October 2020
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
Muse Letters from the Front
A surrogate, battle scarred
in my behalf
postmarked: The Foxhole
stands up to her waist in war.
She came late to the theater
but just in time
this muse, this source
of intrigue and inspiration
of what was previously unknown.
For can one ever know
that so heartfelt
yet beyond comprehension?
Otherwise I might have
gone out there alone
pen in hand to get it done
beginning at birth
if not for fear;
this feeble mortality.
Not from the wounds of "slings and arrows"
quaint Shakespearean
implements of war
but the firepower of the modern idiom
when thankfully she first appeared
in the last millennium
before I could take leave
on the wings of self merit
claiming a victory.
One so richly undeserved
that came from a place
only she could bring to the front.
≈
In Six Words
A dozen years back, a book entitled Not Quite What I Was Planning evolved out of something called SMITH Magazine, by its eponymous editor/publisher Larry Smith. Its premise was the celebration of personal storytelling by way of a memoir. In exactly six words!
Though Mr. Smith is upfront in admitting that the inspiration for such a project, is actually a twist on the legendary story about Ernest Hemingway. He, the master of simple, direct, unadorned prose, was once challenged by an undisclosed number of fellow writers, to write a compelling story in but a half-dozen words. And that challenge came along with $10 bets from each of those writers. A literary running of the bulls of sorts. But the point of the contest being, to grab one of them by the short sharp horns of exposition.
Winning the bet without dispute, Papa collected a number of "Hamiltons" with this gem.
For sale: baby shoes, never worn.
Though like Mr. Smith, he too might have been drawing upon "inspiration" from the past. The early 1900’s had been rift with accounts of infant mortality. Such as this one reported in a May 16, 1910 article from The Spokane Press. Its ten-word headline says it all. One need not even go on to read the copy that followed.
This use of an absolute minimum number of words to tell a story, came to be referred to as “flash fiction.” And while the resultant prose might come off as sounding like a haiku, strictly speaking, a classic haiku form is like War and Peace in comparison. It consisting of a comparatively excessive three lines, and an abundance of 17 syllables (5-7-5), and no word limitations. It suggests, in its simplicity, a parallel with something more worldly or profound. Which Hemmingway’s flash fiction also delivers. Though none dare call it plagiarism.
When Mr. Smith issued a call for six-word memoirs for possible publishing consideration in his magazine, they came in by the thousands. Varying in style and content, they were… “shocking, strange silly, or sad,” but “always entertaining, often inspiring, and totally addictive,”
Smith saw there was a book here to be made, and he made it. “A thousand glimpses into humanity— six words at a time,“ the back cover tells us.
Even some well-known people responded, showing a side of themselves not often expressed in public. Excepting perhaps, the late Joan Rivers, who was always “on.” Especially incorporating sexual intimacies in her humor.
Liars, hysterectomy didn’t improve sex life!
Joan Rivers
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Ginsburg is Dead. Long Live Hypocrisy.
(pre that "Debate")
It’s becoming impossible to pretend that there aren’t things going on out there that defy belief. So much so, that they are beyond being satirized or fodder for irony. Well, almost. So much so, that astounding inconsistencies, outright lies and hypocrisy at the highest levels of our government, have become the new normal. None of this is news of course.
All the same, before sliding into this month’s MuseLetter, I can’t proceed as if the death of RBG and the hypocrisy that ensued didn’t happen. And here I’ll quote George W. Bush as he so eloquently put it following the inaugural address on January 20, 2017: “Well, that was some weird shit.” (A comment that might have followed that debacle of a "debate" as well).
Though there is attention to serious matters in this issue, it still contains the usual mix of curiosities and some playful fare (6-word memoirs, 350,000 species of beetles, etc.). The “Muse” is not designed to be a soap box. This is a soap box.
Allegedly made of “Antique and Rare Wood,” it’s going for only $165 online. A steal.
Venues for airing grievances, and debates that quickly deteriorate into name calling in CAPITAL letters, are in abundance on social (or anti-social) media. Which often traffics in conspiracy theories. Which reminds me of something I ran across by Edward Gibbon (1737-1794) whose seminal work is The History of the Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire. And who bears a striking resemblance to George Conway, Kellyanne’s hubby. I’ll call it the Quote of the Month for this month.
“People are saying,” the deadly virus of polarized politics has taken a toll; gotten into our lungs. Existential—the hot new word— threats abound. And there’s no way to quarantine ourselves from it all. Hence, things of a political nature have been appearing more frequently in these musings. And it has been noticed. And at times tsk tsked, along with a frown I can almost see coming through the screen. And that’s ok. Though thankfully not going so far as to say, “fake muse.” At least not yet.
Conversely, I was told by one reader, “You’re not hard enough on Trump.” To which I might have replied, that constantly going on about Trump and his “unbecoming-of-a-president” manner, is like beating a cremated horse. Yet, I find myself shuffling through those unscattered ashes all the same. As I will once again in this very Muse. Blame it on Bob Woodward this time.
With that as a preamble, on to the subjects at hand as promised in the title of this piece.
Ruth Bader Ginsburg, was “Five Feet Tall but Towering Over All of Us,” read one publication headline. “A feminist icon,” “well known for championing women’s rights,” chimed in others. And certainly she remains an inspiration to all women, young and old. Who wouldn’t want their daughter to grow up to be like RBG? Even her successor-to-be, Amy Coney Barrett, praised her as a pioneer who "not only broke glass ceilings," but "smashed them." Despite that Barrett and Ginsburg could not be ideologically farther apart.
To say she will be missed, is not the usual boilerplate sentiment uttered every time someone passes away. She really will be missed. I have a hunch that some serious issues, issues that come attached with a political agenda to seek and destroy and overturn, are going to come before the Supreme Court next year. Just a wild guess. And of course, “across the aisle”— with that “Carrollean” rabbit hole in between— the response following Ginsburg’s passing was predictably hypocritical. And cold-heartedly swift.
Cutting to 1964 for a moment, the campaign of the Republican nominee for the presidency, Barry Goldwater, had a slogan that would be intoned at the end of each of his TV ads: “In your heart you know he’s right.” On the flip side, enter Mitch McConnell, along with a slogan I might suggest: “In your heart you know he’s wrong.” As are far too many sycophants playing musical chairs in the seats of government.
As people, regardless of our political or religious persuasions (or even lack of either), we know when something is wrong. When something is unfair.We learned it in kindergarten, as author and Unitarian minister Robert Lee Fulghum pointed it out in his runaway best seller of 35 years ago. There it is. Rule 2: Play Fair.
We didn’t learn the word hypocrisy at that tender age, which by definition is “…the practice of engaging in the same behavior or activity for which one criticizes another” (here’s looking at you Lindsay). Or in kindergarten words… ”not playing fair.”
Here’s Mitch in 2016 just a couple of days or so after Anton Scalia’s death, with President Obama’s presidency still having 11 months to go:
"The American people should have a voice in the selection of their next Supreme Court Justice. Therefore, this vacancy should not be filled until we have a new president."
Here’s Mitch in 2020 following the death of RBG, with the possibility of having a new president elected in just 6 weeks: "President Trump’s nominee will receive a vote on the floor of the United States Senate.”
He was referring to a nominee who was to come within 8 days following RGB’s death. Because of course, you can’t go too long without nine supremes on the bench. Unheard of. Except of course, in days of yore. 2016.
There is no gray area here. No amount of parsing, or parsley, is going to cover up the taste of rancid hypocrisy, to mix metaphors. Unless, I suppose, you question what the meaning of "is" is. Or something to that effect. As Bill Clinton once did.
We wouldn’t tolerate it in our parents, our kids, family, friends, the UPS delivery guy. But We the people, in the majority on this issue, are forced to tolerate an "in-you-face" power play. You know, the sort of thing that goes on in those countries that don’t have a democracy. Or down that cliched, highly trafficked, aforementioned rabbit hole.
I guess the proverb “All is fair in love and war,” trumps “play fair.” Pun very much intended. And bemoaned. And speaking of not playing by the rules... Trump was at his violation best, in that "debate." Which happened in newspaper parlance, "after we went to press." Such is a hazard of trying to muse in some depth, on views of current news. To be continued at a later date. Unless by that point it's far too late. On to a poem.
Well, I thought it was funny. Fearlessness is the mother of reinvention.
Stephen Colbert Arianna Huffington
Secret of life: marry an Italian. It's all about me, isn't it?
Nora Ephron Daniel Halpern
Revenge is living well without you.
Joyce Carol Oates
Then there were those from unknown writers that particularly jumped out at me. A sampling.
Type A personality. Type B capability. (Too close to home?)
I still make coffee for two.
Extremely responsible, secretly longing for spontaneity.
Lonely artist turned waitress in love.
I colored outside of the lines.
Didn’t marry a lawyer, became one.
Emboldened by this project, I couldn’t resist offering my own life’s tale.
Two... names, careers, coasts, kids, divorces.
And if the spirit moves you, please feel free to submit your own. It really is an interesting challenge. I could post them in the next MuseLetter if you would like (I don’t do social media).
What has triggered my return to this mishegas at this particular time? Well, Larry Smith is back. At least in hardcopy. Unbeknownst to me, he’s never really gone away (https://www.sixwordmemoirs.com/). This time by way of a piece last month in The New York Times, wherein he brings the concept up to date in the context of "The Pandemic in Six-Word Memoirs."
“…over the past several months I’ve asked adults and children around the country to use the form
to make sense of this moment in history: one person, one story, and six words at a time.”
He didn’t mention the number of responses he received, while offering a taste with twenty-four. These being my favorites from that group.
This is what time looks like.
Avoiding death, but certainly not living.
The world has never been smaller.
Never-ending but boredom doesn’t faze me.
Can’t smell the campfire on Zoom.
Social distancing myself from the fridge.
And once again, I couldn’t resist.
A mask. Too much to ask?
And once again, feel free to chime in.
350,000 Beetle Species Can’t Be Right
and One Other Thing That Bugged Me
While doing The New York Times Saturday Crossword puzzle recently— about which Paul Sorvino, as if in a scene from Goodfellas, once called it “The bitch mother of all crosswords”— I came upon this:
41 ACROSS: Largest order of animals on earth, with over 350,000 species.
Seven letters.
Having no clue, but being able to work around it, I deduced that the answer must be B-E-E-T-L-E-S. You're kidding.
Yeew! Not to mention yuck. And it looks here like the 405 at rush hour.
This startled me, and was fraught will all sorts of questions. For starters, a beetle is an animal? Really? And what about that water bug in the bathroom? Et tu? The one that I was flailing away at recently with the nearest weapon at hand, a rolled up copy of The American Poetry Review? Thereby refuting W.H. Auden’s claim that “Poetry makes nothing happen.” And in the process of slaying this now newly considered beast, it reminded me of that scene in Annie Hall: “There's a spider in your bathroom the size of a Buick.” (Are you allowed to even remember a Woody Allen movie, let alone watch one? Let alone reference one?).
But the more pressing questions I have, concern those alleged 350,000 species. Who counts them? And how? And why? This is taking entomology, which makes me itch just thinking about it, to the extreme. And by the way, just how many entomologists are there in the U.S. keeping tabs on all these bugs (excuse me, animals) you might ask? Only 8,000, as I’ve come to find out. That’s 44 species of beetles per bugster. And get this: there is an estimated 10 quintillion (10,000,000,000,000,000,000) buggy animals on earth. Lotta long hours for those 8,000 first responders to breaking news developments (“Honey, I’ll be home a little late tonight, a rare Lucanus capreolus in the lab just laid some eggs”).
So say, a new bug is discovered today in a rain forest in Ecuador. Just how do you know it’s new? A lot of bugs look alike. Or maybe not, given that icky beetle graphic above. And who calls it in? And to whom? And how is it verified? I would imagine a record must be kept, in case a head entomologist is ever summoned to a congressional hearing. Who isn't these days. And let's clear this up once and for all: it's only a piece of folklore that it's illegal to kill a Praying Mantis in the United States. Even on a religious holiday. However, in some countries, some bugs are held in high esteem, to which this sign in South Arica will attest.
But if four dung beetles reach an intersection at the same time, then who has the right of way? ("Hey. I'm crawling heah!")
Anyway, it wasn't a Dung Beetle and it wasn't in South Africa. It was in our bathtub. So with malice aforethought, I did my part to rid the world of one more pest. Reducing that 10 quintillion number in the process. And it wasn’t easy. At one point it actually played dead and when I poked it with my “poetic weapon,” it started scurrying away again. You’ve heard of beating a dead horse? (See the first piece). I kept at it. Whack! Whack! Whack! Whack! Seething with anger for this gross midnight intrusion on my private act of urination. Only then could I go back to bed and sleep peacefully.
Maybe I should stay away from The Times crossword puzzle from now on? Who knows what useless path it might take me down. Or across.
Chart in Black is Back
Four months ago on May 31st, I constructed a chart to try to put this devastating virus into some context. I had seen and heard only broad generalizations about how it was killing us, as compared to all the other leading causes of our demise. No worse than the flu, was an unsubstantiated assessment touted at the outset. Especially by a demagogue who shall remain nameless (Rush Limbaugh).
The President, privately, it turns out, didn’t agree with that rush to judgment as way back as February 7th. As he told Bob Woodward at the time:
“…more deadly than your, you know, your — even your strenuous flus.”
“This is more deadly…” “This is five per — you know, this is 5 percent versus 1 percent and less than 1 percent, you know. So, this is deadly stuff.”
Sadly he was right, as this updated chart clearly indicates. In a dubious “achievement,” Covid-19 has moved up from seventh place just four months ago, (100,000 Deaths/1,000 Names, and Misguided Notions Along the Way June MuseLetter 2020) in to third place. Here's how it shakes out as of September 30th.
But these people are old. No? Most are on their last legs anyway. Right? “They're expendable” blows the dog whistle in some (vicious) circles. At 75, I have a pre-existing condition: disgust. They can’t mean me, can they? I’d better hurry up and finish this MuseLetter.
But once again, the President to Woodward:
March 19: “It’s turning out it’s not just old people.
Just today and yesterday, some startling facts came out.
It’s not just old—older. Young people, too. Plenty of young people.”*
*See opening piece on hypocrisy.
Where it stops, nobody knows. And you get the feeling at times, that nobody cares. A man at a rally last month, on September 11 of all days, had this POV, which he intensely voiced with angered certainty: “It’s a fake pandemic to destroy the United States.”
A fake pandemic. And the whole wide world (which is what the prefix "pan" means sir), is in on it. Talk about having drunk it? Which was your favorite flavor sir?
Coda: Happy Hollow Halloween
The month will end on a spooky note. Remember when one was urged to practice safe sex? Now one (with kids in tow), is being urged to practice safe trick-or-treating. The trading in of a condum for a goody bag.
The CDC recommends that we, “Avoid participating in traditional door-to-door trick-or-treating.” They have labeled it a “high risk.” Though at this point, I’d rather listen to the advice of Robert Redford, over that of Robert Redfield, the Director of the CDC. Who seems compromised by DJT.
In any case, we are told that if you do go out there, “take a goody bag, individually wrapped (the bag or the kid?), to be grabbed at the end of a driveway at the yard's edge while maintaining a social distance.” Or something like that.
This trick-or-treat advice assumes there are no cities with high risers and low expectations. As if in New York City, to bring it close to home, we all have a car, a driveway, and a yard from the edge of which to grab a bag of goodies. Though in the disinterest of half disclosure, I did do some time living the suburban dream. A realm within which social distancing is inherent. As is crabgrass.
Far worse however, than playing havoc with your trick-or-treating plans, this year’s pumpkin has
been unceremoniously squashed by the announcement that the iconic Halloween parades in Greenwich Village and West Hollywood— both claiming to be one of the most colorful of such celebrations in the world— have been cancelled. There goes a chance to flaunt one’s id in public. To let it roam around as a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, as I and my partner did one year in attending a Halloween themed gathering. When these parades are cancelled, you know this pandemic is serious.
A chance to win a prize for “best costume” — down the drain.
Strutting your stuff… goes belly up.
All dolled up… and no place to go.
But there’s always next year, when I suppose that many will come dressed as a vaccine syringe. Hopefully. Meanwhile, stay safe. However you define that.
finito
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