Featuring...
pre November 2018
muse-letter \’myüz-‘le-tər noun
1: a personal message, inspired by a muse of one's own creation, addressed to a person or organization, in the course of which, the sender becomes absorbed in thought; especially turning something over in the mind meditatively and often inconclusively.
2: a letter from a poet, or one who envisions oneself as such, in which he or she “muses” on that which is perceived to be news, or newsworthy, usually in some ironic or absurd way.
Parts of the site under reconstruction
In the Matter of Squeamishness (and a Bit Beyond)
Procedures
I’m scheduled for a cataract surgery this month. Actually two. Two eyes…two surgeries. Oops. I mean, using doctorspeak, “procedures.” And the idea of it alone is making me nauseous. Going near my eyes? In my eyes? Eye examinations in general cause me stress. I’ve even gotten a bit queasy when any tests get too intrusive. For any part of the body. And to add to my discomfort, come the probing "cams" of high tech.
I now know for example, immediately following a colonoscopy, the exact path the doctor took through this surreal fun house of fatty tissue. They hand me the photos upon leaving, as if I just got off a Disneyland ride. I wince and avert my eyes. Yew. Gross. Likewise, I never asked for imagery of my brain. But there it was, compliments of a neurologist who assured me that short term memory loss is normal for someone of my age (I forgot his name), as he went about the business of walking me through this maze of grey matter we call a brain. He had me at "normal." And that would have sufficed.
Cataract removal allegedly lasts but a short time, I’m told. “The procedure itself is only twenty minutes.” Twenty minutes? That’s twenty hours in "Rontime," as I will be awake. Even woke, the whole time. And by the way, if these procedures are so routine, why are they scheduled two weeks apart? Allowing time for the first eye to heal, I wonder? Heal from what? I don’t want to know.
They in white lab coats speak differently than us, don’t they. In condescending doctorspeak, “You might experience some discomfort.” Translation: “You are going to be in such @#$%&ing pain you will wish you were dead.” Doctorspeak: “We’ll run some tests.” Translation: “I have no idea what’s causing this is. So I’ll try to buy some time here.” Doctorspeak: “It’s probably nothing.” Translation: “It’s something.”
Things used to be “nothing.” But as you age, the “nothings” have a tendency to turn into “somethings.” And before a procedure(s) for those “somethings,” they come over with a piece of paper for you to sign. And more doctorspeak: “While this procedure turns out to be 95% successful, I have to read to you the following.” Translation: “We need to cover our asses.” And they proceed to try to read off a list of things— highly unlikely, they assure you— that could go wrong. A list longer than a seven-year old’s letter to Santa.
Me: “I don’t want to know.”
White Labcoat: “I have to tell you.”
Me: “But, I don’t want to know.”
White Labcoat: “It’s the law.”
Me: “So, you’re going to tell me what could possibly go wrong, five minutes before I go into that room for a “procedure” about which I don’t want to know? Just fix it.”
Seriously. That was an approximate real-life exchange I had almost eleven years ago. Theater of the absurd? Yes. But I won out. And proceeded to bravely walk into the room, totally ignorant as to the makeup of that unfortunate 5%.
Thankfully, they fixed it. Mostly. Every once in a while though, a doctor will be honest. Almost to a fault. My cardiologist once said to me: “Does this mean you will NEVER have a heart attack? No. There’s no guarantee. That’s why they call it ‘a practice.’”
Squeamishness
This is a long way to go to say I’m squeamish. Very. Have always been. Not only about procedures regarding my own body parts, but that of all organisms. Dissect a frog in biology class? I chose another year of French instead. (Not knowing at the time that frogs' legs are an extremely common delicacy in French cuisine).
I don’t know why I find certain things so repugnant. It’s not something that’s genetic. And why some people are squeamish, and some aren’t? And why, like beauty, squeamishness is in the cataract eye of the beholder? So as with all serious questions seeking answers, I Googled. But found nothing definitive regarding squeamishness. There are some vague causes given that usually fall back on a traumatic experience one might have had long ago. Or, you become squeamish in situations where you might feel in bodily danger. The sight of blood usually given as an iconic example. One study shows that 15% of the adult population faints while giving blood.
But where is the danger in eating calamari? And let’s call it for what it is— SQUID. Cooking it and turning it into cute little circles disguised as onion rings, doesn’t fool me. I know how it starts out. With an uncountable number of suction cups (the very phrase, despicable) and eight, what passes for arms or legs? It’s not a sight I can ever unsee.
It looks positively disgusting. But not to you. Why? A psychologist might suggest that it’s because I saw 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea in 1954, when I was nine?
Capt. Nemo played by James Mason
in deep-doo doo in the deep blue sea.
Hmmm. Who knows?
Oysters
Yet, I will eat raw oysters. I love them. (As well as non sequiturs). Though not raw clams, nor mussels. Go figure. Maybe it’s the suggestion of enhanced virility that oysters offer? And what man is not always in the market for that?
Thus, I’m able to overlook the amorphousness and sliminess of this creature. And until there is a sci-fi movie made about a giant raw oyster who proceeds to escape from its shell, and creeps its way up the Empire State Building, no problem.
I’ve always been curious as to who ever decided to eat an oyster in the first place. Isn’t everyone? So you can imagine my joy when I came across this book, which sought to provide an answer. Along with sixteen other “firsts.” But I could care less about those. Just oysters.
Who was the first, coming upon an oyster, said wow that looks delicious? And surmised it needed shucking? ("I don't give a shuck. I'll smash this thing open and eat it anyway").
Jonathan Swift once mused:`` He was a bold man that ate an oyster.” Actually, it was a bold woman. At least according to some archeological evidence which goes back 164,000 years. At least according to this book, which did considerable research on the matter.
Among homo sapiens at the time, there was strict division of labor in "hunter-gathering” responsibilities. Not unlike that on Leave It To Beaver. Oysters, like staples, were more likely harvested by women. Therefore she, perhaps while venturing into the ocean in search of something else—"a sleeping turtle, a beached whale ... a resting sea lion"—first came upon it. And, author Cassidy speculates, "if she saw another animal eat an oyster, it might have provided her with the necessary courage."
* * *
I walked into this whole exercise wondering about squeamishness in general, and mine in particular. Triggered by pending cataract procedures. And yes, I've gone a bit beyond. And yes, I'm acting as if I’m the only one doing this, rather than being included in 3.8 million of these that are performed each year in the U.S. But... how many of those are done on people who are as squeamish as I am? Yet, who eat raw oysters? But… shun calamari? It narrows the field considerably.
Cards
Cento: A Poetic Form, an Example and… Ethel?
A cento (taken from the Latin meaning literally “patchwork”), is an historic poetic form that draws entirely from other poets’ (and writers’) published works. Ausonius (c310 – c395) was the Roman originator of the form. The ancient Greeks assembled centos in homage to Homer; the Romans in homage to Virgil.
Its creation comes about by taking one or two lines from a number of existing poems, (and sometimes other forms of writing), and arranging them in a way so as to create a new poem that usually has a narrative, of sorts, with an underlying theme. Though like all other art forms, it can be something abstract. And while there are no “rules” as to its length, a minimum of ten lines is suggested. At the conclusion of the newly created poem, it is customary to provide a footnote on the sources that went into its making.
Joanna C. Migdal is a poet who specializes in this form. Therefore she might be called a centoist. An actual word I had not known existed until recently. She has been on this site before, most notably, with her cento in the MuseLetter’s 10th Anniversary, October 2014.
She notes that a cento is “not unlike what is done in the art world, wherein a montage is made from gathering clips from other films to create a new video. Or in the visual arts, a collage will consist of images cut to create a new work of art.”
She provides a further, and more humorous explanation of the form, by quoting Billy Collins, a leading best selling poet who has a crossover appeal that extends beyond poetry aficionados. “A cento is akin to armed robbery because there is a longing to steal and break into the poems of others.”
Here is an example of one of Ms. Migdal’s centos currently appearing in the literary magazine, Ethel. More on that oddly named publication following Ms. Migdal’s entry, which is taken from her extensive collection,
Wild Nights!
* Sources in order of appearance: Mark Strand, C.P. Cavafy, Maxine Kunin, Charlotte Mew, C.P.Cavafy,
Raymond Carver, Ron Vazzano, DH Lawrence, Amy Lowell, James Joyce
Cento #3*
I say yes to everything.
That's how the other day, mercifully helped by alcohol, I had half an hour that was totally erotic.
Passion had locked us together
in the little damp room of the seaweed smell.
Our clothes half-opened…we weren’t wearing much, a divine July was ablaze.
A day of dense sunlight heavy with odors of love…
The alchemy of scent and smoke and rivulets of sweat.
Your body quailed at my stroke.
When you came, you were like red wine and honey and the taste of you burned my mouth
with its sweetness.
And yes. I said yes. I will. Yes.
Sara Lefsyk, and Joanna Penn Cooper, friends and fellow poets, decided to create a literary and arts publication three and a half years ago. As throughout the course of their friendship they had inexplicably and playfully began calling each other Ethel, that became the obvious choice in naming the new “zine” they were co-founding. (Although, how could they resist not adding the surname Mertz?). While it is open to all poets and artists, they are particularly excited to feature the work of “women, People of Color and the LGBTQ+ communities.”
Selective editorial or niche-group focus is hardly unique. It is in fact, the raison d’être of the small press universe. But what really seems to set Ethel apart, is not only the cutting edge writing within its usual length of 120 pages or so, but the handmade quality of the books themselves. Ms. Lefsyk, in an interview notes that, "I use many different materials to design and create each cover by hand, and I either machine sew or hand bind each book together.” The result is a funky underground feel for each book that further adds to its appeal. Soon they expanded into making Chapbooks, which are small publications of up to about 40 pages, that too, contain poetry in all forms.
Ethel now receives submissions from around the world. Volume 9 is due out this winter. Ms. Lefsky goes on to say, “The biggest struggle is that I make all of the books myself—200 of each zine and 60 to 75 of each chapbook.” Upon seeing this, I couldn’t help thinking of the old proverb, A stitch at a time saves nine. Followed by, A labor of love.
Quote of the Month
“Insisting on your rights without acknowledging your responsibilities
isn’t freedom. It’s adolescence.”
— Mohamad Safa
Human Rights Activist
Permanent Representative at the UN
(first posted on Twitter, April 23, 2020)
While December 7, 1941 preceded my birth (but not by all that much really),
Regarding those in government who presumably ought to be smarter than the average bear, one could choke on the gaslighting that has filled and fouled the air of truth in this past year. All that downplaying or rejecting entirely, what we all saw coming out of Washington in real time and in replay after replay: an attempt to violently undermine our long cherished peaceful transfer of power.
stormed by an angry mob including some who were heavily armed. Which has been called, “a dry run” for what was to take place in Washington. It sure has that feel to it in retrospect.I wondered at the time, where is the outrage? Is this another new normal? Oh, but that’s just in Michigan where stuff like that is allowed. No arrests were ever made. So what was the message there? We are a gender-neutral militia group?
A militia group stands in front of the governor’s office after armed protesters occupied the State Capitol building during a vote to approve the extension of Gov. Gretchen Whitmer’s stay-at-home order. Seth Herald/Reuters
A Tale of Two Infamies
Last month… this month.
The 7th… the 6th.
December… January.
80 years ago… 358 days ago (as of this posting)
Attack on Us by Them… attack on Us by Us.
Unity… disunity.
Gas from exploding ships… gaslighting from exploding Congress.
I could not help mull over these two days of infamy (a MullLetter?). No connection between the two? The very point. If indeed January 6, 2021 is even looked as being a day of infamy. According to a Quinnipiac poll released last May, only 55% of those surveyed said that what happened should never be forgotten.
A poll is never foolproof, as we’ve since come to know. But if you follow the news, that percentage would not only seem accurate, even likely, overstated. Given all those—including people in high places—who think we should just “move on.” How can you move on from something, if you don’t know who, how and why that something occurred in the first place? Doesn’t that increase the risk that it can happen again? Leading to something worse? As wound up being the case on April 30, 2020, after the State Capital in Michigan was
So who, what and why is Ethel?
Some would also remember that, “Americans saved aluminum foil and even peeled off the silver wrapping from chewing gum wrappers and cigarette packs.”
The War Production Board, a federal government agency, went so far as to ban men's suits from including cuffs and restricted the length of their shirts. Measures taken (no pun intended) to save material for making uniforms for our troops.
There might have been some grumbling, but Americans as a whole were with the program. None of this was a problem. This is what you do in times of a national crisis with American lives at stake.
One can’t help but make a comparison between what was asked of us then, vs. what is asked of us now: vaccinations and the wearing of a mask in certain situations and confined spaces. For the common good. And the response?
Houston, we’ve got a problem!
How dare the government demand such humanitarian gestures of us.
But while those comparisons are worth noting—they are inescapable— they’re but a sidebar to something far more serious that bodes ill. Tens of millions of Americans still don’t accept that Joe Biden was fairly elected. Despite repeatedly being shown with mathematical certainty, that he was. Despite almost fifty high profile and "name" members of the Republican party, including Mitch McConnell— 9 Senators in all—and Chris Christi, (his eye firmly fixed on the 2024 prize), publicly accepting the legitimacy of that outcome.
What have we come to? Where are we going?
I’m sure many of us are leery with January 6th approaching. Not only because it will be a reminder of that horrific day last year, but not knowing what to expect on this first anniversary. Anniversaries of such events can sometimes bring out the worst in the worst kinds of people. Even Pearl Harbor, till this day, still does. Thankfully, in very small circles. The kind a dog makes chasing its tail.
As of this writing, I’ve seen nothing regarding what security measures might be taken in D.C. on the 6th. I would think there'd be a heavy presence of the military and local law enforcement, in a now cliched, "abundance of caution.” It would be foolish not to. (“Fool me once, shame on you etc”). Especially as it has been reported that Trump will be making some sort of statement on that day from Mar-a-Lago. I’ll leave it to the imagination as to where that might go. And it would not be surprising if others stepped up to a mic to indulge in some more gaslighting.
The good news is that leading participants in that insurrection (and it was that), are continuing to be jailed. (The “Viking guy” got 41 months, in case you missed it). So the likelihood of anything resembling last year is greatly reduced on that score as well.
2,403 Americans didn’t die on January 6, 2021 as did on December 7, 1941. Only, possibly, Democracy. Give it time. I’ve heard this all described as a coup in slow motion. Hyperbole? Hope so. But as historian Timothy Snyder succinctly warns: "If we're not prepared for the attempt for people to take power undemocratically in 2024, then we're just at this point pathetically naive."
I made an entry in my journal in recognition of it. With a tinge of regret about the “where-were-you-when?” question, that I never asked of family members who lived through it in real time and were old enough to remember. Who sadly are gone.
What did they remember many decades later? I never asked. They never offered. As hard working blue-collar people, by nature, they were not given to much introspection. And never talked much about that War. I should have been especially curious to know how they reacted to FDR’s “date-of-infamy” speech. Which ended:
“I ask that the Congress declare that since the unprovoked and
dastardly attack by Japan on Sunday, December 7th, 1941, a
state of war has existed between the United States and the
Japanese empire.”
97% of Americans not only supported a declaration of war against Japan, but 90% thought FDR should have asked Congress to include Germany in the war declaration as well. And off they went. Into the wild blue yonder, while again sending the word “over there.”
Meanwhile, on the home front, Americans were asked to ration, and received their first Ration Books in May 1942. As there was a shortage of food supplies, the intent was to allow purchase of but a meager share of household staples including meat, dairy, coffee, dried fruits, jams, jellies…etc”
“This didn’t seem like an armed insurrection to me... “I never felt threatened. I didn’t foresee this…I don’t know any Trump supporters who would do that.”
The cops who were defending you and your place of business, sir, certainly felt threatened. A few even lost their lives as a result. And as for the specter of an American flag used as a weapon against them? I wonder what poem Francis Scott Key would have written about that. And
dare we forget that noose for the Vice President of the United States, hanging from a scaffold? And more video keeps emerging, even as of this writing, showing just how violent this attack on the Capital was. Coupled with new texts that have come to light of Trump’s most ardent supporters, imploring him to stop this immediately. Which he didn’t. Until three hours later. Yes, unequivocally, this was a day of infamy.
On a more heart-warming note last month, I caught footage of Biden placing a wreath at the gravesite of Bob Dole on the 80th anniversary of Pearl Harbor. It contained a wild sunflower, the state flower of Dole’s Kansas. A Decorated World War II Veteran, he had died three days prior at age 98.
finito
Ron Vazzano
Ron Vazzano
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