Typing on your laptop and watching the texts of Marcel and Leo appear on the screen

In a New Yorker tribute to Hunter S. Thompson, it was stated that Thompson’s “true model and hero was F. Scott Fitzgerald. He used to type out pages from “The Great Gatsby,” just to get the feeling, he said, of what it was like to write that way.”

I tried it this week-end. Aim big, I told myself, staring with total admiration at two favorite classics – one of Tolstoy, the other by Proust. Did I feel flooded with greatness as I set out to do this? No, I felt like their secretary. I felt like I was going to be admonished for using the wrong language by both and that Proust would invariably call out to his mother and tell her to fire me. Tolstoy would be more forgiving, I’m sure. Didn’t I read somewhere that he was scorned and rejected by friends and by women while at the university (his bushy eyebrows and full lips making him feel terribly self-conscious about his looks)? Surely he, the dispirited and disinterested academic that he was, would understand why this typist wasn’t doing justice to his Anna K.

Maybe the problem was that I did not use an inkwell and pen. I’m familiar with those. We actually used them in my first grade class back in Poland (that’s how old I am – or, how behind the times Poland was). Or maybe I should have selected a female author. Maybe I’ll rub nicotine stains on my fingers and stick rocks in my coat pocket and hack away at the Waves when a slow day next comes around. But honestly, I just don't see how I could ever, even momentarily, take ownership of someone else's text. Thompson's imaginative stretch (or audacious presumptuousness?) must have been far greater than mine.

The last trolleybus

The title of the previous post made me think of the hours upon hours of my youth spent on guitar playing. If someone were to ask – and how did you waste your high school years? I’d have to answer “staring into space, strumming my guitar and wallowing.” My guitar playing, which thrived at a self-taught level of not good but not god-awful either, is possibly not something I want to brag about in public.

And yet…

I was in love with the ballads, mostly those of the Russian, Bulat Okudzawa.

He was a poet (in the 1950s and 60s) and he used music to add even more lyricism to the beauty of the Russian verse. The lines are laced with what my friend here has once referred to as the typical Eastern European angst: living in the shadow of World War II, Okudzawa wrote mournful poems (filled with innuendo) about the brutality of war, about loss, about displacement.

I should remember to pick up my guitar at times when the Maiden of Nuremberg threatens repeatedly to close the lid on my insides with her sharp spikes. This song would be at the top of the list of wallowing-in-angst song moments:

the Last Trolleybus (crudely translated by me)

And when it is impossible to float against the tide
Impossible to pull out of despair
A blue trolleybus takes me away from here.
A blue trolleybus,
the last one.

My midnight ferry, you sail through the night
Not caring whether it is deep, whether it is shallow,
You collect all of us who are hitting rock-bottom,
From the boulevards,
The fallen ones.

Oh, open your doors: a passerby, a guest,
I know that for those sinking through the night --
Someone from your passengers, from your crew
Will get up
Will help them.

Many a time I fled with them from despair
I felt their shoulder against mine…
And yet, really, there is sense in silence
There’s goodness
In silence.

A release for the downtrodden, your doors beckon
Moscow is like a swollen river,
And the pain that has made itself felt from morning
Leaves off
By morning-time.

Chipper little piece of writing, isn't it? To be savored and deployed as needed, accompanied by the strum of a few minor chords.

Killing me softly with my own words

As I read through yet another stack of Law School Admissions files, I am struck by how neatly I can group candidate statements into three: those with passion, those with adversity, those wishing they had one or the other.

What would I write were I applying someplace now? I’m not one to dig into chapters from the past laced with drama (in the “I almost lost everything” sense, even though I did, several times). Then would it be the positive, up-beat statement about passion and commitment? Not likely. I noticed separately, in another writing project that is under way for me, that I do not like writing about the achingly benign character traits that push toward good behavior and excellence. Lost and displaced – I’m fine with that. Well-adjusted and pushing ahead in life – I just can’t embrace it on paper (maybe not in real life either). And so my statement would, most likely, fall flat and sound like it was ripped off the Internet or something.

In other words, were I applying now, most likely I would be placed on hold, with a post-it inside (I put numerous post-its myself into files) saying: appears to lack ambition, passion, no adversity, nothing stands out.

121 days left (before departure, but not mine)

Two people experience a loss. They recover their sanity and their cheer in the course of a road trip. They decide that road trips are the way to go. And so they plan to set out, for a year, traveling randomly around the country, 121 days from today. [This is my terse summary – don’t neglect clicking onto the travelers’ own version, planted in their sidebar.]

I have blogrolling to thank for the various blog connections that I have made this week-end – all inclined toward the story telling that I love so much. I cannot end this day without urging you to check this one as well: home sweet road. It’s like a book that you can’t put down, only you read it backwards, in the way that happens with blogs.

More on learning languages

Isn’t it funny that a chapter on the Polish language should itself make use of a term in a way that is incorrect in that given context! A reader reminds me that “steep learning curve” (as in: Polish has a steep learning curve) is so often used to mean "hard to learn" whereas it actually implies just the opposite.

Ah well, it could be that “steep learning curve” will eventually become so standard in its misuse that it will replace the technical term (with its original source in engineering).

And speaking of incorrect meaning, I thought of still another delicious aspect of the Polish language: it makes use of sounds that Americans simply cannot reproduce. For example, the “sz” letter combination creates a harsh version of an English “sh.” Now, if you say the simple word “prosze” in Polish, you are saying (depending on the inflexion and context) either “here you are” or “take this please” or “what would you like” or “you’re welcome” or “what did you say?” All those meanings in one word!

But I can guarantee that the list of meanings does not include “pig.” Yet, the English speaking person invariably pronounces it as “pro-sh-eh.” Thus, in an attempt at courtesy, they are telling the listener “Pig! You pig! You rotten hog in a pig sty!” It’s quite funny to the impartial observer.

Bingo!

An morning walk on a sunny day revealed this:

only one small patch so far, but it's enough to make you grin. 

Learning languages

I was just reading a book about the Polish language. Why, you might ask? Don’t I know it already? Oh yes, sure, of course. But I had this curiosity about what it is that I know. For example, these heretofore unknown to me truths emerged:

* Linguistic associations rank Polish as belonging to the group of ten most difficult languages in the world.
* In addition to the difficulties of the language itself (all those consonants! A simple word like wzbronione seems to cause English speaking people great pain, and they totally fall apart when faced with a little nothing, like szczerze), understanding is further confounded by the fact that meaning often changes depending on inflexion, pronunciation and emphasis. [I love the example given: in Polish, when you say “Iran attack Iraq” it can mean either that Iran attacked Iraq, or vice versa, depending on the context.]
* Polish has seven characters that exist in no other alphabet.
* Polish has seven cases, two numbers and three genders and an adjective qualifying a noun must agree in all three respects OR ELSE!
* And finally, this is said of it: Polish has a steep learning curve.

I have no idea what they mean – it took me no time at all to pick it up. A babe could do it.

And it’s not as if English doesn’t present its own challenges. As a new kid on the English-speaking block, I had to come to terms with the fact that English has sixteen verb tenses. You truly are insane! Why do you need all those verb tenses? In Polish, we only have three: past, present, future. Why muck around with all the absurd had beens and will have hads? Perhaps you should stop trying to simplify the tax code and concentrate instead (since you clearly want to make English the universal language) on getting rid of 13 of the tenses. You’ll do some three billion people an enormous favor.

One child left behind

I know, I'm now engaged in the mutual blogrolling thing and so you can find him on my list here, on the left, but if you’re not a roll clicker, then at least click here in this post. You just have to read this guy. Blogging, to me, has always been all about picking up little bits from a day (or from the past, or from one's mind) and writing short little stories around them. His are phenomenally well done.

Are we gonna let de-elevator bring us down, Oh, no let’s go! Let’s go crazy, Let’s go nuts!

The last time I felt that engaged with dancing was on a field trip, in a Polish youth hostel, with my new classmates (I had just that year come back from the States), when I was fourteen. That day was marked by significant bridge-building for me. It’s as if I was desperate to hang onto my fading American ways. I danced as if my life really did depend on it. It was so new to be dancing in this way in Poland, in the spring of 1967. I felt like I’d been all wound up and then someone pressed the “go” button.

So what explains last night? I am not one of those people who lives to dance, who cannot say no to an evening of movin’ to the beat. Fine, yes, my foot twitches to the sound of music, but it stops there. With few exceptions (all in the last year, actually), I don’t normally get up and dance for significant number of hours, without pause, without catching my breath.

It had to be the coming of spring. Or my thinking so much lately about Poland and that period where I was more Polish again than American (and which am I now?). It must be that the hostess created the right conditions. Yeah, that’s it! The dance space, people drifting in and out, in the way that people drift in and out of your life in general – engaged, then off at the sidelines, partnering you then letting go, standing back as you continue to do your thing.

When did I finally stop? At some point, well after midnight. I was all danced out. Like at the hostel in Poland, something inside you says – okay, that was good, now it’s time to put it aside and move on to the next day.

A full plethora of sensual and intellectual activity

I recently told someone that it’s not all in how things look. One scene tells many stories on many levels. Still, our eyes have become so efficient, what with all the corrective lenses and laser surgeries, that we are happy-happy to under-use just about every other sense and processing device available to us.

Maybe nature intended us to use our vision less over time, so that we would appreciate the world more fully. Maybe our eyes were meant to fade, as our brains wisened up. Maybe over time touching and smelling were to rekindle within us feelings of comfort and serenity. Maybe. In light of these majestic possibilities I think training our other senses and experiential devices is very much in order. No need to immediately read Plato or search for fields of lavender. All you have to do is open a brand new container of Illy espresso, dark roast, fine grind. Visually? Take a look below: not much. But oh, that rush of coffee aroma! And what intellectual component follows cracking open that lid? Writing a post about it. [Not that easy, believe me.]

what's in a can... 

Where Ocean yet again endorses the polite and the thoughtful

Last Sunday I stopped by a house with two little boys. One of the things I miss tons about having little ones under foot is that I don’t have many opportunities to browse through children’s books anymore. In the way I can’t resist lattes now, I once could not resist picking up books, and more books, and even more books for my own little ones. And so now I jump at excuses to go to places where there are little kids who would not mind an extra book on the shelf. To entice them into the project I’ll throw in a piece of chocolate, especially when I am told that a particular kid is a chocoholic. One has to promote good taste for desserts at an early age.

And it is perfectly wonderful to then pick up in the mail a note like the one below! I know, it’s ridiculously hard sometimes to get the kid to slow down long enough to write something down, but know that the effort is worth it. It is SO NICE to receive this, especially because one knows that it required more effort for an 8 year old to do it.

Thanks, Evan. Also for generously including your three-year old brother so that he’d look good too!

how often do you get this kind of treat stuck in among the bills? 

Cup half full: what a great set of days! Cup half empty: it’s warmer in South Dakota.

I’m with the half full this week-end. Who cares about South Dakota!*

True, I found no snow drops yet and walking through Owen Woods was like navigating a slippery river bed. But at least it wasn’t muddy! And the birds – where do birds hang out in the winter? Suddenly they are everywhere. Too shy yet to be photographed. But so wonderful to listen to. Sun’s out. Life’s better than good.

*all in jest – no emails please!

The one sign of color: a birdhouse. How pretty! 

Like foaming champagne... 

Water, snow, ice and sunshine. So slippery. So nice. 

Oh may I squire you round the meads And pick you posies gay?---'Twill do no harm to take my arm.'You may, young man, you may.' *

In planning my May trip to Poland, I have been jumping around my preferred Polish sites, checking up on what people are gossiping about these days. One of my favorites is the news daily, Gazeta Wyborcza. There is a “forum” on the front page where a question is raised by a reader and others weigh in with brief answers and opinions.

Today’s forum really made me smile because I imagined how differently the thread may have proceeded had the same question appeared in a Madison paper. Let me do a translation. [Background info: in Poland, March 8th has always been celebrated as “Women’s Day,” with flowers and special recognition being given to…women. But as so many of customs and holidays have been revamped under western (aka American) influence, questions are starting to crop up as to whether the time has come to put this holiday to rest.] Here, then, is today’s little discussion (I’ve omitted some repetitive comments to save space):

Q: Each year in my mind a dilemma arises: should I give flowers or not? Will she get miffed at me? At times it’s best to forget that it’s THAT day again and at other times, dear God, you better not forget! Will someone finally settle this one?

A1: I can’t think of a single instance where a woman receiving flowers would have gotten miffed!

A2: And not only on March 8th :-)

A3: Oh, I know of some! :-))))

A4: In my opinion, give, give and give more flowers! I think that most women like getting flowers…Anyway, our culture demands that we behave well and treat this as a special day. What would we do without the beautiful gender?

A5: I’m not giving. Why? Because my sister and my women friends have already reminded me that March 8th is coming up and that’s why they’ll get nothing… I’m not going to give anything because it is expected of me. I’ll give a flower or a whole bouquet on one day, maybe everyday, but it has to be my decision.

A6: So I gather that presents and birthday wishes and holiday greetings you give out also when you feel like it, not when the calendar demands it. You should be congratulated on your good manners and self-satisfaction.

A7: What would we do without the beautiful gender? Live normally at last!

A8: Why don’t you instead give her chocolates …or a kiss…

A9: So stupid to even ponder this…Doesn’t a woman in today’s world deserve just a smidgen of gratitude? She’s supposed to only slave away at work, in the home? Unfortunately, I have never received a flower without any occasion and neither has any woman that I know of…

A10: You deserve not only a smidgen but whole lot of our gratitude. We’re just jealous. See – the men are on your side, even on the Internet!

A11: Let’s please not make an issue of this! March 8th has always been Women’s Day and we have always received flowers and presents! And it was nice! We can’t count on getting anything on other days. We go to work, we leave work, we get groceries, we cook dinner… I await March 8th!

A12: My husband doesn’t observe Women’s Day. But my work colleagues do and I get flowers from them…I take from this that I am more of a woman to strange men than to my husband. A wife is an institution – someone to do the laundry, to take care of HIS sick mother. From such small things [no flowers] begins the end of love as one as felt it on the wedding day.

A13, 14, 15, etc: (from the vast majority:) Give the flowers! We love them! Yes, please continue to give flowers, on this day, on other days! Long live March 8th!

* A.E.Housman

Don’t Mess With Martha

I rushed home tonight so that I could catch the news and watch Martha Stewart reenter the real world of her $xxx million home

Why do I mention this? Because I have less than zero interest in the woman and her empire (even if I think a few of her decorating ideas, from what I’ve seen in grocery-line flipping through her magazine, are kind of pretty). And yet I thought – this will be interesting.

It wasn’t. She got out, went outside and walked around her $xxx million yard. Big deal. What was I thinking??

But I did listen to the news reporters – from WSJ columnists to major network anchors – speculating endlessly if she will use the period of her imprisonment auspiciously to boost her image and prop up her ambitious new ventures. Her walk through the garden was analyzed to death: is she smiling to purposefully ingratiate herself to the public? Was she tugging at lemons to draw attention, perhaps, to yellow-toned products? Maybe it’s because there wasn’t much of a story in her return and so we had to listen to an invented drama. Or maybe we just cannot forgive her for being so damn successful at selling an image. Why the hell can’t she trip up already? This Polish-American woman just cannot take failure, can she? One tough woman. The t-shirt says it all: