money and status. A propensity to pursue goals with energy and persistence. Hallmarks include a strong drive to achieve, optimism even in the face of failure, and organizational commitment. Empathy. The ability to understand the emotional makeup of other people. A skill in treating people according to their emotional reactions. Hallmarks include expertise in building and retaining talent, cross-cultural sensitivity, and service to clients and customers. Social skills. Proficiency in managing relationships and building networks, and an ability to find common ground and build rapport. Hallmarks of social skills include effectiveness in leading change, persuasiveness, and expertise building and leading teams.

Saturday 01

Start/Stop. September/Summer. I am not sad that it is September and summer has ended. I woke this morning thinking this month is a new chapter in this book of life I am writing; it was summer that was sad, solemn and often solitary. Today is a new start; it is the day the Lord has made; rejoice and be glad in it. I am reminded of a quote I clipped from the newspaper years ago:

This is the beginning of a new day. I can waste it or use if or good. What I do today is important because I am exchanging a day of my life for it. When tomorrow comes, this day will be gone forever-- leaving in its place something I have traded it for. I want it to be gain, not loss; good, not evil; success, not failure; So that I shall not regret the price I paid for today.

All good intentions aside, I woke up with a stomachache, and with a headache, and spent part of the day in bed sleeping, and when I woke from dreams in which I saw dead people (my mom, my Aunt Mary) I went outside to sit in the sunlight thinking it might lift my spirits, my health, my sense of well-being; a tonic of light not liquird--and because I was ill, I missed Daryl's first two soccer games (there are two more tomorrow; maybe two on Monday--if they make it that far in the Labor Day Tournament; oh god, I missed his first goal of the year--damn). A few days ago, a friend, my girl-friend from ninth grade, so long ago I can't even count the years (I don't want to count the years; it's sad simply thinking of how time has passed looking at Daryl and Danielle; just last night Betsy said "I miss the happier times;" I think that was the word, happier; when life was not fraught with so much change, when they were children not teenagers; oh, weire blessed with great kids, but as Betsy spoke I thought of Wordsworth: "What though the radiance which was so bright/Be now forever taken from my sight,/Though nothing can bring back the hour/Of splendor in the grass, of glory in the flower"):

Bruce, Well, I got into work early to try and get caught up on things.  This position is very manageable but the work load comes in waves and this week I am riding one with some pretty significant deadlines.  I could have read Birchlane for hours but stopped after 45 minutes realizing I was defeating my purpose of coming in early.  I am always amazed at “how you do it” (maintain a website, travel, go to museums, read non-fiction, write poetry, take walks, maintain friendships, go to the movies, watch TV, listen to music, etc. etc.)  I am envious for all I do is work and struggle to keep the household together.  I am getting nervous that I have no friends and know the process of cultivating relationships takes time, effort and emotions.  My Mom is not going to live forever......Please write periodically and make sure I visit Birch Lane once in a while.  Perhaps we can still make that NYC visit happen.

BirchLane; it has become something that I do, like exercising, sleeping, eating. And the vision for the BirchLane imprint--as the two or three people who read this know--grows, too. This afternoon, out in the sunshine, I read in Blue Highways this: "A good life, a harmonious life, is a prayer." I like that and go inside to start reading another book, Sophie's World by Josteia Gaarder; I can't count the times I have started this and then put it down in frustration, but I am feeling philosophical and decide maybe now is the time; maybe I am ready for the book. Madeleine L'Engle, who wrote one of my favorite books, said "it is a sheer delight."