BirchLane.net

October 2003 (words to come)

Friday 31

Halloween.

Thursday 30

Ezra Pound. (pound's bday and how i read poem at mt holyoke)

I came home for lunch and saw:

And then, like Alice, I fell to sleep and saw this.

Wednesday 29

Alaina and Helena.

Tuesday 28

Painting with Light.

Monday 27

First Day New Job. A great day (more later; I'm tired)

Contrast

Sunday 26

A Poem and Not a Speech. This is what I called my speech, a poem, the one I delivered this morning in church. Afterwards, people said is was "beautiful," "brilliant," and "tremendous." One person said it brought tears to his eyes. Another said she was happy she was home from California and in church to hear it.

The following I read here and it is more inspiration for Tilden Avenue.

"And when from seeing I turned to looking, strange lights sprang up and everything took on meaning. Thus I suddenly discovered that a Dance of the Trees exists. Not all of them possess the secret of dancing in the wind. But those to whom this grace had been given arrange dances of leaves, branches, twigs about their own swaying trunks: the rhythm that begins in the leaves, a restless, ascending rhythm--with the surge and breaking of waves, with gentle pauses and rests--which suddenly becomes a storm of rejoicing. There is nothing more beautiful than a bamboo thicket dancing in the breeze. No human choreography can equal the eurhythmy of a branch outlined against the sky. I asked myself whether the higher forms of aesthetic emotion do not consist merely in a supreme understanding of creation. A day will come when men will discover an alphabet in the eyes of chalcedonies, in the markings of the moth, and will learn in astonishment that every spotted snail has always been a poem." ~From "The Lost Steps" - Alejo Carpentier

This is a scan of an old photo I happen to like; what is memory.

I am tired tonight; the fall backwards always throws me for a loop. Tomorrow I start a new job; I am filled with excitement and trepidation; I have worked from home and by myself for five or six years---working in an office (albeit, an old factory of art studios and office space) will be a change. And, of course, I will miss Daisy, but I can come home for lunch to walk her; today on one of our walks, I stopped to take this photo:

Saturday 25 

Being Here. The name of a speech I will give tomorrow in church. Early as I write; faced with a day of many chores and to-dos.

Friday 24

Old Buildings. This photo, which was taken in a factory in Hoboken, New Jersey in the early 1980s, where an art exhibition was held does have something to do with today; on Monday I start a new job which is located in 

an old factory that is being converted into offices and art studios in Easthampton, Massachusetts--it is the kind of space I could possibly bring my dog, Daisy, to work. I have much on my mind today. 

The photograph recalls images of both today and yesterday. (add)

Denise MacPherson. A former co-worker and friend.

Photos from today include:

Thursday 23

Words Follow Daisy.

In this week's The Yorker I read a poem by Elizabeth Pierson Friend.

My husband is watching me iron. Steam reassures him. The hiss of starch The probing slide around each button of his shirt Speaks to him of Solway Street in Pittsburgh. As for me, the wicker basket is a reproach. There is last summer's nightgown, And several awkward tablecloths Which refuse to lie flat. My house specializes in the challenges. Bags of mail I did not ask to receive choke the floor of my linen closet. A photograph of me, holding a baby on a beach. But which beach and, for that matter, which baby? A Japanese chest whose bottom drawer has irresponsibly locked itself, And who can remember where I put the key? That night, waiting for sleep, I whisper, I did only trivial things today. And he asks, Why aren't you painting?

 The only thing I find via google is this:

Headline: Elizabeth Pierson Friend, 69, artist, poet, chef and teacher 31 July 2003 By Gayle Ronan Sims, Philadelphia Inquirer Staff Writer Elizabeth Pierson Friend, 69, of Villanova, an artist, poet and superb chef, died July 18 of cardiac arrest after open-heart surgery at the Hospital of the University of Pennsylvania .  In 1972, her husband was elected president of Swarthmore College . Mrs. Friend was famous for her superb cooking and gracious entertaining at the president's house until 1982. She planned all of the meals and cooked most of them. She had help with the preparation when the guest list was in the hundreds. Many of her recipes were printed in the New York Times Magazine.  While at Swarthmore, Mrs. Friend kept records of all of the couple's dinner parties. She recorded the seating arrangements and menus so that when guests returned they would sit next to someone new and were never served the same meal twice.

Last night Daryl listened to Blonde on Blonde,  and although it has one of my favorite songs on it (Sad Eyed Lady of the Lowlands), I have this song stuck in my mind:

Yesterday, a child came out to wander Caught a dragonfly inside a jar Fearful, when the sky was full of thunder and tearful at the falling of a star and the season's they go round and round and the painted ponies go up and down we're captive on the carousel of time we can't return, we can only look behind from where we came and go round and round and round in the circle game then the child moved ten times round the seasons skated over ten clear frozen streets words like "when you're older" must appease him and promises of "someday" make up his dreams and the seasons, they go round and round and the painted ponies go up and down we're captive on the carousel of time we can't return, we can only look behind from where we came and go round and round and round in the circle game sixteen springs and sixteen summers gone now cartwheels turn to cartwheels through the town and they tell him, "take your time, it won't be long now 'til you drag your feet to slow the circle's down" and the seasons, they go round and round and the painted ponies go up and down we're captive on the carousel of time we can't return, we can only look behind from where we came and go round and round and round in the circle game so the years spin by and now the boy is twenty though his dreams have lost some grandeur coming true they'll be new dreams, maybe better dreams, and plenty before the last revolving year is through and the seasons, they go round and round and the painted ponies go up and down we're captive on the carousel of time we can't return we can only look behind from where we came and go round and round and round in the circle game and go round and round and round in the circle game ~Joni Mitchell

Wednesday 22

Contemplation. I was offered a new job yesterday morning with a company called Box of Golf. During the afternoon I went for a walk in a park nearby this company and contemplated (slide show) the opportunity. Later, at night, Daryl listened to my Frank Sinatra CDs and loved him; and Louis Armstrong. Go figure; this is the son I went to see Tool with last year. And even later, it was the Beatles White Album. Sigh. I think it was during the top and bottom of the 4th inning.

Tuesday 21

Enough of Nature;

Monday 20

The Last Days. The leaves fell like raindrops this morning. Light showers of yellow and red and brown and orange.

At this time of year, the fallen leaves bring Daisy from one end of the yard to other.

Early this morning when I was walking Daisy, I saw this:

Sunday 19

Against the Odds. In the book, Against the Odds, Women Pioneers in The First Hundred Years of Photography, Nancy Ford Cones is quoted as saying that:

...it is a dead sure thing that if you cannot make pictures in or around the home, it is positively hopeless to go abroad to find them."

Today, here, at Birch Lane:

Saturday 18

The State Hospital. And a "virtual prayer."

A  dear dear college friend, a gifted pianist and executive, who just a few years ago said, in an apartment on Fifth Avenue, which overlooked The Metropolitan Museum of Art, to her 200 or so gathered friends in her "speech" as her "dear friend" from college and one of the "best writers" she knew; I was, of course, moved to tears"  writes:

Hello dear family and friends, My surgery is now scheduled for this Sunday, October 19th at 9:30am-12noon Israel time (which is 6 hours ahead of New York until y'all turn your clocks back).. The surgery will be at Poriya Hospital in Tiberias, Israel, by a wonderful physician and friend, Dr. Nissim Geron. From a friend who's been through this and for whom it really worked, I decided to invite you all to join in a "virtual prayer and meditation circle" to generate a ton of healing energy at the time of my operation. So -- all prayers, meditations, good thoughts, etc. of any kind, shape, size are enthusiastically welcomed. Those of you in the USA, I certainly don't expect you to get up at 3:30am, just send that spiritual energy before you go to bed and ask G-d to put it in the holding pen for a few hours.... For those of you who for technical internet reasons did not get the earlier message(s) and are mystified by the request for healing energy, I'm having breast cancer surgery this Sunday, for a malignant condition that is still considered early and operable. The great news for everyone is that all pre-op tests came back clean and clear, no bad stuff anywhere else, so I feel confident and good. I have great doctors, a great husband and family, great friends and great faith in G-d, so with everyone's power going full steam, all will be well. PLEASE NOTE that in the days that follow the surgery (I will be in the hospital for at least 4 days but possibly a week) Rahamim will be completely occupied with me, with back-and-forth to the hospital, with home and garden, with work. Therefore I do not anticipate he will have time to answer emails though we welcome messages that can be responded to after I''m back at home! If you want updates, please feel free to call our ! home , + 972 4 9978154 or to fax a message to + 972 4 9572308. I love you all so much, I thank you from my heart for your support, and I know it's gonna be FINE! xoxoxoxox Kathy

I am praying for her:

Friday 17

A To Do List.

Thursday 16

Kidney Stones. As soon as I rolled into the operating room early this morning at Mercy Hospital in Springfield, Massachusetts, the surgeon turned to me and said, "Are you rooting for the Red Sox or the Yankees?"

Wednesday 15

Tilden Avenue. A friend from Junior High School (7th--9th grades) wrote to me today and asked if I remembered vomiting in Algebra class at Thomas Jefferson Junior High School in Teaneck, New Jersey. She said I had eaten lasagna. 

Tell me, Bruce, that you really cannot remember vomiting in algebra class. It was right after lunch and your ate lasagna. Now can you remember?? Mr Carmody was the teacher. You sat to my left and I was grossed out!!! (HAHAHAHA!!!) How come I remember this while you were the one throwing up? Do you not remember being embarrassed, even!!?? Were we ever boyfriend and girlfriend? I seem to remember something. . . Until you threw up all over your desk. (Are you laughing?) Anyway, nice to be in touch. Hope all is well with you and your's.

And I got to thinking late last night how this must be a message from the past helping me to tell the story I see forming in my mind--this story called Tilden Avenue . Whatever I write will it end up here:

 

I feel that my past, the distant past, is like a landscape of fog, a photograph that is neither black nor white, but gray and indistinct, coming only into focus with a snap of bright light; electric, fast and almost untouchable.

Tuesday 14

Rivers of Light. I read an interesting review in Sunday's Cleveland Plain Dealer. It was about a new book entitled "A Walk with Four Spiritual Guides" by Andrew Harvey. The reviewer, Donna Marchetti,  wrote:

Harvey believes that we are engaged in a battle for our survival. In "A Walk With Four Spiritual Guides," he writes, "Only the highest spiritual wisdom and tireless sacred passion for all of life united with pragmatic, radical action on all possible fronts can now help us preserve the planet." The book is a call to war against economic disparity, environmental degradation, religious conflict and humanity's self-annihilation, to be fought with the teachings of Krishna, Buddha, Jesus and Ramakrishna. Along the way to saving ourselves and the planet, Harvey promises that by embracing the wisdom of these voices, readers will "discover capacities for heroic love and sacrifice you would have never imagined." The book offers much food for thought, especially in the annotated excerpts from sacred writings. Harvey is particularly enflamed by the Gospel of Thomas, the controversial manuscript discovered in Egypt in 1945. (While some, such as Harvey, embrace its teachings and champion its authenticity, others, including the Catholic Church, have declared it to be apocryphal.) In a startling departure from the canonical gospels, Thomas' version of Christ's teachings propounds that the Kingdom of the Father exists on Earth, waiting for those who can find the key to its discovery. Harvey places great hope in this concept, convinced that seekers can use the Gospel of Thomas toward a radical transformation of the world. While Harvey's book offers the individual little in any immediate practical sense, and his breathless alarmism can be overbearing, it nonetheless offers a portal into fascinating ways of thinking about inner divinity and its potential to effect universal change.

I wonder what my great-grandfather would think about this book?

Not like Alfred Barone, born In Salerno, Italy Of noble parentage, at an early age Turned to religion Stoned, imprisoned, he was Almost burned at the stake Nonetheless, with the help God, He was able to give birth to many Protestant missions and churches Throughout Italy and later In America where he preached The Gospel and established missions In Haverhill, in Springfield, In Monson, in Stamford.

Monday 13

Doors. One door closes. Another door opens.

I think the French say "the more things change the more they remain the same." There is another proverb of sorts that says "things that do not change remain the same." These two views suggest that, change or not, life will go on. Maybe we can suggest another possibility: things that do not change may not remain at all. Lack of change may endanger the survival of the vision itself.

Out if insight comes change in self-expectation. Read this again: Out of insight comes change in self-expectation.

Insight. Change. Self-expectation. Growth. More insight. 

Things change. 

One door closes. Another door opens.

Sunday 12

Solitude of Self. Woke up this morning thinking about this:

From Paris Press (Ashfield, Massachusetts) a re-issue of Elizabeth Cady Stanton's "Solitude of Self;" in part, the introduction by Jan Freeman reads: Throughout Solitude of Self, Stanton asserts that we face our most challenging moments alone, and that it is the birthright of every person to be equally prepared for these moments -- regardless of gender, race, religion, race. If we are equally educated and equally tained on all fronts of life, then says Stanton, we can call upon our inner resources when we need them most. In Solitude of Self, Stanton presents the story of a servant girl who decorates a Christmas tree for her employer's children and later discovers that among all the presents beneath the tree there is no gift for her. In despair, she spends the winter night in a field weeping. When the newspapers discover her plight and publish the story, many people send the girl presents. But, Stanton observes, at the moment of the girl's deepest sorrow and dissappointment, she is alone. This keen solitude accompanies all forms of crisis for young and old alike, and our tools of survival -- as individuals and as a society -- include the development of skills that foster self-reliance. Pictured below; Sojourner Truth:

Thinking of the solitude of self and self-reliance, I find myself drawn to nature:

Saturday 11

Out The Window. I did it; I signed on at NaNoWriMo. I entitled my work in progress--my novel, "Tilden Avenue." Now if I can only stop looking out this window and watching the leaves fall......

 

Daryl read this poem by Martin Espada for English class: 

Alabanza: In Praise of Local 100 for the 43 members of Hotel Employees and Restaurant Employees Local 100, working at the Windows on the World restaurant, who lost their lives in the attack on the World Trade Center Alabanza. Praise the cook with a shaven head and a tattoo on his shoulder that said Oye, a blue-eyed Puerto Rican with people from Fajardo, the harbor of pirates centuries ago. Praise the lighthouse in Fajardo, candle glimmering white to worship the dark saint of the sea. Alabanza. Praise the cook's yellow Pirates cap worn in the name of Roberto Clemente, his plane that flamed into the ocean loaded with cans for Nicaragua, for all the mouths chewing the ash of earthquakes. Alabanza. Praise the kitchen radio, dial clicked even before the dial on the oven, so that music and Spanish rose before bread. Praise the bread. Alabanza. Praise Manhattan from a hundred and seven flights up, like Atlantis glimpsed through the windows of an ancient aquarium. Praise the great windows where immigrants from the kitchen could squint and almost see their world, hear the chant of nations: Ecuador, México, Republica Dominicana, Haiti, Yemen, Ghana, Bangladesh. Alabanza. Praise the kitchen in the morning, where the gas burned blue on every stove and exhaust fans fired their diminutive propellers, hands cracked eggs with quick thumbs or sliced open cartons to build an altar of cans. Alabanza. Praise the busboy's music, the chime-chime of his dishes and silverware in the tub. Alabanza. Praise the dish-dog, the dishwasher who worked that morning because another dishwasher could not stop coughing, or because he needed overtime to pile the sacks of rice and beans for a family floating away on some Caribbean island plagued by frogs. Alabanza. Praise the waitress who heard the radio in the kitchen and sang to herself about a man gone. Alabanza. After the thunder wilder than thunder, after the shudder deep in the glass of the great windows, after the radio stopped singing like a tree full of terrified frogs, after night burst the dam of day and flooded the kitchen, for a time the stoves glowed in darkness like the lighthouse in Fajardo, like a cook's soul. Soul I say, even if the dead cannot tell us about the bristles of God's beard because God has no face, soul I say, to name the smoke-beings flung in constellations across the night sky of this city and cities to come. Alabanza I say, even if God has no face. Alabanza. When the war began, from Manhattan and Kabul two constellations of smoke rose and drifted to each other, mingling in icy air, and one said with an Afghan tongue: Teach me to dance. We have no music here. And the other said with a Spanish tongue: I will teach you. Music is all we have.

Watching the Yankee/Red Sox game and getting disappointed in the players' conduct, I looked out the living room window and saw this (5:28):

Friday 10

Compare and Contrast.

A Poem in Photographs:

Thursday 09

Artichokes. Our dog, Daisy, found these acorns. They make me think of artichokes. I love artichokes. And we have a family tradition of always ordering them when they are the special at a restaurant and cooking them as outlined here:

Basic Stuffed Artichoke Artichokes Stuffed with Lemon-Garlic Breadcrumbs Bon Appétit - April, 1998 I N G R E D I E N T S 2 cups fresh breadcrumbs  1/4 cup olive oil 2 tablespoons fresh lemon juice 1 tablespoon chopped fresh oregano 3 garlic cloves, minced 1 teaspoon grated lemon peel (We also add cooked sausage or ground meat (if we have it around), parmesan cheese and tomato sauce) 6 medium artichokes, trimmed, left whole, chokes removed.  Preheat oven to 400°F. Par-boil artichokes. Mix breadcrumbs, cheese, meat and oil in medium bowl.  Mix in lemon juice, oregano, garlic and lemon peel. Season with salt and pepper. Stuff artichokes. Bake in tomato sauce and 1/2 cup water till tender.

I think we are at the peak of autumn; if not today, then tomorrow or Saturday and Sunday. Our backyard looked like this early this morning:

Wednesday 08

Looking out the Window.

Early this morning I received the kindest e-mail:

Bruce, somehow seeing this picture of a leaf (Monday) is more clear and beautiful and real and resonant to me than if I had seen it with the naked eye myself in person. Thank you for helping me to see. This is the kind of beauty that keeps me alive. You are a wonder......If it means anything to you, I should tell you that I really love your soul and your art. My world is a better place because of knowing you, even through this 'detached' (internet) medium. Thank you for lending me soul glasses that show me the miracles the world still contains every day.

Tuesday 07

Times Square. I am thinking about my book of photographs illustrating Times Square @ the 1970s and 1980s---and the photos I owe Comrades Press for the book, "Bleeding Jesus."

Monday 06

Jonathan Edwards. Yesterday in church we learned that Edwards wasn't all fire and brimstone, but he found much to love in nature and observed it closely.

Sunday 05

The Fallen. I watched Samurai movies on IFC yesterday and was struck by a movie called Samurai Rebellion, which inspired these photos:

Saturday 04

The Seven Samurai. And Gabriel Garcia Marquez. In the recent issue of The New Yorker, Marquez writes:

......I had spent the entire day venting my frustrations as a writer with Gonzalo Mallarino at his house on Avenida Chile, and when I was returning to the pension on the last streetcar a flesh-and-blood faun got on at the Chapinero station. No mistake: I said a faun. I noticed that none of the passengers on the streetcar seemed surprised to see him, and this made me think that he was just one of the men in costume who sold a variety of things on Sundays in the children's parks. But reality convinced me that I should have no doubts: his horns and beard were as wild as those of a goat, and when he passed by me I could smell the stink of his pelt. With the manners of a good paterfamilias, he got off before Calle 26, the street where the cemetery was, and disappeared among the trees in the park.

 

Friday 03

I Guess I'll Always Be a Yankee Fan. But Where is Lemonyellow.

Thursday 02

Sandy Koufax. In the 1963 World Series, Sandy Koufax emerged victorious in Games 1 and 3 striking out 15 in the Series opener, (a World Series record and played on October 2) and eight in the Series finale. Johnny Padres and Don Drysdale, who pitched a three-hitter in Game 3, were also superb in their two victories against a New York lineup that included Mantle, Maris, and Pepitone. Game 4 of the Series was a classic confrontation between two all-time pitching greats, Whitney Ford and Sandy Koufax. After Frank Howard and Mickey Mantle each hit one-run-blasts for their respective clubs, the score remained tied 1-1 heading into the bottom of the 7th when the Dodgers Willie Davis knocked home the go-ahead run with a sacrifice fly. That's all Koufax needed

Front yard at Birch Lane.

Wednesday 01

Liszt and Autumn. I started reading a fascinating book last night; An Artist's Journey (Lettres d'un bachelier es musique, 1835-1841) by Franz List. From the inside book flap:

In these eloquent and intensely personal writing, Franz Liszt sketches the cities, people, and scenes of his travels in the 1830s and explores ideas about art and its ideal place in the world. During the six years of wandering through Switzerland, France, Italy, Austria, and Germany (four of them together with Countess Marie d'Agoult), the composer saw the greatest art and most fabulous landscapes of Europe and crossed paths with celebrated singers and artists, renowned intellectuals, infamous socialties, and both reigning and deposed aristocracy......though written for the Paris press, they are the closest Liszt came to autobiography. (note; he was 23)

Today, we also celebrate the birthday of Vladimir Horowitz. Born 100 years ago today, he was considered by music critics to be the greatest pianist of his time. Like magic, his fingers would fly over the keys, leaving audiences awestruck, according to a story on NPR.

"When you talk about Vladimir Horowitz, these are the kinds of words that you do hear: You hear genius, you hear magic, you hear the god of the piano..." Hoffman says. "He set a standard for virtuosity. He set a standard for variations in tone color at the piano -- what you could do with the sound of a piano." Horowitz could sound like he was playing multiple pianos simultaneously. But, Hoffman says, he was "not just somebody who pounded the heck out of the piano. He was famous for the range of quiet sounds that he made." ~Miles Hoffman on NPR